Chapter 35
Mr. Kemble Once More

Five days after I’d first set foot on the Mariposa estate, I once again walked through the doors of the offices of the California Alta on Montgomery Street in San Francisco.

I’d arrived in the city late the evening before. I spent the night at Miss Bean’s Boarding House. After a bath and a change into fresh clothes, I felt much more confident than the first time I had been there. In my hand I held eight sheets of writing, an article I was genuinely proud of as being different and publishable, and something that no other reporter could have, especially no San Francisco reporter. If Robin O’Flaridy had scooped me last time, now it was my turn!

I didn’t feel like a little girl begging a powerful editor to publish my little article. For the first time I guess I felt like a real “reporter” who had uncovered a story. As I walked down the hallway—and was I ever glad there was no O’Flaridy in sight!—I felt tall and good inside.

I went straight to Mr. Kemble’s office, without even asking anybody if he was in or if I could see him, and knocked on the door.

I heard a muffled sound from inside, so I opened the door and walked right up to his desk, where the editor sat just like last time. His head was down and he didn’t even look up right at first.

“Mr. Kemble,” I said, trying not to let my voice quiver, “I have a story for you.”

At the sound of my voice he glanced up.

His eyes surveyed me up and down for a second, then it seemed to gradually come to him who was standing there in front of him in his office.

“Ah, Miss Hollister,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Come to deliver your next article in person, eh? So you can be sure no one steals any of your precious words? Long ways to come, isn’t it, just to deliver a short piece?”

I think he was trying to be humorous, but I didn’t smile.

“This isn’t on the Miracle Springs mayor’s election,” I said. “It’s got to do with the national election.”

“Oh, national news! My, oh my!” he said, still with a little grin on his lips. “You’ve broken some major new story that all the other hundred newsmen in this city have never heard?”

“No, it’s not a major new story,” I said. It’s ‘human interest,’ I believe you call it. However, I think you will find it of interest to your readers. And to answer your question, no, I don’t think any of your other newsmen do have access to this information.”

I stood straight and confident before his desk, the papers still in my hand. Gradually the smile disappeared from his face, and he eyed me carefully. I think he was starting to realize I was serious.

“All right, Hollister,” he said at last. “Let me see it.”

He held out his right hand. I handed him the top page.

He took the sheet, glanced over it quickly. His eyes darted up to mine again, as if looking for some clue. Then he looked down at the sheet again and read it start to finish. As he completed the last line he again held up his hand.

“I’ll give you more when you agree to publish it,” I said.

“Don’t toy with me, Hollister!” he snapped, dropping the page. “I don’t play games with my reporters, especially nineteen-year-old women!”

I reached forward and took the page from his desk, then turned around and made a step toward the door.

“Okay, okay,” he said, still brusquely but apologetically. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”

I turned back and faced him again.

“It looks good, Hollister,” he went on. “I’m sure I can use it. May I please see more?”

I shuffled through the sheets and handed him page five.

He took it, and the moment he saw what I had done, he glanced up at me again, bordering on another outburst, I think. But he controlled himself, and read the page through. He set it down on his desk, leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and looked at me for a long moment.

“What is this little game you’re playing with me?” he finally said.

“I just want to protect my article,” I said. “What happened before was very upsetting to me. I felt we had an agreement, even if we didn’t shake hands on it, and I don’t think what you did was right. Now, I’m very sorry I didn’t get the chance to tell you all about Mrs. Parrish being my stepmother. That was wrong of me. But it was an honest oversight. When Robin O’Flaridy walked in, I forgot a lot of what I had intended to say. But all that’s past, Mr. Kemble. You explained yourself very clearly in your letter, and you were very plain about how things are if I intend to write for your paper. Therefore, it seems best to me that I make sure we come to an agreement beforehand. And after we’ve reached an agreement, then you can see the entire article.”

While I spoke his face changed first to red then to white. I don’t know if he’d ever been spoken to by any of his reporters that way, but he certainly wasn’t used to it from a nineteen-year-old woman!

When I finished, I stopped and stood still. I half expected him to yell at me, or throw me out of his office and say he never wanted to see me again.

There was a long silence. I don’t think he knew what to do with me either. He probably wanted to throw me out! But then again, I knew he wanted the article on Jessie Fremont!

