IV.
Creede, Colo., March 25, ’92.My Dear Fitz:—Since receiving your second letter, I have left nothing undone in the way of keeping a constant lookout for Miss Parsons, for Isee how terribly in earnest you are. Yesterday I took dinner at a little restaurant in Upper Creede, and when the girl came to take my order she almost took my breath. There was something about her that told me that she was new at the business; and I began to be hopeful that she might be the young lady for whom I had been looking for the past week. When the rest had left the table, I asked for a second cup of coffee, and when she brought it, I made an attempt to engage the girl in conversation.Man talking to server in a restaurant“You are very busy here,” I said.“Yes,” she answered, with a slightraise of the eyebrows, and just a hint of a smile playing round her mouth.“I presume you get very tired by closing time,” I ventured.“We never close,” she said; and again I noticed the same movement of the eyes.I knew she thought I was endeavoring to build up an acquaintance, and it annoyed me. If there is one thing I dislike, it is to be taken for a masher when I am not trying to mash.“Haven’t I seen you in Denver?”“Perhaps.”“Haven’t I seen you with Mr. Ketchum?”“Perhaps.”“Do you know Mr. Ketchum?” I asked with some embarrassment.“Do you?”“Well, not very intimately,” was mysomewhat uncertain reply. “Is he in town?”The girl laughed in real earnest. When she did compose herself, she asked, “Are you a reporter for the new paper?”I told her I was not, and then I asked her if she could tell me where Mr. Ketchum’s office was.It was down the street near the Holy Moses saloon, she said; and I congratulated myself upon having gotten a straight and lucid reply from her.The drug-store blonde snapped her fingers“Is he in town?” was my next question.“He was at this table when you came in. Don’t you know him?”“Not very well,” said I.“Then how do you know you saw me with Mr. Ketchum?”I said he must have changed.“No,” said the girl, showing somespunk. “You don’t know him. You never saw him; but you are trying to be funny. Your name is Lon Hartigan, and I am dead onto you.”“O, break!—break away!” said a chemical blonde, as she swept in from the kitchen, coming to the rescue of her “partner,” as she called her. “The girls from the Beebee put us onto you and that fellow from New York. You can’t come none of your monkey doodle business here. Mr. Ketchum is the nicest man ’at eats here and he always leaves a dollar under his plate.” And the drug-store blonde snapped her fingers under my nose, whirled on her heel, and banging a soiled towel into a barrel that stood by the door leading to the kitchen, she swept from the room.“Will you bring me some hot coffee?” I said, softly, to the girl with her own hair.Man at the entrance“You misjudge me,” I began, as she set it down.“I am sorry,” she replied with a hemi-smile that hinted of sympathy, but is worse than no sympathy.“Now, see here,” I began, “I’ll tell you my name if you’ll tell me yours. My name is Warman.”“My name is Boyd—Inez Boyd,” said the girl, “and I am sorry to have talked as I have, to you.”“Don’t mention it,” said I, as I left the room.Outside I saw a sign which read: “The Sure Thing Mining and Milling Company, Capital Stock, $1,000,000.”The next moment I stood in the outer office, saw a sign on a closed door: “F. I. Ketchum—Private.”I opened a little wooden gate, stepped to the private entrance and knocked. A tall, good-looking man of thirty-five to forty, with soft gray hair, came out and closed the door quickly.Man reading a newspaper“Is this Mr. Ketchum?” I asked.“Yes sir, what can I do for you?”Now that was a sticker. It had not occurred to me that to call a man out of his private office one ought to have some business.“I’m the editor of theChronicleand I just dropped in to get acquainted. I have heard of your company.”The man looked black. “We are not looking for newspaper notoriety,” he said, without offering me a seat. In short, he didn’t rave over me, as someof the real estate men did, and after asking how the property of the company was looking, I went away. Poor as I am, I would have given twenty to have seen into the “Private” room.I write all this in detail, that you may know how hard I have tried to do my duty to you as a friend, and to the poor unfortunate girl, as a man. I shall have more time from now on, as I have for my superintendent and general master