I came down Broadway that afternoon aboard a big white omnibus, that drifted slowly in a tide of many vehicles. Those days there were a goodly show of trees on either side of that thoroughfare - elms, with here and there a willow, a sumach or a mountain ash.
The walks were thronged with handsome people - dandies with high hats and flaunting necknes and swinging canes - beautiful women, each covering a broad circumference of the pavement, with a cone of crinoline that swayed over dainty feet. From Grace Church down it was much of the same thing we see now, with a more ragged sky line. Many of the great buildings, of white and red sandstone, had then appeared, but the street was largely in the possession of small shops - oyster houses, bookstores and the like. Not until I neared the sacred temple of the Tribune did I feel a proper sense of my own littleness. There was the fountain of all that wisdom which had been read aloud and heard with reverence in our household since a time I could but dimly remember. There sat the prophet who had given us so much - his genial views of life and government, his hopes, his fears, his mighty wrath at the prospering of cruelty and injustice.
'I would like to see Mr Horace Greeley,' I said, rather timidly, at the counter.
'Walk right up those stairs and turn to the left,' said a clerk, as he opened a gate for me.
Ascending, I met a big man coming down, hurriedly, and with heavy steps. We stood dodging each other a moment with that unfortunate co-ordination of purpose men sometimes encounter when passing each other. Suddeniy the big man stopped in the middle of the stairway and held both of his hands above his head.
'In God's name! young man,' said he, 'take your choice.'
He spoke in a high, squeaky voice that cut me with the sharpness of its irritation. I went on past him and entered an open door near the top of the stairway.
'Is Mr Horace Greeley in?' I enquired of a young man who sat reading papers.
'Back soon,' said he, without looking up. 'Take a chair.'
In a little while I heard the same heavy feet ascending the stairway two steps at a time. Then the man I had met came hurriedly into the room.
'This is Mr Greeley,' said the yo'mg man who was reading.
The great editor turned and looked at me through gold-rimmed spectacles. I gave him my letter out of a trembling hand. He removed it from the envelope and held it close to his big, kindly, smooth-shaven face. There was a fringe of silky, silver hair, streaked with yellow, about the lower part of his head from temple to temple. It also encircled his throat from under his collar. His cheeks were fall and fair as a lady's, with rosy spots in them and a few freckles about his nose. He laughed as he finished reading the letter.
'Are you Dave Brower's boy?' he asked in a drawling falsetto, looking at me out of grey eyes and smiling with good humour.
'By adoption,' I answered.'
'He was an almighty good rassler,' he said, deliberately, as he looked again at the letter.'
'What do you want to do?' he asked abruptly.'
'Want to work on the Tribune,' I answered.'
'Good Lord! he said. 'I can't hire everybody.'
I tried to think of some argument, but what with looking at the great man before me, and answering his questions and maintaining a decent show of dignity, I had enough to do.
'Do you read the Tribune? he asked.'
'Read it ever since I can remember.'
'What do you think of the administration?
'Lot of dough faces! I answered, smiling, as I saw he recognised his own phrase. He sat a moment tapping the desk with his penholder.'
'There's so many liars here in New York,' he said, 'there ought to be room for an honest man. How are the crops?'
'Fair, I answered. 'Big crop of boys every year.'
'And now you re trying to find a market, he remarked.'
'Want to have you try them,' I answered.
'Well,' said he, very seriously, turning to his desk that came up to his chin as he sat beside it, 'go and write me an article about rats.'
'Would you advise-,' I started to say, when he interrupted me.
'The man that gives advice is a bigger fool than the man that takes it,' he fleered impatiently. 'Go and do your best!'
Before he had given me this injunction he had dipped his pen and begun to write hurriedly. If I had known him longer I should have known that, while he had been talking to me, that tireless mind of his had summoned him to its service. I went out, in high spirits, and sat down a moment on one of the benches in the little park near by, to think it all over. He was going to measure my judgement, my skill as a writer- my resources. 'Rats,' I said to myself thoughtfully. 1 had read much about them. They infested the ships, they overran the wharves, they traversed the sewers. An inspiration came to me. I started for the waterfront, asking my way every block or two. Near the East River I met a policeman - a big, husky, good-hearted Irishman.
'Can you tell me,' I said, 'who can give me information about rats?'
'Rats?' he repeated. 'What d' ye wan't' know about thim?'
'Everything,'I said. 'They ve just given me a job on the New York Tribune,'I added proudly.
He smiled good-naturedly. He had looked through me at a glance.
'Just say "Tribune",' he said. 'Ye don't have t say "New York Tribune" here. Come along wi me.'
He took me to a dozen or more of the dock masters.
'Give 'im a lift, my hearty,'he said to the first of them. 'He's a green.'
I have never forgotten the kindness of that Irishman, whom I came to know well in good time. Remembering that day and others I always greeted him with a hearty 'God bless the Irish!' every time I passed him, and he would answer, 'Amen, an' save yer riverince.'
