larry dexter's great search or, the hunt for the missing millionaire by howard r. garis author of "from office boy to reporter," "larry dexter, reporter," "dick hamilton's fortune," etc. illustrated new york grosset & dunlap publishers [illustration: "here it is!" cried larry. (frontispiece)] * * * * * * books for boys by howard r. garis the dick hamilton series dick hamilton's fortune or the stirring doings of a millionaire's son dick hamilton's cadet days or the handicap of a millionaire's son dick hamilton's steam yacht or a young millionaire and the kidnappers dick hamilton's football team or a young millionaire on the gridiron (other volumes in preparation) mo. cloth. illustrated. price, per volume, cents, postpaid the young reporter series from office boy to reporter or the first step in journalism larry dexter, the young reporter or strange adventures in a great city larry dexter's great search or the hunt for a missing millionaire larry dexter and the bank mystery or a young reporter in wall street larry dexter and the stolen boy or a young reporter on the lakes mo. cloth. illustrated price, per volume, cents, postpaid grosset & dunlap publishers new york * * * * * * preface dear boys: i hope you will be glad to read of the further adventures of larry dexter. he has made some progress since you first made his acquaintance in the book "from office boy to reporter." he has also advanced in his chosen profession from the days when he did his first news-gathering for the _leader_. in this volume he is sent on a "special assignment," as it is called. he has to find a new york millionaire who has mysteriously disappeared. how larry solved the strange secret, i have woven into a story that i trust will be liked by all the boys who read it. i have taken many incidents from real life for this story, using some of my own experiences while a newspaper reporter as a basis for facts. the things that happened to larry are not at all out of the ordinary among reporters. the life has many strange surprises in it. if i have been able to set them down in a way that will please you boys, and if you enjoy following the further fortunes of larry dexter, i shall feel amply repaid for my efforts on this volume. yours sincerely, howard r. garis. contents. chapter page i. the wreck ii. ashore on a raft iii. the man at the hut iv. rescued from the sea v. larry's scoop vi. a strange disappearance vii. larry overhears something viii. an interview with sullivan ix. everything but the facts x. threats against larry xi. a missing millionaire xii. a brave girl xiii. where is he? xiv. in the tenement house xv. larry's special assignment xvi. sullivan's queer accusation xvii. grace gets a letter xviii. larry is baffled xix. grace on the trail xx. larry gets a scare xxi. tracing retto xxii. grace is suspicious xxiii. captain tantrella arrives xxiv. retto is caught xxv. in the hospital xxvi. a new clue xxvii. the detective's theory xxviii. a terrible mistake xxix. in his enemies' power xxx. mr. potter is found--conclusion larry dexter's great search chapter i the wreck into the city room of the new york _leader_ hurried mr. whiggen, the telegraph editor. in his hand was a slip of paper, containing a few typewritten words. mr. whiggen laid it on the desk of bruce emberg, the city editor. "just came in over our special wire," said mr. whiggen. "looks as if it might be a bad wreck. that's a dangerous coast. i thought you might like to send one of your men down to cover it." "thanks," replied the city editor. "i will. let's see," and, while he read the message, a score of reporters in the room looked up to see what had caused the telegraph editor to come in with such a rush. this is what mr. emberg read from the slip mr. whiggen handed him: "bulletin.--s.s. _olivia_ ashore off seven mile beach, on sand bar. big steerage list, some cabin passengers--fruit cargo. ship badly listed, but may get off at high tide. if not, liable to break up in storm. passengers safe yet.--associated press." there followed a brief description of the vessel, compiled from the maritime register, giving her tonnage, size, and when built. "um," remarked mr. emberg when he had read the short message, which was what newspaper men call a "flash" or bulletin, intended to notify the journals of the barest facts of the story. "this looks as if it would amount to something. i'll send a man down. have we any one there?" "we've got a man in ocean city," replied the telegraph editor, "but i'm afraid i can't reach him. have to depend on the associated press until we can get some one down." "all right, i'll send right away." the telegraph editor went back to his sanctum on the run, for it was near first-edition time and he wanted to get a display head written for the wreck story. mr. emberg looked over the room, in which many reporters were at work, most of them typewriting stories as fast as their fingers could fly over the keys. several of the news-gatherers who had heard the conversation between the two editors hoped they might be sent on that assignment, for though it meant hard work it was a chance to get out of the city for a while. "are you up, newton?" asked mr. emberg of a reporter in the far corner of the room. "no, i've got that political story to write yet." "that's so. i can't spare you. how about you, larry?" "i'm up," was the answer, which is the newspaper man's way of saying his particular task is finished. "here, then, jump out on this," and the city editor handed the telegram to a tall, good-looking youth, who arose from his desk near a window. larry dexter, who had risen from the rank of office boy to reporter, took in the message at a glance. "shall i start now?" he asked. "as soon as you can get a train. seven mile beach is down on the jersey coast, near anglesea. you can't get there in time to wire us anything for to-day, but rush a good story for to-morrow. if a storm comes up, and they have to rescue the passengers, it will make a corker. don't be afraid of slinging your words if it turns out worth while. here's an order on the cashier for some money. hustle now," and mr. emberg scribbled down something on a slip of paper which he handed to the young reporter. "leave the message in the telegraph room as you go out," went on the city editor. "mr. whiggen may want it. hustle now, larry, and do your best." many envious eyes followed larry dexter as he hurried out of the city room, putting on his coat and hat as he went, for he had been working in his shirt sleeves. larry went down the long corridor, stopping in the telegraph room to leave the message which was destined to be responsible for his part in a series of strange events. he had little idea, as he left the _leader_ office that morning, that his assignment to get the story of the wreck was the beginning of a singular mystery. larry cashed the order mr. emberg had given him, and hurried to the railroad station. he found there was no train for an hour, and, telephoning to the city editor to that effect, received permission to go home and get some extra clothing, as he might have to stay away several days. the young reporter rather startled his mother as he hurried in to tell her he was going out of town, but mrs. dexter had, in a measure, become used to her son doing all sorts of queer things since he had started in newspaper life. "will you be gone long, larry?" she asked, as he kissed her good-bye, having packed a small valise. "can't say, mother. probably not more than two days." "bring me some sea shells," begged larry's brother, jimmie, a bright little chap. "and i want a lobster and a crab and a starfish," spoke mary, a sunny-haired toddler. "all right, and i'll bring lucy some shells to make beads of," answered larry, mentioning his older sister, who was not at home. larry found he had not much time left to catch his train, and he was obliged to hurry to the ferry which took him to jersey city. there he boarded a pennsylvania railroad train, and was soon being whirled toward the coast. seven mile beach was a rather dangerous stretch of the jersey shore, not far from cape may. there were several lighthouses along it, but they did not always prevent vessels from running on a long sand bar, some distance out. more than one gallant ship had struck far up on it, and, being unable to get off, had been pounded to pieces by the waves. by inquiring larry found that the wreck of the _olivia_ was just off a lonely part of the coast, and that there were no railroad stations near it. "where had i better get off?" he asked, of the conductor. "well, you can get off at sea isle city, or sackett's harbor. both stations are about five miles from where the ship lies, according to all accounts. then you can walk." "he can do better than that," interposed a brakeman. "how?" asked larry. "there's a station, or rather what remains of it, half way between those places," the brakeman said. "it used to be called miller's beach. started to be a summer resort, but it failed. there's nothing there now but a few fishermen's huts. but i guess that's nearer the wreck than sea isle city or sackett's harbor." "is there a place i could stay all night?" asked the young reporter. "you might find a place. it's pretty lonesome. sometimes, in the summer, there are campers there, but it's too late in the fall now to expect any of 'em. we'll stop there for water, and you can get off if you like." larry hardly knew what to do. still he decided he was sent to get a story of the wreck, and he felt it would be well to get as near to it as possible. but there was another thing to think of, and that was how to get his news back into the _leader_ office. he must be near a telegraph station. inquiry of the trainmen disclosed the fact that the nearest one was three miles from miller's beach. "guess i'll chance it," concluded larry. "we'll be there in an hour," went on the brakeman. "it's the jumping-off place, so to speak, and it's not going to be very pleasant there when the storm breaks." that a heavy storm was gathering was all too evident from the mass of dark, rolling clouds in the east. they hung low, and there was a rising wind. "i wouldn't want to be on that vessel," remarked the brakeman as the train, having stopped at a small station, started off again. "it's beginning to rain now, and it will blow great guns before morning." several men, their faces bronzed from exposure to the weather, had boarded the train. they talked quietly in one corner of the car. "who are they?" asked larry, of the brakeman. "life savers, from the anglesea station. going to tatums, i guess." "what for?" "tatums is the life-saving station nearest where the vessel is ashore. maybe they are going to help in case she breaks up in the storm. tatums is about three miles below where you are going." larry began to see that he would have no easy task in getting news of the wreck, or in transmitting it after he had it. but he was not going to worry so early in the undertaking. so, when the brakeman warned him that the train was nearing the water tank, which was all that remained of interest to the railroad people at miller's beach, the young reporter prepared to alight. as he went out on the platform the wind increased in violence, and then, with a rush and a roar, the rain began to fall in torrents. larry wished he could stay in the train, as he had no umbrella, but there was no help for it. he leaped off the platform of the car almost before it had stopped, and looked for a place of shelter. he was surprised to see several large buildings in front of him, but even through the mist of rain he noted that they were dilapidated and forsaken. he was in the midst of a deserted seaside resort. he hurried on, being wet through before he had gone a dozen steps. then he heard the train puffing away. it seemed as though he was left all alone in a very lonesome place. "hi! where you going?" a voice hailed him. larry looked up, to see a man clad in yellow oilskins and rubber boots standing in front of him. "i came down about the wreck," was the young reporter's reply. "got any folks aboard? if you have i'm sorry. she's broken her back!" "no; i'm a reporter from new york. what do you mean about breaking her back?" "why, she ran away up on the bar at high tide. when it got low tide a while ago the bows and stern just sagged down, and she broke in two. they've got to work hard to save the passengers." "that's a good story," was larry's ejaculation, but it was not as heartless as it sounds, for he was only speaking professionally. "i must get down after it." "what? with night coming on, the wreck almost half a mile out, and it coming on to blow like all possessed?" asked the man in oilskins. "guess you don't know much about the sea, young man." "very little," answered larry. a sudden gust of wind, which dashed the rain with great force into his face, nearly carried the reporter off his feet. he looked about for a place of shelter. "better come with me," suggested the man. "there are no hotel accommodations here, though there once were. i have a shack down on the beach, and you're welcome to what i've got. i fish for a living. bailey's my name. bert bailey." "go ahead. i'll follow," returned larry. "i'd like to get out of this rain." "have to tog you out like me," said the old fisherman, as he led the youth toward his hut. "these are the only things for this weather." as they hastened on there came over the water the boom of a signal gun from the wrecked steamer. chapter ii ashore on a raft "what's that?" asked the young reporter, pausing. "she's firing for help," replied the fisherman. "can't last much longer now." "can't the life savers do anything?" "they'll try, as soon as they can. hard to get a boat off in this surf. it comes up mighty fast and heavy. have to use the breeches buoy, i reckon. but come on, and i'll lend you some dry things to put on." five minutes later larry was inside the hut. it was small, consisting of only two rooms, but it was kept as neatly as though it was part of a ship. in a small stove there was a blazing fire of driftwood, and larry drew near to the grateful heat, for, though it was only late in september, it was much colder at the beach than in the city, and he was chilly from the drenching. "lucky i happened to see you," bailey went on. "i went down to the train to get my paper. one of the brakemen throws me one off each trip. it's all the news i get. i didn't expect any one down. this used to be quite a place years ago, but it's petered out. but come on, get your wet things off, and i'll see what i can do for you." larry was glad enough to do so. fortunately he had brought some extra underwear in his valise, and, after a good rub-down before the stove, he donned the garments, and then put on a pair of the fisherman's trousers and an old coat, until his own clothes could dry. as he sat before the stove, warm and comfortable after the drenching, and safe from the storm, which was now raging with increased fury outside, larry heard the deep booming of the signal guns coming to him from across the angry sea. "are they in any danger?" he asked of bailey, as the fisherman prepared to get a meal. "danger? there's always danger on the sea, my boy. i wouldn't want to be on that vessel, and i've been in some pretty tight places and gotten out again. she went ashore in a fog early this morning, but it will be a good while before she gets off. seven mile beach hates to let go of a thing once it gets a hold." it was getting dusk, and what little light of the fading day was left was obscured by the masses of storm clouds. the fisherman's hut was on the beach, not far from the high-water mark, and the booming of the surf on the shore came as a sort of melancholy accompaniment to the firing of the signal gun. "where is the wreck?" asked larry, going to a window that looked out on the sea. "notice that black speck, right in line with my boat on the beach?" asked bailey, pointing with a stubby forefinger over the young reporter's shoulder. "that thing that looks like a seagull?" "that's her. you can't see it very well on account of the rain, but there she lies, going to pieces fast, i'm afraid." "why didn't they get the people off before this?" "captain wouldn't accept help. thought the vessel would float off and he'd save his reputation. the life savers went out when it was fairly calm, but didn't take anyone ashore. now it's too late, i reckon." as the fisherman spoke a rocket cleaved the fast-gathering blackness and shot up into the air. "what's that?" asked larry. "she's firing signal lights. wait and you'll see the coast-guard send up one in reply." presently a blue glare, up the beach not far from the cottage, shone amid the storm and darkness. "that's george tucker, burning a coston light," explained bailey. "he patrols this part of the beach to-night. they may try the boat again, but it's a risk." there was an exchange of colored lights between the beach patrol and those on the steamer. larry watched them curiously. he tried to picture the distress of those aboard the ship, waiting for help from shore; help that was to save them from the hungry waves all about. "i wonder how i'm going to get news of this to the paper," larry asked himself. he was beginning to feel quite worried, for he realized a great tragedy might happen at any moment, and he knew the _leader_ must have an account of it early the next morning, for it was an afternoon paper. the managing editor would probably order an extra. "couldn't i go down to the life-saving station?" asked larry. "maybe i could go out in a boat and get some news." "they wouldn't let you, and, if they would, you couldn't send any news up to your paper from here to-night," replied the fisherman. "the nearest telegraph office is closed. better stay here until morning. then you can do something. i'll fix you up with oilskins after supper, if you like, and we'll go out on the beach. but i don't believe they'll launch the life-boat to-night." the storm had now settled down into a fierce, steady wind and dashing rain. it fairly shook the little hut, and the stove roared with the draught created. bailey soon had a hot meal ready, and larry did full justice to it. "now we'll go out on the beach," the fisherman said, as he donned his oilskins, and got out a suit for larry. the youth looked like anything but a reporter when he put on the boots and tied the yellow hat under his chin, for otherwise the wind would have whipped it off in an instant. they closed up the hut, leaving a lantern burning in it, and started down toward the ocean. through the darkness larry could see a line of foam where the breakers struck the beach. they ran hissing over the pebbles and broken shells, and then surged back again. as the two walked along, a figure, carrying a lantern and clad as they were, in yellow oilskins, loomed up in the darkness. "hello, george!" cried bailey, above the roar of the wind. "going to get the boat out?" "not to-night. i signalled down to the station, but they flashed back that the surf was too high. we'll try the buoy in the morning, if the ship lasts that long, which i'm afraid she won't, for she's being pounded hard." "the station where they keep the life-boat is about two miles below where we are now," bailey explained to larry. "we'll go down in the morning." suddenly a series of lights shot into the air from out at sea. "what's that?" cried larry. "it's a signal that she's going to pieces fast!" cried the coast-guard. "maybe we'll have to try the breeches buoy to-night. i must go to the station. they may need my help." as the beach patrol hurried up the sandy stretch, larry had half a notion to follow him. he wanted to see the operation of setting up the breeches buoy in order to make a good story, with plenty of details. he was about to propose to the fisherman that they go, when bailey, who had gone down to the water's edge, uttered a cry. "what is it?" called the reporter, hastening to the side of the old man. "looks like a life-raft from the steamer!" exclaimed bailey. "she must have broken up. maybe there's some one on this. give me a hand. we'll try to haul it ashore when the next high wave sends it up on the beach." larry strained his eyes for a sight of the object. he could just discern something white, rising and falling on the tumultuous billows. "come on!" cried bailey, rushing down into the first line of surf, as a big roller lifted the object and flung it onward. "grab it and pull!" larry sprang down the sand. he waded out into the water, surprised to find how strong it was even in the shallow place. he made a grab for the dim white object. his hands grasped a rope. at the same time the fisherman got hold of another rope. "pull!" cried bailey, and larry bent his back in an effort to snatch the raft from the grip of the sea. at first the waves shoved the raft toward them, then, as the waters receded, the current sucked it out again. but the fisherman was strong and larry was no weakling. they hauled until they had the raft out of reach of the rollers. then, while there came a wilder burst of the storm, and a dash of spray from the waves, bailey leaned over the raft. "there's a man lashed to it!" the fisherman cried. "we must get him to my shack and try to save him! hurry now!" chapter iii the man at the hut with a few quick strokes of his knife bailey severed the ropes that bound the unconscious man to the raft. then, taking him by the shoulders, and directing larry to grasp the stranger's legs, they started for the hut. "queer there weren't more to come ashore on that raft," the fisherman remarked as they trudged over the sand. "it would hold a dozen with safety. maybe they were all swept off but this one. poor souls! there'll be many a one in davy jones's locker to-night i'm afraid." "is he--is he dead?" asked larry, hesitatingly, for he had never handled a lifeless person before. "i'm afraid so, but you never can tell. i've seen 'em stay under water a good while and brought back to life. you'd best help me carry him in, and then run for some of the life guards. i'll be working over him, and maybe i can bring him around." through the storm the two staggered with their burden. they reached the hut, and the man was tenderly placed on the floor near the fire. "you hurry down the coast, and if you can see any of the guards tell 'em to come here," bailey said to larry. "they can't do anything for the wreck to-night." larry glanced at the man he had helped save from the sea. the stranger was of large size, and seemed well-dressed, though his clothes were anything but presentable now. his face was partly concealed by the collar of his coat, which was turned up, and larry noted that the man had a heavy beard and moustache. these details he took in quickly while he was buttoning his oilskin jacket tighter around his neck for another dash into the storm. then, as he opened the door of the hut to go in search of a coast-guard, bailey began to strip the wet garments from the unconscious man. larry was met by a heavy gust of wind and a dash of rain as he went outside again. he bent his head to the blast and made his way down the beach, the lantern he carried making fantastic shadows on the white sand. he had not gone far before he saw a figure coming toward him. he waited, and in a few minutes was joined by george tucker. "mr. bailey wants you to come to his place and help him save a man who just came in on a raft," said larry. "can't do it, my boy. i was just coming for him to help us launch the life-boat. we need all the men we can get, though we've got help from the station below us. captain needam sent me after bailey." "i don't believe he'll come," said larry. "he'll not want to leave the man he pulled from the ocean." "no, i don't s'pose he will," said george. "he may save a life. but we've got to try for the steamer. she's going to pieces, and there are many aboard of her, though i'm afraid there'll be fewer by morning." "i'll come and help you," said the reporter. "i don't know much about life-boats, but i'm strong." "come along, then," said the coast guard. they made their way down the beach, larry accepting, in the manner newspaper reporters soon become accustomed to, the new rôle he was suddenly called on to play. while he is thus journeying through the storm to aid in saving life, there will be an opportunity to tell you something about his past, and how he came to be a reporter on a leading new york newspaper. larry's introduction to a newspaper life was told of in the first volume of this series, entitled "from office boy to reporter." at the start the youth lived with his mother, who was a widow, and his two sisters and a brother, on a farm in new york state. the farm was sold for an unpaid mortgage after the death of larry's father, and the little family came to new york to visit a sister of mrs. dexter, as larry thought he could find work in the big city. on their arrival they found that mrs. dexter's sister had unexpectedly gone out west to visit relatives, because of the sudden death of her husband. the dexter family was befriended by a mr. jackson and his wife, and made the best of the situation. after many unsuccessful trials elsewhere, larry got a position as office boy on the new york _leader_. his devotion to duty had attracted the attention of harvey newton, one of the "star" reporters on the sheet, and mr. emberg, the city editor, took a liking to larry. in spite of the enmity of peter manton, another office boy on the same paper, larry prospered. he was sent with mr. newton to report a big flood, and were there when a large dam broke, endangering many lives. larry, who was sent to the telegraph office with an account of the accident, written by mr. newton on the spot, had an exciting race with peter, who was then working for a rival newspaper. larry won, and for his good work was advanced to be a regular reporter. in the second volume of the series, entitled "larry dexter, reporter," i told of his experiences as a gatherer of news in a great city. in that book was related how larry, with the aid of mr. newton, waged war against a gang of swindlers who were trying to rob the city, and, incidentally, larry himself, for, as it developed, his mother had a deed to certain valuable property in the bronx park section of new york, and the swindlers desired to get possession of the land. they wanted to hold it and sell it to the city at a high price, but larry got ahead of them. to further their ends the bad men took away jimmie, larry's little brother, but the young reporter, and his friend mr. newton, traced the boy and found him. peter manton had a hand in the kidnapping scheme. by the sale of the bronx land mrs. dexter became possessed of enough money to put her beyond the fear of immediate want; larry decided to continue on in the newspaper field, and when this story opens he was regarded as one of the best workers on the staff of the _leader_. his assignment to get the story of the wreck was his first big one since the incidents told of in the second volume. at larry and the coast-guard trudged down the beach the guns from the doomed steamer were fired more frequently, and the rockets lighted up the darkness with a weird glare. "not much farther now," remarked george, as he peered ahead through the blackness, whitened here and there with masses of flying spray. a little later they were at the life-saving station. the place was in seeming confusion, yet every man was at his post. most of them were hauling out the long wagon frame, on which the life-boat rested. they were bringing the craft down to the beach to try to launch it. "lend a hand!" cried captain needam, as larry and the coast-guard came in. "we need every man we can get." larry grasped a rope. no one paid any attention to him, and they seemed to think it was natural that he should be there. perhaps they took him for bailey. the boat was taken down to the edge of the surf. an effort was made to launch it, but, struggle as the men did, they could not get it beyond the line of breakers. "it's no use!" exclaimed the captain. "we'll have to haul her to johnson's cove. maybe it isn't so rough there." the wagon, with the boat on it, was pulled back, and then began a journey about two miles farther down the coast, to a small inlet, protected by a curving point of land. there the breakers were likely to be less high, and the boat might be launched. larry pulled with the rest. he did not see how he was going to get his story telegraphed to the paper, but he was consoled by the reflection that there were no other reporters on hand, and that there was no immediate likelihood of being "beaten." when morning came he could decide what to do. so, for the time being, he became a life saver, and pulled on the long rope attached to the wagon until his arms ached. it was heavy hauling through the sand, and his feet seemed like lead. it was nearly midnight when the cove was reached, and after a desperate struggle the life-boat was launched. "some of you go back and get ready to operate the breeches buoy as soon as it's light enough!" called captain needam, as the boat was pulled away over the heaving billows toward the wreck, which could be seen in the occasional glare of a rocket or signal light. "might as well come back," said george tucker to larry. "can't do any more here." back through the wind and rain they walked, with half a score of others. they reached the life-saving station, tired and spent from their struggle through the storm. "you can go back to bailey," said george, as larry sat down inside the warm and cozy living-room of the station to rest. "he may need you." "i thought i could help here," replied larry. "besides, i'd like to see you work the breeches buoy." "you'll see all you want of that in the morning," replied the coast patrol. "we can't do much until daylight. are you afraid to go back alone?" "no," replied larry. back he trudged to bailey's cabin. it was about three o'clock when he reached there, and he found the fisherman sitting beside the table, drinking some hot tea. "i thought you'd got lost," spoke the fisherman. "i went to help 'em launch the boat. they needed me. george tucker was coming for you, but i told him of the man we saved. how is he?" "doing well. he's asleep in the next room. he had been struck on the head by something, and that was what made him senseless. it wasn't the water. i soon brought him around. how about the wreck?" larry told all he knew. bailey insisted on the young reporter drinking two cups of steaming hot tea, and larry felt much better after it. then he and the fisherman stretched out on the floor to wait until morning, which would soon break. bailey was up early, and his movements in the hut as he shook down the fire and made coffee, aroused larry. "we'll get a bit of breakfast and then we'll go down to the station," said the fisherman. "i guess our man will be all right." he went outside to bring in some wood. a moment later the door of the inner room, where the rescued man was, opened, and a head was thrust out. "if my clothes are dry i'll take them," the man said, and larry, glancing at him, saw that the stranger was smooth-shaven. the reporter was sure that when he was pulled from the water on the raft the man had had a heavy beard. "why--why--" began the youth--"your whiskers. did you----?" "whiskers?" replied the man with a laugh. "oh, you thought that bunch of seaweed on my face was a beard. i see. no, this is the way i looked. but are my clothes dry?" larry took them from a chair near the fire, where bailey had hung them. he gave them to the stranger. larry was much puzzled. it seemed as if he had stumbled upon a secret. the man shut the door of his room, a moment later the fisherman called from without the hut: "come on! never mind breakfast! they're going to fire the gun!" chapter iv rescued from the sea larry paused only long enough to don his oilskins, as it was still raining hard. the coffee was made, but he did not wait for any, though he wanted it very much. but he knew he ought to be on the spot to see all the details of the rescue from the sea, and it was not the first time he, like many other reporters, had gone on duty, and remained so for long stretches, without a meal. bailey was some distance down the beach. he had on his yellow suit, which he had donned to go out to the woodshed, some distance from his hut. larry caught up to him. he was about to speak of the man at the hut when the fisherman cried: "something's wrong! they're coming up this way with the apparatus! must be they couldn't find a good place down there to rig the breeches buoy." larry looked down the beach. he saw through the rain and mist a crowd of yellow-suited figures approaching, dragging something along the sand. he looked out to sea and beheld the blotch that represented the doomed vessel. all thought of the man at the hut was, for the time, driven out of his mind. on came the life savers. they halted about a mile from the hut, and larry and bailey ran to join them. "did you save any?" called the fisherman to captain needam, who was busy directing the rescue. "got some in the life-boat early this morning," was the answer. "they took 'em to the lower station. we couldn't get back with the boat. all ready now, men. dig a hole for the anchor, nate. sam, you help plant the mortar. have to allow a good bit for the wind. my! but she's blowin' great guns and little pistols!" larry had his first sight of a rescue by means of the breeches buoy. the apparatus, including a small cannon or mortar, had been brought from the life-saving station on a wagon, pulled by the men along the beach. the first act was to dig a deep hole in the sand, some distance back from the surf. this was to hold the anchor, to which was attached the shore end of the heavy rope, on which, presently, persons from the wreck might be hauled ashore. once the anchor was in the hole, and covered with sand, firmly packed down, arrangements were made to get a line to the vessel. "put in a heavy charge!" cried captain needam. "we'll need lots of powder to get the shot aboard in the teeth of this wind!" several men grouped about the brass cannon and rapidly loaded the weapon. then, instead of a cannon ball, they put in a long, solid piece of iron, shaped like the modern shell, with a pointed nose. to this projectile was attached a long, thin, but very strong line. "are they going to fire that at the ship?" asked larry, who was not very familiar with nautical matters. "they hope to have it land right on deck, or carry the line over," said bailey, who paused in his work of helping the men to lay out from the wagon parts of the apparatus. larry watched intently. now and then he gazed out to the ship, a speck of black amid white foam, for the seas were breaking over her. at the side of the cannon was a box, containing the line, one end of which was fastened to the projectile. the rope was coiled in a peculiar cris-cross manner, to prevent it being tangled as it paid rapidly out when the shot was fired. "all ready?" called captain needam, as he looked at his men. "ready, sir," answered george tucker. "put in the primer!" ordered the chief of the life savers. one of the men inserted a percussion fuse in the touchhole of the mortar. the captain grasped a lanyard. the men all stood at attention, waiting to see the effect of the shot. captain needam sighted over the muzzle of the cannon. it was pointed so as to clear the stern of the ship, but this was necessary, as the high wind would carry the projectile to one side. the arm of the captain stiffened. the lanyard tauted. there was a spark at the breach of the mortar, a sharp crackle as the primer ignited, and then a dull boom as the charge was fired. through the mist of rain larry saw a black object shooting out toward the ship. after it trailed the long thin line, like a tail to a kite. it was scarcely a moment later that there sounded a gun from the ship. "good!" cried captain needam. "the shot went true!" "that was the ship signalling that they had the line," explained bailey, shouting the words in larry's ear. from the shore to the ship there now stretched out a long thin rope. larry had no time to wonder what would happen next. "bend on the cable!" cried the captain, and the men quickly attached a thick rope to the line which the cannon-shot had carried aboard the _olivia_. this soon began to pay out, as it was hauled in by those on the wrecked vessel. in a short time the heavy cable was all out, and securely fastened to the ship, high enough up so as to clear the rail. directions how to do this were printed on a board which was hauled in with the rope, and, lest those on a doomed ship might not understand english, the instructions were given in several languages. "they have it fast! rig up the shears!" cried the captain. once more his men were busy. they set up on the sand two stout wooden pieces, exactly like, a pair of enormous shears. the longer parts, corresponding to the blades, were nearest the ground, while what answered for the handles were several feet in the air, opened in "v" shape. through this "v" the heavy cable was passed, the one end being fast to the anchor buried in the sand, and the other being attached to the ship. by moving the shears nearer to the anchor the cable was tightened until it hung taut from shore to ship, a slender bridge on which to save life. the breeches buoy, a canvas arrangement, shaped like a short pair of trousers, and attached to a frame which ran back and forth on the cable by means of pulleys, had been adjusted. to it were fastened ropes, one being retained by the life savers and one by those on the ship. all was in readiness. the breeches buoy was now pulled toward the ship, by those aboard hauling on the proper line. it moved along, sliding on the heavy cable, the angry waves below seeming to try to leap up and engulf it, in revenge for being cheated of their prey. "look sharp now, men!" cried the captain. "get ready to take care of the poor souls as they come ashore." the storm still kept up, and the waves were so high that a second attempt to save some by means of the life-boat, even launching it in the protected cove, had to be given up. but the breeches buoy could be depended on. a signal from the ship told those on shore that the buoy was loaded with a passenger, and ready to be hauled back. willing hands pulled on the rope. on it came through the driving rain; on it came above the waves, though not so high but what the spray from the crests wet the rescued one. "it's a woman!" cried the captain, as he caught sight of the person in the buoy. "and a baby! bless my soul!" added bailey. "she's got a baby in her arms!" and so it proved; for, wrapped in a shawl, which was tied over her shoulders, so as to keep the water from the tiny form, was an infant clasped tightly to its mother's breast. "take her to the station!" cried the captain, as he helped the woman to get out of the canvas holder in which she had ridden safely to shore. "my wife will look after her. now for the rest, men. there's lots of 'em, and the ship can't last much longer! lively, men. every minute means a life!" "i'll take her to the station!" volunteered larry, for there was nothing he could do to help now, and he thought he could get a good story of the wreck from the first person rescued. "go ahead!" exclaimed the life savers' captain. the woman, in spite of her terrible experience, had not fainted. still clasping her baby, she moved through the crowd of men, who cheered her as they set to work again. "come with me," said larry. "we will take care of you!" "oh, it is so good to be on land again!" the woman cried. "i am not a coward--but oh, the cruel waves!" and she shuddered. chapter v larry's scoop "are there many women aboard?" asked larry, as he moved off through the rain toward the life-saving station with the rescued passenger. "i was the only one," was the answer the woman made, in a pronounced italian accent. "i am the purser's wife. they made me come first. me and the baby," and she put her lips down and kissed the little face nestled in the folds of the shawl. "the purser's wife!" exclaimed larry. "perhaps your husband will bring the passenger list with him. i would like to get it. i am a newspaper reporter," he added. the woman, with a rapid movement, held out a bundle of papers to him. "what are they?" larry asked. "the list of passengers! you reporters! i have heard of you in my country, but they do not such things as this! go to wrecks to meet the passengers when they come ashore! you are very brave!" "i think you were brave to come first across the waves," replied larry. "the rope might break." "i had my baby," was the answer, as if that explained it all. "do you think your husband would let me telegraph these names to my paper?" asked larry. "he gave them to me to bring ashore, in case--in case the ship did not last," the purser's wife said, with a catch in her voice. "you may use them, i say so. i will make it right." this was just what larry wanted. the hardest things to get in an accident or a wreck are the names of the saved, or the dead and injured. chance had placed in larry's hands just what he wanted. he hurried on with the woman, who told him her name was mrs. angelino. he did not question her further, as he felt she must be suffering from the strain she had undergone. in a short time they were safe at the station, and there mrs. needam provided warm and dry garments for mother and child, and gave mrs. angelino hot drinks. "ah, there is my reporter!" exclaimed the purser's wife, when she was warm and comfortable, as she saw larry busy scanning the list of passengers. "he came quick to the wreck!" "can you lend me some paper?" larry asked mrs. needam. "what for?" "i want to write an account of the rescue and copy these names. i must hurry to the telegraph office. i left my paper in the fisherman's hut." "i'll get you some," said captain needam's wife, and soon larry was writing a short but vivid story of what had taken place, including a description of the storm, and the saving of the only woman on board, with her baby, by means of the breeches buoy. then he copied the list of names. "there's something i almost forgot," said larry when he had about finished. "there's that passenger who came ashore on the life-raft. i wonder who he was? i'll ask mrs. angelino." but she did not know. she was not aware that any one had come ashore on a raft, for, in the confusion of the breaking up of the ship in the storm, she thought only of her husband, her baby and herself. "i can find out later," larry thought. he gave the list back to mrs. angelino, and then, with a good preliminary story of the wreck, having obtained many facts from the purser's wife, larry set out through the storm for the nearest telegraph station. "don't you want some hot coffee before you go?" asked mrs. needam. "i've got lots--ready for the poor souls that'll soon be here." larry did want some. he was conscious of a woeful lack of something in his stomach, and the coffee braced him up in a way he very much needed. it was quite a distance from the life-saving station to the nearest telegraph office, but larry knew he must make it if he wanted an account of the wreck to get to his paper in time for the edition that day. so he set off for a tiresome trudge over the wet sand. as he was leaving, several men, who had been brought ashore from the ship, came to the station. from them larry learned that part of the ship was likely to last until all the passengers and crew could be saved. he then resolved to telegraph the story of the saving of all, knowing he could make corrections by an additional message later in case, by some accident, any lives were lost. to get to the telegraph office larry had to go back to a point nearly opposite where the life savers were working, and then strike inland. as he was hurrying along he came to a little hummock of sand, from which elevation he could look down on the beach and see the crowd gathered about the breeches buoy. out on the bar he could make out the wrecked vessel. as he stood there a moment he saw some one detach himself from the crowd and hurry across the intervening beach. "that figure looks familiar," thought larry. "i wonder if that's bailey the fisherman?" he waited a few minutes, and the figure became more distinct. "it's peter manton!" cried larry. "he's been sent down here to report the wreck! i wonder what paper he's on? but i guess i haven't any time to stand here wondering. i've got to beat him to the telegraph office if i want to get a scoop, though he can't have been on hand long enough to get much of an account." still larry knew that even a brief and poor account of anything, if it got in first, was enough to discount or "take the edge off" a better story told later, and he made up his mind he would "scoop" peter, his old enemy. the representative of the _leader_ hurried on. peter caught sight of larry, and recognized him in spite of his oilskins. peter wore a rain-coat, which was wet through. "hold on, larry!" he cried. "i'm on the _scorcher_ again. what have you got?" it was the newspaper man's way of asking his brother-of-the-pencil for such information as he possessed. but though, as a general thing, when several reporters are on a general story, they interchange common news, larry was in no mind to share what he had with peter. his paper had gone to the trouble to send him down in good season, a piece of forethought which the other journals' editors had neglected. therefor larry felt that he was not violating the common practice (though it is against the strict office rules) if he ignored peter. "haven't time!" he called back. "wait a minute!" cried the rival reporter. "i just came down on the first train, and i walked about five miles to find the wreck. i'm going to the telegraph office to send my account in for an extra. we'll whack up on it." "we'll do nothing of the sort!" exclaimed larry. "i don't want anything to do with you." he had never forgiven peter for his part in the kidnapping of jimmie. "needn't get huffy about it," remarked peter. "i want to be friendly." larry thought it was hardly peter's place to offer to be "friendly" after the mean part he had played. "i haven't time to stop now," said larry. "i'm in a hurry. you'll have to get along the best you can." "so that's how you feel, eh?" asked the rival reporter. "not very white of you, larry dexter. i've only just got back my job on the _scorcher_ after they laid me off for getting beaten, and i've got to make good. but never mind. the beach is free, and i've got as good a right to the telegraph office as you have. i'd like to see you beat me." larry himself did not just see how he would, but he made up his mind to attempt it. peter was now keeping pace with him. there was nothing for it but to hurry on. whoever reached the office first and "filed his copy" would have the right to the wire. larry resolved that he would win in the race, even as he had won in the other, at the big flood, but he knew there was time enough yet. if he started to run peter would run also, and the way was too long for a fast sprint. the two kept on, side by side, neither speaking. the only sound was the patter of the rain, and the rustle and rattle of larry's oilskin suit. they passed through the deserted summer resort. it was about a mile now to the telegraph office. larry recalled that bailey had told him there was a short cut by keeping to the railroad track, and he turned into that highway, followed by peter, who, it seemed, had resolved not to lose sight of his rival. it was now about nine o'clock, though his activity since early morning made it seem much later to larry. he knew he had a good story safe in his pocket, and he was pretty sure peter had only a garbled account, for he could not have gotten the facts so quickly. nor did he, larry was sure, have the passenger list, which was the best part of the story. on and on the two rivals trudged silently. they must be near the office now, larry thought, and he looked ahead through the rain. they were in the midst of a little settlement of fishermen's houses--a small village--but it was nearly deserted, as most of the inhabitants had gone to the wreck. larry saw a building on which was a sign informing those who cared to know that it contained a store, the post-office and a place whence telegrams might be sent and received. peter saw it at the same instant. "here's where i beat you!" he cried as he sprang forward on the run. larry tried to follow, but his legs became entangled in the oilskin coat and he fell. he was up again in an instant, only to see peter entering the office. larry's heart seemed like lead. had he worked so hard only to be beaten at the last? something spurred him on. he stumbled into the office in time to hear peter saying: "i want to hold a wire for a long despatch to the new york _scorcher_. i've got a big account of the wreck." "where's your copy?" asked the young man in charge of the clicking instruments. "i'll have it ready for you in a minute," replied peter, sitting down to a table, and beginning to dash off words and sentences as fast as his pencil could fly. "i can't hold any wire for you," said the operator. "if you have any press stuff to file let me have it. that's the only way you can keep a wire." "i'll have it for you in a second," peter replied as he looked anxiously at the door. "that will not answer. i must have copy in order to keep the wire busy." "here it is!" cried larry, as he entered at that moment and pulled from his pocket his hastily written account of the wreck, including the list of passengers. "i'll be obliged to you if you can get this off to the new york _leader_ as soon as possible." "i was here first!" angrily cried peter. "but i have his copy first," the operator said. "it is the filing of the despatch first that counts, not who gets here first. i'll get this off right away for you," he added, turning to larry. and thus it was that larry got his scoop, for his account took so long to telegraph that, when the operator began on peter's, the _leader_ had the story in the office, and was preparing to get out an extra. chapter vi a strange disappearance remaining only long enough to see that the operator got off the first part of his story, and finding, on inquiry, that the telegrapher had no difficulty in reading his writing, larry started back to the scene of the wreck. he wanted to learn if all the passengers and crew were saved, and get an interview with the captain, if he could. so he left his old enemy, peter, there grinding out his story in no pleasant frame of mind. but it was part of the game, and larry's "beat" was a cleanly-scored one, especially as peter had tried to win by a trick. the young reporter found the work of rescue almost completed. the life savers had labored to good advantage and had brought nearly all the passengers ashore in the breeches buoy. they were cared for temporarily at the beach station, though the small quarters were hardly adequate. with the bringing ashore of the crew and officers, the captain coming last, the life savers found their work finished. and it was only just in time, for, not more than an hour after the commander had staggered up the beach, worn and exhausted by the strain and exposure, the after part of the vessel slid from the bar and sank in deep water. larry, who had been introduced to captain needam by bailey, told the former of his desire for an interview with the commander of the _olivia_, and the matter was soon arranged, though captain tantrella was in dire distress over the loss of his ship. however, he told larry what the reporter wished to know, describing how, in the fog, the vessel had run on the sand bar. he related some of the scenes during their wait to be rescued, told of the high seas and terrible winds, and painted a vivid picture of the dangers. larry wrote it in his best style and hurried back to the telegraph office. there was only one passenger missing, and the name of this one, according to the purser's list, was mah retto. the name, though peculiar, larry thought, was not dissimilar to scores of others, for the steamer had on board a cosmopolitan lot of passengers. no one knew how retto had been lost. as larry was on his way to the telegraph office a sudden thought came to him. "that's it!" he exclaimed. "the man who came ashore on the life-raft is this missing mah retto. i'll just stop on my way to the telegraph office and see him. that will clear it all up, and make every passenger accounted for." he hurried on, intending to get a hasty interview with the man at bailey's hut, and then go telegraph the rest of his story. the fisherman was still down on the beach, aiding the life savers to pack their apparatus for transportation back to the station. as larry came in sight of the cabin he saw the raft, on which the stranger had come ashore, lying just beyond high-water mark. he entered the hut, expecting to see retto, as he had come to call the foreigner, sitting comfortably by the fire. but the rescued man was not there. nor was he in the room where he had been put to bed. "maybe he's in the woodshed," thought larry. "i'll take a look." but he was not there. "that's strange," larry mused. "he's disappeared. there is something queer in this, and i'm going to find it out. but first i must send the rest of my story." larry found peter manton still at the telegraph office grinding away. larry's first batch of copy had been sent off, as had most of peter's stuff. as the representative of the _scorcher_ handed in the last of his copy he turned to larry and said, sneeringly: "i'll bet i've got a better story than you have." "perhaps," was all larry replied. then, as peter went back to the wreck for more information, larry wrote, as an addition to his story, the interview with the captain, finishing with an account of the missing mah retto. he told also of the man who came ashore on the raft, and who was believed to be the passenger who was unaccounted for. "that's a good day's work done," remarked the young reporter, as he signed his name to the last sheet of copy. "i wonder if they want me to stay here?" he wrote a brief message asking mr. emberg for instructions. telling the operator he would call in about two hours for an answer, larry decided he would get some breakfast. as there was no restaurant in the little hamlet, he thought the best plan would be to go back to the fisherman's cabin. he wanted to talk with bailey about the disappearance of the man they had rescued from the raft. the fisherman was at the hut when larry arrived, and was busy preparing a meal. "guess you feel like eating something, don't ye?" he asked. "you guessed it right the first time," replied the young reporter, with a grin. "and my other company," went on bailey. "i expect he's hungry." "he's gone." "gone?" "yes; i came back here a while ago and there wasn't a sign of him." "why, that's queer," returned the fisherman. "i've been so busy frying this bacon and making fresh coffee i didn't notice it. but that reminds me, i haven't seen or heard anything of him since i came in. his clothes are gone, too." larry and bailey made a hasty search through the cabin. there were few places where a person could conceal himself, and they very soon found that their late guest was nowhere on the premises. "here's something," remarked