Reel Life (Sep 1913 - Mar 1914)

Reel Life Conklin had been watching her over the tortoise shell rim of his glasses for ten minutes. Molly Crawford had kept track of the time in spite of the fact that she appeared to be diligently working on a Sunday special which she hoped to sell by way of increasing her meagre weekly space bill on the Journal. She stole furtive glances over her shoulder as she worked and each time encountered the same calculating blue eyes. But the expression in the city editor's usually care-worn face was one that she could not understand. Had her morning story gone awry? she asked herself as she kept on scribbling (for she had not yet learned the trick of composing on a typewritter), or had she done something that would lose for her the privilege of earning even the small income that she eked from the Journal as a space writer? But while she was pondering the last question the city editor called her name and crooked his forefinger at her. She crossed the paper strewn editorial room with trepidation. "Do you want to handle your first big story to-day, Miss Crawford?" he asked with just the trace of a smile altering his face. Molly breathed a sigh of relief, and immediately became all attention. Anything that did not savor of minor social functions, obituaries, or church news was a relief to her, for heretofore only unimportant assignments had been her lot. "If you've followed the Journal lately," continued Conklin, "you know how we are wading into the grafters in New York. We've chased a lot of 'em to cover and have made the Police Department beg for mercy. But there's one story we can't run down. It's about the Working Girls' Protective Association. There's a clever woman behind it, that's why. And behind her is the Police Department with its grafters, and the politicians who get their share, and Heaven only knows who else. We've had men working on the story for weeks. They've done some fine detective work up to a certain point, then they fell down, and I've had my suspicions why. I fired Rogan and Brennan for it, and I'll fire some others before long. They tried to tell me they didn't fall for the graft. But I'm old in the game, and I know they got paid for reporting "No Story." Mrs. Alice Hope is the woman who runs the Association. You'll find her up in her headquarters on Third Avenue. Pose as a working girl. Go up and meet her. Learn how they take money away from unsuspecting shop girls. Get all the dope you can ! come back to the Norma Phillips — the "Mutual Girl" office ; make out an affidavit and swear to it and then we'll make the police arrest her. All enthusiasm over the importance of her mission, Molly Crawford returned to her desk, secured her jacket and hat and some note paper, and started for the door. But Conklin called her back. "Look here, girl. I've picked you to do this 'cause I believe you're honest. But you haven't been in the city very long. You don't know the dirt and filth of it. You don't know the grafting and the vice that exists. It will be a revelation to you, but for goodness sakes keep your skirts clean. I had a daughter once — little older than you I guess. She got friendly with a rat of a man ten years ago. Now she's gone. I don't know where — and — ah — well, I don't care now. I guess she's dead by this time. I hope for her sake she is. She's dead to me, I know. Poor Annie." .... (a moment he siat staring vacantly into space, then suddenly he pulled himself together and spoke sharply). Here are the few things we know about the Working Girls' Protective Association. They may help you." He handed her an envelope as .she turned to go. Every nerve tingling with the excitement of the chase, Molly Crawford hurried across to the Bowery and entered a Third Avenue car. She tucked herself away in the corner of a cross seat far up forward, and with eager fingers drew forth the contents of the envelope Conklin had given her. In an old but neatly pressed black suit and a last year's hat she looked every bit the part she was about to play. Indeed her income since her arrival in the city a year ago had hardly been more than that of the average shop girl. Fresh from high school in a Western village where she lived, she had arrived in New York the summer before, bent on making a success with the small experience in journalism she had acquired in the newspaper office of her home town. But she reckoned without proper knowledge of the conditions she had to face. She made her home with an aunt who was having trouble to make both ends meet, and it was quite apparent to Molly, at the outset, that she could look for no help at all from her. As for ever calling upon her parents for financial assistance in time of stress, that was out of the question. Her pride forbade her. Yet, as day after day, she tramped up and down Park Row, looking for a position, she felt that her pride was slipping. Five dollars would have meant a great deal to her then, and it took every ounce