It was, after all, a great game! It is still one of the best games in the world for any young man with quick eyes, a sense of humor, some touch of quality in his use of words, and curiosity in his soul for the truth and pageant of our human drama, provided he keeps his soul unsullied from the dirt.
Looking back on my career as a journalist, I know that I would not change for any other. Fleet Street, which I called in a novel The Street of Adventure, is still my home, and to its pavement my feet turn again from whatever part of the world I return.
When I first entered the street, twenty years ago alas! the social status of press men was much lower than at present, when the pendulum has swung the other way, so that newspaper proprietors wear coronets, the purlieus of Fleet Street are infested with barons and baronets, and even reporters have been knighted by the King. In my early days a journalist did not often get nearer to a Cabinet Minister than the hall porter of his office. It was partly his own fault, or at least, the fault of those who paid him miserably, because the old-time reporter—before Northcliffe, who was then Harmsworth, revised his salary and his status—was often an ill-dressed fellow, conscious of his own social inferiority, cringing in his manner to the great, and content to slink round to the back doors of life, rather than boldly assault the front-door knocker. Having a good conceit of myself and a sensitive pride, I received many hard knocks and humiliations which, no doubt, were good for my soul.
I resented the insolence of society women whom I was sent to interview. Even now I remember with humiliation a certain Duchess who demanded that, in return for a ticket to her theatrical entertainment, I should submit my “copy” to her before sending it to the paper. Weakly, I agreed, for my annoyance was extreme when an insolent footman demanded my article and carried it on a silver salver, at some distance from his liveried body, lest he should be contaminated by so vile a thing, to Her Grace and her fair daughters in an adjoining room. I heard them reading it, and their mocking laughter.... I raged at the haughty arrogance of young government officials who treated me as “one of those damned fellows on the press.” I laughed bitterly and savagely at a certain Mayor of Bournemouth who revealed in one simple sentence (which he thought was kind) the attitude of public opinion toward the press which it despised—and feared.
“You know,” he told me in a moment of candor, “I always treat journalists as though they were gentlemen.”
For some time I disliked all mayors because of that confession, and a year or two later, when conditions were changing, I was able to take a joyous revenge from one of them, who was the Mayor of Limerick. He did not even treat journalists as though they were gentlemen. He treated them as though they were ruffians who ought to be thrust into the outer darkness.
King Edward was making a Royal Progress through Ireland—it was before the days of Sinn Fein—and, with a number of other correspondents, some of whom are now famous men, it was my duty to await and describe his arrival at Limerick and report his speech in answer to the address.
Seeing us standing in a group, the Mayor demanded to know why we dared to stand on the platform where the King was about to arrive, when strict orders had been given that none but the Mayor and Corporation, and the Guard of Honor, were permitted on that space. “Get outside the station!” shouted the Mayor of Limerick, “or I’ll put my police on to ye!”
Explanations were useless. Protests did not move the Mayor. To avoid an unpleasant scene, we retired outside the station, indignantly. But I was resolved to get on that platform and defeat the Mayor at all costs. I noticed the appearance of an officer in cocked hat, plumes, and full uniform, whom I knew to be General Pole-Carew, commanding the troops in Ireland, and in charge of the royal journey. I accosted him boldly, told him the painful situation of the correspondents who were there to describe the King’s tour and record his speeches. He was courteous and kind. Indeed, he did a wonderful and fearful thing. The Mayor and Corporation were already standing on a red carpet enclosed by brass railings, immediately opposite the halting place of the King’s train. General Pole-Carew gave the Mayor a tremendous dressing down which made him grow first purple and then pale, and ordered him, with his red-gowned satellites, to clear out of that space to the far end of the platform. General Pole-Carew then led the newspaper men to the red carpet enclosed by brass railings. It was to us that King Edward read out his reply to the address which was handed to him, while the Mayor and Corporation glowered sulkily.
Unduly elated by this victory, perhaps, one of my colleagues who had been a skipper on seagoing tramps before adopting the more hazardous profession of the press, resented, a few days later, being “cooped up” in the press box at Punchestown races which King Edward was to attend in semi-state. Nothing would content his soul but a place on the Royal Stand. I accompanied him to see the fun, but regretted my temerity when, without challenge, we stood, surrounded by princes and peers of Ireland, at the top of the gangway up which the King was to come. I think they put down my friend the skipper as the King’s private detective. He wore a blue reefer coat and a bowler hat with a curly brim. By good luck I was in a tall hat and morning suit, like the rest of the company. Presently the King came, in a little pageant of state carriages with outriders in scarlet and gold, and then, with his gentlemen, he ascended the gangway, shaking hands with all who were assembled on the stairs. The skipper, who was a great patriot, and loved King Edward as a “regular fellow,” betrayed himself by the warmth of his greeting. Grasping the King’s hand in a sailorman’s grip, he shook it long and ardently, and expressed the hope that His Majesty was quite well.