larry, as he looked on a small table in the room where the rescued man had slept. "it looks like a note." it was a note, written on the fly leaf torn from a book. it read: "dear friends. accept my thanks for saving my life. please take this small remembrance for your trouble." there was no signature to the note, but folded in the paper was a hundred-dollar bill, somewhat damp from immersion in the sea. "well, sink my cuttle-fish!" exclaimed bailey. "that's odd. a hundred dollars! that's more than i make in a summer season. but half of it's yours. i'd like to rescue people steady at that rate." "it's all yours," said larry. "i got the story i came down after, and that's all i want. but i would like to find this mah retto, if that's his name. he doesn't write much like a foreigner, though he looks like one. may i keep this note?" "as long as you don't want a share in the hundred-dollar one, i reckon you can," bailey replied, with a laugh. larry folded the scrap of paper to put in his pocket. as he did so something bright and shining on the floor attracted his attention. he stooped to pick it up, finding it was a small gold coin, of curious design, evidently used as a watch charm. "i guess our man dropped this," larry said, holding it out to bailey. "well, you can keep that, with the note. perhaps it will help you solve the mystery," the fisherman said. "i'm satisfied with what i got." larry put the charm in his pocket, together with the note, and was about to leave the room, when the fisherman, who was lifting from the corner a box, in which to deposit his money, uttered an exclamation. "what is it?" asked larry. "why, it's a man's beard. somebody's shaved his off and left it here. how in the name of a soft-shell clam----" "it's that man!" cried larry. "i knew he had a beard on when we pulled him ashore!" "a beard on?" murmured bailey, in questioning tones. "yes," went on larry. "when you were outside, getting some wood, just before you ran down the beach when the life savers came, i was in here. the man stuck his head from the bed-room and asked for his clothes, which i gave him. i noticed he was smooth shaven----" "why, he had a beard on when we pulled him from the water," interrupted the fisherman. "i was sure he did, but when i asked him why he had shaved it off he said i was mistaken--said it was only a bunch of seaweed i had thought was a beard. then you called me to hurry out, and i forgot all about it until now. but he must have shaved his whiskers off in here, and then he disappeared. there's something strange about it all." "i rather guess there is," bailey admitted. "wonder where he got his razor? i never use one." "he must have had it in that small valise he wore, strapped by a belt, around his waist," larry answered. "that's probably where he carried his money. i'd like to get at the bottom of this mystery." "well, you newspaper fellows are looking for just such things as this," said the fisherman with a smile. "it's right in your line." "so it is," larry replied. "i'll solve it, too." but it was some time later, and larry had many strange adventures before he got at the bottom of the queer secret that started down there on the lonely sea coast. chapter vii larry overhears something larry decided that the disappearance of the fisherman's guest was not a part of the story of the wreck, though the fact that the passenger was missing was an item of much interest, and he used it. he made up his mind to tell mr. emberg all about the strange happening when he got back. arriving at the telegraph office for the third time, he found a message from the city editor, instructing him to come back to new york, as the best of the story was now in, and the associated press would attend to the remainder. some of the representatives of that news-gathering organization were already at the scene of the disaster. "your friend got a calling down," volunteered the operator to larry, as the young reporter began looking up trains to see when he could get back. "how's that?" "he got a message from his city editor a while ago, wanting to know why he hadn't secured a list of passengers and the crew. the message said the _leader_ had it, and had beaten all the other papers." "that's good," spoke larry. "i worked hard enough for it." "the _scorcher_ man wanted me to give him your list, but i wouldn't do it," the operator went on. "so he's gone out to get one of his own. but he's too late, i reckon. i'll have my hands full pretty soon, for there'll be a lot of reporters here. but you're the first to send off the complete story." larry felt much elated. of course he knew it was due, in part, to the forethought of his city editor in seeing a possible situation, and rushing a man to the scene ahead of the other papers. that counts for almost as much in journalism as does getting a good story or a "scoop." larry received hearty congratulations from mr. emberg when he got back to the _leader_ office the next day, for, not only had the young reporter secured a fine "scoop," but he had sent in an exceptionally good story of the wreck. "larry, you did better than i thought you would. you've got the right stuff in you!" exclaimed the city editor, while the other reporters, crowding around the hero of the occasion, expressed, their pleasure at his success. not one of them but would have given much to have been in larry's place. "have much trouble?" asked mr. newton. "well, i had to hustle. struck something rather queer down there, too." "what was it? some of the men from other papers try to get the best of you?" "only my old enemy, peter manton, but i put a crimp in him all right. no, this was something else." and larry told of the disappearance of the man at the hut. "that is rather odd," agreed the older reporter. "if i were you i'd tell mr. emberg about it, and then you'll be in a position to act on what information you have, in case anything turns up." larry followed this advice. the city editor puzzled over the matter a few minutes, and then decided nothing could be done at present. "we'll watch developments in regard to the _olivia_ wreck," said mr. emberg, "and it may be this mystery will fit in somewhere. if it does we may get a good story." but neither larry nor the city editor realized in what a strange manner the mystery was to develop. it was the beginning of the newspaper day in the _leader_ office. reporters were busy writing accounts of meetings they had covered the previous night, and others were going out on assignments to police courts, to look up robberies, murders, suicides, and the hundred and one things that go to make up the news of the day. "how would you like to try your hand at politics?" asked mr. emberg of larry, when they had finished their talk about the man at the hut. "i haven't given you much chance at anything in that line, but if you're going to be an all-'round newspaper man you'll have a lot to do with politics." "i think i'd like it," replied larry. certainly this life was one of variety, one day at the wild scene of a rescue from a wreck, and the next peacefully sent to talk to some political leader. "i want you to go up and have a talk with jack sullivan, the leader of one of the assembly districts," went on mr. emberg. "you've probably read of the trouble in that district. thomas kilburn is a new aspirant for the assembly and he's fighting against the re-nomination of william reilly. now jack sullivan is the leader of that district, and whoever he decides to support will be elected. that's the way politics are run in new york. "it would be quite an item of news if we could find out whom sullivan is going to support. so far he has played foxy and no one knows, not even the candidates themselves, i believe, though i have an idea that sullivan will swing to reilly." "how did kilburn come to be in the race?" asked larry. "that's what we newspaper editors would like to know, and it's what you reporters have to find out for us. there's something back of it all. sullivan wants something he thinks either kilburn or reilly can give him, and that's why he's holding back. he'll give his support to the man who, after he's elected, can give him what he wants. now if you could discover whom sullivan is going to support, and why, it would make a corking story." "i'll try," said larry, a little doubtful of his ability. "it isn't at all like going down to a wreck and seeing persons rescued," went on mr. emberg. "you've got to nose out your news this time. a number of reporters have tried to pump sullivan, but he won't give up. go and try your luck. you'll find him in the district headquarters," and he gave larry the address. "where you going?" asked mr. newton, as he passed larry in the corridor. "to interview sullivan." mr. newton whistled. "i don't envy you," he said. "i'm afraid you'll fall down this time, larry" ("falling-down" being a newspaper man's term for failure). "we've all tried him, but he's as cute as an old fox. he'll be nice and polite, but he'll not give you a decided answer, one way or the other." "i've got to try," was larry's reply. larry had one advantage on his side. he was a new reporter in the political field. that was one reason why mr. emberg sent him. nearly all the other available men on the _leader_ were well known to the politicians, they were familiar with them, and, as soon as they saw these reporters, the politicians were on their guard. larry, never before having talked with sullivan and his friends, might take them off their guard, and they might let fall something that would make news, the city editor thought. it was a slim chance, but newspaper editors are accustomed to taking such. when larry entered the headquarters of sullivan, which were located in the rear of a large dance hall, he found the place well filled with men, though it was the middle of the forenoon, when most persons would have been at work. but the men were politicians of more or less power, and had plenty of spare time. besides this was really their work, though it did not look like very strenuous labor, for most of them were standing in little groups, talking and smoking, or sitting in chairs tilted back against the wall. here was where larry's newness gave him an advantage. no one in the room knew him to be a reporter, or he would have been greeted by some of the men as soon as he entered, called by name, and thus all the others would have been put on their guard. larry sauntered into the big room as though he belonged there. he hardly knew what to do, but he decided to look about for a few minutes and size up the situation. no one paid any attention to him, and he felt it would be a good plan to see if he could pick sullivan out from among the throng. with this end in view larry walked from one end of the room to the other. he did not know that the man he sought was in his private office, closeted with some of his henchmen. as larry passed one group he heard one man in it say: "well, sullivan's made up his mind at last." "he has, eh?" asked another. "who is it?" larry was all attention at once. this seemed to be the very thing he had been sent to find out. "don't let it get out," went on the man who had first spoken, "but i understand tommy has got to wait a while yet." "then billy can probably deliver the goods," the second man added. "i thought he could. well, it means a good thing for the district when they build the new line. if only potter doesn't go back on his promise. he's so rich you can't touch him with money, and he's as foxy as they make 'em. if billy can work him i don't blame sullivan for swinging his way. now----" but at that moment one of the men turned and saw larry. he at once knew him for a stranger, and quickly inquired: "what do you want, young man?" "i want to see mr. sullivan." larry didn't announce himself as a reporter, for that, he felt, would have brought him only a polite refusal, on sullivan's part, to receive him. "what for?" went on the man. "i have a message for him," larry said. "you can tell me, i'll see that he gets it." "it is for him personally," larry said, for a bold plan had come into his mind and he determined to try it. chapter viii an interview with sullivan for a moment the man who had questioned larry stood gazing at him. suspicion was in the look, but the reporter never quailed. he was playing a bold game and he was running a risk, but he was not going to give up so soon. "what's your name?" the man asked him. "larry dexter." that conveyed nothing to his questioner, for larry had not been long enough on the _leader_ to become known in the field of politics. there were some men in the newspaper business with whom the politicians were so familiar that they sent for them whenever they had any news they were desirous of making public. but larry was not yet one of these. "sam, tell mr. sullivan a young man wants to see him personally," went on the man who had interrogated larry. "you can take a seat over there," he added, pointing to some chairs farthest removed from the group of which he was a member. as larry moved away he heard one of the men remark: "wonder if he's a newspaper man?" "i don't believe so," replied another. "i've never seen him before and i know most of the reporters in new york. none of the editors would send a new man to interview sullivan. he's too tough a bird for a greenhorn to tackle. i guess he's a messenger from some broker's office. maybe potter sent him." "i wonder who this potter is, and what all that talk meant?" larry thought to himself as he took a chair, and watched the messenger enter a small room at the end of the big apartment. in a little while sam, who appeared to be a sort of janitor around the place, came back to inform larry that sullivan would see him. "now for my game of bluff," said the young reporter to himself as he entered. the political leader was sitting behind a desk, littered with papers. he was a small man, wearing glasses, and looking like anything but the chief factor of an important assembly district. mr. sullivan was bald-headed, and had rather a pleasant face, but there was a look about him that indicated force of character, of a certain kind, and a determination to succeed in what he undertook, which is what makes a good politician. "you wanted to see me?" and the question came in a low voice, totally unlike the loud tones larry had, somehow, associated with an important politician. larry felt the eyes of sullivan gazing sharply at him, as though they were sizing him up, labeling him, and placing him on a certain shelf to be kept there until wanted. sullivan was a good reader of character, as he showed by his next question. "what paper are you from?" larry started. he wondered how the man knew he was from a paper, for larry had said nothing about it. seeing his confusion sullivan laughed. "wondering how i took your measure, aren't you?" he asked, and when larry nodded he went on: "you have the air of a newspaper man, which you may consider flattering, as you have acquired it after having been in the game only a short time. i assume that because it's my business to know most of the reporters in this city, and i never saw you before. if you didn't look like a newspaper man i'd size you up for one, because only a reporter, or some of my political friends, would come here to see me. you're not the one, so you must be the other. now what do you want?" and the politician's voice became rather sharp. "i came here to find out if it's true that you're going to support reilly because he can deliver the goods from mr. potter," larry explained, resolving to chance all at once. sullivan started, and half arose from his chair. then he seemed to recover himself. "some one's been talking!" he murmured, and, glancing quickly at larry, he asked: "who is mr. potter? i'm afraid i don't understand you." "he's the financier interested in the new line," went on larry, boldly. "it's going to be a good thing for the district, i understand. come now, mr. sullivan," he went on, assuming a familiar air he did not feel, "you might as well own up and give me an interview about deciding to support reilly." for several seconds the leader gazed at larry, as if seeking to read his inmost thoughts. then he spoke: "you either know too much or too little, dexter. i guess you're an older hand at this business than i took you for. tell me what you know." "you tell me what i want to know," larry said with a smile. "you probably know all that i do and more, too. but i don't know half as much as you do about this, though i know enough to print something in the _leader_. you might as well come out with it." sullivan hesitated. he was wondering how this new young reporter had discovered information supposed to be a secret among the politician's closest advisers. clearly there was a leak somewhere, and he must play the game warily until he discovered it. meanwhile, since part of the truth was known he decided to tell more of it. he could manage matters to suit his ends if necessary, even after he gave out the interview for which all the papers in new york were anxiously waiting. "did mr. emberg send you to see me?" asked sullivan. "he did," larry answered, wondering how intimate was the politician's acquaintance with the city editor of the _leader_. "emberg's foxy," went on sullivan. "do i get the interview?" asked larry. "you do. i like your nerve, and i'd like to find out where you heard that about potter." larry did not think it well to say he had merely overheard, in the politician's own headquarters, a reference to the man, who was a well-known millionaire and promoter of new york. the truth of the matter was larry only used the information that had so unexpectedly come to him, but he used it in such a way that sullivan thought he knew a great deal more than he did. "i'm going to support reilly," went on sullivan. "i don't know that i have such great influence as the papers credit me with, but what i have is for my friend, william reilly. you can say for me that i think he served well in the legislature and is entitled to another term. as for mr. kilburn, who i hear would like the nomination, he is an excellent young man. i know little about him, but i believe he would do well. but i believe in rewarding good work, and so i am for mr. reilly." "do you want to say anything about potter and the new line?" asked larry, though if sullivan had said anything about them the reporter would have been decidedly in the dark as to what the politician was driving at. "i guess you've got enough out of me for one day," replied sullivan with a smile. "it's more talking than i've done in a long while--to reporters," he added. "lots of 'em would give a good bit to have what you've got, and i wouldn't have given it to you, only i think you're smarter than i gave you credit for. now you tell me where you heard about potter." "i can't," answered larry, truthfully enough, for he did not feel that he could betray one of sullivan's own men, because of the talk he had inadvertently overheard. "sometime i may." "i'll have to cultivate your acquaintance," the district politician remarked as larry went out. the young reporter hurried to the _leader_ office, having hastily jotted down what sullivan had said. he felt he had secured a piece of news that would prove a big item that day. "what luck?" asked mr. emberg, rather indifferently, as larry came up to the city editor's desk to report. "i've got the interview." "i s'pose he gave you a lot of hot air that doesn't mean anything. see if you can dress it up a bit. we haven't many displays to-day." "sullivan is going to support reilly," announced larry, quietly. "what?" almost shouted mr. emberg. "did he tell you that?" "he did," answered larry, wondering why mr. emberg was so excited. chapter ix everything but the facts the city room, that had been buzzing and humming with the talk of several reporters, seemed strangely quiet as larry gave his answer. his remarks had been heard by several. the clicking typewriters stopped, and those operating them looked up. "say that again," spoke mr. emberg, as though a great deal depended on it. "sullivan is going to support reilly," repeated larry. "there's what he says," and he handed out the brief interview which he had written on some sheets of paper as he came down in the elevated train. the city editor glanced quickly over it. "are you sure you haven't made a mistake?" he asked. "i'm positive that's exactly what he said." "this is a big thing," went on mr. emberg. "we have news from albany directly contrary to this, but if you're sure you are right i'll use this. it will make a big sensation. have you got it all alone?" "there were no other reporters there that i knew," larry said. "good for you. how in the world did you do it? i never thought you would. sit right down and make as much as you can of it. describe how he received you, what you said and what he said and all about it. this is great." "i stumbled on it," said larry, and he proceeded to relate what he had heard about potter and the new line, though he did not in the least know what the "new line" was. "better and better!" exclaimed mr. emberg. "this is what i suspected. it has to do with the new subway line. if it runs through the eighth district it will be the making of sullivan. that's why he's supporting reilly, because he thinks reilly can influence potter to run the new subway line in that direction. we must have an interview with potter. i'll send some one else out on that. you write what you have. here, mr. newton, jump out and see if you can find potter. it's going to be quite a job, but maybe you can land him." "hamden potter's in europe," said a reporter who "did" wall street, and who knew the movements of most of the financiers. "but he's expected back soon." "maybe he's back by this time," mr. emberg went on. "get out on the job, newton. hurry, larry, it's close to edition-time." larry sat down at his typewriter, which he had learned to operate with considerable speed, and was soon banging away at the keys. "shall i put in that about mr. potter and the new line?" he called to mr. emberg. "no, i'll have harvey attend to that part. you just tell of the interview in regard to supporting reilly. make it a good story." larry did his best, and gave a graphic picture of the leader's headquarters, without touching on how he had come to get the information which so many other papers and reporters were anxiously waiting for. "here, tommy!" called the city editor to one of the copy boys, which position larry used to fill, "bring me mr. dexter's stuff, page by page, as fast as he writes it. i'll get it upstairs and fix up a head for it." larry smiled to hear mr. emberg call him "mr. dexter," but, no matter how familiar an editor may become with his reporters, he gives even the youngest the title of mister when speaking of him to the copy boys. larry finished the first page of his story, pulled it from the typewriter and handed it to tommy, who rushed with it to mr. emberg's desk. the editor glanced over it, made one or two corrections, changed the wording a bit, and handed it back to tommy, who hurried with it to the pneumatic tube, in which it was shot upstairs to the composing room. there it was taken from the metal carrier that dropped from the tube on the desk of the man in charge of distributing the various pieces of copy to the compositors. this man put a mysterious-looking blue mark on the first page of larry's story. this was to identify it later, and to make sure that all the succeeding pages would be kept together. then the sheet was handed to the first of a long line of compositors, who were standing in front of the desk of the "copy-cutter," as he is called. it was close to the hour for the first edition to go to press, and every one was in a hurry. the compositor fairly ran to his type-setting machine and began to operate the keys, which were arranged like those on a very large typewriter. he did not strike them, as one does who operates a typewriter, but gently touched them. as he pressed each finger down the least bit there was a click, and from the rack above the machine there tumbled down a small piece of brass, called a "matrix." this contained on one edge a depression that corresponded to a letter. in a short while enough matrixes had fallen into place to make a complete line, just the width of one of the columns of the _leader_. the compositor looked at the row of matrixes as they were, arranged before him, read it (no easy task to the uninitiated), took out a wrong letter and inserted a right one, and then pressed down a lever. this lever operated the lead-casting machine at the back. a plunger was shoved down into a pot of melted lead, kept molten by means of a gas flame. a small quantity of lead was forced up against the line of matrixes, which automatically moved in a position to receive it. the lead was held there an instant to harden, then another lever automatically removed the solid line of type from its place in front of the matrixes, a long arm swooped down, took the brass pieces and returned them to an endless screw arrangement which distributed them, each one to its proper place, in the series of chutes that held hundreds of others. everything was done automatically after the compositor had touched the keys and then the lever, so that he was almost finished with the second line of the story by the time the matrixes of the first were being returned to their slots by the machine, which seemed almost human. thus larry's story was set up. in all, five men worked at putting it into type, and finally the five sections were collected together on a "galley" or long narrow brass pan. a proof was taken and rushed down to mr. emberg so that he might see it was all right, but by this time, some typographical errors in the story having been corrected, men were placing it in the "form" or steel frame which holds enough type to make a page of the paper. this was soon in readiness for the stereotyping department. larry had not finished the third page of his story before the first two were in type. he hurried through it, and by the time he had handed in the last sheet there were men upstairs waiting for it, so quickly is the mechanical part of newspaper making accomplished. finally the story was all in type, the lead lines were in the form, and, when the latter was filled it was "locked," or tightly fastened, and was ready for the men who were to take an impression of the page in damp papier-mache. this papier-mache, which is also called a matrix, was baked hard by steam, put in a curved cylinder, melted lead was poured on it and there was a solid metal page of the paper ready for the great press, which was soon thundering away, printing thousands of papers, each one containing, on the front page, larry's account of the interview with sullivan. of course many things had been going on meanwhile. mr. emberg had written a "scare head," as they are called, that is a head to be printed in big letters, and this had been set up by men working by hand. this was put on the story after it was in the form. "guess newton is having trouble finding potter," commented the city editor, when he had finished with larry's copy. "if we don't hear from him in five minutes we'll miss the edition." the five minutes passed, and no word came from harvey newton. the building shook as the giant press started, and mr. emberg, shutting up his watch with a snap, remarked: "too late! well, maybe he'll catch him for the second." it is often the case that only part of a story gets in the first edition of a paper. so many circumstances govern the getting of news, and the sending of it into the office, that unless a story is obtained, complete, early in the morning it is necessary to make additions to it from edition to edition in the case of an afternoon paper. "mack, maybe you'd better try to find potter," went on mr. emberg after a pause, turning to another reporter. "you know him. tell him we've got an interview with sullivan, and ask him what the support of reilly means." mack, whose name in full was mcconnigan, but who was never designated as anything but "mack," glanced at the proofs of larry's story. "i guess i'll find him in donnegan's place," he said, naming a resort where men of wealth frequently gathered for lunch. "i'll try there." "anywhere to find him," returned the city editor. "are you looking for hamden potter?" asked an old man, coming into the city room at that juncture. "that's what we are," said the city editor. "why, do you know where to find him, mr. hogan? have you got a story for us to-day?" hogan was an old newspaper man, never showing any great talents, and he had seen his best days. he was not to be relied on any more, though he frequently took "tips" around to the different papers, receiving for them, together with what money he could beg or borrow, enough to live on. "i've got a story, yes. i was down at the steamship dock of the blue star line a while ago, and i see mr. potter's family come off a vessel. "was he with them? have you got the story?" demanded mr. emberg, eagerly. "i've got everything, i guess. i've got all but the main facts, anyhow. i don't know whether potter was with them or not. i didn't think it was of any importance." "importance!" exclaimed the city editor. then he bethought him of hogan's character, and knew it was useless to speak. "everything but the facts--the most important fact of all," mr. emberg murmured. "isn't that tip worth something?" demanded hogan. "oh, i suppose so," and mr. emberg wrote out an order on the cashier for two dollars. poor hogan shuffled from the room. he was but a type of many who have outlived their usefulness. "jump down to the blue star dock, mack," the city editor said, when hogan had gone. "find out all you can about the potters--where they have been and where mr. potter went. hurry now!" as mack was going out the telephone rang. it was a message from mr. newton to the effect that he could not find mr. potter, and that at his office it was said he was still in europe. "hurry to his house," said mr. emberg over the wire. "i have a tip that his family just got in on the _messina_ of the blue star line. i've sent mack to the dock! you go to the house!" thus, like a general directing his forces, did the city editor send his men out after news. chapter x threats against larry second edition-time was close at hand, but no news regarding mr. hamden potter had come in from either newton or mack. from a reporter sent to interview representatives of the company constructing the subway came a message to the effect that none of the officers would talk for publication. "what in the world is the matter with harvey and mack?" asked mr. emberg, restlessly pacing the floor. every one in the city room felt the strain. every time the telephone bell rang, the city editor jumped to answer it, without waiting for one of the boys or a reporter to get to the instrument. finally, after several false alarms, the bell rang and the city editor, grabbing up the portable telephone, cried out: "yes? oh, it's you, newton. where in the world have you been? we only have time for the last edition. talk fast! what's that? the potter family home, and you can't see mr. potter? why not? tell them you've got to see him. send in a message you have something of importance to tell him. you say you have? and you can't see him? but you must! go back and try again. this is the biggest story we've had in a long while and we can't fall down on it this way!" he hung up the receiver on the hook with a bang, and once more began pacing the floor. "that's queer," he murmured. "there's something strange back of all this. potter is up to some game, and so is sullivan. come here, larry." mr. emberg closely questioned the young reporter as to every detail of his interview with sullivan. "i'm going to write something myself," the city editor announced. "we've got to have more of this story. i can guess at part of it, and i'll make it general enough, and with sufficient 'understoods' in it to save us in case i'm wrong." he began to write, nervously and hurriedly, handing the sheets over to his assistant to edit as fast as he was done with them. they were rushed upstairs, one at a time, as larry's copy had been. the last edition went to press without the much-desired interview with mr. potter. the city editor wrote a story, full of glittering generalities, telling how it was believed that certain forces were at work in the interest of getting a new line of the subway through the eighth district, and that assemblyman reilly was concerned in the matter, as was also a certain well-known financier, whose name was not mentioned, but whom the readers of the _leader_ would have little difficulty in recognizing as mr. potter. to show that it was mr. potter to whom he was referring mr. emberg added at the bottom of the story, and under a separate single-line head, a note to the effect that all efforts were unavailing to get an interview with hamden potter, the financier, who that day had returned from europe with his family, as mr. potter would see no reporters. it was added that mr. potter's connection with the subway interests might throw some light on the reason for the declaration of sullivan for reilly. in all this there was no direct statement made, but the inferences were almost as strong as though the paper had come out boldly and stated as facts what mr. emberg believed to be true, but which he dared not assert boldly. but as long as they were not made direct and positive there was no chance for a libel suit, which is something all newspapers dread. "there, i guess that will do if harvey can't get at potter," spoke mr. emberg when he had finished. "queer, though, that potter keeps himself away from our reporters. he used to be willing enough to talk." a little later another telephone message was received from mr. newton, announcing that it was useless to try to see the millionaire. "come on in, then," the city editor directed. nor was mack any more successful. he had learned that the potter family had hurried from the dock in a closed carriage and were driven to their handsome home on the fashionable thoroughfare known as central park, west. no one had seen mr. potter, as far as mack could learn, and the reporter was not allowed to go aboard the ship, as the custom officers were engaged in looking over the baggage of the passengers. "well, we've got a good story," said mr. emberg late that afternoon, when work for the day was over. "it's a beat, too." "did any of 'em make lifts for it?" asked mr. hylard, the assistant city editor. a "lift," it may be explained, is the insertion of a piece of news in the last edition of a paper. it is made by taking one plate from the press, removing or "lifting" a comparatively unimportant item of news from the form, inserting the new item, which was received too late for the regular edition, making a new plate, and starting the press again. it is done rather than print an entire new edition, and is sometimes used when some other paper gets a beat or piece of news which your paper must have, or in case of an accident happening after the last edition has gone to press. "the _star_ lifted our story almost word for word," said mr. emberg. "guess they didn't take the trouble to confirm it. the morning sheets will probably try to discount it." which was exactly what they did. some had what purported to be interviews with sullivan, denying that he had said he was going to support reilly. others showed, editorially and otherwise, how nonsensical it would be for sullivan to throw his influence to any one but kilburn. "i hope you haven't made any mistake, larry," said mr. emberg the next day. "if you misquoted sullivan it means a bad thing for our paper." "i quoted him correctly." at that moment the telephone on mr. emberg's desk rang and he answered it. "dexter?" he repeated. "yes, we have a reporter of that name here." larry was all attention at once. "who wants him? oh, mr. sullivan? is this mr. sullivan? well, this is the city editor of the _leader_. i see some of the papers are denying our story. our account is about correct, eh? well, i'm glad of it. yes, i'll send mr. dexter to see you right away. "sullivan wants to see you, larry," went on mr. emberg, hanging up the telephone receiver. "this may be a big thing. go slow and be careful of what he says. don't let him bluff you." "you're getting right into politics," said mr. newton to larry, as the young reporter prepared to go out. "yes, and i'm afraid i'll get into water where i can't swim." "don't let that worry you. you've got to learn, and in new york politics is the most important news of all." larry found sullivan in the same place where he had secured the momentous interview. the assembly leader nodded to the boy, and then picked up a copy of the paper which contained an account of the talk with sullivan. "you made quite a yarn of this," sullivan remarked. "yes, it was a good story." "a little too good," went on the politician. "you got me into hot water." "did i misquote you?" "no, but you got the information before i was ready to give it out. i thought you knew more than you did. this last part," pointing to the generalities written by mr. emberg, "this last part shows that you folks are up a tree. now i want to know where you heard that about potter, and i'm going to have an answer," and sullivan lost his calm air and looked angrily at larry. "i can't tell you where i got my tip." "you mean you will not?" "well, you can put it that way," replied larry. "i'll make you!" and the politician arose from his chair and stood threateningly over the young reporter. for a moment larry's heart beat rapidly in fear. then he remembered what mr. emberg had said: "don't let him bluff you." he was sure sullivan was bluffing. "are you going to tell?" asked sullivan again. "i am not." sullivan banged his fist down on his desk. he shoved his hat on the back of his head. thrusting his face close to larry's he exclaimed: "then i'll put you out of business! i'll make the city too hot to hold you! i'll have you fired from the _leader_, and no other paper in new york will hire you! i'll show you what it is to have jack sullivan down on you! i was going to play fair with you. but you sneaked in here and got information i wasn't ready to give out. now you can take the consequences!" "i didn't sneak in here!" cried larry. "i came openly. what's more, you can't scare me! i'm not afraid of you! i know what i did was all right! perhaps the _leader_ knows more than you think. i'm not going to tell where i got my information, and you can do as you please!" sullivan had cooled down. he was a bit ashamed of having given way to his anger, for usually he kept his temper. "all right," he said. "it's war between us now. tell your city editor he needn't send you to get any more news from me, and when the _leader_ wants any favors from jack sullivan it can whistle for 'em. i'm done with that sheet. i'll show 'em who sullivan is!" larry turned and went out. it was the first time he had been browbeaten like this, but he kept his nerve. if he had only known it, sullivan was not the first politician to threaten to annihilate a paper, nor was it sullivan's initial attempt to scare reporters into doing what he wanted. as larry left the headquarters he met peter manton going in. "making up another fake interview with sullivan?" asked peter, with a sneer. "you've made a nice mess of it!" "i didn't make any worse one than you did with that wreck story," retorted larry, who could not forego this thrust at his old enemy. "i'll get even with you yet," exclaimed the rival reporter, as he scowled at larry, and entered sullivan's private room. "i wonder what sullivan will do about it?" thought larry, as he went back to the office. chapter xi a missing millionaire contrary to larry's expectations mr. emberg was not at all impressed by sullivan's threats. "i've heard talk like that before," the city editor said. "the _leader_ will try to worry along without the aid of mr. jack sullivan. as for you, larry, don't give it another thought. if he ever bothers you, or any of his ward-heelers try to make the least trouble for you, let me know. i guess we have some influence in this city. well, i'll look for wholesale denials of your interview from now on. sullivan showed his hand too quickly it seems. we must try for potter now. queer how he hangs back when we've got part of the story." "haven't any of the boys been able to find him?" asked larry. "harvey can't get near him, and when he can't no one can. there's something queer about it. at the house they will give out no information, except to say that mr. potter can't be seen. at his office the clerks either say that he is engaged or has not come in yet. i'm beginning to think he's keeping out of the way on purpose." mr. emberg's surmise about the other papers publishing denials of the sullivan interview was correct. those journals which were on the same political platform as that of the man whose enmity larry had incurred proved, to their own satisfaction at least, that sullivan could not support reilly. as for the _leader_, which was independent in politics, that paper did not worry over the accusations of "faking" made against it. mr. emberg knew he was right, and he was planning for a big disclosure when some of his reporters could find hamden potter. for a time the sullivan matter was dropped, and larry found his time busily occupied in a varied lot of assignments. one day the young reporter was sent to one of the hotels to interview a youthful millionaire, who had come to the city from a distant town in a big touring car, accompanied by a number of friends. "hump! seems to me i'm assigned to all the millionaire cases," mused larry. the young millionaire was named dick hamilton, and he was none other than the youth who has figured in another series of mine, called the "dick hamilton series," starting with "dick hamilton's fortune." dick had come to new york for the purpose of making an investment and had had an encounter with a sharper, who had tried to sell him some worthless stocks. "please give me the story," pleaded larry, and he got the tale in detail, and what was more, he and dick hamilton became so friendly that the young millionaire promised to keep the story from all other reporters; so that larry scored another beat, much to his own satisfaction and the satisfaction of his friends. "keep on and you'll be at the top," said the city editor, and then he went on: "here is something else you might look into, larry. it might make a fine thing for the sunday supplement. you can go up there, get the yarn, and you needn't come back to-day. write it up the first thing in the morning." "what sort of story is it?" asked larry. "why, it's a postal, from an old german, i take it, who says he has invented a flying machine." "i guess he's about the only one in ten thousand who has been successful then," answered larry, smiling. "oh, i don't suppose it amounts to anything," went on mr. emberg. "but it may make a good story to let the old gentleman talk, and describe the machine. the public likes stories about flying machines and queer inventors, even if the machines don't work. get a good yarn, for we need one for the first page of the supplement. i'll sent sneed, the photographer, up later to get some pictures of it." the city editor handed larry a postal card, poorly written and spelled, on which there was a request that a reporter be sent to a certain address on the east side, to get a story of a wonderful invention, destined to revolutionize methods of travel. it was not the first time larry had been sent on this sort of an assignment. once he had gone to get a story of a new kind of gas lamp a man had invented, and the thing had exploded while he was watching the owner demonstrate it. luckily neither of them were hurt. larry found the address given on the postal was in a dilapidated tenement, seemingly deserted, and standing some distance away from other buildings. when he got there he ran into a reporter named fritsch, who worked on a german newspaper. "dot inventor vos mofed avay," said the german reporter. "some beoples told me he vos krazy." "is the house vacant?" asked larry. "i dink so. maype ve walk through him, yah?" larry was willing, and together the pair went into the tenement and upstairs. as they passed through one of the halls larry looked up and saw a man peering down at him over a balustrade. he gave a gasp. "vot it is?" questioned the german reporter. "that man!" cried larry. he ran up the stairs and tried to catch the individual, who was running away. the man was the person he had helped to rescue from the ocean--the one who had given his name as mah retto. the strange man entered a side room and locked the door. larry knocked, but nobody answered his summons. "dot vos not der inventor," said fritsch. "i know it--but i'd like to see him, nevertheless," answered the young newspaper man. a little later the two reporters came down into the street and separated. larry went home, but after supper that evening he walked again in the direction of the lonely tenement. he wanted to see the policeman, whose post took in that section of the city, and make some inquiries of him. the officer might be able to throw some light on the sudden appearance of the strange man. larry found the policeman after some search. the officer, as soon as he learned larry was from the _leader_, was very willing to tell all he knew, for the _leader_ was a paper that always spoke well of the police, and the force appreciated this. "it sure is a queer house," said patrolman higgins. "i remember the time it was filled with families, but they all moved away because the owner didn't make any repairs. the only person there was a crazy german who's daffy on airships. he got out to-day." "i've heard of him," replied larry. "but is he the only one in there? i heard there was another man stopping there." "now that you speak of it, i shouldn't wonder but what there was," answered higgins. "i saw two lights in there to-night, for the first time. i've got sort of used to seeing one in the window where the crazy german is puttering away at his airship, but awhile ago i noticed a gleam in another part of the house. i took it for a second lamp the german had lighted, but now that i think of it, seems to me it was on the other side of the house. i shouldn't wonder but what you're right." "oh, it doesn't matter much," said larry, who did not want to arouse too great interest in the matter. "i just thought you might happen to know him." "i'll make some inquiries in the neighborhood," the officer went on. "i don't want that shack to get to be a hanging-out place for tramps. it was bad enough to have the german there, but he paid his rent to the owner, who's about as crazy as the airship inventor. i'll look up this other fellow. drop around to-morrow night and i may have some news for you." "i will," replied larry, satisfied that he had put his plan into operation. "it's nothing special, but i had an idea i might get a story out of the chap." and he went home again. larry reported to mr. emberg the next morning all the details of the visit to the strange house. "if some east indian chooses to hide himself it can't make much difference to us," said the city editor. "i judge him to be a native from that name. i've got another story for you to go out on. it's about----" at that instant the telephone on mr. emberg's desk rang insistently. he broke off what he was saying to larry to grab up the instrument. "hello. yes, this is mr. emberg. oh, is that you, harvey? what's that? reported to the police as missing? are you sure it's him? great scott! if that's true that's a corking good story! that explains some things! you take the police end and i'll send some one up to the house! good-bye!" the city editor was excited. "here, larry!" he cried. "jump right out on this. the police have just received a report that hamden potter, the millionaire financier, is missing. they tried to keep it quiet, but harvey got on to it. hustle up to potter's house and get all the particulars you can. get a picture of him. hamden potter missing!" he went on, as larry hurried away on his assignment. "there's something queer in the wind, that's sure!" there was--something more strange than mr. emberg suspected, and larry's assignment was one destined to last for some time. chapter xii a brave girl hamden potter lived in one of the finest houses in new york. larry had often admired it as he walked in the neighborhood of central park, in which vicinity many other new york millionaires have their residences. "now i've got a chance to see the inside," thought larry, as he sat in the elevated train, and was whirled along toward his destination. "that is if they let me in. guess i'll have my hands full getting information up there. still, if i work it right, i may learn all i want to know." there are only two general classes of persons from whom reporters can get news. one class is that which is only too ready to impart it, for their own ends and interests, and this news is seldom the kind the papers want. the other class consists of persons who are determined that they will give no information to the representatives of the press. this class usually has the very news that the papers want, and the journals strive all the more eagerly to get it, from the very fact that there is a desire to hold it from them. both classes must be approached in ways best suited to them; the one that they may not take up a reporter's valuable time with a lot of useless talk, and the other that they may be tricked into giving out that which they are determined to keep back. it was to the latter class that larry was going that morning. on his way up he was turning over in his mind the best means of getting what he wanted. "some butler or private secretary will come to the door," he reasoned. "i've got to get in to see a member of the family. there's only mrs. potter and her daughter grace," for, in common with other rich men and those in the public eye, mr. potter's family affairs were, in a measure, public property to the new york newspaper world. as larry had surmised, his ring at the door was answered by a stately butler. "i wish to see mr. potter," said the reporter, venturing on a bold stroke. he had learned several tricks of the trade. "mr. potter is not home," and the door was about to close. "will you take a message to mrs. potter?" asked larry quickly. the door was opened a little. "what name?" and the butler did not relax his severity. "it doesn't matter what name. tell her i have called in reference to mr. potter's absence." "come in!" the butler exclaimed quickly. larry had gained his first skirmish, in a manner perfectly legitimate, regarded from a newspaper standpoint. he had called in reference to mr. potter's disappearance--not to give information (as the butler may have supposed), but to get it. "this way," said the man. "mrs. potter is in the library." larry entered through the velvet portieres the butler held aside for him. he saw, reclining on a couch, a handsome woman, whose face showed traces of tears. beside her stood the most beautiful girl larry had ever seen. she had brown eyes, brown hair, and a face that, though it was sad, made larry think of some wonderful painting. "some one with news of mr. potter," the butler announced. "oh! have you come to tell me of my husband?" the lady exclaimed, sitting up suddenly. larry's mind was working quickly. if he took the right means he was liable to get the information he wanted. on the other hand he was in a fair way to be shown the door indignantly, for he realized that he had entered under false pretenses, however honorable his motives might have been. "i beg your pardon for intruding," he said, speaking quickly. "i have come to ask news of mr. potter, not to bring it. one moment," as he saw mrs. potter's face assume a look of anger. "his disappearance has been reported to the police. they tried to keep it quiet, but it was impossible in the case of a man of mr. potter's standing. our paper--the _leader_--knows of it. in a short time it will be known to every paper in new york. i think it would be wise for you to meet the situation, and give me whatever information you can. we will only be too glad to help you locate your husband, and i believe there is no better way than by newspaper publicity, even the police will tell you that. if you could give me a description of the missing man, when he was last seen, what sort of clothing he wore, and a picture of him we will publish it in the paper. thousands of persons will see the account and will be on the lookout for him. believe me, it is the best way!" larry paused for breath. he had rattled all that off without giving mrs. potter a chance to stop him, for he wanted to present his case in the most advantageous light. "mamma, i believe he is right!" exclaimed grace potter. "i never thought of it that way before. i thought the newspaper people were horrid when any one had trouble." "we are human," said larry with a little laugh, and grace smiled, though her eyes had traces of tears. "i could not think of discussing your father's affairs with a reporter," said mrs. potter stiffly. "i don't want to pry into his affairs," returned larry. "i only want to help you find him." "but this publicity is so disgraceful!" "not at all, madam. it is a misfortune, perhaps, but other families have the same trouble. nothing is thought of it. the newspapers are the best means of tracing lost persons." "that's right, mother," interrupted grace. "i often read descriptions of persons who have disappeared, and a few days later i see that they have been found, principally through an account in the paper. i am sure this young gentleman will help us." "i will do all i can," said larry. "so will the other papers, i am sure. now when did he disappear? is this a picture of him?" and he took one from the library table. "suppose you let me take this to have a cut made of it. i will return it," and before mrs. potter or grace could object larry had it in his pocket. that is the way reporters get along sometimes, by taking advantage of every opportunity. once lost these golden chances seldom can be seized again. before mother or daughter could answer larry's question the door bell rang, and, a moment later, the butler announced: "some newspaper reporters, madam!" "oh, this is dreadful! i can't see them!" exclaimed mrs. potter. "tell them to go away. let them see mr. potter's lawyer!" "mother, let me attend to this for you," said grace. "i will see the reporters. i will tell them all that is necessary. i'm not afraid. i want to find poor, dear papa!" "you are a brave girl," murmured mrs. potter, as she wiped her eyes. "i would not dare face them all in our trouble." larry agreed with mrs. potter's characterization of grace. it was no easy task for a girl of eighteen to thus assume the responsibility, but she had the courage, and larry admired her for it. "you had better go to your room, mother," grace went on. "i will see the newspaper men in here," she added to the butler who was waiting. "you may stay," she said, looking at larry, "and you will learn all we ourselves know." larry realized there was no opportunity for a beat in this matter of the disappearance of the millionaire, as the news the police get they give out indiscriminately to all papers. so he was content to get what information he needed in common with the other reporters. but he had a picture, and he doubted if all the others would get one. the butler showed the reporters in. they were nearly all young men, about larry's age, though one or two were gray-haired veterans of the pencil. "what is it you wish to inquire about first?" asked grace, as she faced the newspaper men, more calmly than could her mother, who had gone to her room. chapter xiii where is he? "when did mr. potter run away?" asked a voice from the group of press representatives, and larry saw it was his old enemy, peter manton, of the _scorcher_--a sensational sheet--who had made the inquiry. "my father didn't run away!" exclaimed grace indignantly. "if you are going on that assumption i shall give you no information at all." "that was a mistake," interposed an elderly reporter. "we are only anxious to know when you last saw him," and someone whispered a well-deserved rebuke to peter. "to begin at the beginning," grace resumed, "father went abroad with mother and me several months ago. he was not in good health and his physician recommended a change of air. we traveled in england and on the continent, and then went to italy. my father preceded us there, as he had some business affairs to look after in rome. "when we got to that city we found he had left there, as his business called him away. he left word that he might have to sail for this country ahead of us, but would try to meet us in naples. we proceeded there, only to find that he had sailed, and he told us to come over on the next steamer. he promised to meet us in new york. "we sailed on the _messina_, expecting my father would meet us at the pier." "did he meet you?" asked larry, for he recalled that day when he had secured the memorable interview with sullivan, in which mr. potter's name played an important part. "he did not," and there was a catch in the girl's voice. "one of his clerks did, and said he had received a letter from my father, stating that he was unavoidably detained, but that he would be with us soon." she paused, and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. "well?" asked one of the reporters softly. "that is all," said grace. "i have not seen my father since parting with him at munich, whence he proceeded to rome. he has never communicated directly with us, and we don't know what to think. it is dreadful!" and she wept softly. there was a pause of a few seconds, while the girl recovered her composure. then the reporters began to ask questions, sparing grace as much as possible. in this way they learned that mr. potter's family could give no description as to was dressed when he disappeared, for quite an interval had elapsed between the time grace and her mother had last seen him, and when they learned that he was gone. nor had mr. potter communicated with his office or his business associates, except so far as to send a clerk to meet the steamer. before going to europe he had arranged matters so his affairs could be conducted in his absence, and his continued failure to come back worked no harm in that respect. confidential clerks attended to everything, and the millionaire's large interests were well looked after. so there was really not much that grace could tell. she said she and her mother had waited some time, after getting home, hoping mr. potter would come back or communicate with them, but when he had not done so they became alarmed. they feared he had met with some mishap, and, after talking the matter over with his lawyers, they had decided it would be best to report the matter to the police. "we are much obliged to you," said larry, when it seemed that no more questions were necessary. "we'll do our best, through the papers, to help find your father," added a gray-haired reporter. "now give us his picture," put in peter manton, in a commanding tone. "we have none to give out at present," said grace coldly. "we are having a number made, showing him as he looked when he went away, and they will be ready in a few days. the lawyers will attend to that, if my father is not found in the meanwhile." "we've got to have a picture now!" exclaimed peter. "you shut up!"