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THE elevator boy smiled knowingly to him self. When he took her up, he had noted
the sparkle in her eyes, the color in her cheeks. His little cage had quite warmed with
the glow of her repressed eagerness. And now, on the down trip, it was glacier-like.
The sparkle and the color were gone. She was frowning, and what little he could see
of her eyes was cold and steel-gray. Oh, he knew the symptoms, he did. He was an
observer, and he knew it, too, and some day, when he was big enough, he was
going to be a reporter, sure. And in the meantime he studied the procession of life as
it streamed up and down eighteen sky-scraper floors in his elevator car. He slid the
door open for her sympathetically and watched her trip determinedly out into the
street.

There was a robustness in her carriage which came of the soil rather than of the city
pavement. But it was a robustness in a finer than the wonted sense, a vigorous
daintiness, it might be called, which gave an impression of virility with none of the
womanly left out. It told of a heredity of seekers and fighters, of people that worked
stoutly with head and hand, of ghosts that reached down out of the misty past and
moulded and made her to be a doer of things.

But she was a little angry, and a great deal hurt. "I can guess what you would tell me,"
the editor had kindly but firmly interrupted her lengthy preamble in the
long-looked-forward-to interview just ended. "And you have told me enough," he had
gone on (heartlessly, she was sure, as she went over the conversation in its
freshness). "You have done no newspaper work. You are undrilled, undisciplined,
unhammered into shape. You have received a high-school education, and possibly
topped it off with normal school or college. You have stood well in English. Your
friends have all told you how cleverly you write, and how beautifully, and so forth and
so forth. You think you can do newspaper work, and you want me to put you on. Well, I
am sorry, but there are no openings. If you knew how crowded--"

"But if there are no openings," she had interrupted, in turn, "how did those who are in,
get in? How am I to show that I am eligible to get in?"

"They made themselves indispensable," was the terse response. "Make yourself
indispensable."

"But how can I, if I do not get the chance?"

"Make your chance."

"But how?" she had insisted, at the same time privately deeming him a most
unreasonable man.

"How? That is your business, not mine," he said conclusively, rising in token that the
interview was at an end. "I must inform you, my dear young lady, that there have been
at least eighteen other aspiring young ladies here this week, and that I have not the
time to tell each and every one of them how. The function I perform on this paper is
hardly that of instructor in a school of journalism."

She caught an outbound car, and ere she descended from it she had conned the
conversation over and over again. "But how?" she repeated to herself, as she
climbed the three flights of stairs to the rooms where she and her sister "bach'ed."
"But how?" And so she continued to put the interrogation, for the stubborn Scotch
blood, though many times removed from Scottish soil, was still strong in her. And,
further, there was need that she should learn how. Her sister Letty and she had
come up from an interior town to the city to make their way in the world. John Wyman
was land-poor. Disastrous business enterprises had burdened his acres and forced
his two girls, Edna and Letty, into doing something for themselves. A year of
school-teaching and of night-study of shorthand and typewriting had capitalized their
city project and fitted them for the venture, which same venture was turning out
anything but successful. The city seemed crowded with inexperienced
stenographers and typewriters, and they had nothing but their own inexperience to
offer. Edna's secret ambition had been journalism; but she had planned a clerical
position first, so that she might have time and space in which to determine where
and on what line of journalism she would embark. But the clerical position had not
been forthcoming, either for Letty or her, and day by day their little hoard dwindled,
though the room rent remained normal and the stove consumed coal with
undiminished voracity. And it was a slim little hoard by now.

"There's Max Irwin," Letty said, talking it over. "He's a journalist with a national
reputation. Go and see him, Ed. He knows how, and he should be able to tell you
how."

"But I don't know him," Edna objected.

"No more than you knew the editor you saw to-day."

"Y-e-s," (long and judicially), "but that's different."

"Not a bit different from the strange men and women you'll interview when you've
learned how," Letty encouraged.

"I hadn't looked at it in that light," Edna conceded. "After all, where's the difference
between, interviewing Mr. Max Irwin for some paper, or interviewing Mr. Max Irwin for
myself? It will be practice, too. I'll go and look him up in the directory."

"Letty, I know I can write if I get the chance," she announced decisively a moment
later. "I just FEEL that I have the feel of it, if you know what I mean."

