It seemed to me
that a reporter's was the highest and noblest of all callings; no one
could sift wrong from right as he, and punish the wrong. In that I was
right. I have not changed my opinion on that point one whit, and I am
sure I never shall. The power of fact is the mightiest lever of this
or of any day. The reporter has his hand upon it, and it is his
grievous fault if he does not use it well. I thought I would make a
good reporter. My father had edited our local newspaper, and such
little help as I had been of to him had given me a taste for the
business. Being of that mind, I went to the _Courier_ office one
morning and asked for the editor. He was not in. Apparently nobody
was. I wandered through room after room, all empty, till at last I
came to one in which sat a man with a paste-pot and a pair of long
shears. This must be the editor; he had the implements of his trade.
I told him my errand while he clipped away.
"What is it you want?" he asked, when I had ceased speaking and waited
for an answer.
"Work," I said.
"Work!" said he, waving me haughtily away with the shears; "we don't
work here. This is a newspaper office.
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