--thus in a whisper, from another reporter who stood near the representative of the _scorcher_. "you don't know when you've been treated decent. half the millionaire families in new york wouldn't even let us inside the door, let alone telling us all we wanted to know. dry up!" and peter desisted after that rebuke. larry managed to be the last one of the reporters to leave the house. he lingered in the hall, and when he and grace were there alone he said: "one thing i forgot to ask. when you got back to the house was there any evidence that your father had been here ahead of you? was the house shut up while you were in europe?" "i'm glad you spoke of that," the girl replied. "i had forgotten about it. yes, the house was closed all the while we were away, and opened the day mother and i got back. but, now that you speak of it, i recollect something that seemed strange at the time. we were a little worried when father did not meet us at the pier, and i had an idea that he might have spent some nights in the house, pending our arrival, though he had said in his letters that if he came over ahead of us he was going to stop at a hotel. i went to his room----" she broke into tears again, and larry waited, looking out of the big front doors, for he was embarrassed. "when i looked over his room," continued grace, going on bravely, "i saw something was missing, that i knew was on his dresser when we left for europe." "what was it?" asked larry. "it was a little picture of mother and myself. my father was very fond of it. he must have come to the house and taken it--one of his last acts before he disappeared. it made me feel very sad when i thought of it afterward." "perhaps he took the picture to europe with him, and you did not know it," suggested larry, who was beginning to develop the instincts of a detective, as all reporters do, more or less. "no," said grace positively. "i remember, i was the last one in father's room before we sailed for europe. the carriage was waiting to take us to the pier, and father went out just ahead of me. he spoke of the picture then, saying he would leave it to keep guard over his room until he came back," and once more grace could not keep back her tears. "could the picture have been stolen?" asked larry. "the house was in perfect order when we came in," said the girl. "nothing else was missing. it seems as if father took that picture to--to remind him of us--and--and that we would never see him again." "oh, yes, you will!" exclaimed larry heartily. "you will find him all right. perhaps he has some business matters to attend to out west, and hasn't time to come home." "he could have written." "maybe he is some place where the mails are infrequent." thus larry tried to comfort grace, but it was hard work, for the disappearance of hamden potter certainly was strange and difficult to explain. "i will let you know if we hear any news," said larry as he prepared to go. "will you? that will be very kind of you. i thank you very much for your help. i would never have known what to do if it had not been for your suggestions. come any time you have any news for us--and i hope you will come soon--and often," grace added with a blush. larry's heart beat a little faster than usual, for it was not every day he received such an invitation to a millionaire's house, nor from such a pretty girl as grace. "afraid i'll not have much chance, though," he thought to himself as he went down the steps. "i'll probably be taken off this case after to-day, and some other reporter will get it. if i had a little more experience they might let me work on it. never mind, i'll get there some day," and with this larry comforted himself. chapter xiv in the tenement house the story of hamden potter's disappearance, as larry wrote it, made interesting reading. he used that part about the picture which grace had told him, but which the other reporters did not know about. the photograph of the missing millionaire, which showed a man in the prime of life, with a large moustache, came out well in the paper, and as larry saw the article, on the front page, under a "big head," he could not but feel he had done well. in this he was confirmed by the city editor, who, seeing copies of the other afternoon papers, as they were brought in to him, exclaimed: "well, larry, you did fine!" "how's that?" asked the youth. "why you've got 'em all beat on the picture proposition, and none of 'em have that part about his coming back to the house and taking the miniature of his wife and daughter. that's the best part of the whole yarn." "i got that by luck, almost at the last minute, when the others were gone," said larry. "that's the kind of luck that makes big stories," commented mr. emberg. "you might take a run up to the house this evening and see if there's anything new, and then you can pay a visit in the morning. i'll have the police end looked after by harvey, and i'll send a man to mr. potter's office. it's barely possible he may turn up there any minute. i have an idea that he is temporarily insane because of his heavy business responsibilities, and that he has wandered off somewhere. he'll come back in a few days. what do you think about it yourself, larry?" "i hardly know what to think. i never was on a case like this before. when i first heard about his taking the picture away i thought maybe he had gone off somewhere to commit suicide, and wanted it with him." "no suicide for hamden potter," put in harvey newton, with a laugh, as he stood listening to larry and mr. emberg talking. "he has too much to live for." "well, i didn't want to think that," larry went on. "he has a very fine wife and----" "and a beautiful daughter," broke in harvey. "look out, larry, this is not a love story you're working on." larry blushed like a girl, for several times that day he had caught himself thinking of grace and how pretty she was. "let larry alone for getting all the facts in the case," said mr. emberg. "i suppose miss grace gave you some information?" "she talked to all the reporters," larry said. "mrs. potter is a nervous wreck." "well, run up any time this evening," went on the city editor. "you might stumble on some news. you wrote a very good story to-day. try again to-morrow. we've beat the other papers on it as it is." larry got mr. potter's picture back from the art department, where a cut for use in the paper had been made, and decided that he would have a good excuse for calling at the potter residence in going back to return it as he had promised. "i wish i had some news to tell her," the young reporter thought as he went home to supper, "but it's too soon yet. i'd like to be a detective and see if i couldn't find her father for her. i wonder where he can be, or why he disappeared? of course, if he's out of his mind, as mr. emberg believes, that would account for it, but i don't think he is." telling his mother he did not expect to be out long, larry left the house early that evening. he intended to go to mr. potter's residence, leave the picture, have a few minutes' talk with grace, and then go home by way of the street on which the tenement was located, where he had undergone the queer experience with the crazy inventor. "maybe the policeman has discovered something new about that strange man from the wreck," thought larry. he found grace more composed than when he had seen her in the afternoon. "did you bring me any news?" she asked, as she took the picture. "i'm sorry, but i couldn't. i will, though, if there is any to bring. i'm sure your father will be found." "so am i!" exclaimed the girl. "poor mother is in despair, but i am not going to give up. if the police can't find him i'm going to make a search myself. i know a great deal about his business. father always said i ought to have been a boy." larry thought it would have been a pity, but he did not say so. "i'll search all over until i find him," grace went on. "and i'll help you!" cried larry, fired to sudden enthusiasm. "will you? really? that will be fine!" and, before she was aware of what she was doing, grace had held out her hand. larry gave it a firm grip, and the girl blushed. "i suppose i shouldn't have done that!" she said. "i'm always doing things on impulse. i don't even know your name. i must call you mr. reporter," and she smiled. "i'm larry dexter," said our hero, blushing a bit himself. "i know your name, so now i suppose we may consider ourselves introduced." "i guess so, though it isn't strictly according to form. but never mind. this is no time for ceremonies. i hope you will have news for me--soon." "so do i," answered larry as he took his leave. the young reporter was soon in that neighborhood of the city where was situated the deserted tenement in which he believed there was some mystery. as he approached the ramshackle old structure he noticed a figure pacing up and down in front of it. "if that's the lunatic inventor of the airship i think i'll pass on the other side," larry said to himself. it was dark in that section of the city, the electric lights being few and far between. however, as the figure approached, and as larry continued on, the youth saw he had nothing to fear, for it was that of his friend, policeman higgins. "well," asked larry, as he came up. "anything new?" this is the reporter's form of greeting to almost everyone he meets, and means: "have you any news for me?" "good-evening," replied officer higgins. "i was just thinking about you." "nothing bad, i hope." "no, i was wishing you'd happen along. you remember we were talking the other night about a strange man that you thought was in here?" "yes." "well, he's in here now, and i'm going to see what he's up to. the crazy old professor, with his airship, has moved out, and the house is deserted except for this new bird. i'm going to raid his nest, for i suspect he's up to no good. i've been watching his light for some time, and he's moving around in several rooms. maybe he's going to set fire to the place." "going to tackle him alone?" asked larry. "no, i've telephoned to the sergeant to send me a man to help me go through the shack, for though i'm not a coward i've no hankering to go in that shell after dark, knowing a man may be waiting for me with a knife or a gun." "i'll stay here and see what happens," said larry. "come along in with us if you like," went on higgins, for he had taken a liking to the young reporter. "you may get a story out of it. here comes storg now," he added, as the form of another bluecoat was seen approaching down the street. the two officers held a brief consultation. higgins showed where a light was nickering back and forth between two rooms on one side of the building, about the third story up. "it's been going that way for the last hour," said higgins. "i'm going in now. get your gun ready, storg. you may not need it, but, if you do, it's best to have it handy." larry followed behind the policemen, his heart beating a little faster than usual. he was anxious to see the man who was in hiding, and who, he believed, was the same one he and the fisherman had rescued from the sea. he believed there was a mystery connected with the fugitive which would make a good story, even if he was an east indian. "easy now," cautioned higgins, but larry thought it was needless, as the heavy shoes of the officers made noise enough to awaken the soundest sleeper. the bluecoats entered the dark hallway of the tenement. the doors were void of locks and swung to and fro, creaking on rusty hinges, as the wind blew them. there was a damp and unpleasant smell in the house, and now and then came queer sounds, that echoed through the deserted rooms. "nothing but shutters banging," explained higgins, as his companion-in-arms started. "they're flapping like a bird's broken wing, all over the place. now for our mysterious friend." but for the fact that both officers carried small pocket electric lamps, operated by dry batteries, they would have had difficulty in making their way through the halls and up the stairs, for there were many holes, caused by rotting boards. as it was they moved along with some speed, until they came to the third floor. "he'll be about here somewhere," whispered higgins, a needless precaution, as their advance had been already heralded by their heavy foot-falls. "there's a light there," said storg, pointing to the end of a long hall. coming from under a door could be seen a faint gleam. "that's where he is!" exclaimed higgins. "come on!" larry followed the officers. their steps echoed through the silent building. forward they went until they came to the door beneath which the light showed. higgins tried the knob. the portal was locked. "let us in! we're police officers!" he exclaimed. there was a rustling within the room, but no attempt was made to open the door. "open or we'll break it in!" cried higgins, and, as there was no answer, but only silence, he put his big shoulder to the frail door. there was a crackling sound, a splintering of wood and the hinges gave way. higgins fairly jumped into the room as the portal fell in. storg followed after him, with his hand on his revolver, ready to use it should occasion arise. but there was no need, for the room was deserted, though a candle burning on a mantel showed there had recently been an occupant in it. "he's gone!" cried higgins, looking around. at that moment there was a sound in the corridor, and somewhere along its length a door opened. "he's getting away!" yelled storg, as he jumped back into the hallway. larry followed, and the policeman flashed his electric lamp. then, in the little circle of light cast from the glass bullseye, larry saw, running down the stairs, the smooth-shaven man he had helped pull from the angry sea on the life-raft. "there he goes! catch him!" cried storg, as he clattered down the stairs after the fugitive. chapter xv larry's special assignment "hold on! stop!" yelled higgins, running from the room. "halt, or i'll shoot!" it would have done little good had he done so, for by this time the mysterious man was in the second hallway, and out of reach of any possible bullets. "you stay here and look after things, i'll catch him!" called storg, as he raced down the stairs, his light making erratic circles as he advanced. "i guess that's good advice," commented higgins to larry, who had remained in the upper corridor. "i'm too fat to run. let's see what he left behind." back into the room, where the candle was burning, went larry and the policeman. a quick survey showed nothing unusual. there were some old chairs and a table, left probably by the departed tenants. "he must have had the run of several rooms," higgins went on. "he came out of some apartment farther down the hall, and that's how he fooled us. he was on the watch, and that shows there must be something queer about him." "let's take a look through the other rooms," suggested larry. showing his light higgins led the way. they went through several other bare and deserted chambers, but saw no indications that the stranger had been in them. presently they came to what had been a bathroom, though most of the plumbing had been torn out by thieves, for the value of the lead pipes and the faucets. "he's been here!" cried larry, as he pointed to a faint spark in one corner of the room. the policeman flashed his electric on it. it proved to be a candle that had burned down into the socket, the remainder of a wick smouldering and glowing. "yes, and he shaved himself here," the officer added, as he pointed to a razor, some soap, and pieces of paper on which were unmistakable evidences that the mysterious man had been acting as his own barber. "i'd like to catch him," the bluecoat went on. "i'm sure there's something crooked about him." "it looks so," agreed larry. "maybe storg will get him." "i hope so," and higgins began to make a more thorough search of the apartment. there was nothing, however, which shed any further light on the mysterious man. it was evident, though, that he had lived in the deserted house for several days, since there were remnants of food scattered here and there. "the mystery is getting deeper and deeper," thought larry. he said nothing to the policeman about the man being a person who had come ashore from the _olivia_. "i'm going to ask mr. emberg to let me work on this case," he resolved, while he followed higgins from room to room. "i believe it will be a great story if i can get all the details." how much of a story it was destined to be larry had no idea of at that moment, though his newspaper instinct, that led him to suspect there was a strange mystery connected with mah retto, was perfectly correct, as he learned later. "well, i don't see that we can learn anything more here," remarked higgins when he had been in a number of chambers on the third floor. "he evidently only used a few of these handsome apartments," and he laughed as he looked around on the dilapidated rooms, with the plaster peeling from the walls, the windows half broken, and the doors falling from their hinges. "hark!" exclaimed larry. "some one is coming!" footsteps sounded in the lower hall. "that's storg, coming back!" cried higgins. "i hope he got his man." he leaned over the balustrade and called down: "any luck, storg?" "no, he got away," was the reply. "he's a good runner. i couldn't keep up to him." "never mind," consoled higgins. "maybe it's just as well. we'd have trouble proving anything illegal against him, though i could have had him held on a charge of vagrancy until i investigated a bit." the officers, followed by larry, left the ramshackle structure, with the wind whistling mournfully through the broken windows, and the shutters banging, while the doors creaked on the rusty and broken hinges. "i wouldn't want to stay there all alone at night," thought the young reporter, as he started toward home. "a man must have a strong motive to cause him to hide in there. i'd like to find out what it is. perhaps i shall, some time." larry spoke of the matter to mr. emberg the next day. he said he thought it might be a good idea to devote some hours to working up the story, in an endeavor to learn who the queer man was. "still puzzling over your east indian, eh?" asked the city editor. "well, there may be something in it, but just now i have something else for you to do." "another flying-machine story?" "not exactly. i'm going to give you a special assignment." larry was all attention at once. the best part of the newspaper life is being given a special assignment--that is, put to work on a certain case, to the exclusion of everything else. every reporter dreams of the time when he shall become a special correspondent or given a special assignment. it means that your time is your own, to a great extent; that you may go and come as you please; that your expense bills are seldom questioned, and that you may travel afar and see strange sights. the only requirement, and it is not an easy one, is that you get the news, and get it in time for the paper. of course, it need not be said that you must let no other paper beat you, but this seldom occurs, as when a reporter is on a special assignment he works alone, and what he gets is his. there are no other newspaper men to worry him. so, when mr. emberg told larry there was a special assignment for him, the young reporter's heart beat high with hope. he had often wished for one, but they had never come his way before, though to many on the _leader_ they were an old story. "what is it?" asked larry, wondering how far out of town it would take him. "i want you to find mr. potter, the missing millionaire, larry," said mr. emberg. "find mr. potter?" "that's it. i want you to devote your whole time to that case. never mind about anything else. find mr. potter. there's a big story back of his going away; a bigger story than you have any idea of. i don't know what it is myself, but i want you to find out. now i am going to give you free rein and full swing. do whatever you think is necessary. get us news. we'll have to have a story every day, for we're going to play this thing up and feature it. you're going to be on the firing-line, so to speak. take care of yourself, but don't go to sleep. get ahead of the other fellows and get us news. that's what we want. that's what makes the _leader_ a success. it's because we get the news, and generally get it first. "i can't tell you where to start, or what to do. you'll have to find that out for yourself. get all the information you can from the family. see some of mr. potter's business associates. have another interview with sullivan. maybe he knows something about it, though i doubt it. "at any rate, whatever you do, find mr. potter," and at this closing instruction mr. emberg learned back in his chair and looked sharply at larry. "suppose i can't," and the young reporter smiled. "'can't' isn't in the reporter's dictionary," the city editor replied. "you've got to find him. i don't want to see you fall down. you've done well, so far, larry. now's a chance to distinguish yourself." larry knew that it was. he also realized that he was going to have his hardest work since he had become a reporter. it was a special assignment, such as any newspaper man might wish for, but it was not one that could be characterized as easy. "i've got my work cut out for me," thought the youth, as he turned away. "here's an order for fifty dollars," went on mr. emberg, as he handed the young reporter a slip of paper. "take it to the cashier, and when you want more for expenses let me know. don't be afraid of using it if you see a chance to get news, but, of course, don't waste it. now go, and find mr. potter, but don't forget we must have some sort of a story every day." larry's first act, after receiving his special assignment, was to go to mr. potter's house. grace received him, and, in answer to his inquiry, stated that the family had no more news than they had at first. "i thought you could tell us something," said the girl in disappointed tones. "perhaps i can, soon," replied larry. "i'm detailed specially on this case now," and he told her of his assignment. "does that mean you have nothing to do but to search for my father?" "that's what it means." "oh, please find him for me!" exclaimed the girl. "you don't know how much i have suffered since he has been missing, nor how much my mother has suffered. it has been terrible! oh, if you only could find him for us!" "miss potter," began larry, who was deeply touched by her distress, "a newspaper man could have no greater incentive to work than the duty to which his assignment calls him. more especially in this case to which my city editor has told me to devote my whole time. but aside from that i'm going to find your father for your sake and your mother's. i'll do all i can. i'll work on this case day and night. i'll find your father for you!" "oh!" exclaimed grace, "you don't know how much good it does me to hear you talk so! it seemed as if no one cared. of course my father's business associates want him to come back, and so do his friends, but--but they don't wish it as much as my mother does and as i do! i miss him so much!" if larry had not had the injunction laid on him by mr. emberg to urge him on in the search, the appeal by grace would have been more than sufficient. hereafter, he resolved, he would feel somewhat as did the knights of old when they were commissioned by their ladies to execute some bold deed. "don't worry," he told grace, as he saw her distress was getting the better of her. "i'll find him." "suppose you can't?" "there's no such work as 'can't' in my dictionary," replied larry, repeating what mr. emberg had told him. grace smiled at the young reporter's enthusiasm, but she knew she could have had no better friend, no one who would devote more time and energy to her cause, and no one who had so strong a motive for finding the missing millionaire as had this young newspaper reporter. while the two were discussing various details of the case there was a ring at the front door, and, presently, the butler entered the library. "mr. jack sullivan to see you, miss," he announced. chapter xvi sullivan's queer accusation "whom did you say it was?" asked grace. "mr. jack sullivan," repeated the butler. "i asked him for his card, miss, but he said he hadn't got none. told me to mention his name, an' said you'd know him." "but i don't know him," protested grace. "i never heard of him in my life. there must be some mistake. are you sure he wants, me, peterson?" "he said so, miss, but i'll ask again." whereupon the butler, as stiff as a ramrod, went back to the door where he had left mr. sullivan standing. "he means you, miss," the functionary remarked, as he came back to the library. "i wonder what he can want," grace said, half to herself. "i don't know any such person. i think there's a mistake. i will see him, and tell him so." "wait a minute," exclaimed larry. "perhaps i can explain this. i think i know mr. sullivan." "who is he?" "a political leader of the eighth assembly district." "what does that mean; i'm dreadfully ignorant of politics," grace remarked with a smile. "poor papa was much interested in them, but i never could make head or tail out of political matters." "i have an idea that sullivan has called here in reference to the disappearance of your father." "why do you think that?" and grace turned pale. "do you think he brings bad news?" "on the contrary, i think he has come in search of information." "but how can he be interested?" thereupon larry told of his interview with the politician, based on what he had overheard in reference to mr. potter and the extension of the subway. "wasn't your father interested in building a new line of street railroad?" he asked of grace. "i'm sure i don't know. i never kept track of papa's business matters." "i see." "what ought i to do about this mr. sullivan?" grace asked. "i think you had better see him," replied larry. "i'd be afraid to, alone, and mother has such a headache that she can't come downstairs. will you stay in the room with me?" and she looked appealingly at larry. "i'm afraid if i did sullivan wouldn't talk. he knows me, and imagines i have done him a wrong, which i have not. i believe he considers me his enemy. he would probably go away without saying anything if you met him in my presence." "but you don't need to be actually present," said grace, with sudden inspiration. "look here, this is a little alcove," and she pulled aside a hanging curtain and showed a recess in the library wall. "you can stand in there, and hear whatever he has to say. i'd feel safer if you were near. of course there's peterson, but he's so queer, and i don't like the servants to hear too much about poor father's disappearance. will you stay here and be at hand in case i want you?" "of course i will," replied larry after a moment's hesitation. "i have no idea that sullivan will annoy you. he's too much of a politician for that. and i may be able to get a clue from what he says, though i don't imagine he knows where mr. potter is." "then i'll see him," decided grace. "peterson," she called. "yes, miss." "you may show mr. sullivan in here." "in here, miss?" and the butler looked at larry. "i said in here." "very well, miss." "now hide," commanded the girl in a whisper, as soon as peterson had gone to the front door, where mr. sullivan had been kept waiting, as the butler evidently thought the caller did not look like a person to be admitted to the hallway until he had showed his credentials, or until he had been authorized to come in by some member of the family. larry got behind the curtain. no sooner had the folds ceased shaking than mr. sullivan entered the library. larry could see him, though the young reporter himself was hidden from view. grace remained standing. "you wished to see me?" she asked in formal tones. "yes, miss potter," and larry noted that sullivan was ill at ease. "i called about your father." "do you know where he is?" "no, miss potter. how should i?" and sullivan looked quite surprised. "then why did you come?" "i came for some information, miss." "we have none to give you. we have told the police and the reporters all we know." "are you sure?" and at this question sullivan's bearing became different. he seemed bolder. "what do you mean?" demanded grace. "i mean just this," went on the politician. "i've got a right to know where mr. potter is. a great deal depends on it. i've got to find him. reilly wants to find him. he and reilly had some deal on, and it's time it was put through. it's going to make trouble if it isn't. i want to know where mr. potter is?" "so do we," answered grace. "if this is all that you came for you had better leave." "it isn't all i came for!" sullivan's voice had an angry ring. "i don't believe you have told the police or the newspapers all you know about this thing. i believe----" "leave this room!" commanded grace. "leave it at once, or i shall ring for the servants to show you the door! what do you mean?" "i mean just what i say!" and the politician's voice was angry now. "i mean that you know where your father is, and that you're only pretending you don't. it's some game to fool reilly and me. we'll not stand for it. i want you to tell me where your father is!" he took a step toward grace. she seemed dazed. "tell me! do you hear!" and, probably because he was so excited, the politician made a movement as if he meant to grasp the frightened girl by the arm. "oh!" she screamed. "don't touch me! larry!" "quit that!" cried the young reporter, stepping suddenly from behind the curtain. "that will do, mr. sullivan!" larry spoke more calmly than he had any idea he could under the circumstances. he seemed master of the situation. the very suddenness of larry's appearance caused sullivan to recoil a step. he fairly glared at the young reporter and then looked at grace, who was trembling from the words and actions of her rude visitor. "you here!" exclaimed the politician, in a whisper. "so that's the game, eh? i thought the _leader_ was in on it." "there's no game at all!" cried larry, indignantly. "i am here in the interests of the paper to learn all i can about mr. potter's disappearance." "then ask her to tell you the truth!" cried sullivan, pointing his finger at grace. "she knows where he is!" "i don't! i wish i did!" and grace faced her accuser with flashing eyes. "don't repeat that remark," said larry, calmly, though there was a determined air about him. "you know better than that, mr. sullivan," and larry stood fearlessly before the politician. in the unlikely event of a physical encounter larry had no fears, for he was tall and strong for his age. "it's true!" sullivan repeated, in a sort of a growl, for he was a little afraid of the tempest he had stirred up. "i say it isn't," larry replied. "i have worked on this case from the start, and i know as much about it as any one. what's more, i think you know more than you are willing to admit. i haven't forgotten the interview you gave me, and which you denied later. i think there's something under all this that will make interesting reading when it comes out." "you--you don't suspect me, do you?" and larry noted that sullivan's hands were trembling. "i don't know what to suspect," the young reporter answered, determined to take all the advantage he could of the situation. "it looks very queer. it will read queerer still when it comes out in the _leader_--how you came here to threaten miss potter." "you--you're not going to put that in, are you?" asked the politician. "i certainly am." "if you do i'll----" "look here!" exclaimed larry. "you've made threats enough for one day. it's time for you to go. there's the door! peterson!" he called. "show this man out!" larry was rather surprised at his own assumption of authority, but grace looked pleased. "yes, sir, right away, sir," replied the butler with such promptness as to indicate that he had not been far away. he pulled back the portieres that separated the library from the hall, and stood waiting the exit of mr. sullivan. "this way," he said, and a look at his portly form in comparison with the rather diminutive one of the politician would at once have prejudiced an impartial observer in favor of peterson. "this way, if you please." "you'll hear from me again," growled sullivan, as he sneaked out. "i'm not done with you, larry dexter!" chapter xvii grace gets a letter the door closed after sullivan. larry, standing in the library entrance, watched him leave the house. then he turned to look at grace. "oh, that was terrible!" the girl exclaimed, almost ready to cry, but bravely keeping back the tears. "what a horrid man! what did he mean?" "i'm sure i don't know," replied larry. "i doubt if he does himself. mr. potter's disappearance has evidently sent some of his plans askew, and he is hardly responsible for what he says or does. don't let it worry you." "i wonder if he knows where my father is?" "i don't believe he does. if he did he would hardly come here, hoping to deceive you or your mother. no; sullivan wants to find out where mr. potter is just as much as we do. why, i can't tell yet, but he has a good reason, a strong reason, or he would not have acted as he did." "what had i better do?" asked the girl. "do nothing. leave it to me. i will write something for the _leader_ that will make sullivan wish he had stayed away from here." "mother doesn't like this newspaper publicity." "i can imagine it is not very pleasant for her," admitted larry. "but it has to be borne if we are going to find your father. the more the papers print of the affair the better chance there is of finding him. if he is staying away for some reason he will see what a stir his disappearance has caused, and will be anxious to arrange matters so he can come back. if he is being detained against his will, the publicity will cause his captors an alarm which may result in their releasing him. so, too, if any one sees him wandering about they will recognize him by his picture, or by the description, and inform the police." "suppose--suppose he--should be--dead," and grace whispered the words. "don't think that for a moment!" "it is over two weeks now since he disappeared, and not one word have we heard from him." "persons have been known to disappear for longer periods than that, and yet turn up all right," said the young reporter, endeavoring to find some consolation for the girl. he related several instances of similar cases that had come to his attention since he had been in newspaper work. "now don't put too much in the paper about mr. sullivan--and me," said the girl as larry was going. "there has been sufficient printed all ready, and some of my friends think i must have a staff of reporters at my beck and call, to get my name mentioned so often," and she smiled at larry. "i'll not mention you any more than necessary," he promised, thinking that grace was much prettier when a smile brought out a dimple in each cheek. larry's description of sullivan's visit to the potter house proved to be what mr. emberg described as "a corking good scoop." none of the other papers had a line about it, of course, for larry was the only reporter in a position to get inside information, and sullivan was not likely to give out any account of his strange call. "you seem to be keeping right after all the ends of this story, larry," said mr. emberg the day after the account of sullivan's visit was printed. "that's what we want. now what sensation are you going to give us to-day?" "i don't know. not a very good one, i'm afraid. i've been to mr. potter's office. there's nothing new there, and i guess i'll have to fix up a re-hash of yesterday's stuff unless i can strike another lead. to-morrow i'm going to work on a new plan." "what is it?" asked the city editor. "i'm going to the steamship docks and----" before larry could finish the telephone on mr. emberg's desk rang, and, as this instrument has precedence over everything else in a newspaper office, larry broke off in the midst of his remark to wait until mr. emberg had answered the wire. "yes, he's here, standing right close to the 'phone," he heard the city editor say in response to the unseen questioner. "some young lady wants to talk to you," mr. emberg went on, handing the portable instrument to larry. "young lady to speak to me?" murmured larry, as he took the telephone. "this is grace potter," he heard through the instrument. "oh, how are you?" called larry, for want of something better to say. "come right up," grace said. "i have some news for you." "what is it?" "i have a letter from my father!" "a letter from your father? where is he? how did it come? who brought it? is he home?" larry fired these questions out rapidly. but there was a click in the 'phone that told him the connection was cut off. evidently grace had no time to tell more. "hurry up there!" exclaimed mr. emberg, as soon as he understood the import of the message larry had received. "this will be a feature of to-day's story! hurry, larry!" larry thought the transportation facilities in new york were never so slow as on that journey to the potter house. he tried to imagine, on the way up, what sort of a letter grace had received from her father. that it contained good news he judged from the cheerful note in her voice. "things seem to be happening quite rapidly," the young reporter mused, as he got off at the elevated station nearest to his destination. "first thing i know i'll find him, and then i'll not have a chance to see grace any more." he dwelt on this thought, half-laughing at himself. "i guess i'd better stop thinking of her and attend strictly to this disappearance business," he murmured as he went up the steps of the potter mansion. "she's too rich for one thing, and another is i'm too poor, though i'm earning good wages, and we have some money in the bank," for the sale of the bronx land, as related in "larry dexter, reporter," had netted mrs. dexter and her children about ten thousand dollars. larry's ring at the bell was answered by grace, who, it would seem, had been on the watch for him. "i thought you would never come," she said. "i telephoned ever so long ago." "i came as fast as i could," larry responded. "where is the letter?" grace held out to him a small piece of paper. on it was but a single line of writing. it read: "am well. have to stay away for a time. don't worry. will write again." it was signed with mr. potter's name. "are you sure it's from your father?" asked larry, thinking some cruel person might be trying to play a joke, or that some enterprising reporter had sent the message for the sake of making news. such things are sometimes done by new york newspaper men, though their city editors may know nothing about it. "i couldn't mistake father's writing," replied grace. "mamma knows it is from him, and she is much happier. but we can't imagine why he has to stay away." "when did you get this, and how did it come?" asked the reporter. "the postman brought it a little while ago." "where is the envelope?" grace handed it to larry. an inspection of the post-mark showed that it had been mailed in new york in the vicinity of sub-station y, which was on the east side. it might have been dropped in one of the many street boxes from which collections were made for that particular office, or it might have been mailed in the station itself. "not much to trace him by," said larry. he looked at the envelope again and saw that there was a small ink blot on the lower left-hand corner, and that the corner where the stamp was affixed was smeared as if with some sticky substance. "any one would think you were a detective," said grace, as she watched larry examining the envelope. "what does it matter now? we are sure father is alive, for that note was posted yesterday. that has made mother and me happy. of course we want to find him, but i don't see how you can by that letter. i thought you'd like to know about it to make a little item for the paper, and i wanted to repay you for your kindness to mother and me." "i haven't done anything," larry replied. "i am only too glad to be of service to you. but i may be able to find out something by this envelope." "i don't see how." "will you let me take it to the sub-station?" "of course. but what good will that do?" "i want to ask the sorters and clerks in charge if they remember having handled it. i may find the carrier who brought it in from the box, and he can tell in what locality it was." "but how can they remember when they must handle thousands of letters every day?" "perhaps they cannot, but it is worth trying. you see in that section of the city are mostly foreigners, who write a peculiar hand, and use stationery anything but clean or of this quality. this envelope and paper are of an expensive kind." "yes, they are some father had made to order for his private correspondence. i did not know he took any to europe with him, but he must have." "it may be that a letter carrier or mail sorter took enough notice of the envelope to remember it," larry went on. "besides there is a small blot on it, and the way in which the stamp is put on shows that some glue or paste was applied to the envelope. probably he used an old stamp which had no mucilage on. to make it fast to the envelope your father, or whoever posted the letter, would have had to use some sticky substance, and, in doing so, he has put it on a little too thick. some spread out from under the stamp and soiled the envelope. "of course the sorters and carriers don't pay much attention to the pieces of mail, except to see that they are properly stamped and addressed, but it's worth trying. this envelope would attract attention if anything would." "and you are going to use that for a clue?" "i'm going to try. it may be useless. if we can find in what particular locality it was mailed we can have the police keep a watch for your father. he may mail other letters there." "but my father is not a criminal. why should the police watch for him so particularly. they are keeping a general lookout now, but i wouldn't like to think they were lying in wait for him." "it's the only way to find him," said larry. "of course it's unpleasant, but there is evidently some mystery here, and that's the best way to clear it up." "but he says he has to stay away for a while," argued grace. "maybe he wouldn't like to be found." "of course that point has to be considered," larry admitted. "but i take it you and your mother want to find your father, or be in a position to communicate with him." "oh, we do!" exclaimed grace. "then we'll have to ask the police to help us. there is no disgrace in it. everyone knows your father is honorable, and if he wants to disappear that's his business. it is also perfectly right for you to try to find him, for----" and larry stopped. "well, for what?" asked grace, seeing the reporter hesitate. "i don't want to alarm you," larry went on, "but i was going to say that there is no way of telling but what some one may have imitated his writing and forged his name." "i am sure that is my father's writing," the girl said, earnestly. "of course i may be mistaken. i hope not. i prefer to believe that note is from him. it makes me happier." "of course there is only the barest possibility that this note is not from your father, but we can take no chances. that is why i want to make a systematic search, beginning at the sub-station." "and where will it end?" asked grace. "i don't know. but after that i am going to the steamship piers of all the lines that ply between here and italy." "what for?" "i want to see if the captain of any of the steamers recalls any man answering your father's description having come over with him. he must have sailed on some steamer, as he is in this country, if that note is from him." "that's a good idea," commented grace. "how i wish i could help you. couldn't i? couldn't i go around with you--that is to the steamer piers? i've crossed the ocean several times, and i know some of the captains of the italian lines." "maybe that would be a good idea," said larry, secretly delighted with it. "you can come with me to-morrow. i will go to the sub-station now, and will let you know what i learn. then we will make a tour of the piers. you'll be of great assistance to me, for i know very little about steamers." "i'm so glad!" exclaimed grace. "it has been terrible to sit here day after day and only wait! i wanted to do something to help find father. now there is a way! i wish i was a boy--no, i'd rather be a reporter; they can do so many things," and grace laughed more heartily than at any time since her father had disappeared. "i'm afraid you give us too much credit," replied larry. "we do our best, but we don't always get results. are you sure your mother will let you go?" "of course," grace replied, in a way that showed she was used to having her own way. "when will you come for me to-morrow?" "in the morning." "i can hardly wait. now don't forget. i'll be your assistant. maybe i could learn enough to be a woman reporter some day." "i have no doubt you could," larry responded, as he went out on his way to the sub-station with the envelope, having telephoned to the police of the letter and securing a promise that no other reporters would be informed of it for a while. as he walked along, his thoughts were busy in many directions. the receipt of the letter, the clues the envelope offered, the plans for a search among the ship captains, and, above all, grace's offer to accompany him, made larry speculate on what the potter mystery was coming to. "i wonder what the other fellows on the _leader_ would say if they knew i was working this assignment in company with the millionaire's daughter," said larry to himself. "i guess i'd better not say anything about it. they'd make fun of me. i know it's all right to take her, or i wouldn't do it. besides, if she knows the captains she can be of considerable aid to me. queer, though, for larry dexter, who used to rush copy, to be hunting for a missing millionaire in company with his pretty daughter." it was odd, but no other line of activity is so filled with strange surprises, or brings about such a variety of work, as being a newspaper reporter of the first class. larry struck several snags when he attempted to get information at the sub-station. in the first place none of the officials in charge would give him any news about the envelope unless he got an order from the new york postmaster himself. the government has very strict regulations in regard to giving out information about mail matter. but larry was not daunted. he telephoned to mr. emberg, and the forces of the newspaper were set to work. certain political wires were "pulled," and, as there were on the _leader_ men to whom the postmaster was under obligations, that official gave the clerks at the sub-station permission to tell larry whatever he wanted to know. "sorry we had to have so much red tape about it," the sub-station agent said, when larry came back with the magical paper that opened the mouths of the subordinates. "oh, that's all right," the reporter said. "i know how it is. now, what i want to know is, in what box was that letter posted?" and he held out the envelope grace had given him. "rather hard to say," spoke the head clerk. "i'll show it to all the carriers who are in now, and later to those who come in during the afternoon. they may recognize it. it's a little out of the run of ordinary envelopes we get in this section of the city." one after another several carriers scanned the envelope. all shook their heads, until it came to an elderly man. as soon as he saw the envelope he exclaimed: "i brought that in. i remember it very well." "where did you get it?" asked larry, eagerly. "a man gave it to me last night, just as i was taking the mail from a box down near the river," was the unexpected reply. chapter xviii larry is baffled this was much better than larry had expected. to have the envelope remembered so soon was good, but to have the carrier who brought it in say he recalled having received it from the person who mailed the letter, was better yet. "what sort of a man was he?" asked larry, his heart beating high with hope. "why do you ask?" inquired the carrier. "i'm a reporter from the _leader_, and i'm trying to locate mr. potter, the missing millionaire," said larry. "this letter was from him." "then i can't be of much service to you," the postman went on. "this was given to me by a man who bore no resemblance to mr. potter, whose picture i have lately seen in the papers." "but what sort of a looking man gave you this envelope?" asked larry. "he was a smooth-shaven man, rather poorly dressed. i'll tell you how it was. this box, at which i was when the man gave me the letter, is at the foot of a street leading to the river. it is the last one i collect from at night. i had taken out all the mail in the box, and was just locking it up again when some one came up the street in a hurry. i looked around, for the neighborhood is a lonely one, and, as i did so, i saw a man come to a halt, as if he was surprised to see me at the box. i could see he had a letter in his hand. "'come on,' i said, for often people run up to me at the last minute to have me take letters. 'come on,' i said, for i was in a hurry. 