A Hot-Headed Newspaper Man

"Mr. Wilhelm Posten. I understand you are here regarding the notice of the typesetting position at the Reveille?" Professor Bernard asked, as he ushered me into his office.

I had removed my straw hat when I entered the Academy's front door and been commanded to wait in the front receiving area while the principal of the school was summoned. "Yes, sir," I said to him now, hat in hand.

He shut the door and strode to his desk, looking me over as he did. "It's not a job, Mr. Posten. It is an apprenticeship."

"I thought so, Professor."

He squinted at me.

I dropped my eyes. "I figured that since you advertised in the paper, there's no one here in the Academy who's interested in the position. So, I thought you might be willing to consider me again."

Mr. Bernard settled himself in his chair behind his large mahogany desk and gestured for me to put myself into the chair facing him. "And what does Mr. Wintgren say about this idea of yours?"

I sat down carefully and studied my hat, squeezing and releasing my grip on its frayed rim.

He sighed. "I certainly wouldn't want to go against your uncle’s—"

"You needn't worry about that, Professor Bernard," I said firmly. "I've made arrangements so my uncle can hire someone to replace me. I'm 19 years old. That’s old enough to know my own mind. And I want to be a journalist. Typesetting at the Reveille would be a good start. Unless ...” I twisted my mouth. “You have another reason to pass me over. Again."

He straightened, tight and firm. "Just what is it you are implying, Mr. Posten?"

I huffed. "I'm not implying. I'll say it straight out. You don't care for me because of what happened three years ago." I tightened my grip on my poor, abused hat. "But most of all because I'm not sorry for it," I muttered.

He leaned back and laced his fingers against his chest.

"Now, I won't argue for my side of it. And I know that you're entitled to your opinion of the whole thing, but if I had committed a crime—"

"Excuse me, Mr. Posten, but hanging a man without a fair trial is indeed a crime," he announced. "I believe a young man who claims to be so concerned with justice for the downtrodden ought to not only be aware of the right to a fair trial, but should also wholeheartedly defend that fundamental American right regardless of the crime."

I gritted my teeth. "What I mean, Profess—"

"I am perfectly aware of what you mean, Mr. Posten. You mean that, as you were simply another anonymous hooded member of a mob determined to execute Mr. Sam that night, you bear no personal responsibility for his demise."

"No!" I shouted. "That is not what I mean!"

Professor Bernard jerked backwards, but quickly recovered his dignity. "Well, whatever excuse you wish me to entertain, Mr. Wilhelm Posten, I consider such an outburst as I have just witnessed makes it quite plain to me that you, sir, are not a good fit for my newspaper. Good day."

I slapped my hat against my trouser thigh and stood up. "You weren't there," I growled. "You didn't see what he did to them. I'll bet you've never seen a five-year-old girl, face blown away by a—"

He stood up sharply. "Wilhelm Posten! That is quite enough! Get out of my office immediately, and I'll thank you never to darken my door again!"

I was almost home before I changed my mind about going home. I hadn't told Uncle Karl I planned to try again for a position at the Reveille, so if I came to the supper table with flustered face and tight jaw, he would know the right question.

"Was ist los?" he would ask in a normal tone.

And when I would hum and haw something to put him on the wrong track, he would raise the stakes with "Was ist los mit dir?" in a lower tone.

To which I would have no choice but to snort something which could only be translated as "Mr. Samuel Purple. Farmer. Cattleman. Drunk. Violent. Killer of his wife and children. Lynched November 1886.”

And after twenty more minutes of my uncle's Deutsche English and my Anglo German smashing into each other, I would have stormed out of the house and tromped my way down to Jack's place where I knew my Englishman bachelor cousin would let me spend the remainder of the evening raging to the point of tears while he listened sympathetically, nodding and shaking his head at just the right moments and finally letting me collapse on the wooden floor of his one-room sodhouse, wrapped in a wool blanket, exhaustedly sleeping my bitterness away.

So since I was sure to end up at Jack's anyway, I decided to just save the time and drop in on him immediately.

"I'm sorry, Will," he said. "You did want the position so terribly. It's an awful shame."

I grumbled under my breath as he made us each a cup of tea. "It's just not fair. No was called to account for hanging Sam. I wasn't ashamed of what I did. I'd have confessed if they'd cared to know who was the one who kicked the barrel out from under him. And if I had been arrested, I'd have confessed everything. And when I got a trial, I would have gladly taken whatever sentence I got. By now I'd be free. Paid my debt to society and all. And no one could say a thing about it. But because the whole business was just swept under the rug, there's nothing I can do to make it right."

Jack sighed. "And you're still determined not to consider a position with any of the competing newspapers?"

"Gene Hardy and that Sunflower rag of his?" I groused. "Never. He supports that rum-hole racist bum Sam Vandivert for 16th Circuit Judge. Calls himself Grand Old Party. What a hypocrite."

"Well, there is the Siftings too," he pointed out.

I sighed. "This town is too small for three papers," I said. "Besides it won't survive now that Gene's got his eye on getting the contract to print county business. He'll keep beating up on the Siftings since it's run by those Missouri Confederate rebel boys. And soon the county officers will be so embarrassed to be accused of betraying the GAR veterans in every week’s Sunflower, they'll give Gene the business just to shut him up."

Jack handed me the warm cup of tea. "So, the Reveille is the only paper with all the proper Party of Lincoln righteouness."

I snorted. "Yeah. I suppose that's irony for you. Their causes are all my brand and their outrages are all the ones I care about the most. But I'll never be self-righteous enough to get a spot under Professor P. N. Bernard, Editor in Chief and Holiest of the Prohibitionists."

"Do you really think the Siftings will fold?" Jack asked.

Shrugging, I sipped my tea.

"Well, if they were to, what would they do with the assets? The equipment, the subscriber list, I mean. All that?"

I blinked and swallowed. "Probably sell it. Pay off their debts. Newspapers are always in debt."

"Ah," he nodded. "I see." He took a thoughtful drink of his tea. "You are certain that three newspapers are too many for our little boom town in Western Kansas?"

I tilted my head. "Yeah, I am. People around here can only afford a subscription to one. If they can afford it at all. And everyone wants to read the county business, especially for proving-up notices and bankruptcies and taxes and who's suing who over timber claims. All that. So whichever paper has that business is the shoo-in to get the bulk of the county’s subs."

Jack sighed. "I suppose it's no good if my potential customers must choose only one possible option, and I haven't the news they need most to read."

I crinkled my brow. "Don't tell me you'd buy out the Siftings, Jack."

He smiled. "If you'd rather I didn't, then I won't. Tell you, I mean." And he winked at me.

"You can't be serious!" I gaped. "Haven't you seen what a mess it is?"

Jack tilted his head. "How do you mean, a mess?"

"It's ... well, it's badly laid out. All the columns, crooked. Misspellings and—well, just garbled type. The only thing that's clean and neat are the broadsheets because they can't foul those up, drinking on the job."

"But is the poor quality the equipment or the skill of the people running it?" he asked.

I blinked. "I ... well, I don't suppose I know. A fellow'd have to have a look at the whole outfit to be sure, I suppose."

"But suppose you were to get a look at the whole outfit, Will. Would you know?"

I shook my head. "No," I said quickly. "I don't know enough. At least, not right now."

"Ah. I think you mean ... not right yet," Jack corrected.

I felt a smile traveling up from my toes.