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BY-PRODUCTS IN THE LIFE OF AN INTERVIEWER By ARTHUR JAMES PEGLER (SECOND CROP) Illustrations by CAMILLUS KESSLER -y NTERV?EW?NG famous folk for publ? I cation is a wasteful department of news paper enterprise. It take? no account of the by-product Conditions and circumstances under which Interviews are had?tribulations of the inter? viewer, odd characteristics of the interviewed, may be interesting but are not important All that is "back stage" stuff?not for publication, "Get news," says the editor?nobody cares how you get it. The interviewer, however, reviewing his ad? ventures in high life, recalls circumstances under which he met important personages rather than the words they uttered or topics they discussed. For instance, the late J. Pier pont Morgan, his private, car invaded by news? paper emissaries at Chicago, remarked that Anno must have admitted us. Anne had. Miss Morgan is a friend of the press gang always. Mr. Morgan dismissed with a lordly ges? ture the "absurd" declaration that Wall Street?1. e., Morgan?had tried to scrap his railway, but commented with undisguised in? terest on a morning paper story anent the theft of a famous painting from an Italian gal? lery, and with that incident as his basis talked twenty minutes on Italian art, a topic conccrn * ing which his guests were ignorant. No won? der, therefore, that a hard-boiled city editor later snorted disdain when informed that Mr. Morgan talked three columns about fifteenth century Italian painting under the influence of the Renaissance?of Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael and Correggio, with perhaps half a column more about Hals, Rembrandt, Van Dyck and other famous Dutchmen, but not a line about Wall Street. pLINOR GLYN, scintillating Elinor, writer of "Three Weeks" and other tales, touring America with several youthful scions of Brit? ish nobility, exclaimed in dismay over a hotel telephone that she positively could not, and would not talk about love at 8 a. m., and, in fact, didn't comprehend how any sane editor could expect her to do such?provided he knew anything about love, which, being an editor, he most likely did not. When reminded that afternoon newspapers must needs emulate early birds she hopped on that unfortunate simile like a hen robin with a hungry brood, retorting that she refused ab? solutely to be anybody's worm, and, anyhow, would not discuss love until after dinner. She never did, on principle. It was positively in? decent to propose a topic like that in the pale gray of a Chicago dawn, but if the press gang would inform her where she might obtain a rasher of real Irish bacon fit for a regular woman's breakfast to replace those "little crinkly curl papera" served in American ho? tels she would be everlastingly grateful and later on might be induced to deliver a homily on love. What the lady really talked about when at last she consented to receive newspaper com? pany was Belgian hare breeding, at that period a popular craze. Every poor family, she said, could become independent of Swift and Armour by having a Belgian hare hutch in the back yard, because so amazing was the fecun? dity of those admirable creatures that a few pairs would keep the average household busy devising new ways to cook hare. ?HIEF JUSTICE WILLIAM HOWARD TAFT, visiting Chicago shortly before the Presidential election in 1908, had to make an early start one morning because of an ap? pointment to speak at Indianapolis the same ?day. He denied himself to interviewers over? night, so the afternoon newspaper men, in duty bound, albeit somewhat dubious of re? sults, approached the distinguished states? man's bedroom door at 7:45 a. m. The tran? som was atilt, and through it billowed a basso SwathetSi m a wo?ly bathrobe, he sat on the edgt^^f his bed, genially chatting \ *? With a startled gesture the singer half rose, opened her mouth wide and emitted an am azing note profundo rendition of "The Warrior Bold." "In days of o-o-o-ld W hen-he-he-hen knights were bo-o~o-ld And barons he-eld their swa-a-a-ay" Came pauses, gasps with exclamations of "Whoof!" and "Whoosh I" also sundry flap? pings, following which the song proceeded? and slappings. "A waiTior bo-o-o-ld With spu-hurs of go-o-old Sang merrily his lay-ay-ay? Sang me-er-ri-lee his lay." Somebody knocked