O. HENRY ENCORE
The Lost Works of W. Sidney Porter (O. Henry)
(1862-1910)
BINKLEY'S PRACTICAL SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM
INSTALLMENT I.
Last Tuesday afternoon a ragged
and disreputable-looking man was
noticed standing on a corner of Main
street. Several persons who had
occasion to pass a second time along
the street saw him still standing there
on their return.
He seemed to be waiting for someone.
Finally a young man came down
the sidewalk, and the ragged man
sprang upon him without a word and
engaged him in fierce combat.
The young man defended himself
as well as he could, but he had been
severely handled before the bystanders
could separate them. Of course no
policeman was in sight, and the affair
ended with as little noise and
confusion as it began with. The young
man slunk away with a black eye
and a bruised cheek, and the ragged
man with a look of intense satisfaction
on his face, turned off down a
side street.
A Post Man (employe of Houston
Post) who had viewed the occurrence
was struck with something extraordinary
in the man's appearance, and,
satisfied that there was more in the
situation than appeared on the face
of it, followed the aggressor. As he
came up behind him, the disreputable-looking
man said aloud to himself in
a voice that expressed deep and
triumphant joy:
"That's the last of the lot. After
all, the pursuit of revenge gives me
more pleasure than its attainment.
I have robbed existence of its
aim."
The man continued his course, turning
corners in a hesitating way, with
the manner of one unfamiliar with the
town, and after a time entered an
obscure saloon on Congress street.
The Post Man also entered, and
sipping a glass of water, which he begged
of the saloon man, he saw the ragged
man seat himself at a small table.
Although his attire was mean and
torn, and his hair disheveled and
uncared for, his face showed evidence of
much intelligence that rather belied
his uncouth dress.
Spurred by curiosity, the Post Man
also took a chair at the table. With
the tact and enterprise of his craft
he soon engaged the mysterious stranger
in conversation and found him, as
he had expected, to be a man of
education and manners.
"When you tell me you are a
newspaper man," said he with a graceful
wave of his hand "you compel my
confidence. I shall tell you my story.
I once ran a newspaper myself."
He rapped the table, and when the
waiter came he fished up from the
depths of his rags a lean pocketbook,
from which he shook upon the table a
single dollar. Handing this to the
waiter, he said:
"A bottle of your best wine and
some good cigars."
"Really," said the Post Man, as he
placed two fingers in his vest pocket,
"I can not allow you - you must let
me —"
"Not at all," said the rasped man
with dignity, "I have ordered."
The Post Man gave a sigh of
relief; the glasses were filled and
emptied; filled again, and the cigars were
lit and the Post Man awaited with
with impatience the narrative of his strange
entertainer.
*
*
*
"My name is Binkley," said the
ragged man. "I am the founder of
Binkley's Practical School of
Journalism: the dollar I have just spent
is the last dollar I have in the world,
and the man I licked up town is the
last one of the editorial and reportorial
staff of my newspaper that I have
treated in the same manner.
"About a year ago I had some
$15,000 in cash to invest. I could
have invested it in many things that
would have been safe and paid a
fair per cent, but I unluckily conceived
an original idea for making a good
deal more.
"I understood the newspaper business,
as I had served eight or 10
years on a first-class journal before
I fell heir to the $15,000 on the death
of an aunt. I had noticed that every
newspaper in the country is besieged
with ambitious youths who desire a
position in order that they may learn
journalism. They are for the most
part college graduates, and a great
many of them care little for the
salaries connected with the positions.
They are after experience.
"The idea struck me that they
would be willing to pay handsomely
for situations where they could imbibe
the art of practical journalism as
found in a first-class newspaper
office. Several schools of journalism
had already been started in the country
and were succeeding well. I
believed that a school of this nature
combined with a live, prospering
newspaper that had a good circulation
would prove a gold mine to its originator.
In a school they could only
learn a theory, in my school both
theory and practice would walk hand
in hand.
"It was a great idea.
"I found a newspaper that would
sell out. It was in a large southern
city: I don't care to give its name.
The proprietor was in ill health and
wanted to leave the country. It was
a good plant, and was clearing &dollar3,000
a year above expenses. I got it for
$12,000 cash, put $3,000 in the bank
and sat down and wrote out a neat
little advertisement to catch the
young would-be journalists. I sent
these advertisements to some big
northern and eastern newspapers and
waited for responses.
"My paper was well-known, and
the idea of getting a place on it to
learn journalism seemed to strike the
people just right. I advertised that
as there were only a limited number
of places to be filled. I would have
to consider applications in the form
of bids, and the one bidding highest
for each position got it.
"You wouldn't believe it if I told
the number of answers I got. I filed
everything for about a week, and
then I looked over the references they
sent me, sized up the bids and selected
my force. I ordered them to report
on a certain day, and they were on
time, eager to go to work I got
$50 a week from my editorial writer,
$40 from my city editor; $25 each
from three reporters; $20 from a dramatic critic; $35 from a literary
editor, and $30 each from night and
telegraph editors. I also accepted three
special writers, who paid me $15 per
week each for doing special assignments.
I was the managing editor and
was to direct, criticize and instruct
the staff.
"I discharged the old force, and after
an hour's course of instruction, I
turned my new staff loose upon their
duties. Most of them had graduated
with high honors at college and were
of wealthy families, who could afford
to pay well for the splendid advantage
of entering them in Binkley's Practical
School of Journalism.
"When the staff dispersed, eager
and anxious, to their several duties, I
leaned back in my revolving chair
with a smile of satisfaction. Here
was an income of $1,400 per month
coming from and not paid to my staff
besides the $3,000 yearly profit from
the paper. Oh, it was a good thing.
"Of course, I expected a little crudeness
and stiffness about the work of
my staff at first, but I calculated
that they would err on the side of
fine writing rather than otherwise. I
lit a cigar and strolled through the
editorial rooms. The leader writer
was at his desk working away, his
high, intellectual forehead and
broadcloth clothes presenting a fine
appearance. The literary editor was consulting
an encyclopedia with a knitted
brow, and the dramatic critic was
pasting a picture of Shakespeare above
his desk. The city force was out news
gathering.
"I began to feel sorry for people
who were unable to think up such
a fine scheme as I had. Everything
was working as smoothly as you
please. I went downstairs and, rendered
reckless by success, I hunted up
an old friend and confided to him
my wonderful scheme. He was impressed,
and we hied ourselves to a caravansery
and opened bottle after bottle
in honor of the idea.
Continued Tomorrow.
