The High School Pitcher | Page 8

the paper, the desk, the floor, the wall and the
street door. But Mr. Pollock paid no heed to him. Then, finally, Dick
began to write. As he wrote a grin came to his face. That grin
broadened as he wrote on. At last he took the pages over to Mr.
Pollock.
"I don't suppose that's what you want," he said, his face very red, "but
the main facts are all there."
Laying down his own pen Mr. Pollock read rapidly but thoughtfully.
The editor began to laugh again. Then he laid down the last sheet.
"Prescott, that's well done. There's a good reporter lurking somewhere
inside of you."

Thrusting one hand down into a pocket Mr. Pollock brought out a
half-dollar, which he tendered to Dick.
"What am I to do with this?" asked the young sophomore.
"Anything you please," replied the editor. "The money's for you."
"For me?" gasped Dick.
"Yes, of course. Didn't you write this yarn for me? Of course 'The
Blade' is only a country daily, and our space rates are not high. But see
here, Prescott, I'll pay you a dollar a column for anything you write for
us that possesses local interest enough to warrant our printing it. Now,
while going to the High School, why can't you turn reporter in your
spare time, and earn a little pocket money?"
Again Dick gasped. He had never thought of himself as a budding
young journalist. Yet, as Mr. Pollock inquired, "Why not?" Why not,
indeed!
"Well, how do you think you'd like to work for us?" asked Mr. Pollock,
after a pause. "Of course you would not leave the High School. You
would not even neglect your studies in the least. But a young man who
knows almost everybody in Gridley, and who goes about town as much
as you do, ought to be able to pick up quite a lot of newsy stuff."
"I wonder if I could make a reporter out of myself," Dick pondered.
"The way to answer that question is to try," replied Mr. Pollock. "For
myself, I think that, with some training, you'd make a good reporter. By
the way, Prescott, have you planned on what you mean to be when
you're through school?"
"Why, it isn't settled yet," Dick replied slowly. "Father and mother
hope to be able to send me further than the High School, and so they've
suggested that I wait until I'm fairly well through before I decide on
what I want to be. Then, if it's anything that a college course would
help me to, they'll try to provide it."

"What would you like most of all in the world to be?" inquired the
editor of "The Blade."
"A soldier!" replied young Prescott, with great promptness and
emphasis.
"Hm! The soldier's trade is rather dull these days," replied the editor.
"We're becoming a peaceful people, and the arbitrator's word does the
work that the sword used to do."
"This country has been in several wars," argued Dick, "and will be in
others yet to come. In times of peace a soldier's duty is to fit himself for
the war time that is to come. Oh, I believe there's plenty, always, that
an American soldier ought to be doing."
"Perhaps. But newspaper work is the next best thing to soldiering,
anyway. Prescott, my boy, the reporter of to-day is the descendant of
the old free-lance soldier of fortune. It takes a lot of nerve to be a
reporter, sometimes, and to do one's work just as it should be done. The
reporter's life is almost as full of adventure as the soldier's. And there
are no 'peace times' for the reporter. He never knows when his style of
'war' will break out. But I must get back to my work. Are you going to
try to bring us in good matter at a dollar a column?"
"Yes, I am, thank you," Dick replied, unhesitatingly, now.
"Good," nodded Mr. Pollock, opening one of the smaller drawers over
his desk. "Here's something you can put on and wear."
He held out to the boy an oblong little piece of metal, gold plated.
"It's a badge such as 'The Blade' reporters wear, and has the paper's
name on it," continued the editor. "You can pin it on your vest."
"I guess I'd better leave that part out for a while," laughed Dick,
drawing back. "The fellows at school wouldn't do a thing to me if they
caught me wearing a reporter's badge."

"Oh, just as you please about that," nodded Mr. Pollock, tossing the
badge back into the drawer. "But don't forget to bring us in something
good, Prescott."
"I won't forget, Mr. Pollock."
As Dick went down the street, whistling blithely, he kept his hand in
his pocket on the