at the door. "Come in!" roared the basso profundo. When the reporters entered Mr. Taft was no? where visible, but he remained audible The next President of the United States was hav? ing his bath. Two minutes later, swathed in a woolly bathrobe, he sat on the edge of his bed chatting genially, meanwhile sticking studs in a shirt?all of which shows how thoroughly democratic a distinguished Re? publican may be on occasion. W/T?EN F. D. Underwood, president of the Erie, was general manager of the Minne? apolis, St. Paul & Sault Ste. Marie, otherwise the Soo, which is a long time ago, by the way, a newspaper editor assigned me to ask Mr. Underwood certain questions relating to a switchmen's strike, which I am quite sure, since he knew Underwood intimately, he would not personally have propounded to the gentle? man, except perhaps from the driver's seat of a motor car, with the engine running pre? pared for emergencies. Being young and inexperienced, I did as I had been told to do. The big, two-fisted rail? roader sat behind a spacious chsk high up in the Guaranty Loan Building in Minneapolis. It was easy enough to see he was a busy man. With eager directness I propounded question No. 1. The general manager looked over the top of a letter he had been reading, scowled ferociously, and exclaimed: "Get out!" Baffled but by no means defeated, I rapped out question No. 2. It was moro provocative than the other. Underwood straightened his huge frame in the swivel chair and pointed to the door. "Get out," he repeated, adding, "unless you want me to drop you out of a window." It was an eight-story drop, but I was imbued with the bravery of the young enthusiast. I talked back to the general manager of the Soo, and few people ever do that. I dared him to drop me eight Btories, and, as Kipling he s phrased it, made "a further ass of myself." Some of the roughest, toughest railroaders in the roughest, toughest railroad yards of this country held the unanimous opinion in those Elinor Glyn could not and would not talk about love at 8 a. m. days that F. D. Underwood was a "fightin* divil." Also he strongly approved of other "fightin' divils." Perhaps he sized me up as "the makin's," so to speak, because he grinned and invited me back next day, when perhaps he might have something of interest to tell me. Since then I have interviewed Mr. Underwood many times, often, I feel sure, at some per? sonal inconvenience to him. WfHEN Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst toured the United States some years ago Chicago editors learned that the train by which she was to arrive would not reach La Salle Street before 2 p. m.? so a flock of interviewers hied themselves to Indianapolis, bent on meeting the train there, pumping Mrs. Pankhurst soon after breakfast and preparing their copy on the way in. The first section of the Twentieth Century rolled into Indianapolis and was met by the touring scribes, who demanded of the conduc? tor whether Mrs. Pankhurst was aboard. "Well," opined that gorgeous olficial, "there's some important woman in Stateroom C, Car 22. Guess she must be the one you're after." We piled aboard and waited a decent inter? val before sending cards to Stateroom C. Word was returned that the lady would receive us immediately, and back we went, prepared to question the world's champion suffragette about things in general. A placid-faced woman of dignified and state? ly mien sat by a window looking out. She turned suddenly and confronted us in evident astonishment that we were so many. "Gentlemen," she said smilingly. "I'm glad to see you all, but what in the world has hap? pened?" The dignified lady in Stateroom C was our own Jane Addams. The conductor had mixed his celebrities. Mrs. Pankhurst, we learned, was in Section 2?the train behind. Miss Addams, most charming of women, albeit one who loves a joke, laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. Having duly in? terviewed our famous Jane, who was always good copy, but who had been merely spending a night in Toledo, we dropped off at La Porte and grabbed the second section. Mrs. Pank hurst talked fast and cleverly and?well, it's only an hour from La Porte, and every man had his story to write after arriving in town, but the reason did not leak out for some timo afterward. No use telling editors everything. HPHE late Henry Clay