And Letty knew and nodded. "I wonder what he is like?" she asked softly.

"I'll make it my business to find out," Edna assured her; "and I'll let you know inside
forty-eight hours."

Letty clapped her hands. "Good! That's the newspaper spirit! Make it twenty-four
hours and you are perfect!"

"--and I am very sorry to trouble you," she concluded the statement of her case to Max
Irwin, famous war correspondent and veteran journalist.

"Not at all," he answered, with a deprecatory wave of the hand. "If you don't do your
own talking, who's to do it for you? Now I understand your predicament precisely. You
want to get on the INTELLIGENCER, you want to get in at once, and you have had no
previous experience. In the first place, then, have you any pull? There are a dozen
men in the city, a line from whom would be an open-sesame. After that you would
stand or fall by your own ability. There's Senator Longbridge, for instance, and Claus
Inskeep the street-car magnate, and Lane, and McChesney--" He paused, with voice
suspended.

"I am sure I know none of them," she answered despondently.

"It's not necessary. Do you know any one that knows them? or any one that knows
any one else that knows them?"

Edna shook her head.

"Then we must think of something else," he went on, cheerfully. "You'll have to do
something yourself. Let me see."

He stopped and thought for a moment, with closed eyes and wrinkled forehead. She
was watching him, studying him intently, when his blue eyes opened with a snap and
his face suddenly brightened.

"I have it! But no, wait a minute."

And for a minute it was his turn to study her. And study her he did, till she could feel
her cheeks flushing under his gaze.

"You'll do, I think, though it remains to be seen," he said enigmatically. "It will show
the stuff that's in you, besides, and it will be a better claim upon the INTELLIGENCER
people than all the lines from all the senators and magnates in the world. The thing
for you is to do Amateur Night at the Loops."

"I--I hardly understand," Edna said, for his suggestion conveyed no meaning to her.
"What are the 'Loops'? and what is 'Amateur Night'?"

"I forgot you said you were from the interior. But so much the better, if you've only got
the journalistic grip. It will be a first impression, and first impressions are always
unbiased, unprejudiced, fresh, vivid. The Loops are out on the rim of the city, near the
Park,--a place of diversion. There's a scenic railway, a water toboggan slide, a
concert band, a theatre, wild animals, moving pictures, and so forth and so forth. The
common people go there to look at the animals and enjoy themselves, and the other
people go there to enjoy themselves by watching the common people enjoy
themselves. A democratic, fresh-air-breathing, frolicking affair, that's what the Loops
are.

"But the theatre is what concerns you. It's vaudeville. One turn follows
another--jugglers, acrobats, rubber-jointed wonders, fire-dancers, coon-song artists,
singers, players, female impersonators, sentimental soloists, and so forth and so
forth. These people are professional vaudevillists. They make their living that way.
Many are excellently paid. Some are free rovers, doing a turn wherever they can get
an opening, at the Obermann, the Orpheus, the Alcatraz, the Louvre, and so forth and
so forth. Others cover circuit pretty well all over the country. An interesting phase of
life, and the pay is big enough to attract many aspirants.

"Now the management of the Loops, in its bid for popularity, instituted what is called
'Amateur Night'; that is to say, twice a week, after the professionals have done their
turns, the stage is given over to the aspiring amateurs. The audience remains to
criticise. The populace becomes the arbiter of art--or it thinks it does, which is the
same thing; and it pays its money and is well pleased with itself, and Amateur Night
is a paying proposition to the management.

"But the point of Amateur Night, and it is well to note it, is that these amateurs are not
really amateurs. They are paid for doing their turn. At the best, they may be termed
'professional amateurs.' It stands to reason that the management could not get
people to face a rampant audience for nothing, and on such occasions the audience
certainly goes mad. It's great fun--for the audience. But the thing for you to do, and it
requires nerve, I assure you, is to go out, make arrangements for two turns,
(Wednesday and Saturday nights, I believe), do your two turns, and write it up for the
SUNDAY INTELLIGENCER."

"But--but," she quavered, "I--I--" and there was a suggestion of disappointment and
tears in her voice.

"I see," he said kindly. "You were expecting something else, something different,
something better. We all do at first. But remember the admiral of the Queen's Na-vee,
who swept the floor and polished up the handle of the big front door. You must face
the drudgery of apprenticeship or quit right now. What do you say?"

