Some Great Thing
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Disillusioned and apathetic after four years of college, fledgling reporter Mahatma Grafton returns to his hometown to begin work at a local newspaper. When a peaceful demonstration escalates into a full-scale police cover-up, Mahatma discovers the principles that have always eluded him.
minutes. Then, resting on a bench, he saw a CBC-TV car on Main Street. Jake delivered another blast. His voice bounced off City Hall, ricocheted off the opposite building and came echoing back from behind him. The mayor had gone south of the border to meet the mayor of Fargo, North Dakota. He had done this without any border troubles, despite The Herald’s recent article about him during his trip to Nicaragua. Sandra Paquette liked having the mayor absent; she got more work done that way.
In her spare time, she would unite split infinitives, tighten leads and cross out adjectives. Helen eventually realized Chuck would never improve much. But the editing bug had infected her. From time to time, she couldn’t resist red-pencilling other reporters’ carbon copies and slipping the corrected work into their mailboxes at work. This unsolicited service proved unpopular in the newsroom. Helen let it drop, except for occasional comments to new reporters who appeared receptive to criticism.
first, but then fell all over him when he learned Mahatma was a reporter. Mahatma took the wobbly steps upstairs. Jake Corbett lay supine on his bed, feet raised on a rolled blanket, sweating. He lifted a hand a few inches off his bed. “How’re you doing, Jake?” “Not so good, Mr. Grafton.” There was no place for Mahatma to sit. Books, documents, legal statutes, tracts, newspaper clippings and encyclopaediae were strewn on the window ledge, the dresser, the chair, the bed and even on the floor.
Africa? Stick with that story, son. Could be interesting.” Mahatma reached Sandra Paquette the next day. She said the note was just a letter of greetings. An External Affairs official said Ottawa didn’t object to the mayor’s greeting Fotso. Mahatma presented this information to Betts. Betts frowned. “Find out more about this African mayor.” Sifting through The Herald library files, Mahatma learned that Boubacar Fotso had been appointed mayor of Yaoundé in 1982. That same year, various Reuter
scribbled a message and a telephone number on a piece of paper. “Son, call Christine Bennie at The Toronto Times. Urgent.” Christine Bennie asked about Yoyo, of course. Mahatma told her Yoyo had given him a gift to pass on to her. Christine was glad to hear that. And she wanted to know more about Mahatma’s border troubles. Mahatma said he planned to sell an article about the incident to a newspaper. She asked if he knew that she had left The New York Times to take a new job as city editor