Frick was not easy to interview. He did not believe in talking for publication. Essentially a man of action was Frick. Following an attempt on his life by Anar? chist Berkman, which nearly succeeded, the "Coke King" became more inaccessible than before. When traveling he was guarded by private detectives. When "in" he was invari? ably "out," and vice versa. All sorts of stories were afloat about Frick. It v/as said he had shaved off his famous beard to fool anarchists and was masquerad? ing in different whiskers daily. "I want ten words from Henry Clay Frick ?something to this effect," snapped my man? aging editor. "I want 'em to-night." He slammed a typewritten slip on the desk with accustomed emphasis. Mr. and Mrs. Frick were staying at the Congress Hotel. Mr. Frick had refused to receive interviewers. The hotel people said the f ricks had gone out. It was about 9 p. m. Frank Repetto, house detective, a friendly soul, said they might have gone to the theater. There was a good play just around the cor? ner. Of course, he didn't know?he was just guessing. It was a good guess. The doorman at the theater informed me most respectfully that Mr. Frick had left my ticket with him. It was a center aisle seat, he said. So down the ais'e I sauntered with some millionaire's ticket in my hand, looking for a man with spade whiskers. A moment later I was in the seat reserved for Mr. Frick's friend. The "Coke King" viewed me "Pardon," he said. "You have the wrong seat. This is reserved for a friend of mine." "Mr. Frick," I explained, "I borrowed your friend's seat for five minutes. My newspaper wants you to say ten words for publication. Here they are?read 'em." The paper was indignantly thrust aside. "This is an outrage!" began Frick. "]?I? there's nothing I want to say?nothing I will say." Next to the magnate sat Mrs. Frick. She was laughing?just bubbling over like a girl. Of course I expected s> be thrown out, but Mrs. Frick's demeanor encouraged me. I persisted in my effort to get the big man's O. K. on those ten words. Just then Mrs. Frick leaned for? ward and placed a white-gloved hand on the steel magnate's arm. "Henry," she said, "you lose." The lady's good nature was infectious. Frick relaxed, still, however, refusing to be quoted, but he took the typewritten slip and read it. "Well," he shrugged irritably, "I've said this very thing a thousand times." "Then there's no objection to saying it again." "Certainly not?expresses my sentiment ex? actly." Aa I emerged Mr. Frick's friend was de? manding his ticket of the doorman. I sur? rendered it with apologies. The gentleman's name, as I afterward learned, was Gary. "Black face, two column box, page one," or? dered the managing editor, as he received his typewritten slip?adding, sotto voce: "That'll knock 'em dead!" ?"PHE late Sir William Van Home, builder and president of the Canadian Pacific Railwav und one of the most astounding gen? iuses this continent ever produced?of whom it was once said that he knew every Siwash and Chinese among the ten thousand who helped him build the road and could call each one by name?once considered the possibility of developing a Hudson Bay tobacco industry. The magnate had several boxes of cigars made from Hudson Bay tobacco in his Montreal library. He used to give them to reporter? when he did not wish to be interviewed. Those cigars were rank beyond descrip? tion. Sir Thomas Shaughnessy, then plain Tom Shaughnessy, superintendent of the Western Division, was said to have sponsored the tobacco project. Van Home and Shaugh? nessy, their intimates declared, were always at war in a playful way. Sir Edwin Arnold, author of "The Light of Asia," en route from Japan to England, was visiting the Van Homes at the period re? ferred to, and reporters had called to inter? view the poet. The railroad magnate had already provided his guest with a Hudson Bay cigar something less than eight inches long and black as a crow's wing. Upon this the distinguished Britisher was puffing assid? uously, albeit with an astounded expression of countenance. The library reeked with acrid fumes even before Van Home handed the box to four newspaper men, all of whom felt in duty bound to light up. Less than a ..iin ute later the apartment became uninhabita? ble by any one save a Siwash or an Esqui? mau. Sir Edwin after some deliberation removed the cigar from his lips, rolled it gingerly be? tween his fingers a moment and inquired: "Where did you say this tobacco is grown?" "Hudson Bay," chuckled Van Home. "Greatest country in the world?grow any? thing." Arnold contemplated the nauseous stump, from which dense blue smoke rose ceiling ward. "Want my honest verdict?" he asfeed. ? "Give it to us straight," said the rntap?