The abruptness with which he demanded her decision startled her. As she faltered,
she could see a shade of disappointment beginning to darken his face.

"In a way it must be considered a test," he added encouragingly. "A severe one, but
so much the better. Now is the time. Are you game?"

"I'll try," she said faintly, at the same time making a note of the directness,
abruptness, and haste of these city men with whom she was coming in contact.

"Good! Why, when I started in, I had the dreariest, deadliest details imaginable. And
after that, for a weary time, I did the police and divorce courts. But it all came well in
the end and did me good. You are luckier in making your start with Sunday work. It's
not particularly great. What of it? Do it. Show the stuff you're made of, and you'll get a
call for better work--better class and better pay. Now you go out this afternoon to the
Loops, and engage to do two turns."

"But what kind of turns can I do?" Edna asked dubiously.

"Do? That's easy. Can you sing? Never mind, don't need to sing. Screech, do
anything--that's what you're paid for, to afford amusement, to give bad art for the
populace to howl down. And when you do your turn, take some one along for
chaperon. Be afraid of no one. Talk up. Move about among the amateurs waiting their
turn, pump them, study them, photograph them in your brain. Get the atmosphere,
the color, strong color, lots of it. Dig right in with both hands, and get the essence of
it, the spirit, the significance. What does it mean? Find out what it means. That's what
you're there for. That's what the readers of the SUNDAY INTELLIGENCER want to
know.

"Be terse in style, vigorous of phrase, apt, concretely apt, in similitude. Avoid
platitudes and commonplaces. Exercise selection. Seize upon things salient,
eliminate the rest, and you have pictures. Paint those pictures in words and the
INTELLIGENCER will have you. Get hold of a few back numbers, and study the
SUNDAY INTELLIGENCER feature story. Tell it all in the opening paragraph as
advertisement of contents, and in the contents tell it all over again. Then put a
snapper at the end, so if they're crowded for space they can cut off your contents
anywhere, reattach the snapper, and the story will still retain form. There, that's
enough. Study the rest out for yourself."

They both rose to their feet, Edna quite carried away by his enthusiasm and his
quick, jerky sentences, bristling with the things she wanted to know.

"And remember, Miss Wyman, if you're ambitious, that the aim and end of journalism
is not the feature article. Avoid the rut. The feature is a trick. Master it, but don't let it
master you. But master it you must; for if you can't learn to do a feature well, you can
never expect to do anything better. In short, put your whole self into it, and yet, outside
of it, above it, remain yourself, if you follow me. And now good luck to you."

They had reached the door and were shaking hands.

"And one thing more," he interrupted her thanks, "let me see your copy before you
turn it in. I may be able to put you straight here and there."

Edna found the manager of the Loops a full-fleshed, heavy-jowled man, bushy of
eyebrow and generally belligerent of aspect, with an absent-minded scowl on his
face and a black cigar stuck in the midst thereof. Symes was his name, she had
learned, Ernst Symes.

"Whatcher turn?" he demanded, ere half her brief application had left her lips.

"Sentimental soloist, soprano," she answered promptly, remembering Irwin's advice
to talk up.

"Whatcher name?" Mr. Symes asked, scarcely deigning to glance at her.

She hesitated. So rapidly had she been rushed into the adventure that she had not
considered the question of a name at all.

"Any name? Stage name?" he bellowed impatiently.

"Nan Bellayne," she invented on the spur of the moment. "B-e-l-l-a-y-n-e. Yes, that's
it."

He scribbled it into a notebook. "All right. Take your turn Wednesday and Saturday."

"How much do I get?" Edna demanded.

"Two-an'-a-half a turn. Two turns, five. Getcher pay first Monday after second turn."

And without the simple courtesy of "Good day," he turned his back on her and
plunged into the newspaper he had been reading when she entered.

Edna came early on Wednesday evening, Letty with her, and in a telescope basket
her costume--a simple affair. A plaid shawl borrowed from the washerwoman, a
ragged scrubbing skirt borrowed from the charwoman, and a gray wig rented from a
costumer for twenty-five cents a night, completed the outfit; for Edna had elected to be
an old Irishwoman singing broken-heartedly after her wandering boy.