'i'll take the letter.' "at that the man pulled his hat down over his eyes and advanced slowly. he held the letter out to me, and, as he did so, i caught a glimpse of his face, as the light from a street lamp flashed on it. i could see he was smooth shaven. i took the letter and put it in my bag. as i did so the man seemed to melt away in the shadows. i thought it rather queer at the time, for it seemed as if the fellow was afraid i'd recognize him. but i'd never seen him before, so far as i know, so he needn't have been alarmed. i brought the letter to the office, and as i sorted my mail, i noted that the stamp had been stuck on with plenty of mucilage. i also saw the blot, and, as the envelope was unlike any i had ever seen before, as far as size and quality of paper went, the thing was impressed on my mind. "that's all i know about it," the carrier finished, "but i'm sure the man who gave me the letter was not the missing millionaire. i've seen his picture too many times lately to be mistaken." "then who could it have been?" asked larry. "that's a hard question, young man," said the carrier. "it might have been any one else. i think it was a person who didn't care about being seen, and didn't want to attract any attention. i guess he would have been better satisfied to have dropped the letter in the box when no one was looking, but seeing me there he came up with it before he knew what he was doing." "if the letter was from mr. potter, and it wasn't the millionaire who mailed it, he must have got some one to do it," the chief clerk of the sub-station suggested, and larry was forced to adopt this idea. he inquired as to the location of the box at which the carrier stood when he received the missive, and asked in what direction the man came from. having learned these facts, and deciding he could gain nothing more by staying longer at the sub-station, larry hurried to the _leader_ office. "well, i've gained something," he said to himself. "i've got a good story, and i have a slender clue to work on. i must write the story first, however. then i'll go back and tell grace what i learned." the account of the letter and the circumstances under which it was mailed created a new sensation in the potter mystery, and, as on several other occasions, the _leader_ scored a beat. as soon as he had finished the story larry went to see grace, whom he found anxiously waiting for him. she asked a score of questions as to what he had learned, and the reporter told her all about his trip to the sub-station. "what are you going to do next?" she inquired. "i think i'll go over on the east side and make some inquiries. your father may be staying there," answered larry. going downtown in an elevated train, and taking a stroll through that populous section, known as the "east side," larry soon found himself in the neighborhood of the box at which the carrier had received the letter written by mr. potter. he took a brief survey of the locality. "not very promising," was his mental comment. all about were big tenement houses of a substantial kind. they were built of brick, and from nearly every window a woman's head protruded, while the street swarmed with children. it was a neighborhood teeming with life, for it was the abode of the poor, and they were quartered together almost like rabbits in a warren. for want of something better to do, larry strolled down one side of the street, at the end of which was located the letter box which formed such a slender clue. then he walked up the other side, looking about him idly, in vain hopes of stumbling on something that would put him on the track. it was late in the afternoon, and the streets were beginning to fill with workers hurrying home, for the day's labor was over. as larry strolled along, rather careless of his steps, he collided with a man in front of a big tenement building. "excuse me," murmured the reporter. "i beg your pardon," the man said, grabbing hold of larry to prevent them both from falling, so forceful had been the impact. "i was looking to see if my wife was watching for me. she generally looks out of the window to see me coming down the street, and then she puts the potatoes on." "i guess i wasn't looking where i was going," said larry, as he disengaged himself from the man's grip. "i was--why, hello, mr. jackson!" he exclaimed. "what! why, bless my soul if it isn't larry dexter!" and the man held out his hand. "why, i haven't seen you in a long time. how's your mother and the children?" "fine. how's mrs. jackson?" "she's well. there she is looking out of the window, wondering why i don't come home to supper. you must come in and see her. come, and stay to supper." the man larry had thus unexpectedly met was the one in whose flat mrs. dexter and the children had stayed the first night they had come to new york, and found that the sister of larry's mother, with whom they expected to remain, had suddenly moved away. the dexter family, sad and discouraged at the loss of their farm, would have fared badly on their arrival in the big city had not mrs. jackson and her husband befriended them. while larry was getting a start in the newspaper work the dexter family had lived in the same tenement with the jacksons, and they had become firm friends. larry and his mother since then had moved to other quarters, and had, for some time back, lost trace of their acquaintances. "i didn't know you lived here," said larry when he had recovered somewhat from his surprise at seeing mr. jackson. "we haven't lived here long. i got a better position in this part of the city, and as i like to be near my work i moved here. we like it quite well, but it's rather crowded. however, almost any place is in new york. but you must come in to supper. mrs. jackson will be anxious to hear all about your folks. i can see her making signs to me to hurry up. i suppose the potatoes are all cooked and the tea made." larry did not require much urging to accept the kind invitation. he wanted to see his friends again, and he thought they might be able to give him some information concerning the people of the neighborhood. "because it's the best place in the world to hide in. if i wanted to drop out of sight i'd go about two blocks away from here and keep quiet. no one would ever think of looking for me so near my home." "i hope you don't contemplate anything like that," said larry with a laugh. "no, indeed. but new york is the best hiding place, and you can depend on it, mr. potter is here." "you haven't seen him in the neighborhood, have you?" asked the reporter, glad of the opportunity which gave him a chance for that question. "no, i can't say that i have. if they'd offer a reward i might take time to hunt for him," and mr. jackson laughed. "i can't afford to turn detective as it is now," he added. "it's too hard to get a living." larry spent the evening with his friends, keeping the talk as much as possible, without exciting suspicion, on the potter case. in this way he learned considerable about the persons living in the immediate vicinity of the jacksons, for mrs. jackson was fond of making new acquaintances. but in all this there was no clue such as larry sought. there were any number of men, concerning whom there seemed to be some mystery, but none answered the description of mr. potter. "there are a queer lot of people in this tenement," said mr. jackson, during the course of the talking. "all of 'em have some story hidden away, i guess. especially one man." "who is he?" "nobody knows," replied mr. jackson. "he came here one night, and seemed quite excited. let's see, it was thursday night, i remember now. he acted as though he was afraid some one was after him." "thursday night," thought larry. "that was the night the man got away from the deserted tenement." "my wife and i were sitting here," continued mr. jackson, "when all at once a knock sounded on the door. i opened it, and there was this man. he asked if i had any rooms to rent. i hadn't, but i told him i had a spare bed, for i saw he was respectable. he seemed glad to get it, and paid me well, though i didn't want to take the money. but he seemed to have plenty." "what was queer about him?" asked larry, beginning to take an unusual interest in what his friend was saying. "well, the excitement he seemed to be in, for one thing. and another, he had just been shaved. i could see the talcum powder on his cheeks. i thought it strange that a man who had time to shave or get shaved should be in such a hurry. but it wasn't any of my affair, so i said nothing." "what became of him?" larry was quite eager now. he seemed to be on the verge of discovering something; if not of the potter mystery then of the other, that cropped up every now and again--that of the man he had helped save from the wreck. "he went away the next morning," mr. jackson resumed. "i didn't see him again until the next night. then he told me he had a room in this tenement." "where?" inquired the young reporter. "on the floor below--a front room, at the end of the corridor. but are you going to call on him?" and mr. jackson looked somewhat surprised at larry's eagerness. "maybe i could get a story out of him," replied the reporter non-commitally. "have to be always on the lookout, you know." "well, i guess you'll not get much out of this man," said mr. jackson. "he hardly speaks to me, though he doesn't seem cross or ugly. only there's some mystery about him. i'm sure of that." "if he's mah retto i'm positive there is," thought larry. "and it looks as if it might be that fellow." not wishing to seem too keen on the scent of the queer man, the newspaper youth changed the subject. in a little while he said he had better be going home, as he had not told his mother he would be out late. he promised to ask mrs. dexter to call on mrs. jackson, and, with many good wishes from his friends, he left. "now for a try at the room on the next floor," said larry in a whisper, as he found himself in the corridor. "it's only a slim chance, but a reporter has to take all that come his way." he found the room mr. jackson had described, and knocked on the door. there was a sound from within, as though some one had arisen from a chair. then a voice asked: "who's there?" "does mah retto live here?" asked larry, determining on a bold plan. hardly had he spoken the words when the door was quickly opened. chapter xix grace on the trail larry saw, standing before him, framed in the doorway from which streamed the glare from a big reading lamp, the man of mystery--the fellow who had escaped from the tumble-down tenement--the man he and bailey had pulled ashore on the life-raft. "are you mah retto?" asked larry again, rather at a loss for something to say, when he saw the strange man confronting him. the mysterious one looked at larry for several seconds. he seemed much excited, and in doubt as to what to do. then, seeming to arrive at a sudden decision, he quickly closed the door, and larry heard the key turned in the lock. "not much satisfaction in that," muttered the young reporter. "that was him, though. i wonder what i had better do?" larry stood in the hallway, undecided. he wanted another opportunity to see and speak to the man he believed was mah retto, but he considered it would not be wise to knock again on the door. the occupant of the room either would not answer or would order him away. "i'll have to come again," larry said to himself. "i've learned one thing, anyhow, and that is where he lives." the young reporter went to the office of the _leader_ early the next morning. he found mr. emberg on hand, and told the city editor the plans for the day; that of making a tour of the steamship piers. mr. emberg thought this was a good idea, and complimented larry on his work thus far. "i ran across my old friend, the east indian, last night," larry said, as he was leaving. "i'm going to work him up for a story when i get through with this potter case." "don't do it until then," advised mr. emberg. "i want you to devote all your attention to the missing millionaire. the east indian story will not amount to much or i'd put another man on it. you may get a yarn for the saturday supplement out of it, but even that's doubtful." larry thought differently, but he did not say so. nor did he mention that he was going to take grace potter with him on his tour of the docks. he had an idea that the city editor might object, or laugh at him, and larry did not care to have that happen. he felt he was doing right, and he knew there could be no serious objection to the daughter of the missing man aiding in a search for her parent. larry found grace waiting for him. she was quietly dressed, and wore a heavy veil, so that no one in the street would recognize her, since her picture had been published in several papers, and there might be comments from the crowd if the daughter of mr. potter was seen out in company of a newspaper reporter. "anything new?" asked the young lady, for she had taken to greeting larry in that newspaper fashion. "not much. i didn't learn anything of consequence by my trip to the east side last night. i'm not done there, however. now we'll try the piers, and see what sort of a 'pull' you have with the captains of the vessels." "we may not find many captains," grace said, "unless their ships are about to sail. still it is worth trying. shall we start?" "i'm ready any time you are," larry answered. "what did your mother say?" "she objected a bit at first, but i soon convinced her it was for the best." larry thought it would not have been hard for grace to have convinced him that almost anything was for the best. she looked quite trim in her dark dress, with her glossy hair held snugly in place by her veil. as they went down the steps of the mansion larry saw a man, who was standing on the other side of the street, move rapidly away, as if he had been watching the house. the young reporter uttered an exclamation before he was aware of it, and grace quickly asked: "what's the matter?" "i--i saw some one," larry replied. "any one would think it was a ghost from the way you act," the girl went on, with a little laugh. she was in much better spirits than any time since her father had disappeared, for the chance of helping to search for him, and the change, from sitting idly in the house waiting for news, was a welcome relief. "no, it wasn't a ghost. it was a man i'd like to have a chance to talk to," larry went on. "would he give you--er--a 'story'? is that what you call it?" "that's right. yes, i believe he could give me a story," and larry looked in the direction the man had gone. he was no longer to be seen. "a very good story," he added, for the man was the same one he had surprised in the tenement the night before--the man of the life-raft. however, he could not leave grace to go in search of the strange individual, and it was more important, as mr. emberg had said, to stick to the potter case. the other could wait. "all the same i'd like to know what he was doing in this neighborhood," thought larry. he puzzled over the matter for several seconds as he and grace went along. on the way downtown the two discussed their plans. there were not many italian steamship lines to visit, but it might take some time to see the captains of all the boats at present in port. some of the commanders would be at their hotels pending the loading of their vessels. "have you made up your mind what you want to ask them?" inquired larry, as they were nearing the station where they intended to get off. "what i want principally to know is if a person answering my father's description came over with them lately. i want to find out, in case he did, how he acted, and if he gave any hint of being in trouble." "that may be a good clue to follow," larry sad. "now we'll make our first attempt." it ended in failure, for though they found the captain of the italian steamer they boarded in the cabin of his vessel, he could not aid them. he was very polite about it, and seemed quite sorry that he could be of no service. it was the same in a number of other cases. some of the captains remembered grace, for she had crossed with them once or twice, but none of them recalled a man answering mr. potter's description making the voyage with them recently. the last place they visited was the dock of the line to which the wrecked _olivia_ belonged. this line grace had never traveled on, but she had a letter of introduction to the manager from the captain of the _messina_, on which she had made her last trip. the commanders of two steamers of this company were in port. one of them was at the dock, for his vessel was about to sail. to him grace made her inquiries, but fruitlessly. she turned away, rather disappointed. there was but one more chance left. the other captain was at his hotel, not far away, for seamen like to remain near the water front. "we'll go there," said larry, "and then i must get back to the office, and write my story for to-day's paper." "i wish you had some better news," spoke grace. "but i am afraid captain padduci, whom we are now going to see, will prove as disappointing as the rest." "we'll hope for the best," remarked larry. "i wish----" but what he wished he never told, for at that instant his attention was attracted by a voice. it was that of a man who stood at the small window of the steamship office. the window was one which he and grace had just stepped away from, after inquiring as to where captain padduci's hotel was. if the voice attracted larry the sight of the man himself did more to rivet his attention. for the first glance showed him the inquirer was none other than the mysterious individual, mah retto. "i would like to inquire where i can find captain tantrella of the steamer _olivia_," the man asked of the clerk. "the _olivia_ is lost," replied the steamship clerk. "i know it, but i would like to see the captain. he was saved, i believe." "yes, he was. he commands a freight ship now. she's due in port in a few days. the _turtle_ is her name. you can come around when she gets in." the mysterious man turned away as though disappointed. as he did so he caught sight of larry, and instantly he hurried out of the office. larry was greatly excited. he was convinced, more than ever, that there was something in this man's actions that made him an object of suspicion. he felt that he must follow the fellow, but he could not leave grace. he looked around for her, but she had gone to the ladies' dressing room to adjust her veil and hat, which had been blown about by the high wind. she came back presently, to find larry much agitated. "what is the matter?" she asked. "nothing much," replied larry. "i just saw my queer stranger again and----" "you'd like to follow him, and you don't want to leave me," put in grace with quick wit. "now run right along. i can go to that hotel all by myself and see captain padduci. i'm not a bit afraid. i once traveled from london to paris alone. you hurry after him, and i'll see the captain. i'll telephone you the result of my interview. you can come up and see me this evening, and we'll talk over some more plans." "that will be good," larry said, "but are you sure you won't mind me leaving you?" "i can get along all right," replied grace. "of course i'd like to have you come along, for i believe you understand this matter better than i do, but i want you to find that other man and get your story." larry was inclined both ways, but he knew it would be better to hurry after mah retto, as grace could make all the necessary inquiries of captain padduci. "until to-night, then," the young reporter said, as he hurried out of the steamship office, and grace turned to go to the captain's hotel. reaching the street larry saw, some distance ahead of him, the form of the man whose actions so puzzled him, and who had led him such a baffling chase. "here is where i get you," thought larry, as he hurried on. chapter xx larry gets a scare through the crowded street the young reporter ran, bumping into several persons, and causing them to mutter more or less impolite exclamations about youths who trod on the toes of innocent pedestrians. larry could catch occasional glimpses of his man, and he noted that retto looked back every now and then to see if he was being followed. "oh, i'm after you, my east indian friend," larry remarked to himself. "i'm going to have an accounting with you now. there's something queer about you." no sooner had larry given expression to this last sentence, speaking somewhat aloud, as was his habit when thinking intently, than he slipped on a banana pealing and fell down with a force that jarred him all over. "i'll have to be more careful," thought larry, as he got up and found that no bones were broken. he started off again after retto. "i wasn't looking where i was going, thinking so much of retto. where is he now? he must have got quite a way ahead." he had; so far that larry could no longer see him. the reporter tried to peer through the ever-shifting crowd, for a glimpse of retto, but with no success. "he's gone," he murmured. "however, i know where he lives and i'll go there at once. no! i've got to get a story in for to-day's paper about mr. potter. i haven't much time before the first edition. guess i'd better telephone it in, and let mr. emberg have one of the men fix it up." in his eagerness to catch retto, larry had rather lost sight of his more important duties, and, as he looked at his watch, he found he had no time to spare if the _leader_ was to have a story that day. he looked for the blue sign, indicating a public telephone station, and saw one a few doors down the street. on his way there he ran over in his mind the points of the story. it would be based on the search and inquiry among the steamship captains. "i've got to say it resulted in nothing," larry remarked to himself. "hold on, though. suppose grace gets a clue from captain padduci? i'll be in a pretty mess if she does, and i telephone in that we found out nothing. wish i hadn't chased after that east indian. i should have stayed with grace until we got through. "no help for it, though. so here goes. i wish i'd done as mr. emberg said and let the retto matter drop. but it seemed too good to lose sight of." he soon had the _leader_ office on the wire, and, a few seconds later, was talking to mr. emberg. he was rather surprised at what the city editor said. "what's the matter with you, larry?" was the inquiry that came through the telephone. "we've been waiting for you. have you seen the _scorcher_?" "no. why?" asked larry, an uneasy feeling coming over him. there seemed an atmosphere of "beat" about him, and he was afraid of mr. emberg's next words. "why, they've got a big story about mr. potter being home," went on the city editor. "they say he is concealed in the house, and has been ever since the scare." "that's not true!" replied larry. "i was at the house this morning, and he wasn't home. i've been all around the steamer piers and got no trace of him. i just left his daughter, and she would know if he had been home all this while." "well, they've got the story," repeated mr. emberg, with the insistence that city editors sometimes use when they fear their reporters have been beaten. "i sent harvey up to the house in a hurry to make inquiries. the _scorcher_ got out an extra. where have you been?" "i just finished the tour of the docks." "well, you'd better go up to the house and make sure. it looks queer." "i'll bet that story came from sullivan," said larry. "he's sore on us, and would do anything to get even. he wants to find mr. potter, you know." "i hope you're right," and mr. emberg's voice was not as cordial as it usually was. "let me hear from you soon again. i'll have one of the men fix up something for the first edition. you tell him about the inquiries made of the ship captains." larry's heart was like lead. to have worked so hard, and then to have another paper come out with a "scare" story about mr. potter's return, was discouraging. "that story's a fake," he decided, as he prepared to telephone in the result of his morning's work. "i'll prove it is, too, and make them take back-water." larry's story of the trip to the steamship offices was not very interesting reading, for it was but a record of failure. he realized that, but there was nothing else to print and the paper had to have something. it was not larry's fault, for even a reporter on a special assignment cannot provide fresh and startling news every day, though all newspaper men try hard enough for this desirable end. after larry had telephoned in all the information he had, he hurried uptown to the potter house. he found grace had just come in, and, to larry's relief, she had not been successful in getting any news from captain padduci. in a few words the reporter told what the _scorcher_ had printed. "we must deny that at once!" exclaimed grace. "i wonder why they print such untruths!" "for one reason, because the _scorcher_ is trying to live up to its name and give the public 'hot' news," replied larry, "and, for another, because sullivan has some end to gain. he stands in with the _scorcher_ men, and i think my old enemy, peter manton, is responsible for this." "what can you do to offset it?" asked grace. "i can have a signed statement from you or your mother in our last edition." "a signed statement?" "yes, a little interview with you, in the form of a communication, with your name at the foot, denying that your father is at home. this will take the wind out of the _scorcher's_ sails." "then i'll give you the interview at once. what shall i say?" larry told her, and in a few minutes the message was being dictated over the potter telephone to mr. emberg. "i'm glad to hear this, larry," the city editor said. "we had quite a scare. i thought they had you beaten, even though harvey came back and said mrs. potter sent down word there was no truth in the _scorcher_ yarn. you certainly had us scared." "i was frightened myself," admitted larry, with a laugh. "this will make story enough for to-day, unless you find mr. potter," mr. emberg went on. "now lay pipes for something for to-morrow." "i will," larry replied, though he did not in the least know what new features he could "play up." at that instant the bell rang, and a whistle indicated that the letter carrier was at the door. grace answered it. she came back on the run, a missive in her hand. "it's from my father!" she exclaimed, as she tore open the envelope. larry watched grace while she read the letter. it was short, for she had quickly finished with it and turned to the reporter. "he's written about you!" she exclaimed. "about me?" "yes. listen," and grace read: "'i am well. still have to remain away. don't try to find me. will be home soon. tell larry dexter to give up. he's chasing me too close.'" "chasing him too close!" exclaimed larry in bewilderment. i only wish i was! i haven't the least clue to his whereabouts. i wonder what he means? is that his writing?" "i can't be mistaken in that," grace replied. "it is just the same as the other letter was." "let me see," and the young reporter examined the envelope. it was similar to that containing the first note which had come from mr. potter, save there was no blot on it and the stamp showed no excess of mucilage. "i'll take this to the sub-station," larry went on. "it was probably mailed in the same place as was the other. i'll see if the carrier had any such experience as he did with the former note." "i think it would be a good plan," grace answered. "oh, this is beginning to wear on my nerves! as for mother, she is almost ill over it. her physician says if father is not found soon he cannot say what will happen to mother." "still she must know your father is safe." "that is the worst of it. she will not believe these notes are from him, or, rather, she believes he is held captive somewhere and is forced to write them. nothing i can say will make her think differently. she is wearing herself to a shadow over it." "we must do something!" exclaimed larry. "yes; but what?" asked the girl. "you are working hard and i am doing all i can, but our efforts seem to amount to nothing. what more can we do?" "i'm trying to think of a plan," larry responded. "the search of the steamship piers gave us no clue; the police here have not been able to find a trace. we can try one thing more." "what is that?" "you can hire private detectives. sometimes, in cases of this kind, they are better than the police, as they assign one man, who devotes all his attention to the search, while the police, as a rule, don't bother much to find missing persons." "then i'll hire the best private detectives to be had!" exclaimed grace. "where ought i to go?" larry named an agency, that he had heard was first-class, and offered to take grace to the office. the reporter knew one of the men on the staff, as he had once written a story in which he figured, and the officer had been grateful for the mention of his name. detectives, even private ones, are prone to vanity in this respect, as a rule. "i don't like to take up so much of your time," objected the girl, as larry prepared to go with her to the detective agency. "my time is yours in this case. i have nothing to do for the _leader_ but to find your father. this is part of the work." "i wouldn't think it could pay a newspaper to put one man exclusively on a case like this." "the editors think it does. in the first place it makes some news every day, and the papers have to have news. then if i should happen to find mr. potter, it would be a big advertisement for the _leader_, and that is what all the new york papers are looking for. the better advertised they are the better prices they can charge for the advertisements printed in them, for it's from the advertisements that a newspaper makes its money. besides, i've promised to find your father for you and i'm going to do it!" larry looked very determined. "my! i never supposed newspaper work was so complicated," said grace, with a little sigh. "now let's go to the detectives. i'm almost afraid. it sounds so awful to say 'detective.'" larry found the man he knew in the office of the agency, and the latter introduced him to the chief. the reporter explained the reason for the visit, and grace added a plea that they do all in their power to locate mr. potter. "i thought you'd come here sooner or later," said the chief with a smile. "most folks do when they find the regular police don't give enough attention to the cases. it's not the fault of the police, though. they have so much to do they can't give much time to a single case. but of course we can. now then, tell me all about it." which grace, aided by larry, proceeded to do. the chief listened intently, and asked several questions. he took the two letters which grace had from her father and looked carefully at them. "do you think you'll be able to do anything?" asked the girl anxiously. the strain was beginning to tell heavily on her. "of course we will!" exclaimed the chief, heartily. "we'll find your father for you, you can depend on it!" larry did not want to tell her that the chief was thus optimistic in regard to every case he undertook. it was a habit of his, not a bad one, perhaps, and it did little harm, for nearly all of his clients wanted cheering up. "what do you think about this, young man?" asked the chief, turning suddenly to larry. "in regard to what, mr. grover?" "where do you think mr. potter is? i understand you've been working on this case. in fact, i have all your stories clipped from the _leader_." larry had not forgotten about retto, and he determined to pay the fellow another visit. with him, to think was to act. he soon found himself going up the stairs of the tenement house, and presently reached retto's door. his knock brought no response, and he stood for a moment, undecided what to do. then a bold idea came to him. "i'll try the door and see if he's home," he said. "if he isn't, there's no harm done. if he is, i can explain it somehow." larry, after a moment's hesitation to listen for any possible movement on the other side of the portal, tried the door. it opened easily for him, though it needed but a glance to show that the apartment was empty and vacated. all the furniture was gone. "he's skipped!" exclaimed larry, as he struck a match and looked around. "i guess he was afraid i'd find him. well, i am more determined than ever that i'll land this man. i wonder if he left any clues behind?" he lighted a jet of a wall fixture, for the gas had not been shut off. in the glare he saw a scrap of paper lying on the floor. he picked it up. as he glanced at it he gave a cry of astonishment. "who would have thought it!" exclaimed larry to himself. "of all the strange things! i wonder i didn't connect him with the case before! this explains why he was in front of the house." for, the paper he had picked up was part of an envelope like those which had contained the letters grace received from her father. and on the scrap was her name, but the envelope had been spoiled by a blot of ink in writing the address. it had been torn up and thrown away, to remain a mute bit of evidence. "mah retto knows mr. potter!" exclaimed larry. "retto is the man who mailed the letters for the missing millionaire. if i find him i can make him tell me where mr. potter is! now to trace my mysterious east indian friend!" chapter xxi tracing retto larry took another survey of the apartment to see if there were any more clues that might aid him. but the one that had so unexpectedly come to his hand was all he found. the place showed evidences of having been hastily vacated. "i'll see mr. jackson," he decided. "perhaps he can tell me something. he was interested in this queer man." he lost no time in going to the rooms of his friends. they were glad to see him, and asked a number of questions about his mother, sisters and brother. but larry, as soon as he could, turned the subject to retto. "he's gone," he told mr. jackson. "i supposed he had. i saw the janitor taking his things from the room this morning." "do you know where he went to?" asked the young reporter eagerly. "i want to find him." "i haven't the least idea." "i wonder if the janitor would know," larry went on. "he might. perhaps the man left his address with him, in order that letters might be forwarded. i'll go downstairs with you and introduce you to the janitor." that functionary was unable to throw any light on where retto had gone. evidently, for the time being, the chase had come to an end. larry made his way to the nearest elevated station and rode in the direction of the potter home. he had no definite plan in mind, and, more from a whim than anything else, he decided to walk past the house. he did not expect it, but he had an idea--a very faint one--that he might see grace. of course, if he saw her at the window, where she sometimes sat, it would be no more than polite to go in and tell her what the carrier had said about the second letter. when larry got in front of the potter house he was disappointed to see that it was in darkness. it was about ten o'clock, and he knew the family was in the habit of retiring early, especially since mr. potter's disappearance. as he strolled past on the other side of the street, looking in vain for a glimmer of light, or the sight of a girlish face against the window pane, he passed into the deep shadow cast by a big tree on which shone an electric arc light in front of the potter house. the blackness was quite deep, in contrast to the illumination on both sides of the tree, for electric lamps have the property of casting dense shadows. if larry had been looking straight in front of him perhaps it would not have happened, but he was staring at where grace lived, and the first thing he knew he had walked full tilt into a man who was hiding in the darkness behind the big tree. "oh--ugh!" grunted larry, for the breath was knocked from his body by the sudden impact. "what's the matter? what are you doing?" inquired the man angrily. "why don't you look where you're going?" the collision had swung him out of the shadow into the light, where he stood blinking. larry recovered his breath, and then, at the sight of the man, gave a low-voiced cry of astonishment. "mr. sullivan!" he exclaimed. "oh, it's you, is it, dexter!" remarked the politician. "are you following me? are you spying on me? if you are i'll have you arrested!" "i'm not following you or spying on you!" retorted larry. "but you seem to be hiding here. what do you want? what are you in front of mr. potter's house for?" he was determined to follow up his advantage, and to show sullivan that he was not in the least intimidated by him. clearly there was something in the wind when the district political leader was hiding behind trees watching the house of the missing millionaire. "look here!" exclaimed sullivan, and he had moved back until he was in the shadow. "you go along and mind your own business; do you hear? move along now!" "i guess i have as good a right as you have to remain on the street. and this sidewalk is just as public as any in new york, even if it is in the millionaire section. what are you hiding for? do you expect to see mr. potter come walking down the steps? if you do i'll wait, too. i'd like to see him." "you think you're very smart because you're a reporter," retorted sullivan, becoming more and more angry as he saw he could not intimidate larry. "let me tell you you're making a big mistake. i have some power in new york, and i warn you that i'll use it if you don't stop interfering with me. you've made me trouble enough. now you be off, or i'll call a policeman and have you arrested." "you can't," replied larry. "i haven't done anything except to run into you, and that was an accident, caused by you being in the shadow." "i'll show you what i can do. the police of this district know me, and they'll do anything i say." "you might have 'pull' enough to have me arrested," larry admitted, "but i wouldn't stay locked up long. a telephone message to the city editor of the _leader_, and a word from him to some one higher up than a policeman, would bring about a change. and i don't think you'd like to read the story in the paper the next day, mr. sullivan." the politician was silent. he knew larry had the best of the argument. for, though the assembly leader had some power in new york, he was only a "small fry" when it came to an important matter, such as he knew would result if larry was taken into custody. he contented himself, therefore, with growling out threats against larry in particular and all newspaper men in general. "you'll interfere with me once too often," said sullivan. "i warn you, young man. you're making a big mistake. there's more behind this matter than you have any idea of." "i know there is," replied larry quickly. "that's why i'm working so hard to clear up the mystery. i want to find out what your part is in the disappearance of mr. potter." "my part? what do you mean?" "you know well enough what i mean. you are interested in mr. potter. you want him to come back. now what for? has it anything to do with the new line? does it concern your friends, kilburn and reilly? that's what i want to know and what i'm going to find out. you're playing a deep game, mr. sullivan, but i'll beat you at it!" larry was quite surprised at his own eloquence, and the manner in which he bid defiance to the leader of the assembly district. "hush!" exclaimed the politician. "if you say another word i'll knock you down!" and he advanced toward larry as though he intended to carry the threat into execution. "keep quiet, i say!" "are you afraid of having the truth told?" asked larry speaking a little louder. it seemed that sullivan was worried lest some one might overhear the talk. the streets, however, were deserted at this time. "never you mind!" retorted sullivan. "you've said enough, so that i'll not forget it in a hurry, and jack sullivan is a bad man to have for an enemy, let me tell you." "i don't doubt that, but i'm not afraid of you. i believe you know something of mr. potter's disappearance, and i'm going to find out what it is. you are waiting here with some object in view, and i'm going to discover it." "get away from here!" ordered sullivan, hardly able to speak because of his anger. "i'm going to stay as long as i like." "move on!" exclaimed the politician. "get away or----" he emerged from the shadow and approached larry. the man's face showed how wrought up he was, and though he was not much taller or stronger than larry he had a man's energy, and would prove more than a match for the lad if it came to a fight. and it looked now as though he was going to resort to desperate measures in order to accomplish his ends. "i'm going to stay until i see what you're up to!" said larry firmly, bracing himself to meet the expected attack. sullivan doubled up his fists and drew nearer to the youth. he raised his arm, as though to strike. the two were beyond the shadow of the tree now, and in plain view. sullivan's fist shot out, but larry was watching and cleverly dodged it. the politician overreached himself, lost his balance, and, his fist meeting nothing more solid than air, he pitched forward and fell on the sidewalk. larry swung around, ready to meet his opponent when he should come back to the attack. at that instant a window, in a house across the street, opened, and a voice the young reporter knew was grace's called: "larry! larry! come here!" he started to run across the thoroughfare, but, as he did so, he saw another man emerge from behind a tree, next to the one where sullivan had been concealed. and, as the light from an arc lamp gleamed on this man's face, larry saw it was that of mah retto. the young reporter paused, undecided what to do. across the street he could see grace in the raised window, waiting for him--for what he did not know. but, even as he looked at her, he saw retto running off down the street. in an instant larry's mind was made up. he took after retto as fast as he could run. chapter xxii grace is suspicious retto headed for central park, and as larry saw him pass the entrance he realized that it was going to be as hard to follow the man as though he had disappeared in the midst of a crowd, especially since the park was not well lighted. "but i've got to follow him," thought larry. "it's my best chance. i must find out where he has moved to. i wonder what grace wanted? and i wonder what sullivan's game was? my, but the questions are coming too thick for me. i'll have to get an assistant." by this time he had entered the park. ahead of him he could hear the running feet of the man he was pursuing. the big recreation ground was almost deserted. "i don't believe he dare run very fast," reasoned larry, as he slackened his pace. "if he does a policeman will be sure to stop him and ask questions, and i guess retto will not relish that. i have a better chance than i thought at first. after all, i don't see why he is so afraid of me. all i want to do is to ask him where he gets the letters from mr. potter. he must know where the millionaire is hiding, and it looks as if mr. potter had been in retto's room at the jackson tenement, or else how would the envelope get there? that's it! i'll bet the missing millionaire has been hiding with this east indian chap! i never thought of that until now!" having walked for fully a quarter of a mile retto came to a sudden stop, and so did larry, hiding in the shadow of a tree. retto listened intently, and, of course, heard no pursuing footsteps. this apparently satisfied him, for he proceeded more slowly. "he thinks i've given up the chase," thought larry. "i'll let him. maybe he'll go home all the quicker, and, after i learn where he is stopping, i can go back and see what grace wanted." larry's surmise proved correct, and his wish soon came to pass. the man, evidently believing that he was safe, emerged from the park to the street, for the whole pursuit had gone on not far from the thoroughfare, and just within the boundary of the city's breathing spot. larry, keeping in the shadows, watched him. he saw retto give one more cautious look around and then, crossing the highway, enter a hotel nearby. it was a fashionable one, and larry wondered how the man, who had, hitherto, only lived in tenements, could afford to engage rooms in such a place as this. "maybe he's only doing it to throw me off the track," the reporter reasoned. "i'll just wait a while and see if he comes out." he waited nearly an hour, hiding in the shadows of the park and keeping close watch on the entrance to the hotel. he did not see retto emerge, and then he decided on a new plan. "i'll inquire if he is stopping there," he said to himself. "if he is i'll wait until to-morrow before acting. i'll let him think everything's all right. it's the best way." sauntering into the hotel lobby he found no one but the night clerk on duty, though there were a few sleepy bell-boys sprawled on a bench. as soon as the clerk saw larry approaching the desk he swung the registry book around, and, dipping a pen in the ink, extended it to the reporter. "i didn't come to stay," said larry, with a smile. "i want to inquire if there is a mr. mah retto stopping here?" "there is," replied the clerk. "would you like to see him? he just came in a little while ago." "no; not to-night," larry replied, his heart beating high with hope. he had run down his man. "i wasn't sure of his address, and i thought i'd inquire. i'll call and see him to-morrow." the clerk, having lost all interest as soon as he found larry was not to be a guest of the hotel, did not reply. the bell-boys, seeing their visions of a tip disappearing, resumed their dozes, and larry walked out. he was impressed by the clerk's manner. clearly retto was a man of means and not as poor as larry had supposed. "so far so good," he murmured. "now to go back and see what grace wanted--that is if it isn't too late." it was nearly eleven o'clock, but larry had an idea that grace would still be up. it was rather an unusual hour to make a call, still all the circumstances in this case were unusual, and larry did not think grace would mind. he saw a light in the potter house as he approached it. thinking perhaps sullivan might be in the vicinity larry walked up and down on the other side of the street, peering in the shadow of the tree where he had had his encounter with the politician, but sullivan had evidently gone away. "why didn't you come when i called you?" asked grace, as she admitted larry to the library. "i wanted to," the young reporter replied, "but i had to take after a person who i believe knows where your father is, and i couldn't stop without losing sight of him. i have some news for you." "and i have some for you," exclaimed grace, "let me tell mine first." "all right," agreed larry, with a smile. "go ahead." "well, i was sitting in the window to-night, looking out on the street, and feeling particularly sad and lonely on account of father, when i saw a man sneaking along on the other side. i saw him hide behind a tree, and i resolved to keep watch. there have been some burglaries in this neighborhood recently, and i wasn't sure whether he was a thief or a detective sent here to watch for suspicious characters. well, as i sat there watching i saw you come along and talk to the man behind the tree." "how long had he been there when i came along?" "oh, for some time, but don't interrupt, please. you can ask questions afterward. when i saw you talking to the man i knew it must be all right, and i was beginning to think he was a detective. "then i noticed another man sneaking along. he, too, hid behind a tree, next to the first man. i thought this was queer until i remembered you told me that detectives usually hunt in couples, and i thought he was another officer from headquarters. i thought so until mother, who, it seems had been looking out of her window in the front room upstairs, called to me. "she asked me if i had seen the two men come along, and, when i said i had, she wanted to know if i didn't think there was something queer about the second man. i said i didn't notice particularly, but just then the man stepped out into the light, and i had a good look at him." "was there anything suspicious about him?" "there certainly was!" exclaimed grace, earnestly. "as soon as i saw him i thought sure it was my father. he had his back toward me, and he looked exactly like papa. mother saw it, too, and she cried out. just then the man turned and i saw he was smooth-shaven, and his face didn't look a bit like my father's. "then i saw you and that other man--mr. sullivan, i then knew him to be--step into the light. i saw he was going to hit you, and i raised the window and called. i wanted to ask you to see who the second man was--the one who looked so much like my father. i called, but you didn't seem to hear." "i heard you," replied larry, "but i couldn't stop. i wanted to take after the man--the same man you were suspicious of. i traced him through the park." "did you find him? who is he? where is he? is he--is he? oh, larry, don't keep me in suspense----" "i'm sorry to have to tell you he isn't your father," larry replied, gently, as he saw the girl's distress. "but i think he knows where your father is. he goes by the name of mah retto, and i helped save him from the wreck of a vessel on the jersey coast. see, i found this in his room, a little while before he disappeared," and he held out to grace the torn envelope with her name on it. "my father's writing!" she exclaimed. larry heard some one descending the stairs and coming toward the library. chapter xxiii captain tantrella arrives "grace! what is the matter?" exclaimed a woman's voice, and looking up larry saw mrs. potter. "nothing, mother," replied the girl. "this is mr. larry dexter. he just brought me some news. oh, mother, that wasn't papa we saw out in the street!" "i knew it, dear, as soon as i saw his face." larry felt rather uncomfortable, for mrs. potter and grace showed signs of emotion. "i was telling your daughter," he said to mrs. potter, "that i think i have located the man who knows where your husband is." "oh, i hope you have," exclaimed mrs. potter. "this suspense is awful. who is he? where is he?" larry related the circumstances of his chase after retto, telling how he had located the man at the hotel. "i'll go and see him to-morrow," he said, "before he has a chance to get away. he does not suspect that i know where he is." "why not go now?" asked mrs. potter. "i'm afraid he would see no one to-night. it is very late, and he would suspect something if any one sent up word they wanted to see him. he would at once connect it with the chase i had after him. but i think i fooled him. i am sure he can clear up this matter in a short time, once i get into conversation with him." "i'll go with you," said grace, with sudden energy. "i will make him tell where my father is." larry thought he could best deal with retto alone, but he did not want to tell grace so. however, her mother got him out of what might have been an embarrassing position. "i'd rather you wouldn't go, grace," she said. "there is no telling what sort of a person this retto is. his name sounds foreign." they talked for some time about the curious circumstances connected with the disappearance of the millionaire, and when a clock struck the hour of one, larry arose with a start. "i had no idea it was so late!" he exclaimed. "i must hurry home, or mother will be worried. i will call to-morrow and let you know what success i have." "do, please," said mrs. potter. "and come early," added grace, as she accompanied larry to the door. "don't let that horrid man stab you with an east indian poisoned dagger," she went on with a little laugh, as she got out of hearing of her mother. larry promised, and then hurried off down the street to the nearest elevated railway station. he was up early the next morning, and wrote out the story of the day's events, including the encounter with sullivan, and the chase after retto. he touched as lightly as possible on his own and grace's parts in the affair, but there was enough to make interesting reading, and he knew no other paper would have it. "this is good stuff, larry," complimented mr. emberg, when the reporter had turned his story in at the desk. "what next?" "i'm going to see retto," was the answer. "i'll make him tell where mr. potter is." "you were right about your east indian friend," admitted the city editor. "i had no idea there was a story like this connected with him; least of all that it concerned the missing millionaire. keep right after him. let us hear from you in time for the first edition. whatever you learn from retto will make the leading part of to-day's account." "i'll telephone in," said larry, as he hurried from the city room. larry anticipated meeting with some difficulty in getting retto to talk. he knew the man must have a strong motive for aiding mr. potter. probably the millionaire was paying him well to serve him, to mail letters occasionally, and keep him informed as to how the search for him was progressing. "there are lots of ends to this that i don't understand," said larry to himself as he was on his way to the hotel where the mysterious man was stopping. "this mystery seemed to start with the wrecking of the _olivia_, yet i don't see how i can connect mr. potter with that. he must have met retto in new york after the rescued men came here. maybe i'm wrong in thinking mr. potter is in new york now. he may be some distance off, and depending on retto to look after his interests. if that's so it would explain why the east indian was hanging around the house. he wanted to see that grace and her mother were well, so he could report to the millionaire. "yet if that was so, i can't see how mr. potter could write in the letter, as he did, that i was getting too close to him? yes, there's something very strange in all this, but maybe it will soon be cleared up." thus larry hoped, but he was doomed to disappointment. for, when he inquired at the hotel desk for mr. retto, and said he would like to see him, the clerk replied: "mr. retto left early this morning. he gave up his room. i don't know where he went." "i've got it all to do over again," the young reporter thought as he strolled out into the street. "i'll never have such luck again. if he watches the house after this he'll do it in a way that won't give me a chance to catch him. well, i've got to go back and tell grace i made a fizzle of it. too bad, when they're hoping so much on the result of this visit!" larry purchased a morning paper from a newsboy on the street, and glanced at it idly, as he strolled along. his eye lighted on the column devoted to shipping news, and, almost unconsciously, he saw among the "arrivals," the _turtle_, of an italian line. at once a train of thought was started in his mind. "the _turtle_," he mused. "that's the freight ship that captain tantrella, formerly of the _olivia_, commands. that's the captain retto was inquiring about the day grace and i made the tour of the steamer offices. he wanted to meet him. well, captain tantrella is in now. i wonder if retto could have left the hotel to go and see him?" larry puzzled over it for a few minutes. several ideas came to him, but they were confused, and he did not know which line to follow. "why should retto want to see captain tantrella?" he asked himself. "is it possible that retto is a criminal and had to escape from the sinking ship? it looks so. but if he has done something that would necessitate him keeping out of the way, how can he aid mr. potter? it's too deep for me. but i know what i'll do. i'll go and see captain tantrella. he'll remember me, for i interviewed him about the wreck. "i'll ask him who retto is. he'll know him, for he was probably one of the first-cabin passengers. that's what i'll do. i think i'm on the right track now." chapter xxiv retto is caught larry's slow walk was suddenly changed to a quick one as a plan of action was unfolded in his mind. he hurried to the elevated station and was soon on his way downtown to the office of the steamship line to which the _turtle_ belonged. "guess i'd better stop and telephone to mr. emberg about retto skipping out again," thought the young reporter. "he can add it to the story. then i can tell him of my present plan." the city editor was soon informed of what larry intended to do, and said he thought it was a good idea. "but keep in touch with us, larry," cautioned mr. emberg. "we want all the news we can get on this thing. there's a rumor that the _scorcher_ is going to spring something to-day on the potter story." "probably something sullivan has given out to offset the story he knows i'll have about him," commented larry. "but i'll be on the lookout and let you know what happens." larry was soon at the steamship office, and inquired whether the _turtle_ had docked yet. "she is making fast now," replied the clerk. "may i go aboard her?" the clerk hesitated. then larry announced who he was, and said he wanted to have a talk with captain tantrella. "oh, you're the reporter who wrote up the wreck of the _olivia_," the clerk replied, with a smile. "i've heard about you. yes, i guess you can go aboard. i'll write you out a pass." with the necessary paper as a passport, larry walked down the long, covered dock, alongside of which the freight steamer was being warped into place. there was no bustling crowd of passengers, eager to get ashore to welcome and be welcomed by even more eager relatives and friends. but there was a small army of men ready to swarm aboard the _turtle_ and hurry the freight out of her holds, in order that more might be placed in to be sent abroad. there was a confusion of wagons and trucks, and the puffing of donkey engines, seemingly anxious to begin lifting big boxes and bales from the dark interior of the ship. larry was among the first to go up the gang plank when it was run ashore. a ship's officer stopped him, but allowed him to proceed when he saw the pass. larry found captain tantrella in his cabin, arranging his papers, for there is considerable formality about a ship that comes from one country to another, and much red tape is used. "ah, it is my newspaper friend!" exclaimed the commander when he saw larry. "have you interviewed any more captains who have been wrecked?" though he spoke with an air of gayety larry could see the captain was sad at heart, for, though it was not his fault that the _olivia_ had gone ashore, captain tantrella had been more or less blamed, and had been reduced in rank. passengers do not, as a rule, care to sail in a ship under the command of one whose vessel has been lost. so poor captain tantrella was now only in charge of a freighter, and he felt his disgrace keenly. "do you remember a passenger named mah retto, who sailed with you on the _olivia_?" the reporter asked. "i remember him; yes. a queer sort of man. he said but little on the whole voyage. but was he not lost? i remember we could not find him when we had all been landed from the wreck." "he came ashore first of all," replied larry. "a fisherman and i helped save him from a life-raft," and he told the circumstances. "queer," murmured the captain. "i have often thought of that man. he seemed to have some mystery about him." larry gave a brief account of the case he was working on. "what i want to discover," he added, "is whether you know of any reason why retto should be anxious to see you?" "to see me?" "yes. he was at the steamship office a few days ago inquiring when your ship would come in, and when he saw me he hurried away. since then i have not been able to catch him." "ah! i know!" exclaimed the captain suddenly. "i just thought of it. i have a package belonging to him." "a package?" "yes. he came to me when we were a few days out and said he wanted me to keep a package for him until we got to new york. i took it and put it with my papers." "then i suppose it was lost with the _olivia_?" "no; i brought it ashore with me when i saved my documents and a few valuables from the wreck. i have it at my hotel. that is why he is anxious to see me. he wants to get his package back. i am glad i have it." "do you know anything about the man?" asked larry. "hardly anything. i met him for the first time when he was a passenger on my ship. but now, if you have no objections, we will go ashore. i must file my reports. after that i will be glad to see you at my hotel, and answer any questions you care to ask." "well, i guess you've told me all you can," said larry, feeling a little disappointed at the result of his interview. "i'm much obliged to you." "if you want to get into communication with this man, i have a plan," suggested the captain. "what?" asked larry, eagerly. "he will probably call at my hotel to claim his package. when he comes you could be on hand." "but there is no telling when he will come." "that is so, but you could take a room at the hotel and be there as much as possible. i think he will come as soon as he learns that my ship is in." "that's a good idea. i'll do it!" exclaimed larry. "then let's hurry ashore, and you can make your arrangements while i finish up the details of the indents, bills of lading, custom lists and so on," captain tantrella said. the two walked down the gang plank on to the covered dock. the tangle of wagons, horses and men was worse than ever. part of the cargo was being taken out and carted away. "watch out for yourself that a horse doesn't step on you," cautioned the captain. it was a needful warning, for the animals, drawing big, heavy trucks, seemed to be every-where. as the two proceeded to thread their way through the maze there came a hail from somewhere in the rear and a voice called: "captain tantrella!" the commander turned, and so did larry. the young reporter saw a man hurrying along the dock toward where the commander of the _turtle_ stood. evidently he had not seen the captain come to a halt, for he called again: "wait a minute, captain tantrella!" then a curious thing happened. the man caught sight of larry, standing beside the ship commander. he halted and turned to run. as he did so a truck drove up behind him and blocked his retreat. "it's mah retto!" exclaimed larry, as he caught sight of the man's face. an instant later there came a warning shout from the driver of the truck. he reined his horses back sharply, but not in time. retto had stepped directly under their heads. the off animal reared. the man stumbled and fell beneath its hoofs. then, with a cry of terror, which was echoed by a score of men who saw the accident, retto appeared to crumple up in a heap. the forefeet of the big steed seemed to crush him before the driver could back the animal off. then came silence, retto lying without moving on the planking of the dock. "caught at last," murmured larry, as he rushed forward. chapter xxv in the hospital instantly the confusion that had reigned on the dock became worse. men ran to and fro shouting, no one seeming to know what to do. "we must help him!" cried captain tantrella, shoving his papers into his pocket. "come!" he and larry fought their way to the man's side. a crowd surrounded him, but no one offered to do anything. the truck driver had dismounted from his high seat and was quieting his frightened horses. "it wasn't my fault," he cried. "he ran right under their feet." "one side!" exclaimed a loud voice, and a burly policeman shouldered his way through. "what's the matter? give the man some air." retto did not look as though he would ever need air again. he seemed quite dead. "let me get at him!" called captain tantrella. "i know something of medicine." "shall i call an ambulance?" asked larry of the police officer. "i know how to do it." the bluecoat nodded, glad to have help in the emergency. then he proceeded to keep the crowd back while the captain knelt down beside the unfortunate man. "bad cut on the head," the commander of the _turtle_ murmured. "fractured, i'm afraid. leg broken, too. it's a wonder he wasn't killed." the captain accepted several coats which were hastily offered, and made a pillow for the man's head. he arranged the broken leg so that the bones would be in a better position for setting, and then, with a sponge and a basin of water which were brought, proceeded to wipe away the blood from the cut on retto's skull. the crowd increased and pressed closer, but by this time more policemen had arrived, and they kept the throng back from the sufferer, so that he might have air. it seemed a long time before the ambulance, which larry summoned, made its arrival, but it was only a few minutes ere it clanged up to the pier, the crowd parting to let it pass. in an instant the white-suited surgeon had leaped out of the back of the vehicle before it had stopped, and was kneeling beside retto. with deft fingers he felt of the wound on the man's head. "possible fracture," he said in a low voice. "double one of the leg, i'm afraid," as he glanced at that member. "lend a hand, boys, and we'll get him on the stretcher." there were willing enough helpers, and retto was soon in the ambulance and on the way to the hospital, the doctor clinging to the back of the swaying vehicle as it dashed through the streets, with the right of way over everything on wheels. "here's news in bunches," thought larry, as he saw the ambulance disappearing around a corner. "i must telephone this in, and i guess it will be a beat. to think that after all that i have retto where i want him. i'm sorry, of course, that he's hurt, but i guess he can't get out of the hospital very soon. i'll have a chance to question him. then i'll make him tell me where mr. potter is, and that will end my special assignment. i'll not be sorry, either. it's been a hard one, though i'm glad i got it, for the experience is fine." thus musing larry looked for a telephone station and soon the story of retto's accident was being sent over the wire to the city editor. "this will make a fine lead for our potter story," said larry, as he finished telling of the accident. "i've got another plan," said mr. emberg. "what is it?" "do you think anyone else knows who retto is? i mean anyone on the pier who saw him hurt?" "i think not. captain tantrella might, but other reporters are not likely to connect him with the case." "then this is what i'm going to do. i'll use the story of the accident separate from the potter story. we'll say an unidentified man was run down on the pier. if he has a fractured skull he'll not be able to tell who he is, and he has probably taken good care that there are no papers in his clothes by which his name can be learned. "if we state that the injured man is the mysterious retto, who is mixed up in the potter case, we'll have every reporter in new york camping out at that hospital waiting for a chance to get the information from him. if we keep quiet we may be able to get it ourselves without any of the others knowing it. we'll try that way, larry. it's a risk, but you've got to take risks in this business." the young reporter admired the generalship of his city editor, who could thus plan a magnificent beat. larry saw the feasibility of the plan. if he kept his information to himself no one would know but what the injured man was a stranger in new york, and that he was connected with the potter case would be farthest from the thoughts of any reporters who were working on the missing millionaire story. "you must camp on his trail, larry," mr. emberg went on. "as soon as you hear from the hospital people that he is in shape to talk, get in to see him. you can truthfully claim to be a friend and acquaintance, for you once helped to save his life. if you get a chance to talk to him, ask where potter is, and let us know at once. we'll get out an extra, if need be. now hurry over to the hospital and let us hear from you as soon as possible. get a good story and a beat." "i only hope i can," murmured larry, as he left the telephone booth and started for the hospital to which retto had been taken. he had a slight acquaintance with the superintendent of the institution, and when he explained his errand the official agreed to let larry in to see the man as soon as the nurses and surgeons had finished dressing his injuries. "how is he?" asked larry. the superintendent called over a private telephone connected with the ward where retto had been taken: "how is the patient just brought in from the pier? comfortable, eh? that's good." then he turned to larry: "i guess you can go up soon," he added. "can you give us his name, and some particulars? he was unconscious when he came in," and the superintendent prepared to jot down the information on his record book. this was a complication larry had not foreseen. if he gave the superintendent the fugitive's name, any other reporters who came to the hospital to inquire about the injured man would at once connect retto with the potter mystery, and the _leader's_ chance for a beat would be small indeed. what was he to do? he decided to take the superintendent partly into his confidence. "i know the name he goes by," he said, as the beginning of his account, "but i do not believe it is his right one. i think it is an alias he uses." "never mind then," the superintendent interrupted, much to larry's relief. "if it's a false name we don't want it." "i believe it is," larry added, and he was honest in that statement, for he felt that retto was playing some deep game, and, in that case, would not be likely to use his right name. "we don't want our records wrong," the head of the hospital resumed. "we'll wait until he can tell us about himself." the telephone bell rang at that juncture, and the superintendent answering it told larry the patient was now in bed and could be seen. "don't get him excited," cautioned the official. "i want to get some information from him about himself when you are through." it is sometimes the custom in new york, in accident cases, to allow reporters to interview the victims, when their physical condition admits of it. so it was no new thing for larry to go into the hospital ward to speak to retto. he passed through rows of white cots, on which reclined men in all stages of disease and accident. there was a sickish smell of iodoform in the atmosphere, and the sight of the pale faces on either side made larry sad at heart. "there's your patient," said a nurse who was with him, as she led larry to the bed where retto reclined under the white coverings that matched the hue of his face. "now don't excite him. you newspaper men don't care what you do as long as you get a story, and sometimes all the work we nurses do goes for nothing." "i'll be careful," promised larry. the nurse, who had other duties to keep her busy, left larry at the bedside of the mysterious man. he was lying with his eyes shut as larry approached. "mr. retto," called the reporter. there was no response. "mr. retto," spoke larry, a little louder. at that the man opened his eyes. "were you calling me?" he asked. then he caught sight of larry, and a smile came on his face. "well, you've found me, i see," was his greeting. "only for that team i'd been far away." "i suppose so. but now you're here, for which i'm sorry; i hope you will answer me a few questions." "what are they?" asked the man, and a spasm of pain replaced his smile. "i believe you know the secret of mr. potter's disappearance," said larry, speaking in a low tone so none of the other patients would hear him. "i want you to tell me where he is." at the mention of mr. potter's name retto raised himself in bed. his face that had been pale became flushed. "he--he--is----" then he stopped. he seemed unable to speak. "yes--yes!" exclaimed larry, eagerly. "where is he?" "he--is----" then retto fell back on the bed. "he has fainted!" cried the nurse, running to the cot. "the strain has been too much for him," and she pressed an electric button which summoned the doctor. chapter xxvi a new clue larry moved to one side. the unexpected outcome of his interview had startled him. he did not quite know what to do. the doctor came up on the run and made a hasty examination of the patient. then he sent for another surgeon. larry heard them talking. "what is it?" he asked of his friend the nurse. "his skull is fractured," she said in a low voice. "they did not think so at first, but now the symptoms show it. they are going to operate at once. it is the only chance of saving his life." "there goes my story," thought larry, regretfully. it was not that he was hard-hearted or indifferent to retto's sufferings. simply that his newspaper instinct got ahead of everything else, as it does in all true reporters, who, if they have a "nose for news," will make "copy" out of even their closest friend, though they may dislike the operation very much. "you had better go," the nurse advised larry. "you will not be able to see him again for some time--no one will be allowed to talk to him until he is on the road to recovery--if we can save him. he has a bad fracture." much disappointed, larry left the hospital. it was hard to be almost on the verge of getting the story and then to see his chance slip away. "i'm sure he was just going to tell me where mr. potter is," thought the reporter. "now it means a long wait, if i ever find out at all from him." he told mr. emberg what had happened. the city editor decided to follow out his first plan, of not connecting the accident at the pier with the potter mystery. "if he has to be operated on for a fractured skull," mr. emberg remarked to larry over the wire, "he will be in no condition to tell his name, or give any information for some time. the story is safe with him. now you'd better get busy on some other line of the case. the _scorcher_ is out, but they only have a scare yarn, without any foundation, to the effect that mr. potter is still in italy, and that his family knows where he is." "that's all bosh!" exclaimed larry. "that's what i think," the city editor said. "now get on the job, larry, and arrange to give us a good story for to-morrow. keep watch of retto, and as soon as the doctors will let you see him try again, though of course it may not be for several days." larry was all at sea. he hung up the telephone receiver with a vague feeling that being a reporter on a special assignment was not all it was cracked up to be. "easy enough to say get a good story for to-morrow," he remarked to himself, "but i'd like to know how i'm going to do it? the story--the only story there is--is safe with retto, and he can't tell it." "what shall i do?" larry asked himself. "let me think. i guess i'd better go see captain tantrella and ask him to keep mum about retto until i have another chance at the man. then i'll--i'll go and tell grace. she'll want to know all about it." he found captain tantrella at his hotel, having finished all the details connected with the docking of the _turtle_. the commander readily agreed to keep quiet concerning retto's identity, since the captain had no desire for further newspaper notoriety. "i will do more than this," he declared. "i will give you the package belonging to that queer man. i have to sail again soon, on a long voyage, and he might need it before i come back. you can give it to him if he recovers. if he does not--well, the authorities can open it. it may contain money or something that will tell about the poor fellow. i leave it with you." larry was glad to get possession of the package that seemed of such importance to retto. he wished he could open it, as he thought he might get a clue to the connection between the millionaire and the mysterious man, but he knew he would have no right to do that. also it would give him a sort of claim on retto, and, by returning the package, he could have a good excuse for going to see him. "now to tell grace," remarked larry, as he left captain tantrella. "i'm sure she'll be anxious to hear the news." the millionaire's daughter was indeed glad to see larry. she had read the first edition of the _leader_, and wanted to know if there was anything further to tell. "i hoped to be able to give you some definite news," replied larry, in answer to her questions. then he related the scene in the hospital. "poor man!" exclaimed grace. "i wish i could go and see him." "i'm afraid they wouldn't let you," said the reporter. "i called up the place just before i came here and they said the man was still under the influence of ether, though the operation was over." "was it a success?" "they think so, but it will be some time before he will be able to talk to anyone about your father. we shall have to be patient." "it is so hard," complained grace, and larry agreed with her. he did not yet see how he was going to get a story for the next day's paper--that is, a story which would have some fresh features in it. "i don't suppose you have anything new to tell me?" he asked of grace. "not much. i have had another letter from my father. it came a little while ago." "is it the same as the others?" "the contents are, but the envelope is different. he says he will soon be home, and tells us not to worry." she gave the missive to larry. he looked at the post-mark, and saw that it had come from a downtown sub-station. "this was mailed near the steamer pier!" he exclaimed. "close to where retto was hurt. he must have posted it just previous to the accident. i wish i had known this before." it was too late now, and larry gazed regretfully at the envelope. clearly, retto had not been far from mr. potter at the time of the accident. perhaps the missing millionaire was hiding downtown in new york. "i must make some inquiries in that neighborhood," thought larry, as he arose to go. "another thing," grace said. "that man sullivan was in front of the house again this morning." "i must see him!" exclaimed larry. "i'll make him tell what his object is. this thing has got to end!" he was fiercely determined that he would force some information from the politician. evidently sullivan had a game on hand which the reporter had not yet succeeded in fathoming. "i'll hunt him up at once!" he added, as he bade grace good-bye. "be careful," she cautioned. "he is a dangerous man." "i will," larry promised. but he could not find sullivan. for once that wily politician denied himself to reporters, and kept out of their way. he was sought by a number of newspaper men, for the matter of a candidate for the eighth assembly district was again to the fore, and the henchmen of kilburn and reilly were making rival claims as to sullivan's support. "where is sullivan?" was the cry that went up, and in the next two days that became almost as much of a mystery as the disappearance of mr. potter. "get busy, larry," advised mr. emberg, and larry did his best to follow the advice. three weeks passed, and sullivan was not found. his family professed not to know where he was, and the best newspaper men in new york could not find him. larry was working on the case with all the energy he had thrown into the potter disappearance. meanwhile the young reporter kept a close watch on the hospital where retto was. the operation had been a success, but the patient was in a fever, during which he was out of his mind. he could not recognize anyone, much less talk intelligibly. larry made several calls at the institution, but it was of no use. "you can't see him," said the nurse, when he had paid his usual visit one day, "but he is much better. i think by the day after to-morrow you can talk to him. his fever is going down and he has spells when he talks rationally. there was another man in to see him to-day." "i thought you said no one could visit him." "well, we made an exception in this case. the man was a private detective, searching for a missing man, and he wanted to see all the patients. he looked at your friend last, and went off, seemingly quite excited." "what missing man was he looking for?" asked larry. "a mr. potter. seems to me i've read something about him in the papers. he's very rich." "mr. potter!" exclaimed larry. "the detective must be from the private agency," he added to himself. then aloud: "did he recognize mr. ret--er i mean the man with the fractured skull?" and he waited anxiously for the nurse's answer. "he seemed to, but i was called away just then." "i know how mr. potter looks," larry went on. "he has a moustache, and the man here is smooth-shaven." "no, the patient has a moustache and a beard now," the nurse replied with a smile. "they grew since he has been in the hospital." a sudden idea came to larry. an idea so strange that it startled him. he dared not speak of it. he believed the detective held the same theory. "i'll call again," he said, thanking the nurse for the information she had given him. "i must see grace at once," he murmured, as he left the hospital. "strange i never thought of that. a beard and a moustache! the private detective! i wonder if he recognized retto? i must hurry. oh, if this should prove true!" he hurried to an elevated station and was soon on his way to grace's house. chapter xxvii the detective's theory bounding up the steps three at a time larry rang the bell of the potter residence. he thought the door would never be opened, and, when the stately butler did swing back the portal the young reporter, not waiting to ask for anyone, stepped into the hall. "no one at home," the servant remarked with a smile, for he had gotten to be on quite friendly terms with larry. "no one home?" "no. mrs. potter and miss grace have gone to lakewood, n.j., for a few days. mrs. potter was quite ill, and the doctor advised a change of air, so she suddenly decided to go." "when are they coming back?" "i can't rightly say. in a few days, i expect. i was told to tell you that if anything important occurred you could write to them. here is the address," and the butler gave larry a slip of paper. "i wonder whether i ought to telegraph?" thought larry to himself. "i think this is very important, yet i am not sure enough of it myself. i can't see retto until the day after to-morrow. i had better wait until then. if my suspicions are confirmed i will send a message, in case they are not back by that time." larry was about to leave the house when he saw a man coming up the front steps. he recognized him as a member of the private detective agency which he and grace had visited. "is mrs. potter home?" asked the man of the butler, who was standing in the opened front door, while larry remained in the shadow of the hall. "no, she has gone to lakewood." "lakewood! that's too bad!" exclaimed the man. "is it anything important?" inquired the butler. "i think i have located mr. potter," was the answer. "i am a private detective, hired by miss grace potter. i came to see if she or her mother would accompany me to try to identify a man i believe is the missing millionaire." "where is he?" asked the butler. "in a hospital, quite badly hurt." "mr. potter in a hospital! badly hurt!" cried the servant in alarm. "what shall i do? can't they bring him home?" "we must be sure it is him," the detective went on. "the description answers pretty well, but it would take a member of the family to make sure. so there's no one home, eh? well, that's too bad. i wanted to test my theory that the hospital patient is the missing millionaire." "you can telegraph to them," suggested the butler. "i have the address." "that's what i'll do," the detective replied. "i'll tell them what i have discovered. they can get here to-morrow and we'll see if he's the right man." the officer took the address the servant gave him and hurried away. "did you hear that?" cried the butler to larry. "mr. potter is found!" "i hope it proves true," the reporter replied. "that is just what i came about, but when i found mrs. potter gone i didn't know what to do. i had rather the detective would take the responsibility of telegraphing. perhaps the man in the hospital is not mr. potter?" "do you know him?" asked the butler. "i have met him several times," replied larry, "but i did not know he was mr. potter. it just dawned on me that he might be." "well, well, how strange it all is," murmured the butler. "who would have thought it? well, we can't do anything until to-morrow." "no, i guess not," answered larry, as he went down the steps. his mind was in a tumult. more and more he was coming to believe that the mysterious man in the hospital was the missing millionaire. "that's what he meant when he said i was following him too close," mused larry. "and i never suspected it! how glad grace will be! what a story i shall have! i wish i had discovered him myself, without any help from the detective agency, but it will make good reading, anyhow. i must arrange it so we can get a scoop out of it." his first act was to go to the office of the paper and tell mr. emberg what had occurred. the city editor was much excited by the news. "that will make a great yarn!" he exclaimed. "i hope your friend grace soon comes back with her mother and makes the identification complete. we must do nothing to hasten matters or some other paper will get on to the game and spoil our story." "even the hospital people don't suspect yet," said larry. "they don't know who their patient is--not even his assumed name." "i guess things are coming our way. we'll clear up the potter mystery and the sullivan disappearance at the same time. i believe sullivan is in with mr. potter on some deal. it begins to look suspicious. the friends of reilly and kilburn are all at sea. they'd give a thousand dollars to know which way sullivan was going to jump." larry paid an early visit to the hospital the next day to see how matters were progressing. his friend, the nurse, greeted him with a smile. "i guess you can have an interview with your mysterious acquaintance now," she said. "he is much better than we expected, and, for the first time since the operation, talks rationally. we have not questioned him yet. we are not as curious as you newspaper men are." "well, we have to be," responded larry. "can i go up now? has the man who was here yesterday been back?" "yes to your first question, and no to the second. you can go up. the superintendent left word to that effect. he is quite friendly to you." larry started for the ward where retto was. his heart was beating strangely. he felt that he was on the verge of solving the secret of the millionaire's disappearance and restoring to grace her father. as he approached the bed where retto reclined he was motioned back by another nurse on duty there. "he has just fallen asleep," she said. "when he awakens again you may speak to him. he has been writing a letter." larry was disappointed. he looked at the man who had played such an important part in the disappearance of the millionaire, and who, he believed, was destined to assume a much more important rôle. the patient's beard and moustache had grown since the accident, and the smooth-shaven man was no more. instead, larry saw before him a person who, as he recalled the photographs of mr. potter, bore a remarkable resemblance to the millionaire. of course, mr. potter had only a moustache and no beard, but aside from that larry was positive that, lying on the bed in front of him, was grace's father. chapter xxviii a terrible mistake how larry wished the patient would awaken so he could question him! but the invalid showed no signs of it, and was in a deep slumber. "that will do him more good than medicine," said the nurse. "he will probably sleep for several hours." "several hours," repeated larry in dismay. "yes, they often do." "then there is no use in me waiting," he said. "i'll come back again. when i do i may bring his daughter with me." "i hope you do," the nurse replied. "i have felt so sorry for the poor man. he seemed to have no friends ever since he has been here. who is he?" "i don't want to say for sure, until i get his daughter to identify him," larry said, for he did not want the story to get out before the _leader_ had a chance to print it. he decided he would go to the potter house and see if grace had returned yet in response to the telegram sent by the detective. he felt sure she would start immediately on receipt of the message. in this he was correct, for when he got to the millionaire's home grace herself answered his ring. "oh, larry! tell me quick!" she exclaimed. "where is he? is he badly hurt? what is the matter? do you think it is really he?" "i hope so," larry said. "where is your mother?" "she stayed in lakewood. i didn't tell her anything about it, for fear it would prove a disappointment. the telegram from the detective came to me and i made up my mind to come home alone and clear matters up before i told mother. she needs a rest, as she is very nervous. "but now i am here, you must take me to the hospital at once. the telegram said he was in a hospital. how did it happen? is he badly hurt?" "i think he is almost well." "but how did they discover him? who did it? how did it come about?" "it will take some time to answer all the questions," replied larry with a smile. "i'll tell you all i can on the way to the hospital. my mysterious friend, mah retto, it seems, has turned out to be your father." "then he was the one i saw in front of the house that night, and i thought it was father," said grace. "his smooth-shaven face deceived me, but i was sure i could not mistake his figure." "there have been a good many surprises in this case," larry admitted. "i've often been fooled myself." "let's hurry to the hospital," suggested grace. "i'd rather go with you than with that detective. he is to be here at eleven o'clock, and it's only ten now. let's hurry away." larry agreed, and they left the house. grace explained that she had caught the first express out of lakewood that morning and had been home only half an hour when larry called. they were so busy talking over all the details of the queer case that they arrived at the hospital much quicker than they anticipated. "here we are," said larry, as he led the way up the broad stone steps of the institution. "i'm almost afraid to go in," remarked grace, her voice showing a nervous dread. "it seems so strange. i'm quite frightened, larry." "don't think of anything but that you're going to see your father," the reporter replied, reassuringly. "he'll be so glad to see you. i believe he would have been home long before this if it had not been for the accident." larry entered the office of the institution. no sooner had he stepped inside than he was made aware that something unusual had occurred. nurses and doctors, with anxious looks, were hastening here and there. orderlies and messengers were hurrying to and fro, and there was a continuous ringing of signal and telephone bells. "must have been an accident and a lot of patients bought in," said larry, for he had seen such activity in hospitals before when a number of injured persons required treatment at once. "oh, how terrible!" exclaimed grace. "do you suppose many are killed?" "i hope not. but it looks as if something very unusual had happened." just then larry saw the nurse who had been at the bedside of the patient whom he and grace had come to see. "i've brought his daughter," he said to the uniformed attendant. "may we go up now?" the nurse seemed confused. "i don't know--i'll see!" she remarked. "here is the superintendent. perhaps you had better speak to him," and she whispered something to the official. "there's something wrong about mr. potter!" was larry's first thought. "i wonder if he could have suddenly died?" even grace, unaccustomed as she was to hospital scenes, was aware that all was not as it should be. "oh, larry!" she exclaimed. "what is the matter? have they taken him away?" "i don't know," the reporter answered in a low tone. "i'll soon find out." the superintendent approached them. "you wanted to see that patient who was brought in from the steamship pier?" he inquired. "we've never been able to obtain his name." "i can tell you what it is," answered larry. "we have every reason to believe he is hamden potter, the missing millionaire, and this young lady's father. may we see him?" "hamden potter!" exclaimed the superintendent. "that's who he is," declared larry. "he went by the name mah retto while he was away. may we go up now?" "i am sorry," said the superintendent slowly, "but that patient escaped from the ward about half an hour ago, and we have not been able to trace him!" "escaped!" cried larry. "my father gone again!" gasped grace. "too bad, but that's what has happened," the superintendent repeated. "the nurse left him sleeping quietly, and went downstairs to get some medicine. when she came back he was gone." "but how could he go out without any clothing?" asked larry. "he got some clothing," the head of the institution replied. "in the bed next to him was a patient who was to be discharged as cured to-day. that man's clothes were brought to him and laid out on a chair beside the bed. while he was in the bathroom mr. potter, as you call him, got possession of the clothes, put them on, and walked out. several patients saw him go, but said nothing, as they thought it was all right. when the nurse got back she missed your friend and gave the alarm." "can't you tell in what direction he went?" asked larry. "so far we have been unsuccessful. we have made inquiries outside, but so many persons are passing in the street that it has been impossible to trace him." "was he able to walk very far?" the reporter asked. "he was strong; much stronger than the usual run of patients who are recovering from such a wound as he had. he must have been more fully recovered than we thought. he had written a letter, the nurse tells me, and this is also gone. probably he was temporarily out of his mind, and went out to mail the missive. it is a strange occurrence." "my poor father!" exclaimed grace. "i thought i had found him, and now he is missing again." larry did not know what to do. it was a curious state of affairs. he had been so sure of uniting mr. potter and grace, but now all his plans had come to nothing. then, too, there was the paper to be considered. mr. emberg would expect him to send in the story of the mysterious disappearance of the hospital patient. yet larry did not like to leave grace while he went to telephone. he was in a curious predicament. "we will send out a general alarm if we do not find him soon," the superintendent went on. "occasionally delirious patients wander from the wards while the nurses are temporarily absent, but they are always found hiding in some part of the hospital. we have not yet completed the search. only once in a great while do they get outside the institution. yet mr. potter may have." "then we may never find him again," spoke grace. "don't worry," larry advised, as cheerfully as he could. "he'll come back." "i'll never see him again!" and grace was on the verge of tears. "oh, this is terrible!" just then there was heard a confusion of sounds in the corridor outside of the superintendent's office. the latter went to the door, and through the opened portal grace and larry heard some one exclaim: "he's come back!" "maybe that's him!" cried the reporter. the superintendent returned to his office. "i have a pleasant surprise for you," he exclaimed. "the patient has come back. he says he went out to a telephone." "is he--is he all right?" asked grace. "better than ever. the little trip seemed to do him good. here he is." he threw open the door he had closed. there, standing in the corridor, was the man larry had known as mah retto--the man he believed was mr. potter. the patient was smiling at the reporter. "there is your father, grace," said larry. the girl gave one look at the man confronting her. she seemed to sway forward, and became deathly pale---- "that is not my father!" she cried, as she fell in a faint. chapter xxix in his enemies' power "quick! catch her!" cried the hospital superintendent, springing forward, but it was larry who put out his arms and kept grace from falling to the floor. "here, nurse," called one of several physicians who had gathered in the corridor when the news spread that the missing patient had returned. "look after her, please. carry her into the receiving room." "who is she?" asked the patient, who had caused such a stir, and to whom no one seemed to be paying any attention in the excitement caused by grace's swoon. the man had not caught a good look at the girl. "she is grace potter," replied larry, glancing curiously at mah retto. "grace potter? hamden potter's daughter?" the man seemed greatly excited. "yes. she came here expecting, as i did, to meet her father. i thought you were mr. potter. she says you are not." "no, i am not," replied the man. "then who are you? where is her father? you know! i am sure of it!" larry was upset over the mistake he and the detective had made. "i did know where mr. potter was," and as he made that answer retto gave every evidence of being under a great strain. his hands shook with more than the weakness of his illness. he was paler than the white hue caused by his confinement in the hospital. "why? have you lost track of him?" "i am afraid so. listen, young man, perhaps you can help me. let us get to some place where we can talk. i have strange news for you." "then you know me?" and the young reporter looked somewhat surprised. "i couldn't very well help it, with the way you have kept after me lately. but we have no time to lose. something most unexpected has happened. mr. potter is in the hands of his enemies!" "then he is found?" "yes, in a way, but he might better be lost!" "what do you mean?" "come in here and i will tell you." retto led the way to a small room off the main corridor. "what does this mean?" asked the hospital superintendent. "i will explain later," replied retto. "just now it is very necessary that i have a talk with this young man." the superintendent turned away and retto closed the door. he sat down in a chair, and larry could see that he was trembling from weakness. "i must talk quickly," he said, "for i am still very ill. i made a desperate effort to go out in order to get in communication with mr. potter. i mailed him a letter and then called him up on the telephone----" "then you know where he was!" burst out larry. "i did, but i do not now. listen, and don't ask too many questions yet. all will soon be explained, if it is not too late. i am mr. potter's friend. he took me into his confidence when he found it necessary, for very strong reasons, to disappear. i agreed to help him and do exactly as he wanted me to. he has been hiding across the hudson river, outside of the legal jurisdiction of new york state. i was in touch with him by telephone and otherwise up to the time of my accident on the pier. since then, of course, i have not been able to hold any communication with him. as soon as i had the chance, which came for the first time to-day, i got out and called him on the telephone. i was told by the man, with whom he had been staying, that, about an hour ago, some men came and took him away." "some men took him away?" "yes. men whom i recognized, by the description, as his enemies--as men who have an interest in getting mr. potter into their power. he has been trying all this while to keep out of their way. now they have him!" "but what's to be done?" asked the young reporter. "i don't know," replied retto, hopelessly. "everything was going on all right until those horses knocked me down." larry was conscious of a strange sensation. it was partly due to his impetuosity he felt that retto had been injured. larry partly blamed himself for mr. potter's present plight, since through the reporter's instrumentality the millionaire's friend had not been able to keep in touch with him. "i'll find him!" exclaimed larry. "tell me what to do! i'll trace him!" "if i was only stronger!" said retto. "i'm so weak that i couldn't walk another block. i'd like to get after those scoundrels who have mr. potter!" "i'll get after them!" cried the youthful newspaper man, thinking more of grace just then than he did of his assignment. "tell me where to go!" "i can only tell you where mr. potter was hiding," went on retto. "that was in a little house just outside of jersey city. the men must have gone there after him. possibly you can trace them from the house." "tell me how to get to the place!" retto gave the necessary instructions. "i'm going over there!" exclaimed the young reporter. "what are you going to do with grace?" "that's so! i forgot about her. i'll take her along!" and larry sprang to his feet in his enthusiasm and started for the door. "can she stand the trip?" "she's a brave girl! she'll be glad to go!" "then you'd better hurry. every minute is precious. great things hang on this. if mr. potter's enemies force him to do certain things, which he has been trying to avoid doing, the consequences will be very bad for many persons. hurry, dexter!" "i'll start at once. i wonder if grace is better?" the young reporter and retto left the small room. larry soon found that grace had recovered from her swoon. rapidly he told her of what he proposed doing. with her he would go to jersey city and try to trace the missing millionaire. "and we'll find him!" he added, with vigor. he went downstairs to telephone to mr. emberg of the new and unexpected turn the case had taken. "keep right after it, larry!" said the city editor. "find mr. potter and get the story!" as the _leader_ reporter turned to go upstairs he saw, entering the hospital, a young man whom he recognized as hans fritsch, the german newspaper man he had met at the lonely tenement. "what are you doing here?" asked larry, noting that his friend was attired in an automobile suit. "i comes to see how gets along a friend of mine. he is here sick. i have a day off from mine work and i comes in my new automobile. after dot i goes me for a nice ride. come along!" "where are you going?" asked larry, a sudden idea coming into his head. "ofer by new jersey. dere is goot automobiling roads." "are you going to jersey city?" "sure. i goes by dot on der ferry. den i skips out by der plank roat, und maybe i goes me out to der oranges mountains. i am just learning to run my car goot!" "i'll go with you!" cried larry. "have you room in your car for two?" "surely! for four, if you likes to bring 'em. my mother, who is in germany, und quite vell off, send me der car for a birthday present, odervise i should not haff him. reporters here do not get monies enough to buy automobiles!" "i'll be with you in five minutes!" exclaimed larry, hurrying off to tell grace. "i am ready as soon as i see how my sick friend is," declared the german reporter. "den we go quick like de wind, und haff a goot time!" "yes, and maybe a hot pursuit!" said larry under his breath, for he had determined on a bold plan. he would, in fritsch's auto, give chase to the captors of mr. potter. chapter xxx mr. potter is found--conclusion there was a throbbing of the motor, a grinding and shrieking as the clutch was thrown in, a trembling to the car as fritsch advanced the spark and opened the gasolene throttle still wider and the automobile, bearing the german reporter, larry and grace, was off. "here are some goggles!" said fritsch, handing back two pairs to his passengers. "you vill need dem when ve goes like de wind. if i had known i was to haff a lady i would get a dust coat." "it doesn't matter," replied grace, her eyes shining with the excitement. "i want to find my father." "your father?" then larry explained. he could safely do so since the german paper did not come out until the morning of the next day, and fritsch could not "beat" him. faster speeded the auto. they went over the hudson river on a ferry boat, and, as soon as jersey city was reached, the car was sent along as fast as the law allowed. "i wonder if i can get on their trail?" thought larry, as he watched the houses skim by, and held himself in his seat, beside grace, to avoid the jouncing and swaying caused by the uneven streets. "do you think ve vill haff a race?" asked the german, as they neared the house where mr. potter had been hiding. "maybe. i hope so, anyhow." "i don't." "why? don't you want to help find mr. potter?" "yes, but i am of nervousness yet in my new car. i haff never raced, und i might do some damage." "let me run her," suggested larry. "i've had some experience with autos, and i guess i can manage yours. i ran one like this several times when i was out with mr. emberg." "den take der vheel," went on fritsch. "i comes back wid miss potter und you can race." "oh, larry! can you do it?" and grace looked a little alarmed. "of course i can," and the young reporter spoke confidently. the car was stopped and the change made. larry soon found he could manage the various levers all right, and that the car responded readily to his guiding hand. "this must be the place," he said, after they had ridden for half an hour at as high speed as they dared, considering the fact that there were policemen on every other block. he stopped the car in front of a house that seemed to be uninhabited. it answered the description retto had given, and larry knocked on the door. after several minutes the portal opened a crack, showing that it was held by a chain. "is mr. potter here?" asked larry, though he knew the missing millionaire was not. the man who had opened the door looked suspiciously at the inquirer. "it's all right," the young reporter went on. "i come from mr. retto. i want to aid mr. potter." "you're too late," was the answer. "they've got him into their clutches. they'll work their game before he knows that everything is all right, and that it is safe for him to show himself. if they had only waited half an hour all would have been well. i just got another telephone message from retto, saying that all matters were satisfactorily adjusted, and that there was no further need for mr. potter to hide. but he doesn't know this. i have no way of telling him, and he'll sign the papers before those men will let him go." "tell me in which direction they went and i'll go after them!" cried larry. "they can't have gone far, and we can overtake them in the auto!" "they have a car, too," replied the man. "a fast one. they managed, by a trick, to get mr. potter into it. if i could only get word to him he could laugh at their efforts! if i could only send him a message!" "what is the message?" asked larry. "it is this. 'the money is safe!'" "is that all?" "that's all, but how can you get it to him?" "didn't you hear anything that might give you a clue to where the men were going?" "somewhere out toward the orange mountains. that's all i know. they are going to the home of some lawyer or judge, i believe. there is some legal matter involved." "then that's where we'll go!" decided the young reporter, as he hurried back to the auto and told grace and fritsch what he had heard. "on to de mountains!" cried the german reporter. "my car is yours! it will climb de biggest hills on der high gear, und ve will catch de scoundrels!" once more they were off. they took the plank road to newark, and, on inquiring in the latter city, learned that a car, answering the description of the one mr. potter had been taken off in, had passed about half an hour before. "that's not so bad!" exclaimed larry. "we can catch 'em, i guess!" "i hope so!" murmured grace. "if my car doesn't beat de oder one i gives up riding," remarked fritsch, with proper pride in his machine. they passed through newark, and were soon on the road leading to orange, at the foot of the mountains. the highway was conducive to speed, and larry "let her out several notches," as he expressed it, at the same time keeping watch for policemen on motorcycles, who were alert to nab the unwary auto speeders. every time they saw a car in front of them they were anxious until they saw it was not the one they wanted. they passed a number of machines, and when orange was reached they had not been successful. "now for a mountain climb!" exclaimed larry, as he slowed down the engine to give the water a chance to cool off before attempting the ascent. "will it do eagle rock hill, fritsch?" "i think so," replied the german. "i never tried it, but de circular says it vill do it." eagle rock hill is known far and wide as one of the steepest ascents up which an automobile can be sent. many cars have to take it on the low gear, or go as slowly as possible. even then it is a strain. "suppose we should overtake them there?" suggested grace. "ve'd catch 'em!" exclaimed the german, with a confidence born of admiration for his car. on and on they chugged. at the foot of the long, steep slope larry set the levers on second gear, as he did not want to take any chances with the auto. up and up they went, their eyes strained through the dust for the sight of a green car, for that was the color of the machine in which rode the men who had taken mr. potter away. "hark!" exclaimed grace, suddenly. "it sounds like an auto just ahead of us!" "it is," declared larry, whose quick ear had caught the chug-chug of a motor. an instant later they had rounded a turn. there, in front of them, climbing the steep hill, was a green car. in it could be seen four men. "that's them!" cried larry. "open her up! throw in the high gear!" yelled fritsch, who was now as enthusiastic and as interested in the chase as were either of his companions. "let her rip!" "will she stand it?" asked larry, shouting the words over his shoulder to grace and fritsch in the tonneau. "sure!" there was a grinding noise as larry threw in the high-speed gear. the auto hung back for an instant because of the sudden change. the motor seemed to groan at the unexpected load thrown on it. then, like a gallant horse responding to the call of its rider, the car leaped ahead. "hurrah!" cried larry. "she'll do it! we'll catch 'em!" the distance between the two cars was lessening. those in the green machine seemed unaware of the approach of their pursuers. "can you see your father?" asked the german of grace. "i'm not sure. it looks like him!" she stood up in the tonneau, holding to the back of the seat in front of her to steady herself against the swaying of the car. just then larry blew a blast on the horn. as the deep tone responded to his pressure on the big rubber bulb the men in the green machine looked back. at the sight of one of the faces grace cried. "it's father! it's father!" above the noise made by the two autos the millionaire heard his daughter's voice. he stood up and, leaning over the back of the seat, waved his hand to her. then one of the men sitting beside him forcibly drew the millionaire down. "oh! we must get to him!" cried grace. "they may do him some harm! hurry, larry!" "shove her over a few more notches!" cried fritsch. "she'll take more gasolene!" larry obeyed the instructions of the german reporter. the car seemed to feel new life and leaped ahead. the distance from the other car was steadily growing less. fritsch's confidence in his machine was not misplaced. but the men in the green car were making efforts to escape. the chauffeur had advanced his spark, and the car was taking the steep grade almost as well as was that of the pursuers. "can't we catch them?" cried grace, in an agony of doubt and fear. larry narrowly watched the green car. he saw that in spite of the efforts of the driver it was losing speed. "we'll do it," he said, quietly. then larry tried a trick which had come into his mind almost at the last moment. keeping his car going as fast as possible he steered it so as to pass the other auto. he knew he had speed enough to do it, and realized that he must act quickly, as they were almost at the summit of the hill. closer and closer the two cars came together, that driven by the young reporter gaining. now the front wheels overlapped the rear ones of the green machine--now they were at the side door of the tonneau--now the two tonneaus were even! this was what larry wanted. slowing down his engine the least bit, so as to keep in pace with the other machine and not pass it, he called across to mr. potter, as the two autos raced side by side: "mr. potter, i bring you a message from your friends!" "what is it?" "it is this! 