* "Well," went on Arnold, "I've smoked ha. anese tobacco?It's vile. Vf smoked q* neso tobacco?it's worse. Then there*! C rean tobacco and Saghalin tobacco ^ Mancho twist and Siberian blackjack, p sampled the lot, off and on, but, my dear V Home, if you don't mind my saying so ?er?infant industry in the Hudson Bw country should be strangled before it get? <Ji of hand. This cigar, my dear sir, is the rank, est, reekingest, deadliest, most odorifero? and -enerally outrageous cigar 1 ever encoua. tered in all my travels." Tho further the poet proceeded with fck excoriating arraignment of that terrible cim the broader became Van Home's grin, g;. massive shoulders were shaking with enjo?. ment of the joke. "Couldn't be worse, eh?" he demanded. "I hardly believe it could, on my honor" said Sir Edwin. "Well!" roared the head of the C. P. R "I might have known it. Tom Shaughnesaj likes 'em!" J^UISA TETRAZZIM, famous coloratura soprano, who sang in Verdi's "La Tra viata" at Chicago in 1918. permitted it to be known through her enthusiastic impresario that she would receive reporters at the Coa. gress Hotel during the afternoon. The blond and chubby songstress, who? extraordinary high notes had not then per meated the musical consciousness of Americas opera lovers as later they did, uas, neverth?. less, considered good newspaper copy by Chi? cago editors. One of them wondered, gam*, what irritably, if it wasn't possible to get something from Mme. Tetrazzini that would be different from the ordinary star i? terview. A man from another newspaper on a life? mission accompanied me to the signora't apartment. We were admitted by the urban? impresario with a gesture bespeaking caution "Hoosh!" he whispered, fingers on lips. "Z* signora she slip." "Not hurt, I hope," ventured my companion. "No hort," explained the friend of Tetra* zini. "Eet is not to hort?she slip. Ze signora is vat you say?rest. Vait," he went on, "I show you ze mos' won'erful Bing in ze wsrld Zees lady, ven I toch her, so?she vake fro? her slip?she sing high C, straight out from her slip. She alvis do zees," he confided. Catlike, he crossed the apartment and threw wide a foMing door. Within, clad in a pale blue peignoir, her yellow mane becomingly disarranged, lay the prima donna. Still or tiptoe, the impresario approached her. Paus? ing to smile confidentially at his visitors, bt gave the diva a sudden poke. "Signora!" he snappe 1. "Signoral Alerte!" With a startled gesture the singer half rose, opened her mouth wide and emitted an ama* ing note. It was a regular Metropolitan Opera high C, delivered with all the tre? mendous vocal power of which the signora was capable. Introductions followed. Mme. Tetrazzini was embarrassed. She admitted it. That bad man was always playing tricks. To cover her embarrassment she seated herself at a Stein way grand piano. This was the prelude to a further display of madame's versatility. She began playing an overture with her left hand, doing bass drum on the piano case with the heel of her right. When the kettledrums came in she produced the effect with agile finger tip? in the same way. Nearly every .sort of instru? ment in the orchestra she simulated with her lips. Luisa was all over the piano in a serie? of really startling musical effect?!. "Zees lady," resumed the impresario, "she i* zee mos' voner-ful vornan vat is in opera. She know every part in every opera. If some tune she sing no more opera, zen she become w? great artiste in vaudeville. She can do every sing vat is." When Ben Atwell, director of publicity for the Chicago Opera Company, saw the story of Mme. Tetrazzini's performance, he hunted the lady up and protested. "Wiiere did you pick up that press apent?' Ben demanded. "First thing you know hell have you walking a slack wire." "Zai, guy?" laughed the prima donna. "Ee corn's to me vees highes' recommen's from my friend Signor Reengaleeng/' Mr. Morgan dismissed Wall Street, but talked twenty minutes on itaUan m