Though they had come early, she found everything in uproar. The main performance
was under way, the orchestra was playing and the audience intermittently
applauding. The infusion of the amateurs clogged the working of things behind the
stage, crowded the passages, dressing rooms, and wings, and forced everybody
into everybody else's way. This was particularly distasteful to the professionals, who
carried themselves as befitted those of a higher caste, and whose behavior toward
the pariah amateurs was marked by hauteur and even brutality. And Edna, bullied
and elbowed and shoved about, clinging desperately to her basket and seeking a
dressing room, took note of it all.

A dressing room she finally found, jammed with three other amateur "ladies," who
were "making up" with much noise, high-pitched voices, and squabbling over a lone
mirror. Her own make-up was so simple that it was quickly accomplished, and she
left the trio of ladies holding an armed truce while they passed judgment upon her.
Letty was close at her shoulder, and with patience and persistence they managed to
get a nook in one of the wings which commanded a view of the stage.

A small, dark man, dapper and debonair, swallow-tailed and top-hatted, was waltzing
about the stage with dainty, mincing steps, and in a thin little voice singing
something or other about somebody or something evidently pathetic. As his waning
voice neared the end of the lines, a large woman, crowned with an amazing wealth of
blond hair, thrust rudely past Edna, trod heavily on her toes, and shoved her
contemptuously to the side. "Bloomin' hamateur!" she hissed as she went past, and
the next instant she was on the stage, graciously bowing to the audience, while the
small, dark man twirled extravagantly about on his tiptoes.

"Hello, girls!"

This greeting, drawled with an inimitable vocal caress in every syllable, close in her
ear, caused Edna to give a startled little jump. A smooth-faced, moon-faced young
man was smiling at her good-naturedly. His "make-up" was plainly that of the stock
tramp of the stage, though the inevitable whiskers were lacking.

"Oh, it don't take a minute to slap'm on," he explained, divining the search in her eyes
and waving in his hand the adornment in question. "They make a feller sweat," he
explained further. And then, "What's yer turn?"

"Soprano--sentimental," she answered, trying to be offhand and at ease.

"Whata you doin' it for?" he demanded directly.

"For fun; what else?" she countered.

"I just sized you up for that as soon as I put eyes on you. You ain't graftin' for a paper,
are you?"

"I never met but one editor in my life," she replied evasively, "and I, he--well, we didn't
get on very well together."

"Hittin' 'm for a job?"

Edna nodded carelessly, though inwardly anxious and cudgelling her brains for
something to turn the conversation.

"What'd he say?"

"That eighteen other girls had already been there that week."

"Gave you the icy mit, eh?" The moon-faced young man laughed and slapped his
thighs. "You see, we're kind of suspicious. The Sunday papers 'd like to get Amateur
Night done up brown in a nice little package, and the manager don't see it that way.
Gets wild-eyed at the thought of it."

"And what's your turn?" she asked.

"Who? me? Oh, I'm doin' the tramp act tonight. I'm Charley Welsh, you know."

She felt that by the mention of his name he intended to convey to her complete
enlightenment, but the best she could do was to say politely, "Oh, is that so?"

She wanted to laugh at the hurt disappointment which came into his face, but
concealed her amusement.

"Come, now," he said brusquely, "you can't stand there and tell me you've never
heard of Charley Welsh? Well, you must be young. Why, I'm an Only, the Only
amateur at that. Sure, you must have seen me. I'm everywhere. I could be a
professional, but I get more dough out of it by doin' the amateur."

"But what's an 'Only'?" she queried. "I want to learn."

"Sure," Charley Welsh said gallantly. "I'll put you wise. An 'Only' is a nonpareil, the
feller that does one kind of a turn better'n any other feller. He's the Only, see?"

And Edna saw.

"To get a line on the biz," he continued, "throw yer lamps on me. I'm the Only all-round
amateur. To-night I make a bluff at the tramp act. It's harder to bluff it than to really do
it, but then it's acting, it's amateur, it's art. See? I do everything, from Sheeny
monologue to team song and dance and Dutch comedian. Sure, I'm Charley Welsh,
the Only Charley Welsh."

And in this fashion, while the thin, dark man and the large, blond woman warbled
dulcetly out on the stage and the other professionals followed in their turns, did
Charley Welsh put Edna wise, giving her much miscellaneous and superfluous
information and much that she stored away for the SUNDAY INTELLIGENCER.