mechanic, Mr. J. D. Vaughan, who can make a newspaper, from the writing of the editorial page, to the mailing list. In the past, as now, he has always been with distinguished men. He was with Artemus Ward at Cleveland, Wallace Gruelle, at Louisville, Bartley Campbell, at New Orleans, Will L. Visscher when he ran the “Headlight,” on board the steamer Richmond running between Louisvilleand New Orleans, and with Field and Rothaker on the DenverTribune.Man setting typeWe got out our first issue Monday, and I feel a great deal better. It has been the dream of my life to have a daily paper, and we have got one now that is all wool and as wide as the press will print. I have this line under the heading:“Polities: Free Coinage; Religion: Creede.”NewsboyI think that line will last. It is what we must live for and hope for. Of course, we expect to lose money for a few months; but if the camp continues to grow, the Chronicle Publishing Company will be a good venture. There are many hardships to be endured in a mining camp. The printers had to stand in an uncovered house and set type while thesnow drifted around their collars. They held a meeting in the rear office Sunday, organized a printers’ union, fixed a schedule to suit themselves—fifty cents a thousand; and, in order that I might not feel lonely, I was made an honorary member of the union.Mr. George W. Childs was taken in at the same time. My salary is to be fifty dollars a week; but I don’t intend to draw my salary until the paper is on a paying basis.We have not got our motor in place yet, and I had to pay two Mexicans twelve dollars for turning the press the first night. Coal is ten dollars a ton; coal oil sixty cents a gallon. We use a ton of coal every twenty-four hours and five gallons of oil every night. It was a novel sight to see the newsboys running here and there through thewillows, climbing up the steep sides of the gulch to the tents and cabins crying “MorningChronicle!” where the mountain lion and the grizzly bear had their homes but six months ago. The interesting feature in the first issue is a three-column account of Gambler Joe Simmons’ funeral. It tells how the gang stood at the grave and drank “To Joe’s soul over there—if there is any over there.”Yours always,Cy Warman.
Creede, Colo., March 25, ’92.
My Dear Fitz:—Since receiving your second letter, I have left nothing undone in the way of keeping a constant lookout for Miss Parsons, for Isee how terribly in earnest you are. Yesterday I took dinner at a little restaurant in Upper Creede, and when the girl came to take my order she almost took my breath. There was something about her that told me that she was new at the business; and I began to be hopeful that she might be the young lady for whom I had been looking for the past week. When the rest had left the table, I asked for a second cup of coffee, and when she brought it, I made an attempt to engage the girl in conversation.
Man talking to server in a restaurant
“You are very busy here,” I said.
“Yes,” she answered, with a slightraise of the eyebrows, and just a hint of a smile playing round her mouth.
“I presume you get very tired by closing time,” I ventured.
“We never close,” she said; and again I noticed the same movement of the eyes.
I knew she thought I was endeavoring to build up an acquaintance, and it annoyed me. If there is one thing I dislike, it is to be taken for a masher when I am not trying to mash.
“Haven’t I seen you in Denver?”
“Perhaps.”
“Haven’t I seen you with Mr. Ketchum?”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you know Mr. Ketchum?” I asked with some embarrassment.
“Do you?”
“Well, not very intimately,” was mysomewhat uncertain reply. “Is he in town?”
The girl laughed in real earnest. When she did compose herself, she asked, “Are you a reporter for the new paper?”
I told her I was not, and then I asked her if she could tell me where Mr. Ketchum’s office was.
It was down the street near the Holy Moses saloon, she said; and I congratulated myself upon having gotten a straight and lucid reply from her.
The drug-store blonde snapped her fingers
“Is he in town?” was my next question.
“He was at this table when you came in. Don’t you know him?”
“Not very well,” said I.
“Then how do you know you saw me with Mr. Ketchum?”
I said he must have changed.
“No,” said the girl, showing somespunk. “You don’t know him. You never saw him; but you are trying to be funny. Your name is Lon Hartigan, and I am dead onto you.”