Finally he spoke again.

“Where did you get this stuff?” he asked.

“My sources are confidential,” I answered. I’d been practicing that line all the way from Mariposa! Ankelita told me that’s what I ought to say if asked where I’d got my information.

“Nobody could know some of the things you say unless they knew the lady personally. You don’t know Jessie Fremont . . . do you, Hollister?” His voice was incredulous at the very thought, even though he knew I couldn’t possibly know her.

“Confidential,” I repeated. “I can tell you nothing about where any of this came from.”

He squirmed in his chair. I could tell he hated not being in control.

There was another long silence.

“All right . . . all right, Hollister, you win! I’ll print it. I don’t know how you got it, but it’s good, it’s original, and I want it.”

“And the matter of pay?” I said, still holding the rest of the pages.

“I told you before I would pay you a dollar an article . . . until you’ve proven yourself.”

“I think this is worth more than what I’ve sent you before.”

“So now it’s you who’s welching on a deal, eh, Hollister?” He chuckled.

“I never agreed to a dollar,” I said.

“Okay, you’re right, this is worth more. You’ve done some good work here. I’ll pay you two dollars for it.”

“I want eight dollars.”

“Eight dollars!”

I didn’t say anything.

“That’s highway robbery! I can’t pay that kind of money for a single article. If word got out that I’d paid a woman eight dollars, the men would be wanting sixteen for every little thing they brought me.”

“This has nothing to do with whether a man or woman wrote it. Somebody had to do the work to uncover this story, and whether it was a man or a woman, it seems to me the words would be worth the same. And I figure the words of this story are worth eight dollars. She might be our next first lady, and nobody else has some of this stuff I’ve written here.”

“You are a huckster, Hollister, a downright rogue! All right, I’ll give you four. I can’t pay a penny more!”

“I’m sure the Sacramento Union or maybe the Courier would like to take a look at it.”

“You can’t do that. You’re under contract to me—don’t forget, we have a three-article deal on the other election.”

“A deal you did not feel you needed to honor a couple weeks ago,” I said. “I’m under no obligation to the Alta; I simply wanted to offer the story to you first.”

I reached for the page five still lying on his desk.

“Good day, Mr. Kemble,” I said, and again turned to go. This time I made it almost to the door before I again heard his voice. Even as he said it I could tell from the grating tone that it killed him to give in to the demands of a woman.

“Six” came his voice behind me.

I stopped, and slowly turned around. He was standing behind his desk, both hands resting upon it, sort of leaning toward me, his face glaring.

I stood where I was and returned his stare. Two seconds went by, then five. It seemed like an eternity that we stood there, looking deeply into each other’s eyes. Whether it was a struggle of wills, or a contest of stubbornness, I don’t know. But in that moment, I was thankful for Ma and her Belle blood!

Finally I spoke. My voice was very soft, but very determined. I had made up my mind even before I’d entered his office, and I wasn’t about to back down now.

“Mr. Kemble, I said I wanted eight dollars. I believe the article is worth eight dollars. And if you want it for the Alta, you are going to have to pay eight dollars. Otherwise I am going to walk out this door and take what I have to one of your competitors.”

Several more seconds went by.

Finally Mr. Kemble sat down and exhaled a long sigh.

“All right, you win. Eight dollars.” His voice sounded tired. I could hardly believe it—I had beaten him.

“I’d like the money today,” I said.

“Do you never stop, Hollister?” he asked in disbelief. “Don’t you trust me for payment?”

“You told me yourself, Mr. Kemble, that the newspaper business was a tough business. I’m just following your advice. You also told me that if I thought it was unfair I could take my articles elsewhere. It seems that your own advice would apply to you too. If you do not like my terms, you do not have to accept them. I’m simply saying, my terms for this article are eight dollars in advance, and then you may have my article on Jessie Benton Fremont.”

He sighed again.

“Go see the cashier,” he said. “Tell him I’m authorizing payment for an article. He’ll check with me, and then you’ll have your payment.”

I turned and left his office and did as he said. An hour later I was walking back up the street to Miss Bean’s. I felt like shouting at the top of my lungs.

I had done it!