"Well, tra la loo," he said suddenly. "There's his highness chasin' you up. Yer first on
the bill. Never mind the row when you go on. Just finish yer turn like a lady."

It was at that moment that Edna felt her journalistic ambition departing from her, and
was aware of an overmastering desire to be somewhere else. But the stage
manager, like an ogre, barred her retreat. She could hear the opening bars of her
song going up from the orchestra and the noises of the house dying away to the
silence of anticipation.

"Go ahead," Letty whispered, pressing her hand; and from the other side came the
peremptory "Don't flunk!" of Charley Welsh.

But her feet seemed rooted to the floor, and she leaned weakly against a shift scene.
The orchestra was beginning over again, and a lone voice from the house piped with
startling distinctness:

"Puzzle picture! Find Nannie!"

A roar of laughter greeted the sally, and Edna shrank back. But the strong hand of the
manager descended on her shoulder, and with a quick, powerful shove propelled
her out on to the stage. His hand and arm had flashed into full view, and the
audience, grasping the situation, thundered its appreciation. The orchestra was
drowned out by the terrible din, and Edna could see the bows scraping away across
the violins, apparently without sound. It was impossible for her to begin in time, and
as she patiently waited, arms akimbo and ears straining for the music, the house let
loose again (a favorite trick, she afterward learned, of confusing the amateur by
preventing him or her from hearing the orchestra).

But Edna was recovering her presence of mind. She became aware, pit to dome, of a
vast sea of smiling and fun-distorted faces, of vast roars of laughter, rising wave on
wave, and then her Scotch blood went cold and angry. The hard-working but silent
orchestra gave her the cue, and, without making a sound, she began to move her
lips, stretch forth her arms, and sway her body, as though she were really singing.
The noise in the house redoubled in the attempt to drown her voice, but she serenely
went on with her pantomime. This seemed to continue an interminable time, when
the audience, tiring of its prank and in order to hear, suddenly stilled its clamor, and
discovered the dumb show she had been making. For a moment all was silent, save
for the orchestra, her lips moving on without a sound, and then the audience realized
that it had been sold, and broke out afresh, this time with genuine applause in
acknowledgment of her victory. She chose this as the happy moment for her exit, and
with a bow and a backward retreat, she was off the stage in Letty's arms.

The worst was past, and for the rest of the evening she moved about among the
amateurs and professionals, talking, listening, observing, finding out what it meant
and taking mental notes of it all. Charley Welsh constituted himself her preceptor and
guardian angel, and so well did he perform the self-allotted task that when it was all
over she felt fully prepared to write her article. But the proposition had been to do two
turns, and her native pluck forced her to live up to it. Also, in the course of the
intervening days, she discovered fleeting impressions that required verification; so,
on Saturday, she was back again, with her telescope basket and Letty.

The manager seemed looking for her, and she caught an expression of relief in his
eyes when he first saw her. He hurried up, greeted her, and bowed with a respect
ludicrously at variance with his previous ogre-like behavior. And as he bowed, across
his shoulders she saw Charley Welsh deliberately wink.

But the surprise had just begun. The manager begged to be introduced to her sister,
chatted entertainingly with the pair of them, and strove greatly and anxiously to be
agreeable. He even went so far as to give Edna a dressing room to herself, to the
unspeakable envy of the three other amateur ladies of previous acquaintance. Edna
was nonplussed, and it was not till she met Charley Welsh in the passage that light
was thrown on the mystery.

"Hello!" he greeted her. "On Easy Street, eh? Everything slidin' your way."

She smiled brightly.

"Thinks yer a female reporter, sure. I almost split when I saw'm layin' himself out
sweet an' pleasin'. Honest, now, that ain't yer graft, is it?"

"I told you my experience with editors," she parried. "And honest now, it was honest,
too."

But the Only Charley Welsh shook his head dubiously. "Not that I care a rap," he
declared. "And if you are, just gimme a couple of lines of notice, the right kind, good
ad, you know. And if yer not, why yer all right anyway. Yer not our class, that's straight."

After her turn, which she did this time with the nerve of an old campaigner, the
manager returned to the charge; and after saying nice things and being generally
nice himself, he came to the point.

"You'll treat us well, I hope," he said insinuatingly. "Do the right thing by us, and all
that?"

"Oh," she answered innocently, "you couldn't persuade me to do another turn; I know
I seemed to take and that you'd like to have me, but I really, really can't."

