heavily on soup and meat and vegetables and pudding, washed down by the inevitable beer and followed by forty winks on the dining room sofa with the German Zeitung spread comfortably over the head as protection against the flies.
There is a fascination about the bright little city. There is about it something quaint and foreign, as though a cross-section of the old world had been dumped bodily into the lap of Wisconsin. It does not seem at all strange to hear German spoken everywhere—in the streets, in the shops, in the theaters, in the street cars. One day I chanced upon a sign hung above the doorway of a little German bakery over on the north side. There were Hornchen and Kaffeekuchen in the windows, and a brood of flaxen-haired and sticky children in the back of the shop. I stopped, open-mouthed, to stare at the worn sign tacked over the door.
“Hier wird Englisch gesprochen,” it announced.
I blinked. Then I read it again. I shut my eyes, and opened them again suddenly. The fat German letters spoke their message as before—“English spoken here.”
On reaching the office I told Norberg, the city editor, about my find. He was not impressed. Norberg never is impressed. He is the most soul-satisfying and theatrical city editor that I have ever met. He is fat, and unbelievably nimble, and keen-eyed, and untiring. He says, “Hell!” when things go wrong; he smokes innumerable cigarettes, inhaling the fumes and sending out the thin wraith of smoke with little explosive sounds between tongue and lips; he wears blue shirts, and no collar to speak of, and his trousers are kept in place only by a miracle and an inefficient looking leather belt.
When he refused to see the story in the little German bakery sign I began to argue.
“But man alive, this is America! I think I know a story when I see it. Suppose you were traveling in Germany, and should come across a sign over a shop, saying: `Hier wird Deutsch gesprochen.’ Wouldn’t you think you were dreaming?”
Norberg waved an explanatory hand. “This isn’t America. This is Milwaukee. After you’ve lived here a year or so you’ll understand what I mean. If we should run a story of that sign, with a two-column cut, Milwaukee wouldn’t even see the joke.”
But it was not necessary that I live in Milwaukee a year or so in order to understand its peculiarities, for I had a personal conductor and efficient guide in the new friend that had come into my life with the first day of my work on the Post. Surely no woman ever had a stronger friend than little “Blackie” Griffith, sporting editor of the Milwaukee Post. We became friends, not step by step, but in one gigantic leap such as sometimes triumphs over the gap between acquaintance and liking.
I never shall forget my first glimpse of him. He strolled into the city room from his little domicile across the hall. A shabby, disreputable, out-at-elbows office coat was worn over his ultra-smart street clothes, and he was puffing at a freakish little pipe in the shape of a miniature automobile. He eyed me a moment from the doorway, a fantastic, elfin little figure. I thought that I had never seen so strange and so ugly a face as that of this little brown Welshman with his lank, black hair and his deep-set, uncanny black eyes. Suddenly he trotted over to me with a quick little step. In the doorway he had looked forty. Now a smile illumined the many lines of his dark countenance, and in some miraculous way he looked twenty.
“Are you the New York importation?” he, asked, his great black eyes searching my face.
“I’m what’s left of it,” I replied, meekly.
“I understand you’ve been in for repairs. Must of met up with somethin’ on the road. They say the goin’ is full of bumps in N’ York.”
“Bumps!” I laughed, “it’s uphill every bit of the road, and yet you’ve got to go full speed to get anywhere. But I’m running easily again, thank you.”
He waved away a cloud of pipe-smoke, and knowingly squinted through the haze. “We don’t speed up much here. And they ain’t no hill climbin’ t’ speak of. But say, if you ever should hit a nasty place on the route, toot your siren for me and I’ll come. I’m a regular little human garage when it comes to patchin’ up those aggravatin’ screws that need oilin’. And, say, don’t let Norberg bully you. My name’s Blackie. I’m goin’ t’ like you. Come on over t’ my sanctum once in a while and I’ll show you my scrapbook and let you play with the office revolver.”
And so it happened that I had not been in Milwaukee a month before Blackie and I were friends.
Norah was horrified. My letters were full of him. I told her that she might get a more complete mental picture of him if she knew that he wore the pinkest shirts, and the purplest neckties, and the blackest and whitest of black-and-white checked vests that ever aroused the envy of an office boy, and beneath them all, the gentlest of hearts. And therefore one loves him. There is a sort of spell about the illiterate little slangy, brown Welshman. He is the presiding genius of the place. The office boys adore him. The Old Man takes his advice in selecting a new motor car; the managing editor arranges his lunch hour to suit Blackie’s and they go off to the Press club together, arm in arm. It is Blackie who lends a sympathetic ear to the society editor’s tale of woe. He hires and fires the office boys; boldly he criticizes the news editor’s makeup; he receives delegations of tan-coated, red-faced prizefighting-looking persons; he gently explains to the photographer why that last batch of cuts make their subjects look as if afflicted with the German measles; he arbitrates any row that the newspaper may have with such dignitaries as the mayor or the chief of police; he manages boxing shows; he skims about in a smart little roadster; he edits the best sporting page in the city; and at four o’clock of an afternoon he likes to send around the corner for a chunk of devil’s food cake with butter filling from the Woman’s Exchange. Blackie never went to school to speak of. He doesn’t know was from were. But he can “see” a story quicker, and farther and clearer than any newspaper man I ever knew— excepting Peter Orme.
There is a legend about to the effect that one day the managing editor, who is Scotch and without a sense of humor, ordered that Blackie should henceforth be addressed by his surname of Griffith, as being a more dignified appellation for the use of fellow reporters, hangers-on, copy kids, office boys and others about the big building.
The day after the order was issued the managing editor summoned a freckled youth and thrust a sheaf of galley proofs into his hand.
“Take those to Mr. Griffith,” he ordered without looking up.
“T’ who?”
“To Mr. Griffith,” said the managing editor, laboriously, and scowling a bit.
The boy took three unwilling steps toward the door. Then he turned a puzzled face toward the managing editor.
“Say, honest, I ain’t never heard of dat guy. He must be a new one. W’ere’ll I find him?”
