The Consolidated Press, being a mighty corporation, which daily fed seven hundred different newspapers, could not hope to please the policy of each, so it compromised by giving the facts of the day fairly set down, without heat, prejudice, or enthusiasm.  This was an excellent arrangement for the papers that subscribed for the service of the Consolidated Press, but it was death to the literary strivings of the Consolidated Press correspondents.

“We do not want descriptive writing,” was the warning which the manager of the great syndicate was always flashing to its correspondents.  “We do not pay you to send us pen-pictures or prose poems.  We want the facts, all the facts, and nothing but the facts.”

And so, when at a presidential convention a theatrical speaker sat down after calling James G. Blaine “a plumed knight,” each of the “special” correspondents present wrote two columns in an effort to describe how the people who heard the speech behaved in consequence, but the Consolidated Press man telegraphed, “At the conclusion of these remarks the cheering lasted sixteen minutes.”

No event of news value was too insignificant to escape the watchfulness of the Consolidated Press, none so great that it could not handle it from its inception up to the moment when it ceased to be quoted in the news-market of the world.  Each night, from thousands of spots all over the surface of the globe, it received thousands of facts, of cold, accomplished facts.  It knew that a tidal wave had swept through China, a cabinet had changed in Chili, in Texas an express train had been held up and robbed, “Spike” Kennedy had defeated the “Dutchman” in New Orleans, the Oregon had coaled outside of Rio Janeiro Harbor, the Cape Verde fleet had been seen at anchor off Cadiz; it had been located in the harbor of San Juan, Porto Rico; it had been sighted steaming slowly past Fortress Monroe; and the Navy Department reported that the St. Paul had discovered the lost squadron of Spain in the harbor of Santiago.  This last fact was the one which sent Keating to Jamaica.  Where he was sent was a matter of indifference to Keating.  He had worn the collar of the Consolidated Press for so long a time that he was callous.  A board meeting—­a mine disaster—­an Indian uprising—­it was all one to Keating.  He collected facts and his salary.  He had no enthusiasms, he held no illusions.  The prestige of the mammoth syndicate he represented gained him an audience where men who wrote for one paper only were repulsed on the threshold.  Senators, governors, the presidents of great trusts and railroad systems, who fled from the reporter of a local paper as from a leper, would send for Keating and dictate to him whatever it was they wanted the people of the United States to believe, for when they talked to Keating they talked to many millions of readers.  Keating, in turn, wrote out what they had said to him and transmitted it, without color or bias, to the clearinghouse of the Consolidated Press.  His “stories,” as all newspaper writings are called by men who write them, were as picturesque reading as the quotations of a stock-ticker.  The personal equation appeared no more offensively than it does in a page of typewriting in his work.