'the money is safe!'" "good!" cried the millionaire. "now i don't care what these scoundrels do!" "father! father!" cried grace. "stop that machine!" yelled larry to the chauffeur of the green car. "you can't make me!" retorted the man. "jump into our car!" cried fritsch to mr. potter. "you can do it!" the two machines were close together, and so evenly were they running that they seemed to be standing still, side by side. the millionaire arose and endeavored to get out of the tonneau, and into that of the auto in which sat his daughter. "no, you don't!" exclaimed one of the men beside him, and he took hold of mr. potter. "let me go!" called the rich man. "i'm not afraid of you now. there's no longer any reason for me to remain in hiding!" "you can't go until you sign those papers!" cried another of the men. "stop that car!" shouted larry again. "let's see you make me!" was the impudent retort of the man at the wheel. "i'll make you!" declared the young reporter. he gave a quick motion to the steering wheel. then he shoved the levers over, and pressed down the pedal that cut out the muffler and slightly relieved the strain on the motor. fritsch's car shot ahead. larry steered it directly in front of the green machine, and kept just far enough in advance to avoid a collision. "get out of the way!" shouted the driver of the emerald car. "now i guess you'll stop!" retorted the young reporter. the road suddenly narrowed. larry gradually slowed up his car. there was no room to pass, and the other machine had to slacken up also. larry suddenly shut off his power and put on the brakes. his machine came to a gradual stop. there was a bump behind and the other had collided with it, but not enough to cause any damage. "there! i guess you'll stop now!" exclaimed larry, as he leaped from his seat and hurried back to the green car. but the men did not await his coming. with a shout to his companions the chauffeur of the rear auto leaped out. the others followed his example, leaving mr. potter alone in the automobile. "father! father!" cried grace. "is this really you, mr. potter?" asked the reporter, hardly able to believe that he had found the missing millionaire. "that's who i am!" exclaimed the man whom larry had sought so long. mr. potter entered the other machine and clasped grace into his arms. "i'm back from my enforced exile," he went on. "now you can send the story to your paper." "i must get to a telephone!" cried larry, his newspaper instincts to the fore again, now that he had successfully covered his special assignment. "get back into my car," suggested fritsch. "dere is a telephone at de top of der hill. i'll drive you now so long as de race is ofer!" "and we won!" cried grace. "oh, father! how glad i am to have you back!" "how glad i am to get back!" replied mr. potter. larry sat beside the german reporter, who took his place at the steering wheel. the other car was left where the men had abandoned it. they had disappeared into the woods on either side of the road, and never troubled mr. potter again. "why did you disappear, mr. potter?" asked larry, who had to have some facts to telephone in, as it was near first edition-time. "it's a long story to tell, young man," replied the millionaire, "and quite complicated. briefly, i had to disappear in order to save a number of widows and orphans from losing what little money they depended on for a living. as you have probably guessed, i am interested in many financial matters. one was the building of an extension of the subway. hundreds of widows, and guardians of orphans, had bought stock in this enterprise, as it was sold by popular subscription. "while abroad i learned there was a scheme on foot to involve me in certain legal difficulties, and it might even cause my arrest in order to get me to do certain things that would force the price of the subway stock down, and so bankrupt many innocent persons. to prevent this i determined to disappear, without even the knowledge of my family. how i managed it i will tell you later. matters were going along all right until retto, whose real name, you might as well know, is simonson, suddenly disappeared. i did not know what to do, nor how matters, with which i had entrusted him, were progressing. but it wasn't his fault. i wonder what happened to him?" larry explained about mr. simonson's accident, of which mr. potter was ignorant. "when these men, my enemies, unexpectedly appeared to-day at the house where i had been hiding ever since i disappeared, asked me to appear in a new jersey court, i had to go with them," went on mr. potter. "it was in the nature of an arrest, and i did not dare disobey. they wanted to take me before a supreme court justice in his home on the mountain and make me sign certain papers. "but you came along in the nick of time. when you gave me that message to the effect that the money was all right, i knew that the affairs of the subway had been so arranged that the stock would not go down and the widows and orphans would not suffer. i was willing then to appear in court, as the schemes of the scoundrels, who had practically kidnapped me, could amount to nothing. but it seems they didn't wait to see what the outcome would be. i'm much obliged to you, larry." "so am i," added grace, with a smile. "i'd do it all over again for the sake of getting such a good story--and--er--of course, finding you and helping your daughter," larry finished. "now to telephone this in." mr. emberg could hardly believe the news that larry fairly shouted over the wire. "found him, you say! good for you, larry. it'll be a great beat! wait a minute! i'll let harvey take the story. talk fast. give us enough for the first edition, and then, for the second, get the whole story from mr. potter. this is a corker!" what a scene there was in the _leader_ office then! mr. newton grabbed up paper and pencil and rushed to the telephone booth to which larry's wire had been switched so that the story could be taken with fewer interruptions. page after page of notes did mr. newton scribble down, as larry dictated the dramatic finding of the missing millionaire during the automobile chase. "that'll do, larry!" cried mr. newton, when he had the first half of the story. "i'll get one of the other boys to take the rest while i grind this out on the machine." so the young reporter dictated the remainder of the account to another person in the _leader_ office, while mr. newton was pounding away on the typewriter at his section. thus it went on in relays. the first part of the story was in type before larry had finished his end of it. then, as there was no more time to get anything further in for the first edition, larry went back to where he had left mr. potter, grace and fritsch in the automobile. mr. potter gave the young reporter some additional particulars. he explained that he had learned, while in europe, of a mix-up in new york politics that involved his company, which was building the new subway line. sullivan, kilburn and reilly were factors in the game, and the control of the assembly district would go to whoever could bring about the opening of the new subway route through it. mr. potter repeated, more at detail, how there was likely to be a big law-suit over the matter, which would tie up operations for a year, and which would force down the price of the stock so that many small investors would lose all they owned. "i had promised sullivan to do as he wanted, in case he supported reilly," mr. potter went on. "later i found i could not do as i had agreed without getting tangled up in the legal conflict. they wanted to serve certain papers on me, and get me into the jurisdiction of the law courts, so i decided, in order to protect those who were unable to protect themselves, to disappear. i was aware that a wrong construction might be placed on it, that it would subject me to much criticism, that it would be hard and that it would cause distress to my family and friends. but there was no other way in which i could aid the helpless, so i decided to do it." the millionaire explained how he had sailed from italy under an assumed name, after arranging there with his friend, mr. simonson, to precede him to new york, do certain work, and keep him informed of how matters went. simonson took the name mah retto, which had a foreign sound, and could be depended upon to deceive mr. potter's enemies. mr. simonson was of dark complexion and looked like an east indian. the name was formed from some of the letters making up the millionaire's name. retto's handwriting was very similar to that of mr. potter's, and easily passed for it, even under the scrutiny of grace and her mother. the man himself bore a remarkable resemblance to the millionaire and nearly deceived grace once. most unexpectedly, some of mr. potter's enemies got on the trail of retto, and he learned they would be waiting for him when he landed in new york. he decided to elude them. he was aboard the _olivia_ when the ship struck on the bar, and resolved to take a desperate chance and come ashore on a life-raft. he did, and larry and bailey rescued him. then followed his shaving off of his moustache in the fisherman's hut to make a good disguise, and larry's subsequent chase after him. once larry had been close on mr. potter's trail. the millionaire was in retto's room the night larry called on the mysterious man in the jackson tenement, and this explained the reference in the letter to the young reporter being so "close" after mr. potter. sullivan, it was explained, had an idea that grace or her mother knew where mr. potter was hiding, and was much disappointed because the rich man could not carry out the original plan of political action. "i think sullivan will show himself, now that he knows i have been found," said grace's father. "he has been looking for me on his own responsibility, i understand. i have straightened matters out so that he can support reilly as he promised to do, larry, in that interview he gave you. i think that was all he wanted me to come back for. "sullivan used to go up and watch my house," mr. potter went on. "he thought i was there, i suppose. retto also watched it, but for a different purpose. i sent him up to catch glimpses of my wife and daughter, to see if they were all right, as i did not dare venture into that neighborhood for fear of being recognized. i had their miniatures, however. the night i reached new york i went to the house and got them. i remained in the suburbs of jersey city most of the time, as, until to-day, the scoundrels did not have matters so arranged that they could legally serve papers on me in new jersey. they must have taken a last desperate chance this morning, but, thanks to you, larry, they were foiled." in fritsch's auto, after larry had finished telephoning in the story, the little party returned to new york. they took mr. simonson, or retto, from the hospital to mr. potter's house. there he explained his part in aiding the millionaire. larry gave him back the papers he had secured from captain tantrella, and the curious gold coin mr. simonson had lost from his watch chain in the fisherman's hut. mr. simonson told his employer how he had tried to run away from larry that day on the pier, as matters were then not yet ripe for a disclosure, and how he had fallen under the horses' feet. "when you came to see me in the hospital," he went on to larry, "i was about to send for mr. potter, for i felt i was in bad shape and that the mystery might now come to an end. then i became unconscious, was delirious for three weeks, and the next i knew was when the nurse told me this morning that the day after to-morrow you were coming to see me. i decided i must communicate with mr. potter. but when i called him up, i was startled when i was told by the man in whose house he was hiding that his enemies had him." "but larry got me away from them," went on mr. potter, with a happy laugh. "this ends the mystery of my disappearance." "i must telegraph mother the good news," said grace. "she is in lakewood. i had also better notify the private detective that he need no longer work on the case." "we'll go to lakewood and surprise your mother," said her father. "i need a rest after my hard work in keeping away from larry dexter. i'll telephone the detective agency. i suppose the manager will be disappointed that a newspaper man beat him," which was exactly how the manager felt. the young reporter, bidding grace and her father good-bye, returned to the office of the _leader_, going down in fritsch's auto. "well, you have given us some news!" exclaimed mr. emberg. "look at that!" he held up the paper, the front page of which was almost all taken up with the story of the missing millionaire. "i suppose that ends my special assignment, then." "this one is finished," spoke the city editor, "but i may have another for you." "what kind?" "i'll tell you later." those of my readers who want to know what larry's next assignment was may learn by reading the fourth volume of this series, to be called: "larry dexter and the bank mystery, or, a young reporter in wall street." in that story we shall follow the young reporter through adventures which were exciting in the extreme. the _leader_ beat every other paper in new york on the potter story, and larry was the hero of the occasion. the next day he located sullivan and cleared up that end of the case. "i suppose you'd like to take a short rest?" said mr. emberg to the young reporter a few days later. "you had quite a strenuous time of it in that automobile race." "i guess i could stand a little vacation." "then you shall have it." larry wondered where he would spend the vacation, but the matter was settled for him. when he got home that night he found a telegram awaiting him. it was from grace potter, and read: "can't you come down to lakewood for a few days? mother and father would be glad to see you. so would i." larry went. [illustration: "then it's all lies! lies and murder!"] the clarion by samuel hopkins adams with illustrations by w.d. stevens _published october _ to the memory of my father myron adams who lived and died a soldier of ideals this book is reverently inscribed contents i. the itinerant ii. our leading citizen iii. esmÉ iv. the shop v. the scion vi. launched vii. the owner viii. a partnership ix. glimmerings x. in the way of trade xi. the initiate xii. the thin edge xiii. new blood xiv. the rookeries xv. juggernaut xvi. the strategist xvii. reprisals xviii. milly xix. donnybrook xx. the lesser tempting xxi. the power of print xxii. patriots xxiii. creeping flame xxiv. a failure in tactics xxv. stern logic xxvi. the parting xxvii. the greater tempting xxviii. "whose bread i eat" xxix. certina charley xxx. illumination xxxi. the voice of the prophet xxxii. the warning xxxiii. the good fight xxxiv. vox populi xxxv. tempered metal xxxvi. the victory xxxvii. mcguire ellis wakes up xxxviii. the convert illustrations "then it's all lies! lies and murder!" help and cure are at their beck and call "kill it," she urged softly "don't go near him. don't look" the clarion chapter i the itinerant between two flames the man stood, overlooking the crowd. a soft breeze, playing about the torches, sent shadows billowing across the massed folk on the ground. shrewdly set with an eye to theatrical effect, these phares of a night threw out from the darkness the square bulk of the man's figure, and, reflecting garishly upward from the naked hemlock of the platform, accentuated, as in bronze, the bosses of the face, and gleamed deeply in the dark, bold eyes. half of marysville buzzed and chattered in the park-space below, together with many representatives of the farming country near by, for the event had been advertised with skilled appeal: cf. the "canoga county palladium," april , , page . the occupant of the platform, having paused, after a self-introductory trumpeting of professional claims, was slowly and with an eye to oratorical effect moistening lips and throat from a goblet at his elbow. now, ready to resume, he raised a slow hand in an indescribable gesture of mingled command and benevolence. the clamor subsided to a murmur, over which his voice flowed and spread like oil subduing vexed waters. "pain. pain. pain. the primal curse, the dominant tragedy of life. who among you, dear friends, but has felt it? you men, slowly torn upon the rack of rheumatism; you women, with the hidden agony gnawing at your breast" (his roving regard was swift, like a hawk, to mark down the sudden, involuntary quiver of a faded slattern under one of the torches); "all you who have known burning nights and pallid mornings, i offer you r-r-r-release!" on the final word his face lighted up as from an inner fire of inspiration, and he flung his arms wide in an embracing benediction. the crowd, heavy-eyed, sodden, wondering, bent to him as the torch-fires bent to the breath of summer. with the subtle sense of the man who wrings his livelihood from human emotions, he felt the moment of his mastery approaching. was it fully come yet? were his fish securely in the net? betwixt hovering hands he studied his audience. his eyes stopped with a sense of being checked by the steady regard of one who stood directly in front of him only a few feet away; a solid-built, crisply outlined man of forty, carrying himself with a practical erectness, upon whose face there was a rather disturbing half-smile. the stranger's hand was clasped in that of a little girl, wide-eyed, elfin, and lovely. "release," repeated the man of the torches. "blessed release from your torments. peace out of pain." the voice was of wonderful quality, rich and unctuous, the labials dropping, honeyed, from the lips. it wooed the crowd, lured it, enmeshed it. but the magician had, a little, lost confidence in the power of his spell. his mind dwelt uneasily upon his well-garbed auditor. what was he doing there, with his keen face and worldly, confident carriage, amidst those clodhoppers? was there peril in his presence? your predatory creature hunts ever with fear in his heart. "guardy," the voice of the elfin child rang silvery in the silence, as she pressed close to her companion. "guardy, is he preaching?" "yes, my dear little child." the orator saw his opportunity and swooped upon it, with a flash of dazzling teeth from under his pliant lips. "this sweet little girl asks if i am preaching. i thank her for the word. preaching, indeed! preaching a blessed gospel, for this world of pain and suffering; a gospel of hope and happiness and joy. i offer you, here, now, this moment of blessed opportunity, the priceless boon of health. it is within reach of the humblest and poorest as well as the millionaire. the blessing falls on all like the gentle rain from heaven." his hands, outstretched, quivering as if to shed the promised balm, slowly descended below the level of the platform railing. behind the tricolored cheesecloth which screened him from the waist down something stirred. the hands ascended again into the light. in each was a bottle. the speaker's words came now sharp, decisive, compelling. "here it is! look at it, my friends. the wonder of the scientific world, the never-failing panacea, the despair of the doctors. all diseases yield to it. it revivifies the blood, reconstructs the nerves, drives out the poisons which corrupt the human frame. it banishes pain, sickness, weakness, and cheats death of his prey. oh, grave, where is thy victory? oh, death, where is thy power? overcome by my marvelous discovery! harmless as water! sweet on the tongue as honey! potent as a miracle! by the grace of heaven, which has bestowed this secret upon me, i have saved five thousand men, women, and children from sure doom, in the last three years, through my swift and infallible remedy, professor certain's vitalizing mixture; as witness my undenied affidavit, sworn to before almighty god and a notary public and published in every newspaper in the state." wonder and hope exhaled in a sigh from the assemblage. people began to stir, to shift from one foot to another, to glance about them nervously. professor certain had them. it needed but the first thrust of hand into pocket to set the avalanche of coin rolling toward the platform. from near the speaker a voice piped thinly:-- "will it ease my cough?" the orator bent over, and his voice was like a benign hand upon the brow of suffering. "ease it? you'll never know you had a cough after one bottle." "we-ell, gimme--" "just a moment, my friend." the professor was not yet ready. "put your dollar back. there's enough to go around. oh, uncle cal! step up here, please." an old negro, very pompous and upright, made his way to the steps and mounted. "you all know old uncle cal parks, my friends. you've seen him hobbling and hunching around for years, all twisted up with rheumatics. he came to me yesterday, begging for relief, and we began treatment with the vitalizing mixture right off. look at him now. show them what you can do, uncle." wild-eyed, the old fellow gazed about at the people. "glory! hallelujah!" emotional explosives left over from the previous year's revival burst from his lips. he broke into a stiff, but prankish double-shuffle. "i'd like to try some o' that on my old mare," remarked a facetious-minded rustic, below, and a titter followed. "good for man or beast," retorted the professor with smiling amiability. "you've seen what the vitalizing mixture has done for this poor old colored man. it will do as much or more for any of you. and the price is only one dollar!" the voice double-capitalized the words. "don't, for the sake of one hundred little cents, put off the day of cure. don't waste your chance. don't let a miserable little dollar stand between you and death. come, now. who's first?" the victim of the "cough" was first, closely followed by the mare-owning wit. then the whole mass seemed to be pressing forward, at once. like those of a conjurer, the deft hands of the professor pushed in and out of the light, snatching from below the bottles handed up to him, and taking in the clinking silver and fluttering greenbacks. and still they came, that line of grotesques, hobbling, limping, sprawling their way to the golden promise. never did pied piper flute to creatures more bemused. only once was there pause, when the dispenser of balm held aloft between thumb and finger a cart-wheel dollar. "phony!" he said curtly, and flipped it far into the darkness. "don't any more of you try it on," he warned, as the thwarted profferer of the counterfeit sidled away, and there was, in his tone, a dominant ferocity. presently the line of purchasers thinned out. the vitalizing mixture had exhausted its market. but only part of the crowd had contributed to the levy. mainly it was the men, whom the "spiel" had lured. now for the women. the voice, the organ of a genuine artist, took on a new cadence, limpid and tender. "and now, we come to the sufferings of those who bear pain with the fortitude of the angels. our women-folk! how many here are hiding that dreadful malady, cancer? hiding it, when help and cure are at their beck and call. lady," he bent swiftly to the slattern under the torch and his accents were a healing effluence, "with my soothing, balmy oils, you can cure yourself in three weeks, or your money back." "i do' know haow you knew," faltered the woman. "i ain't told no one yet. kinder hoped it wa'n't thet, after all." he brooded over her compassionately. "you've suffered needlessly. soon it would have been too late. the vitalizing mixture will keep up your strength, while the soothing, balmy oils drive out the poison, and heal up the sore. three and a half for the two. thank you. and is there some suffering friend who you can lead to the light?" the woman hesitated. she moved out to the edge of the crowd, and spoke earnestly to a younger woman, whose comely face was scarred with the chiseling of sleeplessness. "joe, he wouldn't let me," protested the younger woman. "he'd say 't was a waste." "but ye'll be cured," cried the other in exaltation. "think of it. ye'll sleep again o' nights." the woman's hand went to her breast, with a piteous gesture. "oh, my god! d'yeh think it could be true?" she cried. "accourse it's true! didn't yeh hear whut he sayed? would he dast swear to it if it wasn't true?" tremulously the younger woman moved forward, clutching her shawl about her. "could yeh sell me half a bottle to try it, sir?" she asked. the vender shook his head. "impossible, my dear madam. contrary to my fixed professional rule. but, i'll tell you what i will do. if, in three days you're not better, you can have your money back." she began painfully to count out her coins. reaching impatiently for his price, the professor found himself looking straight into the eyes of the well-dressed stranger. "are you going to take that woman's money?" the question was low-toned but quite clear. an uneasy twitching beset the corners of the professional brow. for just the fraction of a second, the outstretched hand was stayed. then:-- "that's what i am. and all the others i can get. can i sell _you_ a bottle?" behind the suavity there was the impudence of the man who is a little alarmed, and a little angry because of the alarm. "why, yes," said the other coolly. "some day i might like to know what's in the stuff." "hand up your cash then. and here you are--doctor. it _is_ 'doctor,' ain't it?" "you've guessed it," returned the stranger. [illustration: help and cure are at their beck and call.] at once the platform peddler became the opportunist orator again. "a fellow practitioner, in my audience, ladies and gentlemen; and doing me the honor of purchasing my cure. sir," the splendid voice rose and soared as he addressed his newest client, "you follow the noblest of callings. my friends, i would rather heal a people's ills than determine their destinies." giving them a moment to absorb that noble sentiment, he passed on to his next source of revenue: dyspepsia. he enlarged and expatiated upon its symptoms until his subjects could fairly feel the grilling at the pit of their collective stomach. one by one they came forward, the yellow-eyed, the pasty-faced feeders on fried breakfasts, snatchers of hasty noon-meals, sleepers on gorged stomachs. about them he wove the glamour of his words, the arch-seducer, until the dollars fidgeted in their pockets. "just one dollar the bottle, and pain is banished. eat? you can eat a cord of hickory for breakfast, knots and all, and digest it in an hour. the vitalizing mixture does it." assorted ills came next. in earlier spring it would have been pneumonia and coughs. now it was the ailments that we have always with us: backache, headache, indigestion and always the magnificent promise. so he picked up the final harvest, gleaning his field. "now,"--the rotund voice sunk into the confidential, sympathetic register, yet with a tone of saddened rebuke,--"there are topics that the lips shrink from when ladies are present. but i have a word for you young men. young blood! ah, young blood, and the fire of life! for that we pay a penalty. yet we must not overpay the debt. to such as wish my private advice--_private_, i say, and sacredly confidential--" he broke off and leaned out over the railing. "thousands have lived to bless the name of professor certain, and his friendship, at such a crisis; thousands, my friends. to such, i shall be available for consultation from nine to twelve to-morrow, at the moscow hotel. remember the time and place. men only. nine to twelve. and all under the inviolable seal of my profession." some quality of unexpressed insistence in the stranger--or was it the speaker's own uneasiness of spirit?--brought back the roving, brilliant eyes to the square face below. "a little blackmail on the side, eh?" the words were spoken low, but with a peculiar, abrupt crispness. this, then, was direct challenge. professor certain tautened. should he accept it, or was it safer to ignore this pestilent disturber? craft and anger thrust opposing counsels upon him. but determination of the issue came from outside. "lemme through." from the outskirts of the crowd a rawboned giant forced his way inward. he was gaunt and unkempt as a weed in winter. "here's trouble," remarked a man at the front. "allus comes with a hardscrabbler." "what's a hardscrabbler?" queried the well-dressed man. "feller from the hardscrabble settlement over on corsica lake. tough lot, they are. make their own laws, when they want any; run their place to suit themselves. ain't much they ain't up to. hoss-stealin', barn-burnin', boot-leggin', an' murder thrown in when--" "be you the doctor was to corsica village two years ago?" the newcomer's high, droning voice cut short the explanation. "i was there, my friend. testimonials and letters from some of your leading citizens attest the work--" "you give my woman morpheean." there was a hideous edged intonation in the word, like the whine of some plaintive and dangerous animal. "my friend!" the professor's hand went forth in repressive deprecation. "we physicians give what seems to us best, in these cases." "a reg'lar doctor from burnham seen her," pursued the hardscrabbler, in the same thin wail, moving nearer, but not again raising his eyes to the other's face. instead, his gaze seemed fixed upon the man's shining expanse of waistcoat. "he said you doped her with the morpheean you give her." "so your chickens come home to roost, professor," said the stranger, in a half-voice. "impossible," declared the professor, addressing the hardscrabbler. "you misunderstood him." "they took my woman away. they took her to the 'sylum." foreboding peril, the people nearest the uncouth visitor had drawn away. only the stranger held his ground; more than held it, indeed, for he edged almost imperceptibly nearer. he had noticed a fleck of red on the matted beard, where the lip had been bitten into. also he saw that the professor, whose gaze had so timorously shifted from his, was intent, recognizing danger; intent, and unafraid before the threat. "she used to cry fer it, my woman. cry fer the morpheean like a baby." he sagged a step forward. "she don't haff to cry no more. she's dead." whence had the knife leapt, to gleam so viciously in his hand? almost as swiftly as it was drawn, the healer had snatched one of the heavy torch-poles from its socket. almost, not quite. the fury leapt and struck; struck for that shining waistcoat, upon which his regard had concentrated, with an upward lunge, the most surely deadly blow known to the knife-fighter. two other movements coincided, to the instant. from the curtain of cheesecloth the slight form of a boy shot upward, with brandished arms; and the square-built man reached the hardscrabbler's jaw with a powerful and accurate swing. there was a scream of pain, a roar from the crowd, and an answering bellow from the quack in midair, for he had launched his formidable bulk over the rail, to plunge, a crushing weight, upon the would-be murderer, who lay stunned on the grass. for a moment the avenger ground him, with knees and fists; then was up and back on the platform. already the city man had gained the flooring, and was bending above the child. there was a sprinkle of blood on the bright, rough boards. "oh, my god! boy-ee! has he killed you?" "no: he isn't killed," said the stranger curtly. "keep the people back. lift down that torch." the professor wavered on his legs, grasping at the rail for support. "you _are_ a doctor?" he gasped. "yes." "can you save him? any money--" "set the torch here." "oh, boyee, boyee!" the great, dark man had dropped to his knees, his face a mask of agony. "oh, the devil!" said the physician disgustedly. "you're no help. clear a way there, some of you, so that i can get him to the hotel." then, to the other. "keep quiet. there's no danger. only a flesh wound, but he's fainted." carefully he swung the small form to his shoulder, and forced a way through the crowd, the little girl, who had followed him to the platform, composedly trotting along in his wake, while the hardscrabbler, moaning from the pain of two broken ribs, was led away by a constable. some distance behind, the itinerant wallowed like a drunken man, muttering brilliant bargain offers of good conduct to almighty god, if "boyee" were saved to him. once in the little hotel room, the physician went about his business with swift decisiveness, aided by the mite of a girl, who seemed to know by instinct where to be and what to do in the way of handling towels, wash-basin, and the other simple paraphernalia required. professor certain was unceremoniously packed off to the drug store for bandages. when he returned the patient had recovered consciousness. "where's dad?" he asked eagerly. "did he hurt dad?" "no, boyee." the big man was at the bedside in two long, velvety-footed steps. struck by the extenuation of the final "y" in the term, the physician for the first time noted a very faint foreign accent, the merest echo of some alien tongue. "are you in pain, boyee?" "not very much. it doesn't matter. why did he want to kill you?" "never mind that, now," interrupted the physician. "we'll get that scratch bound up, and then, young man, you'll go to sleep." pallid as a ghost, the itinerant held the little hand during the process of binding the wound. "boyee" essayed to smile, at the end, and closed his eyes. "now we can leave him," said the physician. "poppet, curl up in that chair and keep watch on our patient while this gentleman and i have a little talk in the outer room." with a brisk nod of obedience and comprehension, the elfin girl took her place, while the two men went out. "what do i owe you?" asked professor certain, as soon as the door had closed. "nothing." "oh, that won't do." "it will have to do." "courtesy of the profession? but--" the other laughed grimly, cutting him short. "so you call yourself an m.d., do you?" "call myself? i am. regular degree from the dayton medical college." he sleeked down his heavy hair with a complacent hand. the physician snorted. "a diploma-mill. what did you pay for your m.d.?" "one hundred dollars, and it's as good as your four-year p. and s. course or any other, for my purposes," retorted the other, with hardihood. "what's more, i'm a member of the american academy of surgeons, with a special diploma from st. luke's hospital of niles, michigan, and a certificate of fellowship in the national medical scientific fraternity. pleased to meet a brother practitioner." the sneer was as palpable as it was cynical. "you've got all the fake trimmings, haven't you? do those things pay?" "do they! better than your game, i'll bet. name your own fee, now, and don't be afraid to make it strong." "i'm not in regular practice. i'm a naval surgeon on leave. give your money to those poor devils you swindled to-night. i don't like the smell of it." "oh, you can't rile me," returned the quack. "i don't blame you regulars for getting sore when you see us fellows culling out coin from under your very noses, that you can't touch." "cull it, and welcome. but don't try to pass it on to me." "well, i'd like to do something for you in return for what you did for my son." "would you? pay me in words, then, if you will and dare. what is your vitalizing mixture?" "that's my secret." "liquor? eh?" "some." "morphine?" "a little." "and the rest syrup and coloring matter, i suppose. a fine vitalizer!" "it gets the money," retorted the other. "and your soothing, balmy oils for cancer? arsenious acid, i suppose, to eat it out?" "what if it is? as well that as anything else--for cancer." "humph! i happened to see a patient you'd treated, two years ago, by that mild method. it wasn't cancer at all; only a benign tumor. your soothing oils burned her breast off, like so much fire. she's dead now." "oh, we all make mistakes." "but we don't all commit murder." "rub it in, if you like to. you can't make me mad. just the same, if it wasn't for what you've done for boyee--" "well, what about 'boyee'?" broke in his persecutor quite undisturbed. "he seems a perfectly decent sort of human integer." the bold eyes shifted and softened abruptly. "he's the big thing in my life." "bringing him up to the trade, eh?" "no, damn you!" "damn me, if you like. but don't damn him. he seems to be a bit too good for this sort of thing." "to tell you the truth," said the other gloomily, "i was going to quit at the end of this year, anyway. but i guess this ends it now. accidents like this hurt business. i guess this closes my tour." "is the game playing out?" "not exactly! do you know what i took out of this town last night? one hundred and ten good dollars. and to-morrow's consultation is good for fifty more. that 'spiel' of mine is the best high-pitch in the business." "high-pitch?" "high-pitching," explained the quack, "is our term for the talk, the patter. you can sell sugar pills to raise the dead with a good-enough high-pitch. i've done it myself--pretty near. with a voice like mine, it's a shame to drop it. but i'm getting tired. and boyee ought to have schooling. so, i'll settle down and try a regular proprietary trade with the mixture and some other stuff i've got. i guess i can make printer's ink do the work. and there's millions in it if you once get a start. more than you can say of regular practice. i tried that, too, before i took up itinerating." he grinned. "a midge couldn't have lived on my receipts. by the way," he added, becoming grave, "what was your game in cutting in on my 'spiel'?" "just curiosity." "you ain't a government agent or a medical society investigator?" the physician pulled out a card and handed it over. it read, "mark elliot, surgeon, u.s.n." "don't lose any sleep over me," he advised, then went to open the outer door, in response to a knock. a spectacled young man appeared. "they told me professor certain was here," he said. "what is it?" asked the quack. "about that stabbing. i'm the editor of the weekly 'palladium.'" "glad to see you, mr. editor. always glad to see the press. of course you won't print anything about this affair?" the visitor blinked. "you wouldn't hardly expect me to kill the story." "not? does anybody else but me give you page ads.?" "well, of course, we try to favor our advertisers," said the spectacled one nervously. "that's business! i'll be coming around again next year, if this thing is handled right, and i think my increased business might warrant a double page, then." "but the paper will have to carry something about it. too many folks saw it happen." "just say that a crazy man tried to interrupt the lecture of professor andrew leon certain, the distinguished medical savant, and was locked up by the authorities." "but the knifing. how is the boy?" "somebody's been giving you the wrong tip. there wasn't any knife," replied the professor with a wink. "you may send me two hundred and fifty copies of the paper. and, by the way, do what you can to get that poor lunatic off easy, and i'll square the bills--with commission." "i'll see the justice first thing in the morning," said the editor with enthusiasm. "much obliged, professor certain. and the article will be all right. i'll show you a proof. it mightn't be a bad notion for you to drop in at the jail with me, and see neal, the man that stab--that interrupted the meeting, before he gets talking with any one else." "so it mightn't. but what about my leaving, now?" professor certain asked of the physician. "go ahead. i'll keep watch." shortly after the itinerant had gone out with the exponent of free and untrammeled journalism, the boy awoke and looked about with fevered anxiety for his father. the little nurse was beside him at once. "you mustn't wiggle around," she commanded. "do you want a drink?" gratefully he drank the water which she held to his lips. "where's my dad?" he asked. "he's gone out. he'll come back pretty soon. lie down." he sank back, fixing his eyes upon her. "will you stay with me till he comes?" she nodded. "does it hurt you much?" her cool and tiny fingers touched his forehead, soothingly. "you're very hot. i think you've got a little fever." "don't take your hand away." his eyes closed, but presently opened again. "i think you're very pretty," he said shyly. "do you? i like to have people think i'm pretty. uncle guardy scolds me for it. not really, you know, but just pretending. he says i'm vain." "is that your uncle, the gentleman that fixed my arm?" "yes. i call him uncle guardy because he's my guardian, too." "i like him. he looks good. but i like you better. i like you a lot." "everybody does," replied the girl with dimpling complacency. "they can't help it. it's because i'm me!" for a moment he brooded. "am i going to die?" he asked quite suddenly. "die? of course not." "would you be sorry if i did?" "yes. if you died you couldn't like me any more. and i want everybody to like me and think me pretty." "i'm glad i'm not. it would be tough on dad." "my uncle guardy thinks your father is a bad man," said the fairy, not without a spice of malice. up rose the patient from his pillow. "then i hate him. he's a liar. my dad is the best man in the world." a brighter hue than fever burnt in his cheeks, and his hand went to his shoulder. "i won't have his bandages on me," he cried. but she had thrown herself upon his arm, and pushed him back. "oh, don't! please don't," she besought. "uncle guardy told me to keep you perfectly quiet. and i've made you sit up--" "what's all this commotion?" demanded dr. elliot brusquely, from the door. "you said my father was a bad man," cried the outraged patient. "lie back, youngster." the physician's hand was gentle, but very firm. "i don't recall saying any such thing. where did you get it?" "i said you _thought_ he was a bad man," declared the midget girl. "i know you do. you wouldn't have spoken back to him down in the square if you hadn't." her uncle turned upon her a slow, cool, silent regard. "esmé, you talk too much," he said finally. "i'm a little ashamed of you, as a nurse. take your place there by the bedside. and you, young man, shut your ears and eyes and go to sleep." hardly had the door closed behind the autocrat of the sick-room, when his patient turned softly. "you're crying," he accused. "i'm not!" the denial was the merest gasp. the long lashes quivered with tears. "yes, you are. he was mean to you." "he's _never_ mean to me." the words came in a sobbing rush. "but he--he--stopped loving me just for that minute. and when anybody i love stops loving me i want to die!" the boy's brown hands crept timidly to her arm. "i like you awfully," he said. "and i'll never stop, not even for a minute!" "won't you?" again she was the child coquette. "but we're going away to-night. perhaps you won't see me any more." "oh, yes, i shall. i'll look for you until i find you." "i'll hide," she teased. "that won't matter, little girl." he repeated the form softly and drowsily. "little girl; little girl; i'd do anything in the world for you, little girl, if ever you asked me. only don't go away while i'm asleep." back of them the door had opened quietly and professor certain, who, with dr. elliot, had been a silent spectator of the little drama, now closed it again, withdrawing, on the further side, with his companion. "he'll sleep now," said the physician. "that's all he needs. hello! what's this?" in a corner of the sofa was a tiny huddle, outlined vaguely as human, under a faded shawl. drawing aside the folds, the quack disclosed a wild little face, framed in a mass of glowing red hair. "that hardscrabbler's young 'un," he said. "she was crying quietly to herself, in the darkness outside the jail, poor little tyke. so i picked her up, and" (with a sort of tender awkwardness) "she was glad to come with me. seemed to kind of take to me. kiddies generally do." "do they? that's curious." "i suppose you think so," replied the quack, without rancor. "what are you going to do with her?" "i'll see, later. at present i'm going to keep her here with us. she's only seven, and her mother's dead. are you staying here to-night?" "got to. missed my connection." "then at least you'll let me pay your hotel bill, if you won't take my money." "why, yes: i suppose so," said the other grudgingly. "i'll look at the boy in the morning. but he'll be all right. only, don't take up your itinerating again for a few days." "i'm through, i tell you. give me a growing city to settle in and i'll go in for the regular proprietary manufacturing game. know anything about worthington?" "yes." "pretty good, live town?" "first-class, and not too critical, i suppose, to accept your business," said dr. elliot dryly. "i'm on my way there now for a visit. well, i must get my little girl." the itinerant opened the door, looked, and beckoned. the boy lay on his pillow, the girl was curled in her chair, both fast asleep. their hands were lightly clasped. dr. elliot lifted his ward and carried her away. the itinerant, returning to the hardscrabbler girl, took her out to arrange the night's accommodation for her. so, there slept that night under one roof and at the charge of professor andrew l. certain, five human beings who, long years after, were destined to meet and mingle their fates, intricate, intimate strands in the pattern of human weal and woe. chapter ii our leading citizen the year of grace, , commended itself to dr. l. andré surtaine as an excellent time in which to be alive, rich, and sixty years old. thoroughly, keenly, ebulliently alive he was. thoroughly rich, also; and if the truth be told, rather ebulliently conscious of his wealth. you could see at a glance that he had paid no usurious interest to fate on his success; that his vigor and zest in life remained to him undiminished. vitality and a high satisfaction with his environment and with himself as well placed in it, radiated from his bulky and handsome person; but it was the vitality that impressed you first: impressed and warmed you; perhaps warned you, too, on shrewder observation. a gleaming personality, this. but behind the radiance one surmised fire. occasion given, dr. surtaine might well be formidable. the world had been his oyster to open. he had cleaved it wide. ill-natured persons hinted, in reference to his business, that he had used poison rather than the knife wherewith to loosen the stubborn hinges of the bivalve. money gives back small echo to the cries of calumny, however. and dr. surtaine's certina, that infallible and guaranteed blood-cure, eradicator of all known human ills, "famous across the map of the world," to use one of its advertising phrases, under the catchword of "professor certain's certina, the sure-cure" (for he preserved the old name as a trade-mark), had made a vast deal of money for its proprietor. worthington estimated his fortune at fifteen millions, growing at the rate of a million yearly, and was not preposterously far afield. in a city of two hundred thousand inhabitants, claimed (one hundred and seventy-five thousand allowed by a niggling and suspicious census), this is all that the most needy of millionaires needs. it was all that dr. surtaine needed. he enjoyed his high satisfaction as a hard-earned increment. something more than satisfaction beamed from his face this blustery march noon as he awaited the worthington train at a small station an hour up the line. he fidgeted like an eager boy when the whistle sounded, and before the cars had fairly come to a stop he was up the steps of the sleeper and inside the door. there rose to meet him a tall, carefully dressed and pressed youth, whose exclamation was evenly apportioned between welcome and surprise. "dad!" "boy-ee!" to the amusement of the other passengers, the two seized each other in a bear-hug. "oof!" panted the big man, releasing his son. "that's the best thing that's happened to me this year. george" (to the porter), "get me a seat. get us two seats together. aren't any? perhaps this gentleman," turning to the chair back of him, "wouldn't mind moving across the aisle until we get to worthington." "certainly not. glad to oblige," said the stranger, smiling. people usually were "glad to oblige" dr. surtaine whether they knew him or not. the man inspired good will in others. "it's nearly a year since i've set eyes on my son," he added in a voice which took the whole car into his friendly confidence; "and it seems like ten. how are you feeling, hal? you look chirp as a cricket." "couldn't possibly feel better, sir. where did you get on?" "here at state crossing. thought i'd come up and meet you. the office got on my nerves this morning. work didn't hold me worth a cent. i kept figuring you coming nearer and nearer until i couldn't stand it, so i banged down my desk, told my secretary that i was going to california on the night boat and mightn't be back till evening, hung the scrap-basket on the stenographer's ear when she tried to hold me up to sign some letters, jumped out of the fifth-story window, and here i am. i hope you're as tickled to see me as i am to see you." the young man's hand went out, fell with a swift movement, to touch his father's, and was as swiftly withdrawn again. "worthington's just waiting for you," the doctor rattled on. "you're put up at all the clubs. people you've never heard of are laying out dinners and dances for you. you're a distinguished stranger; that's what you are. welcome to our city and all that sort of thing. i'd like to have a brass band at the station to meet you, only i thought it might jar your quiet european tastes. eh? at that, i had to put the boys under bonds to keep 'em from decorating the factory for you." "you don't seem to have lost any of your spirit, dad," said the junior, smiling. "noticed that already, have you? well, i'm holding my own, boyee. up to date, old age hasn't scratched me with his claws to any noticeable extent--is that the way it goes?--see 'familiar quotations.' i'm getting to be a regular book-worm, hal. shakespeare, r.l.s., kipling, arnold bennett, hall caine--all the high-brows. and i _get_ 'em, too. soak 'em right in. i love it! tell me, who's this balzac? an agent was in yesterday trying to make me believe that he invented culture. what about him? i'm pretty hot on the culture trail. look out, or i'll overhaul you." "you won't have to go very far or fast. i've got only smatterings." but the boy spoke with a subdued complacency not wholly lost upon the shrewd father. "not so much that you'll think worthington dull and provincial?" "oh, i dare say i shall find it a very decent little place." but here hal touched another pride and loyalty, quite as genuine as that which dr. surtaine felt for his son. "little place!" he cried. "two hundred thousand of the livest people on god's earth. a gen-u-wine american city if there ever was one." "evidently it suits you, sir." "couldn't suit better if i'd had it made to order," chuckled the doctor. "and i did pretty near make it over to order. it was a dead-and-alive town when we opened up here. didn't care much about my business, either. now we're the biggest thing in town. why certina is the cross-mark that shows where worthington is on the map. the business is sim-plee booming." the word exploded in rapture. "nothing like it ever known in the proprietary trade. wait till you see the shop." "that will be soon, won't it, sir? i think i've loafed quite long enough." "you're only twenty-five," his father defended him. "it isn't as if you'd been idling. your four years abroad have been just so much capital. educational capital, i mean. i've got plenty of the other kind, for both of us. you don't need to go into the business unless you want to." "being an american, i suppose i've got to go to work at something." "not necessarily." "you don't want me to live on you all my life, though, i suppose." "well, i don't want you to want me to want you to," returned the other, laughing. "but there's no hurry." "to tell the truth, i'm rather bored with doing nothing. and if i can be of any use to you in the business--" "you're ready to resume the partnership," his father concluded the sentence for him. "that was the foundation of it all; the old days when i did the 'spieling' and you took in the dollars. how quick your little hands were! can you remember it? the smelly smoke of the torches, and the shadows chasing each other across the crowds below. and to think what has grown out of it. god, boyee! it's a miracle," he exulted. "it isn't very clear in my memory. i used to get pretty sleepy, i remember," said the son, smiling. "poor boyee! sometimes i hated the life, for you. but there was nobody to leave you with; and you were all i had. anyway, it's turned out well, hasn't it?" "that remains to be seen for me, doesn't it? i'm rather at the start of things." "most youngsters would be content with an unlimited allowance, and the world for a playground." "one gets tired of playing. _and_ of globe-trotting." "good! do you think you can make worthington feel like home?" "how can i tell, sir? i haven't spent two weeks altogether in the place since i entered college eight years ago." "did it ever strike you that i'd carefully planned to keep you away from here, and that our periods of companionship have all been abroad or at summer places?" "yes." "you've never spoken of it." "no." "good boy! now i'll tell you why. i wanted to be absolutely established before i brought you back here. not in business, alone. that came long ago. there have been obstacles, in other ways. they're all overcome. to-day we come pretty near to being king-pins in this town, you and i, hal. do you feel like a prince entering into his realm?" "rather more like a freshman entering college," said the other, laughing. "it isn't the town, it's the business that i have misgivings about." "misgivings? how's that?" asked the father quickly. "what i can do in it." "oh, that. my doubts are whether it's the best thing for you." "don't you want me to go into it, dad?" "of course i want you with me, boyee. but--well, frank and flat, i don't know whether it's genteel enough for you." "genteel?" the younger surtaine repeated the distasteful adjective with surprise. "some folks make fun of it, you know. it's the advertising that makes it a fair mark. 'certina,' they say. 