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Moon-Face and Other Stories-Part5_JACK LONDON(1876-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"In a way it must be considered a test," he added encouragingly. "A severe

one, but so much the better. Now is the time. Are you game?"



"I'll try," she said faintly, at the same time making a note of the

directness, abruptness, and haste of these city men with whom she was coming



in contact.

"Good! Why, when I started in, I had the dreariest, deadliest details



imaginable. And after that, for a weary time, I did the police and divorce

courts. But it all came well in the end and did me good. You are luckier in



making your start with Sunday work. It's not particularly great. What of it?

Do it. Show the stuff you're made of, and you'll get a call for better



work--better class and better pay. Now you go out this afternoon to the Loops,

and engage to do two turns."



"But what kind of turns can I do?" Edna asked dubiously.

"Do? That's easy. Can you sing? Never mind, don't need to sing. Screech, do



anything--that's what you're paid for, to afford amusement, to give bad art

for the populace to howl down. And when you do your turn, take some one along



for chaperon. Be afraid of no one. Talk up. Move about among the amateurs

waiting their turn, pump them, study them, photograph them in your brain. Get



the atmosphere, the color, strong color, lots of it. Dig right in with both

hands, and get the essence of it, the spirit, the significance. What does it



mean? Find out what it means. That's what you're there for. That's what the

readers of the SUNDAY INTELLIGENCER want to know.



"Be terse in style, vigorous of phrase, apt, concretely apt, in similitude.

Avoid platitudes and commonplaces. Exercise selection. Seize upon things



salient, eliminate the rest, and you have pictures. Paint those pictures in

words and the INTELLIGENCER will have you. Get hold of a few back numbers, and



study the SUNDAY INTELLIGENCER feature story. Tell it all in the opening

paragraph as advertisement of contents, and in the contents tell it all over



again. Then put a snapper at the end, so if they're crowded for space they can

cut off your contentsanywhere, reattach the snapper, and the story will still



retain form. There, that's enough. Study the rest out for yourself."

They both rose to their feet, Edna quite carried away by his enthusiasm and



his quick, jerky sentences, bristling with the things she wanted to know.

"And remember, Miss Wyman, if you're ambitious, that the aim and end of



journalism is not the feature article. Avoid the rut. The feature is a trick.

Master it, but don't let it master you. But master it you must; for if you



can't learn to do a feature well, you can never expect to do anything better.

In short, put your whole self into it, and yet, outside of it, above it,



remain yourself, if you follow me. And now good luck to you."

They had reached the door and were shaking hands.



"And one thing more," he interrupted her thanks, "let me see your copy before

you turn it in. I may be able to put you straight here and there."



Edna found the manager of the Loops a full-fleshed, heavy-jowled man, bushy of

eyebrow and generally belligerent of aspect, with an absent-minded scowl on



his face and a black cigar stuck in the midst thereof. Symes was his name, she

had learned, Ernst Symes.



"Whatcher turn?" he demanded, ere half her brief application had left her

lips.



"Sentimental soloist, soprano," she answered promptly, remembering Irwin's

advice to talk up.



"Whatcher name?" Mr. Symes asked, scarcely deigning to glance at her.

She hesitated. So rapidly had she been rushed into the adventure that she had



not considered the question of a name at all.

"Any name? Stage name?" he bellowed impatiently.



"Nan Bellayne," she invented on the spur of the moment. "B-e-l-l-a-y-n-e. Yes,

that's it."



He scribbled it into a notebook. "All right. Take your turn Wednesday and

Saturday."



"How much do I get?" Edna demanded.

"Two-an'-a-half a turn. Two turns, five. Getcher pay first Monday after second



turn."

And without the simple courtesy of "Good day," he turned his back on her and



plunged into the newspaper he had been reading when she entered.

Edna came early on Wednesday evening, Letty with her, and in a telescope



basket her costume--a simple affair. A plaid shawl borrowed from the

washerwoman, a ragged scrubbing skirt borrowed from the charwoman, and a gray



wig rented from a costumer for twenty-five cents a night, completed the

outfit; for Edna had elected to be an old Irishwoman singing broken-heartedly



after her wandering boy.

Though they had come early, she found everything in uproar. The main



performance was under way, the orchestra was playing and the audience

intermittently applauding. The infusion of the amateurs clogged the working of






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