real estate lobbyist, an ill-mannered boor with an inflated head whom all-wise Providence has since removed from circulation.
This man had sent advance notice of his arrival in the city where I was working, and I and the opposition reporters were at the train to meet him. We were there at his invitation, understand. But he looked through us coldly. If we wanted to talk to him, he said, we could do it at his hotel. We followed him there, and still he had “no time” for us. Perhaps, after he had had his breakfast.
We waited while he had his breakfast. We waited while he got his haircut. We waited while he kidded interminably with the cigar-stand girl. He then advised us that he was going up to his suite for a nap, and that he would “probably” be able to see us in an hour or so.
The other reporters and I looked at each other. We went to the house phones and conferred with our editors. Their opinion of this character happily coincided with ours—that he was a pea-brain who needed a lesson in manners, and that the pearls of wisdom which he allegedly had for our community should be retained for shoving purposes.
I relayed this message to the lobbyist. He slammed up the phone, threatening to get “all you bastards and your editors, too.”
He got in touch with our publishers. He got in touch with our managing editors and our desk men. He threatened and blustered. He pleaded, he begged. He tried to bring outside influence to bear on the newspapers.
He called press conferences, and no reporters showed up. He addressed banquets and meetings, and issued a steady stream of press releases. Not a word of what he said or wrote appeared in the newspapers.
Now, the real estate interests are probably the most powerful bloc in any community. But the potential club they formed, and which our friend had waxed vain in swinging, could swing more than one way. And so he soon found out.
The local realty operators began to look at him askance. What kind of man was it, they wondered, who could so mortally offend three large newspapers? In how many other cities had he incurred similar displeasure? They and other groups around the country were paying for his activities. They were paying him to influence legislation, to make them look good to the public. Was this the way he went about it?
The lobbyist was in complete disfavor with his nominal supporters when, at week’s end, he sneaked out of town. But despite the all-around frost he had received, his manners remained virtually as bad as ever.
Back in Washington, he dished out considerably more boorishness than a certain party girl cared to take. She retaliated vigorously and effectively.
Her attack didn’t quite kill him, more’s the pity. But being concentrated on the area which the Marquis of Queensberry held sacrosanct, it did the next best thing.
Briefly, while the lobbyist may still be interested in women, he has nothing to interest them.
Noblesse oblige!
16
A fter leaving the Press , I found brief employment on Western World , an oil and mining weekly. I had no regular hours, being summoned for work only during certain rush periods when extra help was needed. Neither did I have any regular duties. I did a little of everything, from addressing envelopes for the subscription department to reading copy to running errands to rewriting brief items. Occasionally, when there was space to fill, I also wrote poems—very bad ones, I fear—of the Robert Service type.
My pay was a magnificent three dollars a day, but I never knew when I would be called to work, having to hold myself in readiness at all times. And the times that I was called seemed constantly to conflict with my family’s plans and schedules. Also, or so I imagined, my adult colleagues were not treating me with proper respect but consistently took advantage of their age and my youth to heap me with indignities.
They were all my bosses. All had the privilege of sending “kid Shakespeare” and “young Pulitzer”
This man had sent advance notice of his arrival in the city where I was working, and I and the opposition reporters were at the train to meet him. We were there at his invitation, understand. But he looked through us coldly. If we wanted to talk to him, he said, we could do it at his hotel. We followed him there, and still he had “no time” for us. Perhaps, after he had had his breakfast.
We waited while he had his breakfast. We waited while he got his haircut. We waited while he kidded interminably with the cigar-stand girl. He then advised us that he was going up to his suite for a nap, and that he would “probably” be able to see us in an hour or so.
The other reporters and I looked at each other. We went to the house phones and conferred with our editors. Their opinion of this character happily coincided with ours—that he was a pea-brain who needed a lesson in manners, and that the pearls of wisdom which he allegedly had for our community should be retained for shoving purposes.
I relayed this message to the lobbyist. He slammed up the phone, threatening to get “all you bastards and your editors, too.”
He got in touch with our publishers. He got in touch with our managing editors and our desk men. He threatened and blustered. He pleaded, he begged. He tried to bring outside influence to bear on the newspapers.
He called press conferences, and no reporters showed up. He addressed banquets and meetings, and issued a steady stream of press releases. Not a word of what he said or wrote appeared in the newspapers.
Now, the real estate interests are probably the most powerful bloc in any community. But the potential club they formed, and which our friend had waxed vain in swinging, could swing more than one way. And so he soon found out.
The local realty operators began to look at him askance. What kind of man was it, they wondered, who could so mortally offend three large newspapers? In how many other cities had he incurred similar displeasure? They and other groups around the country were paying for his activities. They were paying him to influence legislation, to make them look good to the public. Was this the way he went about it?
The lobbyist was in complete disfavor with his nominal supporters when, at week’s end, he sneaked out of town. But despite the all-around frost he had received, his manners remained virtually as bad as ever.
Back in Washington, he dished out considerably more boorishness than a certain party girl cared to take. She retaliated vigorously and effectively.
Her attack didn’t quite kill him, more’s the pity. But being concentrated on the area which the Marquis of Queensberry held sacrosanct, it did the next best thing.
Briefly, while the lobbyist may still be interested in women, he has nothing to interest them.
Noblesse oblige!
16
A fter leaving the Press , I found brief employment on Western World , an oil and mining weekly. I had no regular hours, being summoned for work only during certain rush periods when extra help was needed. Neither did I have any regular duties. I did a little of everything, from addressing envelopes for the subscription department to reading copy to running errands to rewriting brief items. Occasionally, when there was space to fill, I also wrote poems—very bad ones, I fear—of the Robert Service type.
My pay was a magnificent three dollars a day, but I never knew when I would be called to work, having to hold myself in readiness at all times. And the times that I was called seemed constantly to conflict with my family’s plans and schedules. Also, or so I imagined, my adult colleagues were not treating me with proper respect but consistently took advantage of their age and my youth to heap me with indignities.
They were all my bosses. All had the privilege of sending “kid Shakespeare” and “young Pulitzer”
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