"You know what I mean," he said, with a touch of his old bulldozing manner.

"No, I really won't," she persisted. "Vaudeville's too--too wearing on the nerves, my
nerves, at any rate."

Whereat he looked puzzled and doubtful, and forbore to press the point further.

But on Monday morning, when she came to his office to get her pay for the two turns,
it was he who puzzled her.

"You surely must have mistaken me," he lied glibly. "I remember saying something
about paying your car fare. We always do this, you know, but we never, never pay
amateurs. That would take the life and sparkle out of the whole thing. No, Charley
Welsh was stringing you. He gets paid nothing for his turns. No amateur gets paid.
The idea is ridiculous. However, here's fifty cents. It will pay your sister's car fare also.
And,"--very suavely,--"speaking for the Loops, permit me to thank you for the kind and
successful contribution of your services."

That afternoon, true to her promise to Max Irwin, she placed her typewritten copy into
his hands. And while he ran over it, he nodded his head from time to time, and
maintained a running fire of commendatory remarks: "Good!--that's it!--that's the
stuff!--psychology's all right!--the very idea!--you've caught it!--excellent!--missed it a
bit here, but it'll go--that's vigorous! --strong!--vivid!--pictures!
pictures!--excellent!--most excellent!"

And when he had run down to the bottom of the last page, holding out his hand: "My
dear Miss Wyman, I congratulate you. I must say you have exceeded my expectations,
which, to say the least, were large. You are a journalist, a natural journalist. You've
got the grip, and you're sure to get on. The INTELLIGENCER will take it, without
doubt, and take you too. They'll have to take you. If they don't, some of the other
papers will get you."

"But what's this?" he queried, the next instant, his face going serious. "You've said
nothing about receiving the pay for your turns, and that's one of the points of the
feature. I expressly mentioned it, if you'll remember."

"It will never do," he said, shaking his head ominously, when she had explained.
"You simply must collect that money somehow. Let me see. Let me think a moment."

"Never mind, Mr. Irwin," she said. "I've bothered you enough. Let me use your 'phone,
please, and I'll try Mr. Ernst Symes again."

He vacated his chair by the desk, and Edna took down the receiver.

"Charley Welsh is sick," she began, when the connection had been made. "What?
No I'm not Charley Welsh. Charley Welsh is sick, and his sister wants to know if she
can come out this afternoon and draw his pay for him?"

"Tell Charley Welsh's sister that Charley Welsh was out this morning, and drew his
own pay," came back the manager's familiar tones, crisp with asperity.

"All right," Edna went on. "And now Nan Bellayne wants to know if she and her sister
can come out this afternoon and draw Nan Bellayne's pay?"

"What'd he say? What'd he say?" Max Irwin cried excitedly, as she hung up.

"That Nan Bellayne was too much for him, and that she and her sister could come
out and get her pay and the freedom of the Loops, to boot."

"One thing, more," he interrupted her thanks at the door, as on her previous visit.
"Now that you've shown the stuff you're made of, I should esteem it, ahem, a privilege
to give you a line myself to the INTELLIGENCER people."

Amateur Night
by Jack London

Jack London was deserted
by his father when he was
11. He was raised in
Oakland, California by his
mother Flora Wellman, a
music teacher and
spiritualist. Because Flora
was ill, Jack was raised
through infancy by an
ex-slave, Virginia Prentiss,
who would remain a major
maternal figure while the boy
grew up. Late in 1876, Flora
married John London, a
partially disabled Civil War
veteran. The family moved
around the San Francisco
Bay Area before settling in
Oakland, where Jack
completed grade school.
Though the family was
working class, it was not as
impoverished as London's
later accounts claimed.

Biographer Clarice Stasz
and others believe that Jack
London's father was
astrologer William Chaney.
Whether Wellman and
Chaney were legally married
is unknown. Most San
Francisco civil records were
destroyed by the vast fires
which followed the 1906
earthquake (for the same
reason, it is not known with
certainty what name
appeared on his birth
certificate). Stasz notes that
in his memoirs Chaney
refers to Jack London's
mother Flora Wellman as
having been his "wife" and
also cites an advertisement
in which Flora calls herself
"Florence Wellman Chaney."
Wellman moved to Georgia
in 1898.

About Jack London: