the chance for adventure was much greater, and it was this
hope and love of adventure that kept Richard moving on all of
his life.

On a morning late in September, 1889, he started for New York
to look for a position as reporter on one of the metropolitan
newspapers. I do not know whether he carried with him any
letters or that he had any acquaintances in the journalistic
world on whose influence he counted, but, in any case, he visited
a number of offices without any success whatever.
Indeed, he had given up the day as wasted, and was on his way
to take the train back to Philadelphia. Tired and
discouraged, he sat down on a bench in City Hall Park, and
mentally shook his fist at the newspaper offices on Park Row
that had given him so cold a reception. At this all-important
moment along came Arthur Brisbane, whom Richard had met in
London when the former was the English correspondent of The
Sun. Brisbane had recently been appointed editor of The
Evening Sun, and had already met with a rather spectacular
success. On hearing the object of Richard's visit to New
York, he promptly offered him a position on his staff and
Richard as promptly accepted. I remember that the joyous
telegram he sent to my mother, telling of his success, and
demanding that the fatted calf be killed for dinner that night
was not received with unalloyed happiness. To my mother and
father it meant that their first-born was leaving home to seek
his fortune, and that without Richard's love and sympathy the
home could never be quite the same. But the fatted calf was
killed, every one pretended to be just as elated as Richard was
over his good fortune, and in two days he left us for his first