"I thought, Riis, you were suspended," he said.
For a moment I wavered, smarting under the injustice of it all.
But my note-book reminded me.
"I am," I said, "and when I am done with this I am going home till
you send for me. But this fire--can I have a desk?"
The night editor got up and came over and shook hands. "Take mine,"
he said. "There! take it!"
They sent for me the next day.
It is not to be supposed that all this was smooth sailing. Along
with the occasional commendations for battles won against "the mob"
went constant and grievous complaints of the editors supplied by
the Associated Press, and even by some in my own office now and
then, of my "style." It was very bad, according to my critics,
altogether editorial and presuming, and not to be borne. So I was
warned that I must mend it and give the facts, sparing comments.
By that I suppose they meant that I must write, not what I thought,
but what they probably might think of the news. But, good or bad,
I could write in no other way, and kept right on. Not that I think,
by any manners of means, that it was the best way, but it was
mine.
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