of being introduced to her. Ever. I wasn’t sure my head would survive the meeting.
Ned led the way back to the elevator, and we jostled and banged our way to the next stop. Over the commotion, he told me more about Miss D’Lacorte. “Marjorie is the
Chronicle
’s version of Nellie Bly. With a little Captain Bligh thrown in for good measure,” he added, referring to the cruel commander of the HMS
Bounty
. “She’s a good writer, but a hard egg.”
I wondered if a woman in a man’s world could be anything but a hard egg. That thought gave me pause, as I certainly wasn’t the Tiger Woman type. Maybe the roar came with experience.
The noisy elevator had been relative peace and quiet compared to our destination. “Watch out for boys with turtles,” Ned shouted as we stepped into an enormous room jam-packed with thundering machines.
“What?” I was certain I’d misheard him. Then a young man dashed by, pushing a wheeled rectangular cart. We barely missed colliding. “Turtles!” I exclaimed.
“And nothing slow about them.” Ned motioned me overto a stationary turtle. “This is the chase,” he said, indicating a heavy metal frame atop the turtle-cart. “The compositors take slugs of type from the linotypes over there—” He pointed to two rows of massive machines, groaning and roaring in operation.
They could have been dragons, crouched on sturdy haunches, the sunlight barely piercing their smoky exhalations, ready at any moment to spread colossal scaly wings for flight. The only things to remind me that these were not dragons, though no less fantastical, were the operators’ brass spittoons gleaming brightly on the floor next to each machine.
“And then they lock them into the chase, here, before rolling the turtles to the press room,” Ned finished his explanation.
I couldn’t help covering my ears as we walked the entire length of the floor. We exited through a steel door, and the immediate quiet in the stairwell was pure joy to my throbbing head. “How do the men stand the din, day after day?” I asked.
“Well, it’s part of the job. So is shaking out bits of linotype lead from their clothes each night. But I don’t imagine one fellow in there would trade his job for anything. The pen is mightier than the sword and all that.” Ned once again offered his arm for our journey to yet another floor, where a huge wave of inky perfume rolled over and around us. Again, it was noise on top of noise as presses clattered and ground, paper rolling off great reels like black-and-white yard goods. I smiled to think of making a quilt out of all this newsprint.
We moved from the noisiest rooms to the quietest. Not that the editorial floor was all that quiet. People were calling out to one another, and in the pauses between voices and ringing telephones, a squadron of blue pencils scritch-scratched over reporters’ copy.
“Now you’ve seen it all,” Ned said. “Almost.” He gestured down with his thumb. “There’s still the morgue.”
A chill shot through me as we retraced our footsteps even though I knew a newspaper morgue housed not bodies but back issues. “Do you have to work here to use the morgue?”
Ned rubbed his dapper moustache. “Why? Is there someone whose checkered past you wish to uncover?” He guided me to the right. “We’re going to turn at the end of the hall there.”
I forced myself to keep my tone as light as his. “A lady never snoops.” But I had been thinking about pasts—specifically, Uncle Chester’s.
He laughed aloud. “I’m sure you’re right about that. Ladies don’t.” He pulled open the next door for me. “But reporters—both male and female—surely do. It’s part of the job.”
“Well, Miss Brooks.”
I turned at the vaguely familiar voice. “Oh. Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said to Miss Tight Corset.
Ned wore a quizzical expression on his face. “You two know each other?”
“Hardly.” Miss Tight Corset pursed her lips. “But I
Ned led the way back to the elevator, and we jostled and banged our way to the next stop. Over the commotion, he told me more about Miss D’Lacorte. “Marjorie is the
Chronicle
’s version of Nellie Bly. With a little Captain Bligh thrown in for good measure,” he added, referring to the cruel commander of the HMS
Bounty
. “She’s a good writer, but a hard egg.”
I wondered if a woman in a man’s world could be anything but a hard egg. That thought gave me pause, as I certainly wasn’t the Tiger Woman type. Maybe the roar came with experience.
The noisy elevator had been relative peace and quiet compared to our destination. “Watch out for boys with turtles,” Ned shouted as we stepped into an enormous room jam-packed with thundering machines.
“What?” I was certain I’d misheard him. Then a young man dashed by, pushing a wheeled rectangular cart. We barely missed colliding. “Turtles!” I exclaimed.
“And nothing slow about them.” Ned motioned me overto a stationary turtle. “This is the chase,” he said, indicating a heavy metal frame atop the turtle-cart. “The compositors take slugs of type from the linotypes over there—” He pointed to two rows of massive machines, groaning and roaring in operation.
They could have been dragons, crouched on sturdy haunches, the sunlight barely piercing their smoky exhalations, ready at any moment to spread colossal scaly wings for flight. The only things to remind me that these were not dragons, though no less fantastical, were the operators’ brass spittoons gleaming brightly on the floor next to each machine.
“And then they lock them into the chase, here, before rolling the turtles to the press room,” Ned finished his explanation.
I couldn’t help covering my ears as we walked the entire length of the floor. We exited through a steel door, and the immediate quiet in the stairwell was pure joy to my throbbing head. “How do the men stand the din, day after day?” I asked.
“Well, it’s part of the job. So is shaking out bits of linotype lead from their clothes each night. But I don’t imagine one fellow in there would trade his job for anything. The pen is mightier than the sword and all that.” Ned once again offered his arm for our journey to yet another floor, where a huge wave of inky perfume rolled over and around us. Again, it was noise on top of noise as presses clattered and ground, paper rolling off great reels like black-and-white yard goods. I smiled to think of making a quilt out of all this newsprint.
We moved from the noisiest rooms to the quietest. Not that the editorial floor was all that quiet. People were calling out to one another, and in the pauses between voices and ringing telephones, a squadron of blue pencils scritch-scratched over reporters’ copy.
“Now you’ve seen it all,” Ned said. “Almost.” He gestured down with his thumb. “There’s still the morgue.”
A chill shot through me as we retraced our footsteps even though I knew a newspaper morgue housed not bodies but back issues. “Do you have to work here to use the morgue?”
Ned rubbed his dapper moustache. “Why? Is there someone whose checkered past you wish to uncover?” He guided me to the right. “We’re going to turn at the end of the hall there.”
I forced myself to keep my tone as light as his. “A lady never snoops.” But I had been thinking about pasts—specifically, Uncle Chester’s.
He laughed aloud. “I’m sure you’re right about that. Ladies don’t.” He pulled open the next door for me. “But reporters—both male and female—surely do. It’s part of the job.”
“Well, Miss Brooks.”
I turned at the vaguely familiar voice. “Oh. Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said to Miss Tight Corset.
Ned wore a quizzical expression on his face. “You two know each other?”
“Hardly.” Miss Tight Corset pursed her lips. “But I
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