When I came into the city room of The Eve.
Sun, McCloy was at his desk in his shirt spiking copy.

He just raised his eyes and went on with his blue pencil.

I said "There's nothing in that story, sir, the man will get well, and the woman is his wife." "Make two sticks of it," said McCloy, "and then go back to the Jefferson police court." When I sat down at my old desk, and began to write the copy boy came and stood beside me and when I had finished the first page, snatched it.

I had to explain I was only taking notes.
At The Journal, Sam Chamberlain who used to pay me $500 a story, touched me on the shoulder as I was scribbling down notes, and said "Hearst says to take you back at $17 a week." I said "I'm worth $18 and I can't come for less." So he brought up the business manager and had a long wrangle with him as to whether I should get $18.

The business manager, a Jew gentleman, didn't know me from Adam, and seriously tried to save the paper a dollar a week.