America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

When Arthur returned to his workstation, his desk was piled high with all sorts of miscellaneous emails.

This was standard practice at the newspaper. All letters sent to the editorial department were first sorted by position by Dorothy at the front desk.

As an assistant editor, one of Arthur's jobs was to filter out spam emails that weren't good enough for the editor-in-chief to review.

Today was slightly different from usual; in addition to this pile of spam, there was an envelope containing $20.

Besides that, there were job applications, GG flyers, reader letters, and occasionally a manuscript from some madman claiming to have discovered a perpetual motion machine.

"Another beautiful day, starting with taking care of the trash."

Arthur smiled and opened the first letter.

It was a job posting from a Brooklyn tabloid looking for a young reporter who was "idealistic, ambitious, and willing to dedicate their youth to journalism."

The salary isn't low, thirty dollars a week, which is even higher than what Arthur is currently receiving.

"Having ideals and ambitions translates to 'being able to work overtime and endure hunger'."

Arthur was about to throw the paper into the wastebasket when his gaze suddenly fell on the signature at the bottom of the letter.

Recruiting Manager: Isabella Harrison.

Arthur is no stranger to the name Isabella Harrison.

In the original owner's memory, there was a brown-haired girl at NYU Law School who was always picked up by a Cadillac, and that was her name.

Her father was reportedly a major shareholder in a Washington newspaper group, and her mother was said to be a frequent guest in the social circle of First Lady Hoover.

Arthur remembered seeing Miss Harrison once before at a school debate.

As the representative of the law school, she refuted the opposing economics debaters so thoroughly that the male students in the audience were both intimidated and fascinated.

"Why would a rich girl born with a silver spoon in her mouth go to Brooklyn to run a tabloid?" Arthur frowned and put the letter aside.

Just then, the office internal phone rang.

"Arthur, Mr. Hearst wants you to come upstairs immediately."

Dorothy's voice came from the front desk, and Arthur knew it must be about yesterday's article.

Arthur took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and headed for the elevator.

Hearst's office was located on the top floor of the building, a luxurious room overlooking the entire Manhattan skyline.

"Come in, Kennedy."

William Hearst sat behind that priceless mahogany desk, a Cuban cigar between his fingers, his face expressionless.

"Sit down," Hearst said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

Arthur sat down, maintaining a composed and dignified demeanor.

"Your article is well written, Kennedy."

Hearst exhaled a puff of smoke.

"Van Dyke's Chinese Stock Market Diary did generate some buzz. But I have to tell you the harsh truth: sales were mediocre."

"I know, the editor-in-chief already told me," Arthur replied calmly.

"Good to know."

Hearst leaned back in his chair, looking down at Arthur with an air of superiority.

"Talent is important in this industry, but market feedback is what truly matters. Your article had some merit, but it was too pessimistic. New Yorkers today don't want to hear stories of a penniless man going crazy; they want to see how to make your first million in the stock market."

Arthur didn't speak, he just listened quietly.

"I was originally considering creating a separate column for you, but now I think I need to observe you further..."

Hearst paused, as if waiting for Arthur to show a disappointed expression.

"After all, a columnist's salary is not low, and I can't waste money on a newcomer who has only written one article."

Arthur, however, did not do as he had hoped, but calmly replied, "I understand."

He was all too familiar with this tactic; it was nothing but empty promises. He had already gotten used to it when he was working in his previous life.

"However, I can give you a chance."

"You can continue writing, and continue using the pen name 'The Honest Man on Wall Street.' If your articles continue to resonate, I will naturally consider giving you better treatment. But until then..."

He paused for a moment, then said in an almost condescending tone:

"Until then, consider these drafts as your trial drafts. After all, you're young, you should seize opportunities and not worry too much about money. What you need now is exposure, to let more people see your talent."

"Once you're truly famous, the money will naturally flow in. Don't you agree, Kennedy?"

Looking at Hearst's face, which was full of "I'm doing this for your own good," Arthur felt a strong sense of déjà vu.

He was all too familiar with this line of reasoning.

Before he traveled through time, this is what his boss told him when he was interning at an internet company:

"Young people should focus on learning and not worry too much about salary. Once you have experience, promotions and raises will be easy."

As a result, he worked for half a year and didn't receive a single penny of overtime pay.

Arthur countered, "You mean I'll have to write for the magazine for free from now on?"

Hearing this, Hearst was a little displeased: "What are you saying? Young people shouldn't be too materialistic. They should focus on the long term and not be too concerned about small amounts of money in front of them."

If you don't care about money right now, could you lend me your big villa to live in?

I was subjected to PUA (Pick-Up Artist) tactics before I transmigrated, and I'm still being subjected to PUA after I transmigrated. Wasn't this transmigration pointless?

Arthur was internally ranting, but his face remained plastered with the standard fake office smile.

"Mr. Hearst, you are right."

"Very good, I like young people like you who have awareness."

Hearst nodded in satisfaction.

"Then it's settled. You continue writing your article, and I'll continue observing the market reaction. By the way, next week's financial section has a special feature on the Federal Reserve's policies. Go interview those bankers and write an article about it. Remember, write something positive, and don't go for the doomsday theme anymore."

"Understood." Arthur stood up and nodded politely. "Then I'll take my leave, Mr. Hearst."

"Go ahead," Hearst waved his hand, as if dismissing an obedient pet dog.

As Arthur walked out of the office, the fake smile on his face vanished the moment the elevator doors closed.

"Free writing? Observe the market reaction?"

Arthur muttered to himself, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips.

I don't believe you for a second. You old geezer, you're a wicked man, you never believe a single good word you utter.

The elevator slowly descended. Arthur leaned against the cold metal wall, his mind racing with plans for the future.

A stock market crash is likely to happen in just a few days, and the entire Wall Street will collapse on that day.

And he, the only "honest man" who gave an early warning, will become the most sought-after prophet in all of New York.

By then, not only Hearst, but even the tycoons who are currently mocking him will be vying to extend olive branches to him.

"The face of capitalists has never changed, but the wheels of history never stop for anyone."

Arthur stepped out of the elevator and returned to his dilapidated workstation.

He picked up the job offer letter from Isabella, looked at it thoughtfully for a while, and then carefully put it into the drawer.

"Perhaps, in this impending storm, I can still find some allies."