"That story of yours this morning," said this reporter whose lack as a
writer was more than compensated by his ability to get intimately
acquainted with public men, "reads as if a child might have written it.
I don't see how you get such effects without any style at all. You just
let your story tell itself."
"Well, you see," replied Howard, "I am writing for the masses, and fine
writing would be wasted upon them."
"You're right," said Jackman, "we don't need literature on this paper--long
words, high-sounding phrases and all that sort of thing. What we want is
just plain, simple English that goes straight to the point."
"Like Shakespeare's and Bunyan's," suggested Kittredge with a grin.
"Shakespeare? Fudge!" scoffed Jackman. "Why he couldn't have made a living
as a space-writer on a New York newspaper."
"No, I don't think he would have staid long in Park Row," replied Kittredge
with a subtlety of meaning that escaped Jackman.
A few days before New Year's the Managing Editor looked up and smiled as
Howard was passing his desk.
"How goes it?" he asked.
"Oh, not so badly," Howard answered, "but I am a good deal depressed at
times."
"Depressed? Nonsense! You've got everything--youth, health and freedom.
And by the way, you are going on space the first of the year.
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