'that's where he made his money. patent-medicine millions.' i don't mind it. but for you it's different." "if the money is good enough for me to spend, it's good enough for me to earn," said hal surtaine a little grandiloquently. "humph! well, the business is a big success, and i want you to be a big success. but that doesn't mean that i want to combine the two. isn't there anything else you've ever thought of turning to?" "i've got something of a leaning toward your profession, dad." "my prof--oh, you mean medicine." "yes." "nothing in it. doctors are a lot of prejudiced pedants and hypocrites. not one in a thousand is more than an inch wide. what started you on that?" "i hardly know. it was just a notion. i think the scientific and sociological side is what appeals to me. but my interest is only theoretical." "that's very well for a hobby. not as a profession. here we are, half an hour late, as usual." the sudden and violent bite of the brakes, a characteristic operation of that mummy among railroads, the mid-state and great muddy river, commonly known as the "mid-and-mud," flung forward in an involuntary plunge the incautious who had arisen to look after their things. hal surtaine found himself supporting the weight of a fortuitous citizen who had just made his way up the aisle. "thank you," said the stranger in a dry voice. "you're the prodigal son of whom we've heard such glowing forecast, i presume." "well met, mr. pierce," called dr. surtaine's jovial voice. "yes, that's my son, harrington, you're hanging to. hal, this is mr. elias m. pierce, one of the men who run worthington." releasing his burden hal acknowledged the introduction. elias m. pierce, receding a yard or so into perspective, revealed himself as a spare, middle-aged man who looked as if he had been hewn out of a block, square, and glued into a permanent black suit. under his palely sardonic eye hal felt that he was being appraised, and in none too amiable a spirit. "a favorite pleasantry of your father's, mr. surtaine," said pierce. "what became of douglas? oh, here he is." a clean-shaven, rather floridly dressed man came forward, was introduced to hal, and inquired courteously whether he was going to settle down in worthington. "probably depends on how well he likes it," cut in the dry mr. pierce. "you might help him decide. i'm sure william would be glad to have you lunch with him one day this week at the huron club, mr. surtaine." somewhat surprised and a little annoyed at this curiously vicarious suggestion of hospitality, the newcomer hesitated, although douglas promptly supported the offer. before he had decided what to reply, his father eagerly broke in. "yes, yes. you must go, hal," he said, apparently oblivious of the fact that he had not been included in the invitation. "i'll try to be there, myself," continued pierce, in a flat tone of condescension. "douglas represents me, however, not only legally but in other matters that i'm too busy to attend to." "mr. pierce is president of the huron club," explained dr. surtaine. "it's our leading social organization. you'll meet our best business men there." and hal had no alternative but to accept. here william douglas turned to speak to dr. surtaine. "the reverend norman hale has been looking for you. it is some minor hitch about that mission matter, i believe. just a little diplomacy wanted. he said he'd call to see you day after to-morrow." "meaning more money, i suppose," said dr. surtaine. then, more loudly: "well, the business can stand it. all right. send him along." with hal close on his heels he stepped from the car. but douglas, having the cue from his patron, took the younger man by the arm and drew him aside. "come over and meet some of our fair citizens," he said. "nothing like starting right." the pierce motor car, very large, very quietly complete and elegant, was waiting near at hand, and in it a prematurely elderly, subdued nondescript of a woman, and a pretty, sensitive, sensuous type of brunette, almost too well dressed. to mrs. pierce and miss kathleen pierce, hal was duly presented, and by them graciously received. as he stood there, bareheaded, gracefully at ease, smiling up into the interested faces of the two ladies, dr. surtaine, passing to his own car to await him, looked back and was warmed with pride and gratitude for this further honorarium to his capital stock of happiness, for he saw already in his son the assurance of social success, and, on the hour's reckoning, summed him up. and since we are to see much of harrington surtaine, in evil chance and good, and see him at times through the eyes of that shrewd observer and capitalizer of men, his father, the summing-up is worth our present heed, for all that it is to be considerably modified in the mind of its proponent, as events develop. this, then, is dr. surtaine's estimate of his beloved "boyee," after a year of separation. "a little bit of a prig. a little bit of a cub. just a _little_ mite of a snob, too, maybe. but the right, solid, clean stuff underneath. and my son, thank god! _my_ son all through." chapter iii esmÉ hal saw her first, vivid against the lifeless gray of the cement wall, as he turned away from the pierce car. a little apart from the human current she stood, still and expectant. as if to point her out as the chosen of gods and men, the questing sun, bursting in triumph through a cloud-rift, sent a long shaft of gold to encompass and irradiate her. to the end, whether with aching heart or glad, hal was to see her thus, in flashing, recurrent visions; a slight, poised figure, all gracious curves and tender consonances, with a cluster of the trailing arbutus, that first-love of the springtide, clinging at her breast. the breeze bore to him the faint, wild, appealing fragrance which is the very breath and soul of the blossom's fairy-pink. half-turning, she had leaned a little, as a flower leans, to the warmth of the sunlight, uplifting her face for its kiss. she was not beautiful in any sense of regularity of outline or perfection of feature, so much as lovely, with the lustrous loveliness which defiantly overrides the lapse of line and proportion, and imperiously demands the homage of every man born of woman. chill analysis might have judged the mouth, with its delicate, humorous quirk at the corners, too large; the chin too broad, for all its adorable baby dimple; the line of the nose too abrupt, the wider contours lacking something of classic exactitude. but the chillest analysis must have warmed to enthusiasm at the eyes; wide-set, level, and of a tawny hazel, with strange, wine-brown lights in their depths, to match the brownish-golden sheen of the hair, where the sun glinted from it. as it were a higher power of her physical splendor, there emanated from the girl an intensity and radiance of joy in being alive and lovely. involuntarily hal surtaine paused as he approached her. her glance fell upon him, not with the impersonal regard bestowed upon a casual passer-by, but with an intent and brightening interest,--the thrill of the chase, had he but known it,--and passed beyond him again. but in that brief moment, the conviction was borne in upon him that sometime, somewhere, he had looked into those eyes before. puzzled and eager he still stared, until, with a slight flush, she moved forward and passed him. at the head of the stairs he saw her greet a strongly built, grizzled man; and then became aware of his father beckoning to him from the automobile. "bewitched, hal?" said dr. surtaine as his son came to him. "was i staring very outrageously, sir?" "why, you certainly looked interested," returned the older man, laughing. "but i don't think you need apologize to the young lady. she's used to attention. rather lives on it, i guess." the tone jarred on hal. "i had a queer, momentary feeling that i'd seen her before," he said. "don't you recall where?" "no," said hal, startled. "_do_ i know her?" "apparently not," taunted the other good-humoredly. "you should know. hers is generally considered a face not difficult to remember." "impossible to forget!" "in that case it must be that you haven't seen her before. but you will again. and, then look out, boy-ee. danger ahead!" "how's that, sir?" "you'll see for yourself when you meet her. half of the boys in town are crazy over her. she eats 'em alive. can't you tell the man-killer type when you see it?" "oh, that's all in the game, isn't it?" returned hal lightly. "so long as she plays fair. and she looks like a girl of breeding and standards." "all of that. esmé elliot is a lady, so far as that goes. but--well, i'm not going to prejudice you. here she comes now." "who is it with her?" "her uncle, dr. elliot. he doesn't altogether approve of us--me, i mean." uncle and niece were coming directly toward them now, and hal watched her approach with a thrill of delight in her motion. it was a study in harmonies. she moved like a cloud before the wind; like a ship upon the high seas; like the swirl of swift waters above hidden depths. as the pair passed to their car, which stood next to dr. surtaine's, the girl glanced up and nodded, with a brilliant smile, to the doctor, who returned to the salutation an extra-gallant bow. "you seem to be friends," commented hal, somewhat amused. "that was more for you than for me. but the fair esmé can always spare one of those smiles for anything that wears trousers." hal moved uneasily. he felt a sense of discord. as he cast about for a topic to shift to, the elliot car rolled ahead slowly, and once more he caught the woodsy perfume of the pink bloom. strangely and satisfyingly to his quickened perceptions, it seemed to express the quality of the wearer. despite her bearing of worldly self-assurance, despite the atmosphere of modishness about her, there was in her charm something wild and vivid, vernal and remote, like the arbutus which, alone among flowers, keeps its life-secret virgin and inviolate, resisting all endeavors to make it bloom except in its own way and in its own chosen places. chapter iv the shop certina had found its first modest home in worthington on a side street. as the business grew, the staid tenement which housed it expanded and drew to itself neighboring buildings, until it eventually gave way to the largest, finest, and most up-to-date office edifice in the city. none too large, fine, or modern was this last word in architecture for the triumphant nostrum and the minor medical enterprises allied to it. for though certina alone bore the name and spread the fame and features of its inventor abroad in the land, many lesser experiments had bloomed into success under the fertilizing genius of the master-quack. inanimate machinery, when it runs sweetly, gives forth a definite tone, the bee-song of work happily consummated. so this great human mechanism seemed, to harrington surtaine as he entered the realm of its activities, moving to music personal to itself. through its wide halls he wandered, past humming workrooms, up spacious stairways, resonant to the tread of brisk feet, until he reached the fifth floor where cluster the main offices. here through a succession of open doors he caught a glimpse of the engineer who controlled all these lively processes, leaning easily back from his desk, fresh, suavely groomed, smiling, an embodiment of perfect satisfaction. before dr. surtaine lay many sheaves of paper, in rigid order. a stenographer sat in a far corner, making notes. from beyond a side door came the precise, faint clicking of a typewriter. the room possessed an atmosphere of calm and poise; but not of restfulness. at once and emphatically it impressed the visitor with a sense that it was a place where things were done, and done efficiently. upon his son's greeting, dr. surtaine whirled in his chair. "come down to see the old slave at work, eh?" he said. "yes, sir." hal's hand fell on the other's shoulder, and the doctor's fingers went up to it for a quick pressure. "i thought i'd like to see the wheels go 'round." "you've come to the right spot. this is the good old cash-factory, and yours truly is the man behind the engine. the state, i'm it, as napoleon said to louis the quince. where mcbeth sits is the head of the table." "in other words, a one-man business." "that's the secret. there's nothing in this shop that i can't do, and don't do, every now and then, just to keep my hand in. i can put more pull into an ad. to-day than the next best man in the business. modesty isn't my besetting sin, you see, hal." "why should it be? every brick in this building would give the lie to it." "say every frame on these four walls," suggested dr. surtaine with an expansive gesture. following this indication, hal examined the decorations. on every side were ordinary newspaper advertisements, handsomely mounted, most of them bearing dates on brass plates. here and there appeared a circular, or a typed letter, similarly designated. above dr. surtaine's desk was a triple setting, a small advertisement, a larger one, and a huge full-newspaper-page size, each embodying the same figure, that of a man half-bent over, with his hand to his back and a lamentable expression on his face. certain strongly typed words fairly thrust themselves out of the surrounding print: "pain--back--take care--means something--your kidneys." and then in dominant presentment-- certina cures. "what do you think of old lame-boy?" asked dr. surtaine. "from an æsthetic point of view?" "never mind the æsthetics of it. 'handsome is as handsome does.'" "what has that faded beauty done, then?" "carried many a thousand of our money to bank for us, boyee. that's the ad. that made the business." "did you design it?" "every word and every line, except that i got a cheap artist to touch up the drawing a little. then i plunged. when that copy went out, we had just fifty thousand dollars in the world, you and i. before it had been running three months, i'd spent one hundred thousand dollars more than we owned, in the newspapers, and had to borrow money right and left to keep the manufacturing and bottling plant up to the orders. it was a year before we could see clear sailing, and by that time we were pretty near quarter of a million to the good. talk about ads. that pull! it pulled like a mule-team and a traction engine and a fifty-cent painless dentist all in one. i'm still using that copy, in the kidney season." "do kidneys have seasons?" "kidney troubles do." "i'd have thought such diseases wouldn't depend on the time of year." "maybe they don't, actually," admitted the other. "maybe they're just crowded out of the public mind by the pressure of other sickness in season, like rheumatism in the early winter, and pneumonia in the late. but there's no doubt that the kidney season comes in with the changes of the spring. that's one of my discoveries, too. i tell you, boyee, i've built my success on things like that. it's psychology: that's what it is. that's what you've got to learn, if you're going into the concern." "i'm ready, dad. it sounds interesting. more so than i'd have thought." "interesting! it's the very heart and core of the trade." dr. surtaine leaned forward, to tap with an earnest finger on his son's knee, a picture of expository enthusiasm. "here's the theory. you see, along about march or april people begin to get slack-nerved and out-of-sortsy. they don't know what ails 'em, but they think there's something. well, one look at that ad. sets 'em wondering if it isn't their kidneys. after wonder comes worry. he's the best little worrier in the trade, old lame-boy is. he just pesters folks into taking proper care of themselves. they get certina, and we get their dollars. and they get their money's worth, too," he added as an afterthought for hal's benefit, "for it's a mighty good thing to have your kidneys tonicked up at this time of year." "but, dad," queried hal, with an effort of puzzled reminiscence, "in the old days certina wasn't a kidney remedy, was it?" "not specially. it's always been _good_ for the kidneys. good for everything, for that matter. besides, the formula's been changed." "changed? but the formula's the vital thing, isn't it?" "yes, yes. of course. certainly it's the vital thing: certainly. but, you see,--well,--new discoveries in medicine and that sort of thing." "you've put new drugs in?" "yes: i've done that. buchu, for instance. that's supposed to be good for the kidneys. dropped some things out, too. morphine got sort of a bad name. the muckrakers did that with their magazine articles." "of course i don't pretend to know about such things, dad. but morphine seems a pretty dangerous thing for people to take indiscriminately." "well, it's out. there ain't a grain of it in certina to-day." "i'm glad of it." "oh, i don't know. it's useful in its place. for instance, you can't run a soothing-syrup without it. but when the pure food law compelled us to print the amount of morphine on the label, i just made up my mind that i'd have no government interference in the certina business, so i dropped the drug." "did the law hurt our trade much?" "not so far as certina goes. i'm not even sure it didn't help. you see, now we can print 'guaranteed under the u.s. food and drugs act' on every bottle. in fact we're required to." "what does the guaranty mean?" "that whatever statement may be on the label is accurate. that's all. but the public takes it to mean that the government officially guarantees certina to do everything we claim for it," chuckled dr. surtaine. "it's a great card. we've done more business under the new formula than we ever did under the old." "what is the formula now?" "prying into the secrets of the trade?" chuckled the elder man. "but if i'm coming into the shop, to learn--" "right you are, boyee," interrupted his father buoyantly. "there's the formula for making profits." he swept his hand about in a spacious circle, grandly indicating the advertisement-bedecked walls. "there's where the brains count. come along," he added, jumping up; "let's take a turn around the joint." every day, dr. surtaine explained to his son, he made it a practice to go through the entire plant. "it's the only way to keep a business up to mark. besides, i like to know my people." evidently he did know his people and his people knew and strongly liked him. so much hal gathered from the offhand and cheerily friendly greetings which were exchanged between the head of the vast concern and such employees, important or humble, as they chanced to meet in their wanderings. first they went to the printing-plant, the certina company doing all its own printing; then to what dr. surtaine called "the literary bureau." "three men get out all our circulars and advertising copy," he explained in an aside. "one of 'em gets five thousand a year; but even so i have to go over all his stuff. if i could teach him to write ads. like i do it myself, i'd pay him ten thousand--yes, twenty thousand. i'd have to, to keep him. the circulars they do better; but i edit those, too. what about that name for the new laxative pills, con? hal, i want you to meet mr. conover, our chief ad.-man." conover, a dapper young man with heavy eye-glasses, greeted hal with some interest, and then turned to the business in hand. "what'd you think of 'anti-pellets'?" he asked. "anti, opposed to, you know. in the sub-line, tell what they're opposed to: indigestion, appendicitis, and so on." "don't like it," returned dr. surtaine abruptly. "anti-ralgia's played that to death. lemme think, for a moment." down he plumped into conover's chair, seized a pencil and made tentative jabs at a sheet of paper. "pellets, pellets," he muttered. then, in a kind of subdued roar, "i've got it! i've got it, con! 'pro-pellets.' tell people what they're for, not what they're against. besides, the name has got the idea of pro-pulsion. see? pro-pellets, pro-pel!" his big fist shot forward like a piston-rod. "just the idea for a laxative. eh?" "fine!" agreed conover, a little ruefully, but with genuine appreciation of the fitness of the name. "i wish i'd thought of it." "you did--pretty near. anyway, you made me think of it. anti-pellets, pro-pellets: it's just one step. like as not you'd have seen it yourself if i hadn't butted in. now, go to it, and figure out your series on that." with kindly hands he pushed conover back into his chair, gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder, and passed on. hal began to have an inkling of the reasons for his father's popularity. "have we got other medicines besides certina?" he asked. "bless you, yes! this little laxative pills business i took over from a concern that didn't have the capital to advertise it. across the hall there is the sure soother department. that's a teething syrup: does wonders for restless babies. on the floor below is the cranicure mixture for headaches, rub-it-in balm for rheumatism and bruises, and a couple of small side issues that we're not trying to push much. we're handling stomachine and relief pills from here, but the pills are made in cincinnati, and we market 'em under another trade name." "stomachine is for stomach troubles, i assume," said hal. "what are the relief pills?" "oh, a female remedy," replied his father carelessly. "quite a booming little trade, too. take a look at the certina collection of testimonials." in a room like a bank vault were great masses of testimonial letters, all listed and double-catalogued by name and by disease. "genuine. provably genuine, every one. there's romance in some of 'em. and gratitude; good lord! sometimes when i look 'em over, i wonder i don't run for president of the united states on a certina platform." from the testimonial room they went to the art department where dr. surtaine had some suggestions to make as to bill-board designs. "you'll never get another puller like old lame-boy," hal heard the head designer say with a chuckle, and his father reply: "if i could i'd start another proprietary as big as certina." "where does that lead to?" inquired hal, as they approached a side passage sloping slightly down, and barred by a steel door. "the old building. the manufacturing department is over there." "compounding the medicine, you mean?" "yes. bottling and shipping, too." "aren't we going through?" "why, yes: if you like. you won't find much to interest you, though." nor, to hal's surprise, did dr. surtaine himself seem much concerned with this phase of the business. apparently his hand was not so close in control here as in the other building. the men seemed to know him less well. "all this pretty well runs itself," he explained negligently. "don't you have to keep a check on the mixing, to make sure it's right?" "oh, they follow the formula. no chance for error." they walked amidst chinking trucks, some filled with empty, some with filled and labeled bottles, until they reached the carton room where scores of girls were busily inserting the bottles, together with folded circulars and advertising cards, into pasteboard boxes. at the far end of this room a pungent, high-spiced scent, as of a pickle-kitchen with a fortified odor underlying it, greeted the unaccustomed nose of the neophyte. "good!" he sniffed. "how clean and appetizing it smells!" enthusiasm warmed the big man's voice once more. "just what it is, too!" he exclaimed. "now you've hit on the second big point in certina's success. it's easy to take. what's the worst thing about doctors' doses? they're nasty. the very thought of 'em would gag a cat. tell people that here's a remedy better than the old medicine and pleasant to the taste, and they'll take to it like ducks to water. certina is the first proprietary that ever tasted good. next to old lame-boy, it's my biggest idea." "are we going into the mixing-room?" asked his son. "if you like. but you'll see less than you smell." so it proved. a heavy, wet, rich vapor shrouded the space about a huge cauldron, from which came a sound of steady plashing. presently an attendant gnome, stripped to the waist, appeared, nodded to dr. surtaine, called to some one back in the mist, and shortly brought hal a small glass brimming with a pale-brown liquid. "just fresh," he said. "try it." "my kidneys are all right," protested hal. "i don't need any medicine." "take it for a bracer. it won't hurt you," urged the gnome. hal looked at his father, and, at his nod, put his lips to the glass. "why, it tastes like spiced whiskey!" he cried. "not so far out of the way. columbian spirits, caramel, cinnamon and cardamom, and a touch of the buchu. good for the blues. finish it." hal did so and was aware of an almost instantaneous glow. "strong stuff, sir," he said to his father as they emerged into a clearer atmosphere. "they like it strong," replied the other curtly. "i give 'em what they like." the attendant gnome followed. "mr. dixon was looking for you, dr. surtaine. here he comes, now." "dixon's our chief chemist," explained dr. surtaine as a shabby, anxious-looking man ambled forward. "we're having trouble with that last lot of cascara, sir," said he lugubriously. "in the number four?" "yes, sir. it don't seem to have any strength." "substitute senna." so offhand was the tone that it sounded like a suggestion rather than an order. as the latter, however, the chemist contentedly took it. "it'll cost less," he observed; "and i guess it'll do the work just as well." to hal it seemed a somewhat cavalier method of altering a medical formula. but his mind, accustomed to easy acceptance of the business which so luxuriously supplied his wants, passed the matter over lightly. "first-rate man, dixon," remarked dr. surtaine as they passed along. "college-bred, and all that. boozes, though. i only pay him twenty-five a week, and he's mighty glad to get it." on the way back to the offices, they traversed the checking and accounting rooms, the agency department, the great rows of desks whereat the shipping and mailing were looked after, and at length stopped before the door of a small office occupied by a dozen women. one of these, a full-bosomed, slender, warm-skinned girl with a wealth of deep-hued, rippling red hair crowning her small, well-poised head, rose and came to speak to dr. surtaine. "did you get the message i sent you about letter number seven?" she asked. "hello, milly," greeted the presiding genius, pleasantly. "just what was that about number seven?" "it isn't getting results." "no? let's see it." dr. surtaine was as interested in this as he had been casual about the drug alteration. "i don't think it's personal enough," pursued the girl, handing him a sheet of imitation typewriter print. "oh, you don't," said her employer, amused. "maybe you could better it." "i have," said the girl calmly. "you always tell us to make suggestions. mine are on the back of the paper." "good for you! hal, here's the prettiest girl in the shop, and about the smartest. milly, this is my boy." the girl looked up at hal with a smile and brightened color. he was suddenly interested and appreciative to see to what a vivid prettiness her face was lighted by the raised glance of her swift, gray-green eyes. "are you coming into the business, mr. surtaine?" she asked composedly, and with almost as proprietary an air as if she had said "our business." "i don't know. is it the sort of business you would advise a rather lazy person to embark in, miss--" "neal," she supplied; adding, with an illustrative glance around, upon her busy roomful, all sorting and marking correspondence, "you see, i only give advice by letter." she turned away to answer one of the subordinates, and, at the same time, dr. surtaine was called aside by a man with a shipping-bill. looking down the line of workers, hal saw that each one was simply opening, reading, and marking with a single stroke, the letters from a distributing groove. to her questioner milly neal was saying, briskly: "that's three and seven. can't you see, she says she has spots before her eyes. that's stomach. and the lameness in the side is kidneys. mark it 'three pass to seven.' there's a combination form for that." "what branch of the work is this?" asked hal, as she lifted her eyes to his again. "symptom correspondence. this is the sorting-room." "please explain. i'm a perfect greenhorn, you know." "you've seen the ads. of course. nobody could help seeing them. they all say, 'write to professor certain'--the trade name, you know. it's the regular stock line, but it does bring in the queries. here's the afternoon mail, now." hundreds upon hundreds of letters came tumbling from a bag upon the receiving-table. all were addressed to "prof." or "dr." certain. "how can my father hope to answer all those?" cried hal. the girl surveyed him with a quaint and delicious derision. "he? you don't suppose he ever sees them! what are _we_ here for?" "you do the answering?" "practically all of it, by form-letters turned out in the printing department. for instance, letter one is coughs and colds; two, headaches; three, stomach; and so on. as soon as a symp-letter is read the girl marks it with the form-letter number, underscores the address, and it goes across to the letter room where the right answer is mailed, advising the prospect to take certina. orders with cash go direct to the shipping department. if the symp-writer wants personal advice that the form-letters don't give, i send the inquiry upstairs to dr. de vito. he's a regular graduate physician who puts in half his time as our medical adviser. we can clear up three thousand letters a day, here." "i can readily see that my father couldn't attend to them personally," said hal, smiling. "and it's just as good this way. certina is what the prospects want and need. it makes no difference who prescribes it. this is the chief's own device for handling the correspondence." "the chief?" "your father. we all call him that, all the old hands." hal's glance skimmed over the fresh young face, and the brilliant eyes. "you wouldn't call yourself a very old hand, miss neal." "seven years i've worked for the chief, and i never want to work in a better place. he's been more than good to me." "because you've deserved it, young woman," came the doctor's voice from behind hal. "that's the one and only reason. i'm a flint-livered old divvle to folks that don't earn every cent of their wages." "don't you believe him, mr. surtaine," controverted the girl, earnestly. "when one of my girls came down last year with tuber--" "whoof! whoof! whoof!" interrupted the big man, waving his hands in the air. "stop it! this is no experience meeting. milly, you're right about this letter. it's the confidential note that's lacking. it'll work up all right along the line of your suggestion. i'll have to send hal to you for lessons in the business." "miss neal would have to be very patient with my stupidity." "i don't think it would be hard to be patient with you," she said softly; and though her look was steady he saw the full color rise in her cheeks, and, startled, felt an answering throb in his pulses. "but you mustn't flirt with her, hal," warned the old quack, with a joviality that jarred. uncomfortably conscious of himself and of the girl's altered expression, hal spoke a hasty word or two of farewell, and followed his father out into the hallway. but the blithe and vivid femininity of the young expert plucked at his mind. at the bend of the hall, he turned with half a hope and saw her standing at the door. her look was upon him, and it seemed to him to be both troubled and wistful. chapter v the scion to harrington surtaine, life had been a game with easy rules. certain things one must not do. decent people didn't do them. that's all there was to that. in matters of morals and conduct, he was guided by a natural temperance and an innate sense of responsibility to himself. difficult questions had not come up in his life. consequently he had not found the exercise of judgment troublesome. his tendency, as regarded his own affairs, was to a definite promptness of decision, and there was an end of the matter. others he seldom felt called upon to judge, but if the instance were ineluctable, he was prone to an amiable generosity. ease of living does not breed in the mind a strongly defined philosophy. all that young mr. surtaine required of his fellow beings was that they should behave themselves with a due and respectable regard to the rights of all in general and of himself in particular--and he would do the same by them. rather a pallid attenuation of the golden rule; but he had thus far found it sufficient to his existence. into this peaceful world-scheme intruded, now, a disorganizing factor. he had brought it home with him from his visit to the "shop." an undefined but pervasive distaste for the vast, bustling, profitable certina business formed the nucleus of it. as he thought it over that night, amidst the heavily ornate elegance of the great bedroom, which, with its dressing-room and bath, his father had set aside for his use in the surtaine mansion, he felt in the whole scheme of the thing a vague offense. the air which he had breathed in those spacious halls of trade had left a faintly malodorous reminiscence in his nostrils. one feature of his visit returned insistently to his mind: the contrast between the semi-contemptuous carelessness exhibited by his father toward the processes of compounding the cure and the minute and insistent attention given to the methods of expounding it. was the advertising really of so much more import than the medicine itself? if so, wasn't the whole affair a matter of selling shadow rather than substance? but it is not in human nature to view with too stern a scrutiny a business which furnishes one's easeful self with all the requisites of luxury, and that by processes of almost magic simplicity. hal reflected that all big businesses doubtless had their discomforting phases. he had once heard a lecturing philosopher express a doubt as to whether it were possible to defend, ethically, that prevalent modern phenomenon, the millionaire, in any of his manifestations. by the counsel of perfection this might well be true. but who was he to judge his father by such rigorous standards? of the medical aspect of the question he could form no clear judgment. to him the patent medicine trade was simply a part of the world's business, like railroading, banking, or any other form of merchandising. his own precocious commercial experience, when, as a boy, he had played his little part in the barter and trade, had blinded him on that side. nevertheless, his mind was not impregnably fortified. old lame-boy, bearer of dollars to the bank, loomed up, a disturbing figure. then, from a recess in his memory, there popped out the word "genteel." his father had characterized the certina business as being, possibly, not sufficiently "genteel" for him. he caught at the saving suggestion. doubtless that was the trouble. it was the blatancy of the business, not any evil quality inherent in it, which had offended him. kindest and gentlest of men and best of fathers as dr. surtaine was, he was not a paragon of good taste; and his business naturally reflected his personality. even this was further than hal had ever gone before in critical judgment. but he seized upon the theory as a defense against further thought, and, having satisfied his self-questionings with this sop, he let his mind revert to his trip through the factory. it paused on the correspondence room and its attractive forewoman. "she seemed a practical little thing," he reflected. "i'll talk to her again and get her point of view." and then he wondered, rather amusedly, how much of this self-suggestion arose from a desire for information, and how much was inspired by a memory of her haunting, hungry eyes. on the following morning he kept away from the factory, lunched at the huron club with william douglas, elias m. pierce, who had found time to be present, and several prominent citizens whom he thought quite dully similar to each other; and afterward walked to the certina building to keep an appointment with its official head. "been feeding with our representative citizens, eh?" his father greeted him. "good! meantime the old man grubbed along on a bowl of milk and a piece of apple pie, at a hurry-up lunch-joint. good working diet, for young or old. besides, it saves time." "are you as busy as all that, dad?" "pretty busy this morning, because i've had to save an hour for you out of this afternoon. we'll take it right now if you're ready." "quite ready, sir." "hal, where's europe?" "europe? in the usual place on the map, i suppose." "you didn't bring it back with you, then?" "not a great deal of it. they mightn't have let it through the customs." dr. surtaine snapped a rubber band from a packet of papers lying on his desk. "considering that you seem to have bought it outright," he said, twinkling, "i thought you might tell me what you intend doing with it. there are the bills." "have i gone too heavy, sir?" asked hal. "you've never limited me, and i supposed that the business--" "the business," interrupted his father arrogantly, "could pay those bills three times over in any month. that isn't the point. the point is that you've spent something more than forty-eight thousand dollars this last year." hal whistled ruefully. "call it an even fifty," he said. "i've made a little, myself." "no! have you? how's that?" "while i was in london i did a bit of writing; sketches of queer places and people and that sort of thing, and had pretty good luck selling 'em. one fellow i know there even offered me a job paragraphing. that's like our editorial writing, you know." "fine! that makes me feel easier. i was afraid you might be going soft, with so much money to spend." "how i ever spent that much--" "never mind that. it's gone. however, we'll try another basis. i'd thought of an allowance, but i don't quite like the notion. hal, i'm going to give you your own money." "my own money? i didn't know that i had any." "well, you have." "where did i get it?" "from our partnership. from the old days on the road." "rather an intangible fortune, isn't it?" "that old itinerant business was the nucleus of the certina of to-day. you had a profit-sharing right in that. you've still got it--in this. hal, i'm turning over to you to-day half a million dollars." "that's a lot of money, dad," said the younger man soberly. "the interest doesn't come to fifty thousand dollars a year, though." "more than half; and that's more than plenty." "well, i don't know. we'll try it. at any rate, it's your own. plenty more where it comes from, if you need extra." "i shan't. it's more than generous of you--" "not a bit of it. no more than just, boyee. so let the thanks go." "all right, sir. but--you know how i feel about it." "i guess i know just about how you and i feel toward each other on anything that comes up between us, boyee." there was a grave gentleness in dr. surtaine's tone. "well, there are the papers," he added, more briskly. "i haven't put all your eggs in one basket, you see." going over the certificates hal found himself possessed of fifty thousand dollars in the stock of the mid-state and great muddy railroad: an equal sum in the security power products company; twenty-five thousand each in the stock of the worthington trust company and the remsen savings bank; one hundred thousand in the certina company, and fifty thousand in three of its subsidiary enterprises. besides this, he found five check-books in the large envelope which contained his riches. "what are these, dad?" he asked. "cash on deposit in local and new york banks. you might want to do some investing of your own. or possibly you might see some business proposition you wanted to buy into." "i see some security power products company certificates. what is that?" "the local light, heat, and power corporation. it pays ten per cent. certina never pays less than twenty. the rest is all good for six, at least and the mid-and-mud averages eight. you've got upwards of thirty-seven thousand income there, not counting your deposits. while you're looking about, deciding what you're going to do, it'll be your own money and nobody else's that you're spending." "do you think many fathers would do this sort of thing, dad?" said hal warmly. "any sensible one would. i don't want to own you, boyee. i want you to own yourself. and to make yourself," he added slowly. "if i can make myself like you, dad--" "oh, i'm a good-enough piece of work, for my day and time," laughed the father. "but i want a fine finish on you. while you're looking around for your life-work, how about doing a little unpaid job for me?" "anything," cried hal. "just try me." "do you know what an old home week is?" "only what i read in to-day's paper announcing the preliminary committee." "that gave you enough idea. we make a big thing of old home week in worthington. this year it will be particularly big because it's the hundredth anniversary of the city. the president of the united states will be here. i'm to be chairman of the general committee, and i want you for my secretary." "nothing i'd like better, sir." "good! all the moneyed men in town will be on the committee. the work will put you in touch with the people who count. well, that settles our business. good luck to you in your independence, boyee." he touched a bell. "any one waiting to see me, jim?" he asked the attendant. "yes, sir. the reverend norman hale." "send him in." "shall i go, dad?" asked hal. "oh, you might take a little ramble around the shop. go anywhere. ask any questions of anybody. they all know you." at the door, hal passed a tall, sinewy young man with heavy brows and rebellious hair. a slight, humorous uptilt to his mouth relieved the face of impassivity and saved it from a too formal clericalism. the visitor was too deeply concerned with some consideration of his inner self to more than glance at hal, who heard dr. surtaine's hearty greeting through the closing door. "glad to see you, mr. hale. take a chair." the visitor bowed gravely and sat down. "you've come to see me about--?" "your subscription to the east end church club fund." "i am heartily in sympathy with the splendid work your church is doing in the--er--less salubrious parts of our city," said dr. surtaine. "doubtless," returned the young clergyman dryly. "seems to be saving his wind," thought dr. surtaine, a little uneasily. "i suppose it's a question," he continued, aloud, "of the disposition of the sum--" "no: it is not." if this bald statement required elucidation or expansion, its proponent didn't seem to realize the fact. he contemplated with minute scrutiny a fly which at that moment was alighting (in about the proportion of the great american eagle) upon the pained countenance of old lame-boy. "well?" queried the other, adding to himself, "what the devil ails the man!" the scrutinized fly rose, after the manner of its kind, and (now reduced to normal scale) touched lightly in its exploratory tour upon dr. surtaine's domed forehead. following it thus far, the visitor's gaze rested. dr. surtaine brushed off the insect. he could not brush off the regard. under it and his caller's continued silence he grew fidgety. "while i'm very glad," he suggested, "to give you what time you need--" "i've come here because i wanted to have this thing out with you face to face." "well, have it out," returned the other, smiling but wary. the young clergyman drew from his pocket a folded newspaper page to which was pinned an oblong of paper. this he detached and extended to the other. "what's that?" asked the doctor, making no motion to receive it, for he instantly recognized it. "your check." "you're returning it?" "without thanks." "you mean to turn down two thousand dollars!" demanded the other in slow incredulity. "exactly." "why?" "is that question asked in good faith?" "it is." "then you haven't seen the letter written by the superintendent of our sunday school to the certina company." "what kind of a letter?" "a testimonial letter--for which your two thousand dollars is payment, i suppose." "two thousand for a church testimonial!" dr. surtaine chuckled at his caller's innocence. "why, i wouldn't pay that for a united states senator. besides," he added virtuously, "certina doesn't buy its testimonials." "then it's an unfortunate coincidence that your check should have come right on top of mr. smithson's very ill-advised letter." by a regular follow-up mechanism devised by himself, every donation by dr. surtaine was made the basis of a shrewd attempt to extract from the beneficiary an indorsement of certina's virtues, or, if not that, of the personal character and professional probity of its proprietor. this is what had happened in the instance of the check to mr. hale's church, smithson being the medium through whom the attempt was made. the quack saw no occasion to explain this to his inquisitor. so he merely said: "i never saw any such letter," which was, in a literal sense, true. "nor will you know anything about it, i suppose, until the name of the church is spread broadcast through your newspaper advertising." now, it is a rule of the patent medicine trade never to advertise an unwilling testimonial because that kind always has a kick-back. hence:-- "oh, if you feel that way about it," said dr. surtaine disdainfully, "i'll keep it out of print." "and return it to me," continued the other, in a tone of calm sequentiality, which might represent either appeal, suggestion, or demand. "don't see the point," said the quack shortly. "since you do not intend to use it in your business, it can't be of any value to you," countered the other. "what's its value to you?" "in plain words, the honor of my church is involved. the check is a bribe. the letter is the graft." "nothing of the sort. you come here, a minister of the gospel," dr. surtaine reproached him sorrowfully, "and use hard words about a transaction that is perfectly straight business and happens every day." "not in my church." "it isn't your letter, anyhow. you didn't write it." "it is written on the official paper of the church. smithson told me so. he didn't understand what use would be made of it when he wrote it. take your check back, dr. surtaine, and give me the letter." "persistency, thy name is a jewel," said dr. surtaine with an air of scholarliness. "you win. the letter will be returned to-morrow. you'll take my word, i suppose?" "certainly; and thank you." "and now, suppose i offered to leave the check in your hands?" asked the doctor curiously. "i couldn't take it," came the decisive reply. "do you mind telling me why?" the visitor spread out upon the table the newspaper page which he had taken from his pocket. "this morning's 'clarion,'" he said. "so that's the trouble! you've been reading that blackmailing sheet. why, what's the 'clarion,' anyway? a scandal-mongering, yellow blatherskite, on its last legs financially. it's for sale to any bidder who'd be fool enough to put up money. the 'clarion' went after me because it couldn't get our business. it ain't any straighter than a corkscrew's shadow." "do i understand you to say that this attack is due to your refusal to advertise in the 'clarion'?" "that's it, to a t. and now, you see, mr. hale," continued dr. surtaine in a tone of long-suffering and dignified injury, "how believing all you see in print lures you into chasing after strange dogs." the visitor's mouth quivered a little at this remarkable paraphrase of the scripture passage; but he said gravely enough: "then we get back to the original charges, which the 'clarion' quotes from the 'church standard.'" "and there you are! up to three years ago the 'standard' took all the advertising we'd give them, and glad to get it. then it went daffy over the muckraking magazine exposures, and threw out all the proprietary copy. now nothing will do but it must roast its old patrons to show off its new virtue." "do you deny what the editor of the 'standard' said about certina?" dr. surtaine employed the stock answer of medical quackery when challenged on incontrovertible facts. "why, my friend," he said with elaborate carelessness, "if i tried to deny everything that irresponsible parties say about me, i wouldn't have any time left for business. well, well; plenty of other people will be glad of that two thousand. turn in the check at the cashier's window, please. good-day to you." the reverend norman hale retired, leaving the "clarion's" denunciation lying outspread on the table. meantime, wandering in the hallway, hal had encountered milly neal. "are you very busy, miss neal?" he asked. "not more than usual," she answered, regarding him with bright and kindly eyes. "did you want me?" "yes. i want to know some things about this business." "outside of my own department, i don't know much." "well; inside your own department, then. may i ask some questions?" with a businesslike air she consulted a tiny watch, then glanced toward a settee at the end of the hall. "i'll give you ten minutes," she announced. "suppose we sit down over there." "do the writers of those letters--symp-letters, i believe, you call them--" he began; "do they seem to get benefit out of the advice returned?" "what advice? to take certina? why, yes. most of 'em come back for more." "you think it good medicine for all that long list of troubles?" the girl's eyes opened wide. "of course it's a good medicine!" she cried. "do you think the chief would make any other kind?" "no; certainly not," he hastened to disclaim. "but it seems like a wide range of diseases to be cured by one and the same prescription." "oh, we've got other proprietaries, too," she assured him with her pretty air of partnership. "there's the stomachine, and the headache powders and the relief pills and the liniment; dr. surtaine runs 'em all, and every one's a winner. not that i keep much track of 'em. we only handle the certina correspondence in our room. i know what that can do. why, i take certina myself when there's anything the matter with me." "do you?" said hal, much interested. "well, you're certainly a living testimonial to its efficacy." "all the people in the shop take it. it's a good tonic, even when you're all right." the listener felt his vague uneasiness soothed. if those who were actually in the business had faith in the patent medicine's worth, it must be all that was claimed for it. "i firmly believe," continued the little loyalist, "that the chief has done more good and saved more lives than all the doctors in the country. i'd trust him further than any regular doctor i know, even if he doesn't belong to their medical societies and all that. they're jealous of him; that's what's the matter with them." "good for you!" laughed hal, feeling his doubts melt at the fire of her enthusiasm. "you're a good rooter for the business." "so's the whole shop. i guess your father is the most popular employer in worthington. have you decided to come into the business, mr. surtaine?" "do you think i'd make a valuable employee, miss milly?" he bantered. but to milly neal the subject of the certina factory admitted of no jocularity. she took him under advisement with a grave and quaint dubiety. "have you ever worked?" "oh, yes; i'm not wholly a loafer." "for a living, i mean." "unfortunately i've never had to." "how old are you?" "twenty-five." "i don't believe i'd want you in my department, if it was up to me," she pronounced. "do you think i wouldn't be amenable to your stern discipline?" still she refused to meet him on his ground of badinage. "it isn't that. but i don't think you'd be interested enough to start in at the bottom and work up." "perhaps you're right, miss neal," said hal, a little startled by the acuteness of her judgment, and a little piqued as well. "though you condemn me to a life of uselessness on scant evidence." she went scarlet. "oh, please! you know i didn't mean that. but you seem too--too easy-going, too--" "too ornamental to be useful?" suddenly she stamped her foot at him, flaming into a swift exasperation. "you're laughing at me!" she accused. "i'm going back to my work. i won't stay and be made fun of." then, in another and rather a dismayed tone, "oh, i'm forgetting about your being the chief's son." hal jumped to his feet. "please promise to forget it when next we meet," he besought her with winning courtesy. "you've been a kind little friend and adviser. and i thank you for what you have said." "not at all," she returned lamely, and walked away, her face still crimson. returning to the executive suite, the young scion found his father immersed in technicalities of copy with the second advertising writer. "sit down, boyee," said he. "i'll be through in a few minutes." and he resumed his discussion of "black-face," " -point," "indents," "boxes," and so on. left to his own devices hal turned idly to the long table. from the newspaper which the reverend norman hale had left, there glared up at him in savage black type this heading:-- certina a fake _religious editor shows up business and professional_ _methods of dr. l. andré surtaine_ the article was made up of excerpts from a religious weekly's exposé, interspersed with semi-editorial comment. as he skimmed it, hal's wrath and loyalty waxed in direct ratio. malice was obvious in every line, to the incensed reader. but the cause and purpose were not so clear. as he looked up, brooding upon it, he caught his father's eye. "been reading that slush, hal?" "yes, sir. of course it's all a pack of lies. but what's the reason for it?" "blackmail, son." "do they expect to get money out of you this way?" "no. that isn't it. i've always refused to have any business dealings with 'em, and this is their way of revenge." "but i didn't know you advertised certina in the local papers." "we don't. proprietaries don't usually advertise in their own towns. we're so well known at home that we don't have to. but some of the side lines, like the relief pills, that go out under another trade name, use space in the worthington papers. the 'clarion' isn't getting that copy, so they're sore." "can't you sue them for libel, dad?" "hardly worth while. decent people don't read the 'clarion' anyway, so it can't hurt much. it's best just to ignore such things." "something ought to be done about it," declared hal angrily. stuffing the paper into his pocket he took his wrath out into the open air. hard and fast he walked, but the farther he went the hotter burned his ire. there was in harrington surtaine a streak of the romantic. his inner world was partly made up of such chimerical notions as are bred in a lively mind, not in very close touch with the world of actualities, by a long course of novel-reading and theater-going. deep within him stirred a conviction that there was a proper and suitable, nay, an almost obligatory, method made and provided for just such crises as this: something that a keen-spirited and high-bred youth ought to do about it. suddenly it came to him. young surtaine returned home with his resolve taken. in the morning he would fare forth, a modern knight redressing human wrongs, and lick the editor of the "clarion." overnight young mr. surtaine revised his project. horsewhipping would be no more than the offending editor deserved. however, he should have his chance. let him repent and retract publicly, and the castigation should be remitted. forthwith the avenger sat him down to a task of composition. the apology which, after sundry corrections and emendations, he finally produced in fair copy, was not alone complete and explicit: it was fairly abject. in such terms might a confessed and hopeless criminal cast himself desperately upon the mercy of the court. previsioning this masterly _apologium_ upon the first page of the morrow's "clarion,"--or perhaps at the top of the editorial columns,--its artificer thrilled with the combined pride of authorship and poetic justice. on the walls of the commodious room which had been set aside in the surtaine mansion for the young master's study hung a plaited dog-whip. the agent of just reprisals curled this neatly inside his overcoat pocket and set forth upon his errand. it was then ten o'clock in the morning. now, in hunting the larger fauna of the north american continent with a dog-whip, it is advantageous to have some knowledge of the game's habits. mr. harrington surtaine's first error lay in expecting to find the editorial staff of a morning newspaper on duty in the early forenoon. so much a sweeper, emerging from a pile of dust, communicated to him across a railing, further volunteering that three o'clock would be a well-chosen hour for return, as the boss would be less pressed upon by engagements then, perhaps, than at other hours. in the nature of things, the long delay might well have cooled the knightliest ardor. but as he departed from the office, mr. surtaine took with him a copy of that day's "clarion" for perusal, and in its pages discovered a "follow-up" of the previous day's outrage. back home he went, and added to his literary effort a few more paragraphs wherein the editorial "we" more profoundly cringed, cowered, and crawled in penitential abasement. despite the relish of the words, hal rather hoped that the editor would refuse to publish his masterpiece. he itched to use that whip. chapter vi launched for purposes of vital statistics, the head office boy of the worthington "daily clarion" was denominated reginald currier. as this chaste cognomen was artistically incompatible with his squint eye, his militant swagger, and a general bearing of unrepressed hostility toward all created beings, he was professionally known as "bim." journalism, for him, was comprised in a single tenet; that no visitor of whatsoever kind had or possibly could have any business of even remotely legitimate nature within the precincts of the "clarion" office. tradition of the place held that a dent in the wall back of his desk marked the termination of an argument in which reginald, all unwitting, had essayed to maintain his thesis against the lightweight champion of the state who had come to call on the sporting editor. there had been a lull in the activities of this minor cerberus when the light and swinging footfall of one coming up the dim stairway several steps at a time aroused his ready suspicions. he bristled forth to the rail to meet a tall and rather elegant young man whom he greeted with a growl to this effect: "hoojer wanter see?" "is the editor in?" "whajjer want uvvum?" the tall visitor stepped forward, holding out a card. "take this to him, please, and say that i'd like to see him at once." unwisely, reginald disregarded the card, which fluttered to the floor. more unwisely, he ignored a certain tensity of expression upon the face of his interlocutor. most unwisely he repeated, in his very savagest growl: "whajjer want uvvum, i said. didn' chu hear me?" graceful and effortless as the mounting lark, reginald currier rose and soared. when he again touched earth, it was only to go spinning into a far corner where he first embraced, then strove with and was finally tripped and thrown by a large and lurking waste-basket. somewhat perturbed, he extricated himself in time to see the decisive visitor disappear through an inner door. retrieving the crumpled and rejected card from its resting-place, he examined it with interest. the legend upon it was "mr. harrington surtaine." "huh!" grunted reginald currier; "i never seen _that_ in no sporting column." once within the sacred precincts, young mr. surtaine turned into an inner room, bumped against a man trailing a kite-tail of proof, who had issued from a door to the right, asked a question, got a response, and entered the editor's den. two littered desks made up the principal furniture of the place. impartially distributed between the further desk and a chair, the form of one lost in slumber sprawled. at the nearer one sat a dyspeptic man of middle age waving a heavy pencil above a galley proof. "are you the editor?" asked hal. "one editor. i'm mr. sterne. how the devil did you get in here?" "are you responsible for this?" hal held up the morning's clipping, headed "surtaine fakeries explained." "who are you?" asked sterne, nervously hitching in his chair. "i am harrington surtaine." the journalist whistled, a soft, long-drawn note. "dr. surtaine's son?" he inquired. "yes." "that's awkward." "not half as awkward as it's going to be unless you apologize privately and publicly." mr. sterne looked at him estimatingly, at the same time wadding up a newspaper clipping from the desk in front of him. this he cast at the slumberer with felicitous accuracy. "hoong!" observed that gentleman, starting up and caressing his cheek. "wake up, mac. here's a man from the trouble belt, with samples to show." the individual thus addressed slowly rose out of his chair, exhibiting a squat, gnarly figure surmounted by a very large head. hal's hand came up out of his pocket, with the dog-whip writhing unpleasantly after it. simultaneously, the ex-sleeper projected himself, without any particular violence but with astonishing quickness, between the caller and his prey. without at all knowing whence it was derived, hal became aware of a large, black, knobby stick, which it were inadequate to call a cane, in his new opponent's grasp. of physical courage there was no lack in the scion of the surtaine line. neither, however, was he wholly destitute of reasoning powers and caution. the figure before him was of an unquestionable athleticism; the weapon of obvious weight and fiber. the situation was embarrassing. "please don't lick the editor," said the interrupter of poetic justice good-humoredly. "appropriately framed and hung upon the wall, fifteen cents apiece. yah-ah-ah-oo!" he yawned prodigiously. "calm down," he added. hal stared at the squat and agile figure. "you're the office bully and bouncer, i suppose," he said. "mcguire ellis, _at_ your service. bounce only when compelled. otherwise peaceful. _and_ sleepy." "my business is with this man," said hal, indicating sterne. "put up your toy, then, and state it in words of one syllable." for a moment the visitor pondered, drawing the whip through his hands, uncertainly. "i'm not fool enough to go up against that war-club," he remarked. mr. mcguire ellis nodded approval. "first sensible thing i've heard you say," he remarked. "but neither"--here hal's jaw projected a little--"am i going to let this thing drop." "law?" inquired sterne. "if you think there's any libel in what the 'clarion' has said, ask your lawyer. what do you want, anyway?" thus recalled to the more pacific phase of his errand, hal produced his document. "if you've got an iota of decency or fairness about you, you'll print that," he said. sterne glanced through it swiftly. "nothing doing," he stated succinctly. "did dr. surtaine send you here with that thing?" "my father doesn't know that i'm here." "oho! so that's it. knight-errantry, eh? now, let me put this thing to you straight, mr. harrington surtaine. if your father wants to make a fair and decent statement, without abuse or calling names, over his own signature, the 'clarion' will run it, at fifty cents a word." "you dirty blackmailer!" said hal slowly. "hard names go with this business, my young friend," said the other coolly. "at present you've got me checked. but you don't always keep your paid bully with you, i suppose. one of these days you and i will meet--" "and you'll land in jail." "he talks awfully young, doesn't he?" said mr. ellis, shaking a solemn head. "as for blackmail," continued sterne, a bit eagerly, "there's nothing in that. we've never asked dr. surtaine for a dollar. he hasn't got a thing on us." "you never asked him for advertising either, i suppose," said hal bitterly. "only in the way of business. just as we go out after any other advertising." "if he had given you his ads.