FullReads

Ike Webb was saying this–that the biggest thing in the whole created world was a big scoop–an exclusive, world-beating, bottled-up scoop of a scoop. Nothing that could possibly come into a reporter’s life was one-half so big and so glorious and satisfying. He warmed to his theme:

“Gee! fellows, but wouldn’t it be great to get a scoop on a thing like this Bullard murder! Just suppose now that one of us, all by himself, found the person who did the shooting and got a full confession from him, whoever he was; and got the gun that it was done with–got the whole thing–and then turned it loose all over the front page before that big stiff of a Chief Gotlieb down at Central Station knew a thing about it. Beating the police to it would be the best part of that job. That’s the way they do things in New York. In New York it’s the newspapers that do the real work on big murder mysteries, and the police take their tips from them. Why, some of the best detectives in New York are reporters. Look what they did in that Guldensuppe case! Look at what they’ve done in half a dozen other big cases! Down here we just follow along, like sheep, behind a bunch of fat-necked cops, taking their leavings. Up there a paper turns a man loose, with an unlimited expense account and all the time he needs, and tells him to go to it. That’s the right way too!”

By that the others knew Ike Webb was thinking of what Vogel had told him. Vogel was a gifted but admittedly erratic genius from the metropolis who had come upon us as angels sometimes do–unawares–two weeks before, with cinders in his ears and the grime of a dusty right-of-way upon his collar. He had worked for the sheet two weeks and then, on a Saturday night, had borrowed what sums of small change he could and under cover of friendly night had moved on to parts unknown, leaving us dazzled by the careless, somewhat patronizing brilliance of his manner, and stuffed to our earlobes with tales of the splendid, adventurous, bohemian lives that newspaper men in New York lived.

“Well, I know this,” put in little Pinky Gilfoil, who was red-headed, red-freckled and red-tempered: “I’d give my right leg to pull off that Bullard story as a scoop. No, not my right leg–a reporter needs all the legs he’s got; but I’d give my right arm and throw in an eye for good measure. It would be the making of a reporter in this town–he’d have ’em all eating out of his hand after that.” He licked his lips. Even the bare thought of the thing tasted pretty good to Pinky.

“Now you’re whistling!” chimed Ike Webb. “The fellow who single-handed got that tale would have a job on this paper as long as he lived. The chief would just naturally have to hand him more money. In New York, though, he’d get a big cash bonus besides, an award they call it up there. I’d go anywhere and do anything and take any kind of a chance to land that story as an exclusive–yes, or any other big story.”

To all this the major, it appeared, had been listening, for now he spoke up in a pretty fair imitation of his old impressive manner:

“But, young gentlemen–pardon me–do you seriously think–any of you–that any honorarium, however large, should or could be sufficient temptation to induce one in your–in our profession–to give utterance in print to a matter that he had learned, let us say, in confidence? And suppose also that by printing it he brought suffering or disgrace upon innocent parties. Unless one felt that he was serving the best ends of society–unless one, in short, were actuated by the highest of human motives–could one afford to do such a thing? And, under any circumstances, could one violate a trust–could one violate the common obligation of a gentleman’s rules of deportment—-“