Spring Street | Page 9

a store counter and a dreary
third-floor-back room, took her life in Los Angeles today.'
"Get the idea? 'Mary Jones' isn't the story. What she did, how she lived,
what made her do it, that's what the story is. That brings a throb of
sympathy, a tear perhaps, for her from someone who never heard of her
and it helps to make better folks and a better world."
Brennan's way of talking entranced John. He realized there was more in
reporting than he had ever imagined. P. Q. seemed to have forgotten
him completely during the next few days. In the mornings he was given
a few short clippings to rewrite and that was all.
"Don't worry, he's got an eye on you," Brennan told him. "And let me
tell you something. Perhaps you've read stories about the cub reporter
scooping the town, landing the big exclusive story and all that. Well,
that's bunk. No cub reporter ever did it, not unless he was working
against a bunch of other cubs. Why, he's lucky if he knows what to do
with a big story when he's got one, let alone put it over on the star men
of the other sheets."
A really first-class newspaper man, Brennan told him, was born and not
made.
"You can make them up to a certain point, but no further," he said.

"And take it from me, the ones that are born newspaper men aren't born
every minute for Mr. Barnum or anyone else to get."
It was at noon of the third day he had been at work when John was
given his first assignment. He saw P. Q. rise from his chair and look
over the reporters at their desks and he heard him call his name.
"Here, Gallant, I want you to do something," the city editor said. "Lawn
fete--charity stuff--out at palatial home of the Barton Randolphs.
Society affair. Must have representative there. No story. Society editor
takes care of that. Just get list of names and how much money they take
in. Here's admission card. Beat it."
John was disappointed. He had hoped for something with a touch of
adventure. Not until he left the office did he fully realize where he was
going. Society lawn fete! He looked down at his well worn suit and
remembered the patch on his trousers beneath his coat tail.
CHAPTER III
The home of the Barton Randolphs, in West Adams street, was one of
the old mansions of that exclusive colony toward which the business
district of Los Angeles was advancing, block by block. Set back from
the street, its immaculate lawn dotted with shade-giving sycamore trees,
it was reminiscent of one of the "stately homes of England." An iron
fence topped with spear heads gave it a finishing touch of haughtiness.
John liked to think of homes and of trees as people. A stiffly built,
sharply roofed house with "gingerbread" trimmings reminded him of a
prim old maid. He imagined that he knew what sort of person owned a
particular house simply by studying it. Houses, especially old homes,
fascinated him and he worshiped trees with the fervor that inspired
Joyce Kilmer.
The Barton Randolph home made John think of a fine old aristocrat,
holding aloof from the world, conservative and with a love for old
fashions and old friends, a contempt for things that are modern. As he
stood at the gate he thought that the mansion was glaring at him with an

upturned nose and this imaginative quirk caused him to hesitate to
enter.
Before him on the cool green lawn moved groups of men and women,
the women in snowy white. At intervals there were tea tables around
which were couples, chatting languidly. Servants moved with quiet
efficiency from the tables to the house and back again. The shade
spread by the sycamore trees was pierced with shafts of sunlight that
gave the lawn a mottled look. It seemed a place removed from all the
world.
Once more John looked at his shabby suit, his dusty, worn shoes.
Unconsciously he tugged at his coat tail because of an instinctive fear
that the patch was showing. An idea of waiting outside until the fete
was over came into his head.
"It can't be any worse than the wallop Battling Rodriguez gave me, so
here goes," he said, starting up the finely graveled driveway with the
same feeling he always had when he dashed down the beach to plunge
into the cold waters of the ocean.
He tramped steadily along until he discovered that the driveway was
circular and that if he kept on he would land out on the street again.
Boldly he started across the lawn in the direction of the house.
Somewhere on the grounds a stringed orchestra was