“O, break!—break away!” said a chemical blonde, as she swept in from the kitchen, coming to the rescue of her “partner,” as she called her. “The girls from the Beebee put us onto you and that fellow from New York. You can’t come none of your monkey doodle business here. Mr. Ketchum is the nicest man ’at eats here and he always leaves a dollar under his plate.” And the drug-store blonde snapped her fingers under my nose, whirled on her heel, and banging a soiled towel into a barrel that stood by the door leading to the kitchen, she swept from the room.
“Will you bring me some hot coffee?” I said, softly, to the girl with her own hair.
Man at the entrance
“You misjudge me,” I began, as she set it down.
“I am sorry,” she replied with a hemi-smile that hinted of sympathy, but is worse than no sympathy.
“Now, see here,” I began, “I’ll tell you my name if you’ll tell me yours. My name is Warman.”
“My name is Boyd—Inez Boyd,” said the girl, “and I am sorry to have talked as I have, to you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said I, as I left the room.
Outside I saw a sign which read: “The Sure Thing Mining and Milling Company, Capital Stock, $1,000,000.”
The next moment I stood in the outer office, saw a sign on a closed door: “F. I. Ketchum—Private.”
I opened a little wooden gate, stepped to the private entrance and knocked. A tall, good-looking man of thirty-five to forty, with soft gray hair, came out and closed the door quickly.
Man reading a newspaper
“Is this Mr. Ketchum?” I asked.
“Yes sir, what can I do for you?”
Now that was a sticker. It had not occurred to me that to call a man out of his private office one ought to have some business.
“I’m the editor of theChronicleand I just dropped in to get acquainted. I have heard of your company.”
The man looked black. “We are not looking for newspaper notoriety,” he said, without offering me a seat. In short, he didn’t rave over me, as someof the real estate men did, and after asking how the property of the company was looking, I went away. Poor as I am, I would have given twenty to have seen into the “Private” room.
I write all this in detail, that you may know how hard I have tried to do my duty to you as a friend, and to the poor unfortunate girl, as a man. I shall have more time from now on, as I have for my superintendent and general master mechanic, Mr. J. D. Vaughan, who can make a newspaper, from the writing of the editorial page, to the mailing list. In the past, as now, he has always been with distinguished men. He was with Artemus Ward at Cleveland, Wallace Gruelle, at Louisville, Bartley Campbell, at New Orleans, Will L. Visscher when he ran the “Headlight,” on board the steamer Richmond running between Louisvilleand New Orleans, and with Field and Rothaker on the DenverTribune.
Man setting type
We got out our first issue Monday, and I feel a great deal better. It has been the dream of my life to have a daily paper, and we have got one now that is all wool and as wide as the press will print. I have this line under the heading:
“Polities: Free Coinage; Religion: Creede.”
Newsboy
I think that line will last. It is what we must live for and hope for. Of course, we expect to lose money for a few months; but if the camp continues to grow, the Chronicle Publishing Company will be a good venture. There are many hardships to be endured in a mining camp. The printers had to stand in an uncovered house and set type while thesnow drifted around their collars. They held a meeting in the rear office Sunday, organized a printers’ union, fixed a schedule to suit themselves—fifty cents a thousand; and, in order that I might not feel lonely, I was made an honorary member of the union.
Mr. George W. Childs was taken in at the same time. My salary is to be fifty dollars a week; but I don’t intend to draw my salary until the paper is on a paying basis.
We have not got our motor in place yet, and I had to pay two Mexicans twelve dollars for turning the press the first night. Coal is ten dollars a ton; coal oil sixty cents a gallon. We use a ton of coal every twenty-four hours and five gallons of oil every night. It was a novel sight to see the newsboys running here and there through thewillows, climbing up the steep sides of the gulch to the tents and cabins crying “MorningChronicle!” where the mountain lion and the grizzly bear had their homes but six months ago. The interesting feature in the first issue is a three-column account of Gambler Joe Simmons’ funeral. It tells how the gang stood at the grave and drank “To Joe’s soul over there—if there is any over there.”
Yours always,Cy Warman.