Life, 1913-12-04 · page 32 of 112
Life — December 4, 1913 — page 32: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a short story (not a cartoon), likely from *Life* magazine's satirical fiction section. The narrative satirizes **sensationalist newspaper journalism** and the ethics of reporters. The plot involves a **scandal reporter** attempting to exploit a society story: Mrs. Jenkins, supposedly caught "eloping" with an admirer, has been injured. The reporter seeks damaging details, hoping to write a lurid piece about "alienation of affection" lawsuits. The satire targets: - **Yellow journalism**: The reporter's ghoulish pursuit of private family scandals for profit - **Class dynamics**: A wealthy man (Jenkins) easily uses social connections and bribes (offering money) to silence potential problems - **Professional ethics**: The reporter openly admits his work stems from "native imbecility" and morbid curiosity about others' affairs The chauffeur becomes an unlikely foil, representing working-class dignity—he refuses Jenkins's money and eventually walks away, contrasting with the reporter's mercenary exploitation of human tragedy. The satire suggests mainstream journalism prioritizes sensationalism over ethics or human decency.
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O, nor the doctor, neither. Nobody will see any- body.” The maid was very decided. She couldn't close the door. The reporter's foot obstructed it. “Just a word to save scandal,” he urged. “It’s said in town Mrs, Jenkins was killed while eloping with an old admirer. Now, anything that would modify such a report . . . if it’s not true...” Two men appeared on the landing. The elder, with the trembling mouth and drawn face, must be Jenkins. The homely, red-haired young fellow took his hand in an encouraging clasp. “The doctor really thinks Mrs. Jenkins will get well,” he insisted. “You can certainly believe it, Mr. Jenki Her cousin—it’s different with him. I hate like the mischief to leave you, but you know how I'm fixed.” “T know. You must go on, Rigg: aid the unnerved husband. He put a grateful hand on Riggs’s shoulder. “My boy,” he continued in that unsteady vo’ helped to save my wife's life. Let me do something for your wife’s Christmas.” He tendered a yellow note that rustled in his shaking hold. “My wife to yours; God bless them both!” The red-haired man refused, with a smile that easily took the edge from his refusal, so the reporter thought. The men on the stair parted like friends. But the younger must be that driver who notably wrecked the speed laws within the city limits since. Es knows the famous surgeon’s face, and the police passed Jenkins’s car through as freely as though it had borne the physician's red cross above the hood; but people don’t often take Broad miles an he . The reporter made way for the red-haired man. The maid hastily closed the door. The reporter hesitated, then swung off with the newcomer. “Bound for Mottsville?” he asked. smoke?” . “you've some hours erybody treet at forty-five “SoamI. Have a There was some.trouble about lighting up in the snow and wind. Finally the chauffeur opened his handsome overcoat, disclosing a ragged lining to the flare of the sheltered matches, “Mrs. Jenkins casually. “Pretty badly.” “Will her husband take any steps?” “Steps?” repeated the puzzled chauffeur. “Legal steps—to free himseli—or damages for aliena- tion of affection?” The chauffeur wheeled and faced him. “ Who in thunder are you?” badly hurt?” asked the reporter “Me?” acknowledged the reporter with a cheerful Wives By Katherine Baker laugh, “I'm a ghoul, them on exhibition.’ “ Meaning?” “Reporter for the Star.” “Jerusalem! It’s a degraded job you've got! you take to that?” Native imbecility, id the reporter calmty, “ coupled with a morbid inclination to mind other pcople’s business. Why d’you chauff?” “TI don't,” disclaimed the chauffeur. Bore out castings at three per. Dig up family skeletons and put Why'd “T’'m in the works. Jenkins got me to bring him and the doctor out on this hurry call because his man was off, and I'm some swifter with a car than anybody else around there. “ Are you so sp “ Did the Wildwood mile in forty flat last year. horse Fiat. reminiscence. The reporter cocked a satirical eye. “T conclude,” he commented, “that you were too swift for Jenkins's car, At least I saw one stranded down the road, as I came up in a kind, obliging farmer's wagon. And I observe you're walking bac! Riggs displayed professional disgust. Snow-stalled. Anyw “T've a preference for walking.” “Come off! With the temperature below, and snow like feather-beds to plow through!" Ninety- He spoke with loving Stripped chassis. , you're here yourself.” “The preference inheres in my purse, not in’ my soul,” explained the reporter. “I'm on space rates, and our people are the devil about expense ac- counts.” “Tastes differ,” remarked Riggs. “Why a man would take to writing up other people's private affairs for pure pleasure, profits strictly barred, is beyond me.” “Tt was beyond me on admitted the reporter. “ Now I'm grateful to anybody that lets me work, even for noth- ing. College life was all touchdowns. But it’s curious how little football avails commercially. Yes, quite so,” re- sponding to an incredulous look, “I, too, have been in Ithaca. Saw the pin on your fob when you lighted up.” He extended a chilled, fraternal hand. The chauffeur grasped it in esoterically tangled fingers, sighing relief and comradeship. “Geel” he confided. “ Ain't it fierce, this livelihood proposition? I've been up against it for a year now, and I can honestly say I haven't had a thing I wanted in that time. Like to study the results?” He produced a little calfskin book, struck a match, held it to the open page. “The Realty Trust in account with Joseph Riggs, Junior.” There was a_ credit