IV
In spite of my long and fairly successful career as a journalist, I have rarely achieved what is known as a “scoop,” that is to say, an exclusive story of sensational interest. On the whole, I don’t much believe in the editor or reporter who sets his soul on “scoops,” because they create an unhealthy rivalry for sensation at any price—even that of truth—and the “faker” generally triumphs over the truthteller, until both he and the editor who encouraged him come a cropper by being found out.
That is not to say that a man should not follow an advantage to the utmost and his luck where it leads him. It is nearly always luck that is one of the essential elements in journalistic success, and sometimes, as in a game of cards, it deals a surprisingly fine hand. The skill is in making the best use of this chance and keeping one’s nerve in a game of high stakes.
The only important “scoop” that I can claim, as far as I remember, was my discovery of Doctor Cook after his pretended discovery of the North Pole. That was due to a lucky sequence of events which led me by the hand from first to last. The story is amusing for that reason, and this is the first time I have written the narrative of my strange experiences in that affair.
My first stroke of luck, strange as it may seem, was my starting twenty-four hours later than forty other correspondents in search of the explorer at Copenhagen. If I had started at the same time, I should have done what they did, and perhaps taken the same line as they did. As it was, I had to play a lone hand and form my own judgment.
I had arrived at the Daily Chronicle office from some country place when E. A. Perris, the news editor, now the managing editor, said in a casual way:
“There’s a fellow named Doctor Cook who has discovered the North Pole. He may arrive at Copenhagen to-morrow. Lots of other men have the start of you, but see if you can get some kind of a story.”