reliable account. When I arrived at your station yesterday, the military police asked me to take the first train back to Prague. I obeyed only while I had to. I bought a ticket for Prague, then appeared later in this laborer’s outfit. What was I to do? You would be a mighty poor journalist to go back without reaching the place, I said to myself! So I set out afoot, hoping to reach the mine under cover of the night. On the road, I met with a tarmaker, . . . later he told me that his name is Pankracek . . . and his son.
Tonicka.—They are from Dohalic.
Melichar.—Then this idea occurred to me; no one is going to cross-examine a tarmaker. I spoke a few minutes with the men, then gave my own clothes to the younger and took his suit, smeared my face, gave the young man some money, his father twice as much, . . . and so here I am.
Chaplain (With a smile).—As a tarmaker?
Melichar.—Yes, as a tarmaker. This trade, at least, I can lawfully follow. We journalists smear up both the great and the small cycles in history, . . . draw them up at times for great lords who eventually kick us out of the game when they are through with us, . . . we ourselves ride in the procession day by day as best we can, . . . and we persistently smear on paper whatever opportunity lets us put down, or the almighty game of chance, or perhaps some real worthwhile event. Such an event is this present uprising of the miners, and their subsequent suppression. I know that you, respected sirs, will tell me truthfully how things stand. The first telegrams to the “Noviny” have been already sent in, but they are insufficient. They are official despatches. We draw up in them, usually in condensed form, the most sensational features, and with them, very often, a nice smearable sort of blacking. I go from house to house with my three-day old father, who presents me everywhere as his son. I inquired about your honor, and finally someone told me to come here.
Chaplain.—And can I be of any service to you?
Melichar.—At present, I beg of you just a few short sentences. I will at once send them by my foster-father to the neighboring town, to have them mailed by special delivery, and then, if you permit, I will allow myself the honor of coming to the parsonage after dark to ask about something else. I already have columns of material . . . from what I have heard and witnessed, . . . but I truly believe that I would learn
