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Smoke Of Battle
by
“Major,” broke in Ike Webb earnestly, “the way I look at it, a reporter can’t afford too many of the luxuries you’re mentioning. His duty, it seems to me, is to his paper first and the rest of the world afterward. His paper ought to be his mother and his father and all his family. If he gets a big scoop–no matter how he gets it or where he gets it–he ought to be able to figure out some way of getting it into print. It’s not alone what he owes his paper–it’s what he owes himself. Personally I wouldn’t be interested for a minute in bringing the person that killed Rod Bullard to justice–that’s not the point. He was a pretty shady person–Rod Bullard. By all accounts he got what was coming to him. It’s the story itself that I’d want.”
“Say, listen here, major,” put in Pinky Gilfoil, suddenly possessed of a strengthening argument; “I reckon back yonder in the Civil War, when you all got the smoke of battle in your noses, you didn’t stop to consider that you were about to make a large crop of widows and orphans and cause suffering to a whole slue of innocent people that’d never done you any harm! You didn’t stop then, did you? I’ll bet you didn’t–you just sailed in! It was your duty–the right thing to do–and you just went and did it. ‘War is hell!’ Sherman said. Well, so is newspaper work hell–in a way. And smelling out a big story ought to be the same to a reporter that the smoke of battle is to a soldier. That’s right–I’ll leave it to any fellow here if that ain’t right!” he wound up, forgetting in his enthusiasm to be grammatical.
It was an unfortunate simile to be making and Pinky should have known better, for at Pinky’s last words the old major’s mild eye widened and, expanding himself, he brought his chair legs down to the floor with a thump.
“Ah, yes!” he said, and his voice took on still more of its old ringing quality. “Speaking of battles, I am just reminded, young gentlemen, that tomorrow is the anniversary of the fall of Vicksburg. Though Northern-born, General Pemberton was a gallant officer–none of our own Southern leaders was more gallant–but it has always seemed to me that his defense of Vicksburg was marked by a series of the most lamentable and disastrous mistakes. If you care to listen, I will explain further.” And he squared himself forward, with one short, plump hand raised, ready to tick off his points against Pemberton upon his fingers.
By experience dearly bought at the expense of our ear-drums, the members of the Evening Press staff knew what that meant; for as you already know, the major’s conversational specialty was the Civil War–it and its campaigns. Describing it, he made even war a commonplace and a tiresome topic. In his hands an account of the hardest fought battle became a tremendously uninteresting thing. He weeded out all the thrills and in their places planted hedges of dusty, deadly dry statistics. When the major started on the war it was time to be going. One by one the youngsters got up and slipped out. Presently the major, booming away like a bell buoy, became aware that his audience had dwindled. Only Ike Webb remained, and Ike was getting upon his feet and reaching for the peg where his coat swung.
“I’m sorry to leave you right in the middle of your story, major; but, honestly, I’ve got to be going,” apologized Ike. “Good night, and don’t forget this, major”–Ike had halted at the door–“when a big story comes your way freeze to it with both hands and slam it across the plate as a scoop. Do that and you can give ’em all the laugh. Good night again–see you in the morning, major!”
He grinned to himself as he turned away. The major was a mighty decent, tender-hearted little old scout, a gentleman by birth and breeding, even if he was down and out and dog-poor. It was a shame that Devore kept him skittering round on little picayunish jobs–running errands, that was really what it was. Still, at that, the old major was no reporter and never would be. He wouldn’t know a big story if he ran into it on the big road–it would have to burst right in his face before he recognized it. And even then the chances were that he wouldn’t know what to do with it. It was enough to make a fellow grin.