I think it best to begin with the time I met Shelby on the newspaper
where we both, as cub reporters, worked. That was exactly twenty years
ago.
The boys didn't take to Shelby. He was too dapper, too good-looking, and
he always carried a stick, as he called it; we were unregenerate enough
to say cane. And, most loathsome of all, he had an English
accent--though he was born in Illinois, we afterwards learned. You can
imagine how this accent nettled us, for we were all unassuming
lads--chaps, Shelby would have called us--and we detested "side."
But how this new acquisition to the staff could write! It bothered us to
see him hammer out a story in no time, for most of us had to work over
our copy, and we made Hanscher, the old managing editor, raving mad
sometimes with our dilatoriness. I am afraid that in those sadly distant
days we frequented too many bars, and no doubt we wasted some of our
energy and decreased our efficiency. But every young reporter drank more
or less; and when Shelby didn't mix with us, and we discovered that he
took red wine with his dinner at Mouqin's--invariably alone--we hated
him more than ever.
I remember well how Stanton, the biggest-hearted fellow the Lord ever
let live, announced one night in the copy room that he was going to get
Shelby tight or die in the attempt, and how loud a laugh went up at his
expense.
Pages:
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592