"Temporary insanity, I guess," McGinity replied.
"Uncle Henry regards you as utterly insane, so far as news getting is concerned," said Pat.
"Well, then—a nebulous bank balance."
Pat seemed a little vexed. "If you can explain it in any other way, I shall be much obliged," she said, succinctly.
The reporter reflected for a moment, then spoke in a serious tone. "For one thing," he began, "you don't have to possess an intellect above the average to be a reporter. All you need is a nose for news, and lots of nerve. Most fellows use it as a stepping-stone into politics, the law, and the public relationship angle of the stage, screen and radio. Others stick to it all their lives; they can't break away. My dad was an editorial writer on the Herald up to his death. I thought I was cut out to be a lawyer, but I just couldn't click. I was born with the news instinct, I guess. Unlike my studious, conservative parent, I liked my news—hot. Perhaps I've got a yellow streak in me. That's why I'm on the Daily Recorder. I like sensation, big headlines.
"When I was at school, I thought life was learned from books," he went on, warming up a bit. "Life—I love it. And life at its utmost, that's reporting. Life that ticks off love, laughter, tears on every second. A foundling left on a door-step. Strange disappearance of a college girl. She's never seen or heard of again. Mystery. Death by misadventure. Murder. Fire-traps. Tenement fire—father, mother and grown-up kids burned to a crisp. Pet poodle, whining, discloses the baby under a bed, unharmed. Baby is adopted by a rich family. Poodle gets a decoration. Stories! Stories!"
He drew a deep breath, and continued: "The great thrill is putting your story over, hot off the press, satisfying the public's curiosity for news. Exclusive stories! The first thing the City Editor looks for. But there's no credit for them outside the office force. A pat on the shoulder, 'Good work, Bill!' and sometimes a 'by-line.' You write a good story, and you wallow in self-esteem. That's the only real compensation. No wallowing in wealth. The tragedy of reporting is that newspaper stories pay so little and die so quickly. You put your life's blood into them, your very soul. But they're not even yesterday's remembrance. In a couple of days they're dead—dead as a pickled herring!"
"Wonderful!" Pat breathed, as soon as the reporter had finished. "It all sounds so thrilling. I too love adventure—life, but until now—"
"Until you were nervy enough to take risks and rescue me from durance vile," McGinity broke in.
"Until now," Pat went on, "my adventures have been only in the pages of romantic and mystery books, although I've often tried to write myself—I really believe I have the talent. Anyway, I've often longed to step through those pages of romance and mystery, like Alice stepped through the looking-glass."