--" "oh, i don't say that we'd have gone after him if he'd been one of our regular advertisers. every other paper in town gets his copy; why shouldn't we? we have to look out for ourselves. we look out for our patrons, too. naturally, we aren't going to knock one of our advertisers. others have got to take their chances." "and that's modern journalism!" "it's the newspaper business," cried sterne. "no different from any other business." "no wonder decent people consider newspaper men the scum of the earth," said hal, with rather ineffectual generalization. "don't be young!" besought mcguire ellis wearily. "pretend you're a grown-up man, anyway. you look as if you might have some sense about you somewhere, if you'd only give it a chance to filter through." some not unpleasant quirk of speech and manner in the man worked upon hal's humor. "why, i believe you're right about the youngness," he admitted, with a smile. "perhaps there are other ways of getting at this thing. just for a test,--for the last time will you or will you not, mr. sterne, publish this apology?" "we will not. there's just one person can give me orders." "who is that?" "the owner." "i think you'll be sorry." mcguire ellis turned upon him a look that was a silent reproach to immaturity. "anything more?" queried sterne. "nothing," said hal, with an effort at courtesy. "good-day to you both." "well, what about it?" asked mcguire ellis of his chief, as the visitor's footsteps died away. "nothing about it. when'll the next surtaine roast be ready?" "ought to be finished to-morrow." "schedule it for thursday. we'll make the old boy squeal yet. do you believe the boy when he says that his father didn't send him?" "sounded straight. pretty straight boy he looked like to me, anyway." "pretty fresh kid, _i_ think. and a good deal of a pin-head. distributing agency for the old man's money, i guess. he won't get anywhere." "well, i'm not so sure," said ellis contemplatively. "of course he acts gosh-awful young. but did you notice him when he went?" "not particularly." "he was smiling." "well?" "always look out for a guy that smiles when he's licked. he's got a come-back to him." eleven o'clock that night saw mcguire ellis lift his head from the five-minute nap which he allowed himself on evenings of light pressure after the washington copy was run off, and blink rapidly. at the same moment mr. david sterne gave utterance to an exclamation, partly of annoyance, partly of surprise. mr. harrington surtaine, wearing an expression both businesslike and urbane stood in the doorway. "good-evening, gentlemen," he remarked. mr. sterne snorted. mr. ellis's lips seemed about to form the reproachful monosyllable "young." without further greeting the visitor took off his hat and overcoat and hung them on a peg. "you make yourself at home," growled sterne. "i do," agreed hal, and, discarding his coat, hung that on another peg. "i've got a right to." tilting a slumber-burdened head, mcguire ellis released his adjuration against youthfulness. "what's the answer?" demanded sterne. "i've just bought out the 'clarion,'" said hal. chapter vii the owner some degree of triumph would perhaps have been excusable in the new owner. most signally had he turned the tables on his enemies. yet it was with no undue swagger that he seated himself upon a chair of problematical stability, and began to study the pages of the morning's issue. sterne regarded him dubiously. "this isn't a bluff, i suppose?" he asked. "ask your lawyers." "mac, get rockwell's house on the 'phone, will you, and find out if we've been sold." presently the drawl of mr. ellis was heard, pleading with a fair and anonymous central, whom he addressed with that charming impersonality employed toward babies, pet dogs, and telephone girls, as "tootsie," to abjure juvenility, and give him vincent, in a hurry. "you'll excuse me, mr. surtaine," said sterne, in a new and ingratiating tone, for which hal liked him none the better, "but verifying news has come to be an instinct with me." "it's straight," said ellis, turning his heavy face to his principal, after a moment's talk over the wire. "bought _and_ sold, lock, stock, and barrel." "have you had any newspaper experience, mr. surtaine?" inquired sterne. "not on the practical side." "as owner i suppose you'll want to make changes." "undoubtedly." "they all do," sighed sterne. "but my contract has several months--" "yes: i've been over the contracts with a lawyer. yours and mr. ellis's. he says they won't hold." "all newspaper contracts are on the cheese," observed mcguire ellis philosophically. "swiss cheese, at that. full of holes." "i don't admit it," protested sterne. "even so, to turn a man out--" a snort of disgust from ellis interrupted the plea. the glare with which that employee favored his boss fairly convicted the seamed and graying editor of willful and captious immaturity. "contract or no contract, you'll both be fairly treated," said the new owner shortly. "who, me?" inquired ellis. "you can go rapidly to hell and take my contract with you. i know when i'm fired." "who fired you?" "i did. to save you the satisfaction." "very good of you, i'm sure," drawled hal in a tone of lofty superiority, turning away. out of the corner of his eye, however, he could see mcguire ellis making pantomime as of one spanking a baby with fervor. amusement helped him to the recovery of his temper. "working under an amateur journalist will just suit sterne," observed ellis, in a tone quite as offensive as hal's. "cut it out, mac," suggested his principal. "there's no occasion for hard words." "amateur isn't the hardest word in the dictionary," said hal quietly. "perhaps i'll become a professional in time." "buying a newspaper doesn't make a newspaper man." "well, i'm not too old to learn. but see here, mr. ellis, doesn't your contract hold you?" "the contract that you said was no good? do you expect it to work all one way?" "well, professional honor, then, i should suppose--" "professional honor!" cut in ellis, with scathing contempt. "you step in here and buy a paper out of a freak of revenge--" "hold on, there! how can you know my motive?" "what else could it be?" hal was silent, finding no answer. "you see! to feed your mean little spite, you've taken over control of the biggest responsibility, for any one with any decent sense of responsibility, that a man could take on his shoulders. and what will you make of it? a toy! a rich kid's plaything." "well, what would you make of it, yourself?" asked hal. "a teacher and a preacher. a force to tear down and to build up. to rip this old town wide open, and remould it nearer to the heart's desire! that's what a newspaper might be, and ought to be, and could be, by god in heaven, if the right man ever had a free hand at it." "don't get profane, my boy," tittered sterne. "you think that's swearing?" retorted ellis. "yes; _you_ would. but i was nearer praying then than i've ever been since i came to this office. we'll never live to see that prayer answered, you and i." "perhaps," began hal. "oh, perhaps!" ellis snatched the word from his lips. "perhaps you're the boy to do it, eh? why, it's your kind that's made journalism the sewer of the professions, full of the scum and drainings of every other trade's failures. what chance have we got to develop ideals when you outsiders control the whole business?" "hullo!" observed sterne with a grin. "where do you come in on the idealist business, mac? this is new talk from you." "new? why wouldn't it be new? would i waste it on you, dave sterne?" "you certainly never have since i've known you." "call it easing up my mind if you like. i can afford that luxury, now that you 're not my boss any longer. not but what it's all greek to you." "had a drink to-day, mac?" "no, damn you. but i'm going out of here and take a hundred. first, though, i'm going to tell young bib-and-tucker over there a thing or two about his new toy. oh, yes: you can listen, too, sterne, but it won't get to your shelled-in soul." "you in'trust muh, strangely," said sterne, and looked over to hal for countenance of his uneasy amusement. but the new owner did not appear amused. he had faced around in his chair and now sat regarding the glooming and exalted ellis with an intent surprise. "a plaything! that's what you think you've bought, young mr. harrington surtaine. one of two things you'll do with it: either you'll try to run it yourself, and you'll dip deeper and deeper into poppa's medicine-bag till he gets sick of it and closes you up; or you'll hire some practical man to manage it, and insist on dividends that'll keep it just where it is now. and that's pretty low, even for a worthington paper." "it won't live on blackmail, at any rate," said hal, his mind reverting to its original grievance. "maybe it will. you won't know it if it does. anyhow, it'll live on suppression and distortion and manipulation of news, because it'll have to, if it's going to live at all." "you mean that is the basis of the newspaper business as it is to-day?" "generally speaking. it certainly is in worthington." "you're frank, at any rate. where's all your glowing idealism now?" "vanished into mist. all idealism goes that way, doesn't it?" "not if you back it up with work. you see, mr. ellis, i'm something of an idealist myself." "the certina brand of idealism. guaranteed under the pure thought and deed act." "our money may have been made a little--well, blatantly," said hal, flushing. "but at least it's made honestly." he was too intent on his subject to note either sterne's half-wink or ellis's stare of blank amazement. "and i'm going to run this newspaper on the same high principles. i don't quite reconcile your standards with the practices of this paper, mr. ellis--" "mac has nothing to do with the policy of the paper, mr. surtaine," put in sterne. "he's only an employee." "then why don't you get work on some paper that practices your principles?" "hard to find. not having been born with a silver spoon, full of certina, in my mouth, i have to earn my own living. it isn't profitable to make a religion of one's profession, mr. surtaine. not that i think you need the warning. but i've tried it, and i know." "do you know, it's rather a pity you don't like me," said hal, with ruminative frankness. "i think i could use some of that religion of yours." "not on the market," returned ellis shortly. "you see," pursued the other, "it's really my own money i've put into this paper: half of all i've got." "how much did you pay for it?" inquired ellis: "since we're telling each other our real names." "two hundred and thirty thousand dollars." "whee-ee-ee-ew!" both his auditors joined in the whistle. "they asked two-fifty." "half of that would have bought," said sterne. hal digested that information in silence for a minute. "i suppose i was easy. hurry never yet made a good bargain. but, now that i've got this paper i'm going to run it myself." "on the rocks," prophesied mcguire ellis. "utter and complete shipwreck. i'm glad i'm off." "is it your habit, mr. ellis, to run at the first suggestion of disaster?" ellis looked his questioner up and down. "say the rest of it," he barked. "why, it seems to me you're still an officer of this ship. doesn't it enter into your ethics somewhere that you ought to stick by her until the new captain can fill your place, and not quit in the face of the shipwreck you foresee?" "humph," grunted mcguire ellis, "i guess you're not quite as young as i thought you were. how long would you want me to stay?" "about a year." "what!" "on an unbreakable contract. to be editorial manager. you see, i'm prepared to buy ideals." "what about my opinion of amateur journalism?" "you'll just have to do the best you can about that." "give me till to-morrow to think it over." "all right." ellis put down the hat and cane which he had picked up preparatory to his departure. "not going out after those hundred drinks, eh, mac?" laughed sterne. "indefinitely postponed," replied the other. "the first thing to do," said hal decisively, "is to make amends. mr. sterne, the 'clarion' is to print a full retraction of the attacks upon my father, at once." "yes, sir," assented sterne, slavishly responsive to the new authority. not so mcguire ellis. "if you do that you'll make a fool of your own paper," he said bluntly. "make a fool of the paper by righting a rank injustice?" "just the point. it isn't a rank injustice." "see here, mr. sterne: isn't it a fact that this attack was made because my father doesn't advertise with you?" the editor twisted uneasily in his chair. "a newspaper's got to look out for its own interests," he asserted defensively. "please answer my question." "well--yes; i suppose it is so." "then you're simply operating a blackmailing scheme to get the certina advertising for the 'clarion.'" "the certina advertising?" repeated sterne in obvious surprise. "certina doesn't advertise locally. most patent medicines don't. it's a sort of fashion of the trade not to," explained ellis. "what on earth is all this about, then?" the two newspaper men exchanged a glance. obviously the new boss understood little of his progenitor's extensive business interests. "might as well know sooner as later," decided ellis, aloud. "it's the neverfail company of cincinnati that we got turned down on." "what is the neverfail company?" "one of dr. surtaine's alia--one of the names he does business under. every other paper in town gets their copy. we don't. hence the roast." "what sort of business is it?" "relief pills. here's the ad. in this morning's 'banner.'" the name struck chill on hal's memory. he stared at the sinister oblong of type, vaguely sensing in its covert promises the taint, yet failing to apprehend the full villainy of the lure. "whatever the advertising is," said he, "the principle is the same." "precisely," chirped ellis. "and you call that decent journalism?" "no: my extremely youthful friend, i do not. what's more, i never did." "if you want a retraction published," said sterne, spreading wide his hands as one offering fealty, "wouldn't it be just as well to preface it with an announcement of the taking-over of the paper by yourself?" "that itself would be tantamount to an announced reversal of policy," mused hal. again sterne and ellis glanced at each other, but with a different expression this time. the look meant that they had recognized in the intruder a flash of that mysterious sense vaguely known as "the newspaper instinct," with which a few are born, but which most men acquire by giving mortgages on the blest illusions of youth. "cor-_rect_," said ellis. "let the retraction rest for the present. i'll decide it later." the door was pushed open, and a dark man of perhaps thirty, with a begrimed and handsome face, entered. in one hand he held a proof. "about this paragraph," he said to sterne in a slightly foreign accent. "is it to run to-morrow?" "what paragraph is that?" "the one-stick editorial guying dr. surtaine." "kill it," said sterne hastily. "this is mr. harrington surtaine. mr. surtaine, this is max veltman, foreman of our composing-room." slowly the printer turned his fine, serious face from one to the other. "ah," he said presently. "so it is arranged. we do not print this paragraph. good!" impossible to take offense at the tone. yet the smile which accompanied it was so plainly a sneer that hal's color rose. "mr. surtaine is the new owner of the 'clarion,'" explained ellis. "in that case, of course," said veltman quietly. "good-night, gentlemen." "good-looking chap," remarked hal. "but what a curious expression." "veltman's a thinker and a crank," said ellis. "if he had a little more balance he'd make his mark. but he's a sort of melancholiac. ill-health, nerves, and a fixed belief in the general wrongness of creation." "well. i'll get to know more about the shop to-morrow," said hal. "i'm for home and sleep just now. see you at--what time, by the way?" "noon," said sterne. "if that suits you." "perfectly. good-night." arrived at home, hal went straight to the big ground-floor library where, as the light suggested, his father sat reading. "dad, do you want a retraction printed?" "of the 'clarion' article?" "yes." "from 'want' to 'get' the road runs rocky," said the senior surtaine whimsically. "i've just come from removing a few of the rocks at the 'clarion' office." "go down to lick the editor?" dr. surtaine's eyes twinkled. "there may have been some such notion in the back of my head." "expensive exercise. did you do it?" "no. he had a club." "if i were running a slander-machine like the 'clarion' i'd want six-inch armor-plate and a quick-fire battery. well, what did you do?" "bought the paper." "you needn't have gone down town to do that. it comes to the office." "you don't understand. i've bought the 'clarion,' presses, plant, circulation, franchise, good-will, ill-will, high, low, jack, and the game." "you! what for?" "why," said hal thoughtfully; "mainly because i lost my temper, i believe." "sounds like a pretty heavy loss, boy-ee." "two hundred and thirty thousand dollars. oh, the prodigal son hasn't got anything on me, dad, when it comes to scattering patrimonies," he concluded a little ruefully. "what are you going to do with it, now you've got it?" "run it. i've bought a career." "now you're talking." the big man jumped up and set both hands on hal's shoulders. "that's the kind of thing i like to hear, and in the kind of way it ought to be said. you go to it, hal. i'll back you, as far as you like." "no, sir. i thank you just the same: this is my game." "want to play it alone, do you?" "how else can i make a career of it?" "right you are, boyee. but it takes something behind money to build up a newspaper. and the 'clarion' 'll take some building up." "well, i've got aspiration enough, if it comes to that," smiled hal. "aspiration's a good starter: but it's perspiration that makes a business go. are you ready to take off your coat and work?" "i certainly am. there's a lot for me to learn." "there is. everything. want some advice from the old man?" "i most surely do, dad." "listen here, then. a newspaper is a business proposition. never forget that. all these hifalutin' notions about its being a palladium and the voice of the people and the guardian of public interests are good enough to talk about on the editorial page. gives a paper a following, that kind of guff does. but the duty of a newspaper is the duty of any other business, to make money. there's the principle, the policy, the politics, ethics, and religion of the newspaper in a nutshell. now, how are you going to make money with the 'clarion'?" "by making it a better paper than the others." "hm! better. yes: that's all right, so long as you mean the right thing by 'better.' better for the people that want to use it and can pay for using it." "the readers, you mean?" "the advertisers. it's the advertisers that pay for the paper, not the readers. you've got to have circulation, of course, to get the advertising. but remember this, always: circulation is only a means to an end. it never yet paid the cost of getting out a daily, and it never will." "i know enough of the business to understand that." "good! look at the 'clarion,' as it is. it's got a good circulation. and that lets it out. it can't get the advertising. so it's losing money, hand over fist." "why can't it?" "it's yellow. it doesn't treat the business interests right." "sterne says they always look after their own advertisers." "oh, that! naturally they have to. any newspaper will do that. but they print a lot of stuff about strikes and they're always playing up to the laboring man and running articles about abuses and pretending to be the friend of the poor and all that slush, and the better class of business won't stand for it. once a paper gets yellow, it has to keep on. otherwise it loses what circulation it's got. no advertiser wants to use it then. the department stores do go into the 'clarion' because it gets to a public they can't reach any other way. but they give it just as little space as they can. it isn't popular." "well, i don't intend to make the paper yellow." "of course you don't. keep your mind on it as a business proposition and you won't go wrong. remember, it's the advertiser that pays. think of that when you write an editorial. frame it and hang it where every sub-editor and reporter can't help but see it. ask of every bit of news, 'is this going to get me an advertiser? is that going to lose me an advertiser?' be on the lookout to do your advertisers favors. they appreciate little things like special notices and seeing their names in print, in personals, and that kind of thing. and keep the paper optimistic. don't knock. boost. business men warm up to that. why, boy-ee, if you'll just stick to the policy i've outlined, you'll not only make a big success, but you'll have a model paper that'll make a new era in local journalism; a paper that every business man in town will swear by and that'll be the pride of worthington before you're through." fired by the enthusiasm of his fair vision of a higher journalism, dr. surtaine had been walking up and down, enlivening, with swinging arms, the chief points of his pæan of policy. now he dropped into his chair and with a change of voice said: "never mind about that retraction, hal." "no?" "no. forget it. when do you start in work?" "to-morrow." "you must save to-morrow evening." "for what?" "you're invited to the festus willards'. mrs. willard was particularly anxious you should come." "but i don't know them, dad." "doesn't matter. it's about the most exclusive house in town. a cut above me, i can tell you. i've never so much as set foot in it." "then i won't go," declared his son, flushing. "yes: you must," insisted his father anxiously. "don't mind about me. i'm not ambitious socially. i told you some folks don't like the business. it's too noisy. but you won't throw out any echoes. you'll go, boyee?" "since you want me to, of course, sir. but i shan't find much time for play if i'm to learn my new trade." "oh, you can hire good teachers," laughed his father. "well, i'm sleepy. good-night, mr. editor." "good-night, dad. i could use some sleep myself." but thought shared the pillow with hal surtaine's head. try as he would to banish the contestants, dr. surtaine's pæan of policy and mcguire ellis's impassioned declaration of faith did battle for the upper hand in his formulating professional standards. the doctor's theory was the clean-cut, comprehensible, and plausible one. but something within hal responded to the hot idealism of the fighting journalist. he wanted ellis for a fellow workman. and his last waking notion was that he wanted and needed ellis mainly because ellis had told him to go to hell. chapter viii a partnership all the adjectives in the social register were exhausted by the daily papers in describing mrs. festus willard's dance. without following them into that verbal borderland wherein "recherché" vies with "exclusive," and "chic" disputes precedence with "distingué," it is sufficient for the purposes of this narrative to chronicle the fact that the pick of worthington society was there, and not much else. also, if i may borrow from the society editor's convenient phrase-book, "among those present" was mr. harrington surtaine. for reasons connected with his new venture, hal had come late. he was standing near the doorway wondering by what path to attain to an unidentified hostess, when miss esmé elliot, at the moment engaged with that very hostess on some matter of feminine strategy with which we have no concern, spied him. "who is the young greek godling, hopelessly lost in the impenetrable depths of your drawing-room?" she propounded suddenly. "who? what? where?" queried mrs. willard, thus abruptly recalled to her duties. "yonder by the doorway, looking as if he didn't know a soul." "it's some stranger," said the hostess, trying to peer around an intervening palm. "i must go and speak to him." "wait. festus has got him." for the host, a powerful, high-colored man in his early forties, with a slight limp, had noticed the newcomer and was now introducing himself. miss elliot watched the process with interest. "jinny," she announced presently, "i want that to play with." the stranger turned a little, so that his full face was shown. "it's hal surtaine!" exclaimed mrs. willard. "i don't care who it is. it looks nice. please, mayn't i have it to play with?" "will you promise not to break it? it used to be a particular pet of mine." "when?" "oh, years ago. when you were in your cradle." "where?" "on the st. lawrence. several summers. he was my boy-knight, and chaperon, and protector. such a dear, chivalrous boy!" "was he in love with you?" demanded miss elliot with lively interest. "of course he wasn't. he was a boy of fifteen, and i a mature young woman of twenty-one." "he _was_ in love with you," accused the girl, noting a brightness in her friend's color. "there was a sort of knightly devotion," admitted the other demurely. "there always is, isn't there, in a boy of that age, for a woman years older?" "and you didn't know him at first?" "it's ten years since i've set eyes on him. he doesn't even know that i am the mrs. festus willard who is giving this party." "festus is looking around for you. they'll be over here in a minute. no! don't get up yet. i want you to do something for me." "what is it, norrie?" "i'm not going to feel well, about supper-time." "why not?" "would _you_ feel well if you'd been in to dinner three times in the last week with will douglas, and then had to go in to supper with him, too?" "but i thought you and will--" "i'm tired of having people think," said miss elliot plaintively. "too much douglas! yes; i shall be quite indisposed, about one dance before supper." "i'll send you home." "no, you won't, jinny, dear. because i shall suddenly recover, about two minutes before the oysters arrive." "norrie!" "truly i shall. quite miraculously. and you're to see that the young greek godling doesn't get any other partner for supper--" "esmé!!" "--because i'm sure he'd rather have me," she concluded superbly. "eleanor stanley maxwell elliot!" "oh, you may call me _all_ my names. i'm accustomed to abuse from you. but you'll arrange it, _dear_ jinny, won't you!" "did you ever fail of anything when you put on that wheedling face and tone?" "never," said miss elliot with composure, but giving her friend a little hug. "here they come. i fly. bring him to me later." piloted by festus willard, hal crossed the floor, and beheld, moving to meet him with outstretched hands, a little woman with an elfin face and the smile of a happy child. "have you forgotten me, hal?" "lady jeannette!" he cried, the old boyhood name springing to his lips. "what are you doing here?" "didn't festus tell you?" she looked fondly up at her big husband. "i didn't know that the surprise would last up to the final moment." "it's the very best surprise that has happened to me in worthington," declared hal emphatically. "we're quite prepared to adopt you, surtaine," said willard pleasantly. "jinny has never ceased to wonder why she heard nothing from you in reply to her note telling of our engagement." "never got it," said hal promptly. "and i've wondered why she dropped me so unaccountably. it's rather luck for me, you know," he added, smiling, "to find friends ready-made in a strange town." "oh, you'll make friends enough," declared mrs. willard. "the present matter is to make acquaintances. come and dance this dance out with me and then i'll take you about and introduce you. are you as good a dancer as you used to be?" hal was, and something more. and in his hostess he had one of the best partners in worthington. cleverly she had judged that the "boston" with her, if he were proficient, would be the strongest recommendation to the buds of the place. and, indeed, before they had gone twice about the floor, many curious and interested eyes were turned upon them. not the least interested were those of miss elliot, who privately decided, over a full and overflowing programme, that she would advance her recovery to one dance before the supper announcement. "you're going to be a social success, hal," whispered his partner. "i feel it. and _where_ did you learn that delightful swing after the dip?" "picked it up on shipboard. but i shan't have much time for gayeties. you see, i've become a workingman." "tell me about it to-morrow. you're to dine with us; quite _en famille_. you _must_ like festus, hal." "i should think that would be easy." "it is. he is just the finest, cleanest, straightest human being in the world," she said soberly. "now, come away and meet a million people." so late was it that most of the girls had no vacancies on their programmes. but jeannette willard was both a diplomat and a bit of a despot, socially, and several of the young eligibles relinquished, with surprisingly good grace, so hal felt, their partners, in favor of the newcomer. he did not then know the tradition of worthington's best set, that hospitality to a stranger well vouched for should be the common concern of all. very pleasant and warming he found this atmosphere, after his years abroad, with its happy, well-bred frankness, its open comradeship, and obvious, "first-name" intimacies. but though every one he met seemed ready to extend to him, as a friend of the willards, a ready welcome, he could not but feel himself an outsider, and at the conclusion of a dance he drew back into a side passage, to watch for a time. borne on a draught of air from some invisibly opening door behind him there came to his nostrils the fairy-spice of the arbutus-scent. he turned quickly, and saw her almost at his shoulder, the girl of the lustrous face. behind her was festus willard. "ah, there you are, surtaine," he said. "i've been looking for you to present you to miss elliot. esmé, this is mr. harrington surtaine." she neither bowed nor moved in acknowledgment of hal's greeting, but looked at him with still, questioning eyes. the springtide hue of the wild flower at her breast was matched in her cheek. her head was held high, bringing out the pure and lovely line of chin and throat. to hal it seemed that he had never seen anything so beautiful and desirable. "is it a bet?" festus willard's quiet voice was full of amusement. "have you laid a wager as to which will keep silent longest?" at this, hal recovered himself, though stumblingly. "'fain would i speak,'" he paraphrased, "'but that i fear to--to--to--'" "stutter," suggested willard, with solicitous helpfulness. the girl broke into a little trill of mirth, too liquid for laughter; being rather the sound of a brooklet chuckling musically over its private delectations. "if i could have a dance with you," suggested hal, "i'm sure it would help my aphasia." "i'm afraid," she began dubiously, "that--no; here's one just before supper. if you haven't that--" "no: i haven't," said hal hastily. "it's awfully good of you--and lucky for me." "i'll be with mrs. willard," said the girl, nodding him a cheerful farewell. just what or who his partners for the next few dances were, hal could not by any effort recall the next day. he was conscious, on the floor, only of an occasional glimpse of her, a fugitive savor of the wildwood fragrance, and then she had disappeared. later, as he returned from a talk with festus willard outside, he became aware of the challenge of deep-hued, velvety eyes, regarding him with a somewhat petulant expression, and recognized his acquaintance of the motor car and the railroad terminal. "you'd forgotten me," accused miss kathleen pierce, pouting, as he came to greet her. hal's disclaimer had sufficient diplomatic warmth to banish her displeasure. she introduced to him as dr. merritt a striking-looking, gray-haired young man, who had come up at the same time with an anticipatory expression. this promptly vanished when she said offhandedly to him: "you've had three dances with me already, hugh. i'm going to give this one to mr. surtaine if he wants it." "of course i want it," said hal. "not that you deserve it," she went on. "you should have come around earlier. i'm not in the habit of giving dances this late in the evening." "how could i break through the solid phalanx of supplicating admirers?" "at least, you might have tried. i want to try that new step i saw you doing with mrs. willard. and i always get what i want." "unfortunate young lady!" "why unfortunate?" "to have nothing seem unattainable. life must pall on you terribly." "indeed, it doesn't. i like being a spoiled child, don't you? don't you think it's fun having everything you want to buy, and having a leading citizen for a father?" "is your father a leading citizen?" asked hal, amused. "of course. so's yours. neither of them quite knows which is the most leading. dr. surtaine is the most popular, but i suppose pop is the most influential. between the two of them they pretty much run this little old burg. of course," she added with careless insolence, "pop has got it all over dr. surtaine socially. "i humbly feel that i am addressing local royalty," said hal, smiling sardonically. "who? me? oh, i'm only the irresponsible child of wealth and power. dr. merritt called me that once--before i got him tamed." turning to look at the gray young man who stood not far off, and noting the quiet force and competence of the face, hal hazarded a guess to himself that the very frank young barbarian with whom he was talking was none too modest in her estimate of her own capacities. "mrs. willard is our local queen," she continued. "and esmé elliot is the princess. have you met esmé yet?" "yes." "then, of course, nobody else has a chance--so long as you're the newest toy. still, you might find a spare hour between-times to come and call on us. come on; let's dance." "pert" was the mildest term to which hal reduced his characterization of miss pierce, by the time the one-step ended. nevertheless, he admitted to himself that he had been amused. his one chief concern now, however, was the engagement with miss elliot. when finally his number came around, he found her calmly explaining to a well-favored young fellow with a pained expression that he must have made a mistake about the number, while mrs. willard regarded her with mingled amusement and disfavor. "don't expect me to dance," she said as hal approached. "i've twisted my foot." "i'm sorry," said he blankly. "let's find a quiet place where we can sit. and then you may get me some supper." his face lighted up. esmé elliot remarked to herself that she had seldom seen a more pleasing specimen of the youth of the species. "this is rather like a fairy-gift," he began eagerly, as they made their way to a nook under the stairway, specially adapted to two people of hermit tastes. "i shouldn't have dared to expect such good fortune." "you'll find me quite a fairy-godmother if you're good. besides," she added with calm audacity, "i wanted you to myself." "why?" he asked, amused and intrigued. "curiosity. my besetting sin. you're a phenomenon." "an ambiguous term. it may mean merely a freak." "a new young man in worthington," she informed him, "is a phenomenon, a social phenomenon. of course he may be a freak, also," she added judicially. "newness is a charm that soon wears off." "then you're going to settle down here?" "yes. i've joined the laboring classes." "what kind of labor?" "journalism. i've just started in, to-day." "really! which paper?" "the 'clarion.'" her expressive face changed. "oh," she said, a little blankly. "you don't like the 'clarion'?" "i almost never see it. so i don't know. and you're going to begin at the bottom? that's quite brave of you." "no; i'm going to begin at the top. that's braver. anyway, it's more reckless. i've bought the paper." "have you! i hadn't heard of it." "nobody's heard of it yet. no outsider. you're the first." "how delightful!" she leaned closer and looked into his face with shining eyes. "tell me more. what are you going to do with it?" "learn something about it, first." "it's rather yellow, isn't it?" "putting it mildly, yes. that's one of the things i want to change." "oh, i wish i owned a newspaper!" "do you? why?" "for the power of it. to say what you please and make thousands listen." the pink in her cheeks deepened. "there's nothing in the world like the thrill of that sense of power. it's the one reason why i'd be almost willing to be a man." "perhaps you wouldn't need to be. couldn't you exert the power without actually owning the newspaper?" "how?" "by exercising your potent influence upon the obliging proprietor," he suggested smiling. there came a dancing light in her eyes. "do you think i'd make a good goddess-outside-the-machine, to the 'daily clarion'?" "charming! for a two-cent stamp--no, for a spray of your arbutus, i'll sell you an editorial sphere of influence." "generous!" she cried. "what would my duties be?" "to advise the editor and proprietor on all possible points," he laughed. "and my privileges?" "the right of a queen over a slave." "we move fast," she said. her fingers went to the cluster of delicate-hued bells in her bodice. but it was a false gesture. esmé elliot was far too practiced in her chosen game to compromise herself to comment by allowing a man whom she had just met to display her favor in his coat. "am i to have my price?" his voice was eager now. she looked very lovely and childlike, with her head drooping, consideringly, above the flowers. "give me a little time," she said. "to undertake a partnership on five minutes' notice--that isn't business, is it?" "nor is this--wholly," he said, quite low. esmé straightened up. "i'm starved," she said lightly. "are you not going to get me any supper?" after his return she held the talk to more impersonal topics, advising him, with an adorable assumption of protectiveness, whom he was to meet and dance with, and what men were best worth his while. at parting, she gave him her hand. "i will let you know," she said, "about the--the sphere of influence." hal danced several more numbers, with more politeness than enjoyment, then sought out his hostess to say good-night. "i'll see you to-morrow, then," she said: "and you shall tell me all your news." "you're awfully good to me, lady jeannette," said he gratefully. "without you i'd be a lost soul in this town." "most people are good to you, i fancy, hal," said she, looking him over with approval. "as for being a lost soul, you don't look it. in fact you look like a very well-found soul, indeed." "it _is_ rather a cheerful world to live in," said hal with apparent irrelevance. "i hope they haven't spoiled you," she said anxiously. "are you vain, hal? no: you don't look it." "what on earth should i be vain about? i've never done anything in the world." "no? yet you've improved. you've solidified. what have you been doing to yourself? not falling in love?" "not that, certainly," he replied, smiling. "nothing much but traveling." "how did you like esmé elliot?" she asked abruptly. "quite attractive," said hal in a flat tone. "quite attractive, indeed!" repeated his friend indignantly. "in all your travelings, i don't believe you've ever seen any one else half as lovely and lovable." "local pride carries you far, lady jeannette," laughed hal. "and i _had_ intended to have her here to dine to-morrow; but as you're so indifferent--" "oh, don't leave her out on my account," said hal magnanimously. "i believe you're more than half in love with her already." "well, you ought to be a good judge unless you've wholly forgotten the old days," retorted hal audaciously. jeannette willard laughed up at him. "don't try to flirt with a middle-aged lady who is most old-fashionedly in love with her husband," she advised. "keep your bravo speeches for esmé! she's used to them." "rather goes in for that sort of thing, doesn't she?" "you mean flirtation? someone's been talking to you about her," said mrs. willard quickly. "what did they say?" "nothing in particular. i just gathered the impression." "don't jump to any conclusions about esmé," advised his friend. "most men think her a desperate flirt. she does like attention and admiration. what woman doesn't? and esmé is very much a woman." "evidently!" "if she seems heartless, it's because she doesn't understand. she enjoys her own power without comprehending it. esmé has never been really interested in any man. if she had ever been hurt, herself, she would be more careful about hurting others. yet the very men who have been hardest hit remain her loyal friends." "a tribute to her strategy." "a finer quality than that. it is her own loyalty, i think, that makes others loyal to her. but the men here aren't up to her standard. she is complex, and she is ambitious, without knowing it. fine and clean as our worthington boys are, there isn't one of them who could appeal to the imagination and idealism of a girl like esmé elliot. for esmé, under all that lightness, is an idealist; the idealist who hasn't found her ideal." "and therefore hasn't found herself." she flashed a glance of inquiry and appraisal at him. "that's rather subtle of you," she said. "i hope you don't know _too_ much about women, hal." "not i! just a shot in the dark." "i said there wasn't a man here up to her standard. that isn't quite true. there is one,--you met him to-night,--but he has troubles of his own, elsewhere," she added, smiling. "i had hoped--but there has always been a friendship too strong for the other kind of sentiment between him and esmé." "for a guess, that might be dr. merritt," said hal. "how did you know?" she cried. "i didn't. only, he seems, at a glance, different and of a broader gauge than the others." "you're a judge of men, at least. as for esmé, i suppose she'll marry some man much older than herself. heaven grant he's the right one! for when she gives, she will give royally, and if the man does not meet her on her own plane--well, there will be tragedy enough for two!" "deep waters," said hal. the talk had changed to a graver tone. "deep and dangerous. shipwreck for the wrong adventurer. but el dorado for the right. such a golden el dorado, hal! the man i want for esmé elliot must have in him something of woman for understanding, and something of genius for guidance, and, i'm afraid, something of the angel for patience, and he must be, with all this, wholly a man." "a pretty large order, lady jeannette. well, i've had my warning. good-night." "perhaps it wasn't so much warning as counsel," she returned, a little wistfully. "how poor esmé's ears must be burning. there she goes now. what a picture! come early to-morrow." hal's last impression of the ballroom, as he turned away, was summed up in one glance from esmé elliot's lustrous eyes, as they met his across her partner's shoulder, smiling him a farewell and a remembrance of their friendly pact. "honey-jinny," said mrs. willard's husband, after the last guest had gone; "i don't understand about young surtaine. where did he get it?" "get what, dear? one might suppose he was a corrupt politician." "one might suppose he might be anything crooked or wrong, knowing his old, black quack of a father. but he seems to be clean stuff all through. he looks it. he acts it. he carries himself like it. and he talks it. i had a little confab with him out in the smoking-room, and i tell you, jinny-wife, i believe he's a real youngster." "well, he had a mother, you know." "did he? what about her?" "she was an old friend of my mother's. dr. surtaine eloped with her out of her father's country place in midvale. he was an itinerant peddler of some cure-all then. she was a gently born and bred girl, but a mere child, unworldly and very romantic, and she was carried away by the man's personal beauty and magnetism." "i can't imagine it in a girl of any sort of family." "mother has told me that he had a personal force that was almost hypnotic. there must have been something else to him, too, for they say that hal's mother died, as desperately in love as she had been when she ran away with him, and that he was almost crushed by her loss and never wholly got over it. he transferred his devotion to the child, who was only three years old when the mother died. when hal was a mere child my mother saw him once taking in dollars at a country fair booth,--just think of it, dearest,--and she said he was the picture of his girl-mother then. later, when professor certain, as he called himself then, got rich, he gave hal the best of education. but he never let him have anything to do with the ellersleys--that was mrs. surtaine's name. all the family are dead now." "well, there must be some good in the old boy," admitted willard. "but i don't happen to like him. i do like the boy. blood does tell, jinny. but if he's really as much of an ellersley as he looks, there's a bitter enlightenment before him when he comes to see dr. surtaine as he really is." meantime hal, home at a reasonable hour, in the interest of his new profession, had taken with him the pleasantest impressions of the willards' hospitality. he slept soundly and awoke in buoyant spirits for the dawning enterprise. on the breakfast table he found, in front of his plate, a bunchy envelope addressed in a small, strong, unfamiliar hand. within was no written word; only a spray of the trailing arbutus, still unwithered of its fairy-pink, still eloquent, in its wayward, woodland fragrance, of her who had worn it the night before. chapter ix glimmerings ignorance within one's self is a mist which, upon closer approach, proves a mountain. to the new editor of the "clarion" the things he did not know about this enterprise of which he had suddenly become the master loomed to the skies. together with the rest of the outer world, he had comfortably and vaguely regarded a newspaper as a sort of automatic mill which, by virtue of having a certain amount of grain in the shape of information dumped into it, worked upon this with an esoteric type-mechanism, and, in due and exact time, delivered a definite grist of news. of the refined and articulated processes of acquisition, selection, and elimination which went to the turning-out of the final product, he was wholly unwitting. he could as well have manipulated a linotype machine as have given out a quiet sunday's assignment list: as readily have built a multiple press as made up an edition. so much he admitted to mcguire ellis late in the afternoon of the day after the willard party. fascinated, he had watched that expert journalist go through page after page of copy, with what seemed superhuman rapidity and address, distribute the finished product variously upon hooks, boxes, and copy-boys, and, the immediate task being finished, lapse upon his desk and fall asleep. meantime, the owner himself faced the unpleasant prospect of being smothered under the downfall of proofs, queries, and scribbled sheets which descended upon his desk from all sides. for a time he struggled manfully: for a time thereafter he wallowed desperately. then he sent out a far cry for help. the cry smote upon the ear of mcguire ellis, "hoong!" ejaculated that somnolent toiler, coming up out of deep waters. "did you speak?" "i want to know what i'm to do with all of these things," replied his boss, indicating the augmenting drifts. "throw 'em on the floor, is _my_ advice," said the employee drowsily. "the more stuff you throw away, the better paper you get out. that's a proverb of the business." "in other words, you think the paper would get along better without me than with me?" "but you're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" queried his employee. heaving himself out of his chair, he ambled over to hal's desk and evolved out of the chaos some semblance of order. "don't find it as easy as your enthusiasm painted it," he suggested. "oh, i've still got the enthusiasm. if only i knew where to begin." ellis rubbed his ear thoughtfully and remarked: "once i knew a man from phoenix, arizona, who was so excited the first time he saw the ocean that he borrowed a uniform from an absent friend, shinned aboard a five-thousand-ton brigantine, and ordered all hands to put out to sea immediately in the teeth of a whooping gale. but he," added the narrator in the judicial tone of one who cites mitigating circumstances, "was drunk at the time." "thanks for the parallel. i don't like it. but never mind that. the question is, what am i going to do?" "that's the question all right. are you putting it to me?" "i am." "well, i was just going to put it to you." "no use. i don't know." the two men looked each other in the eye, long and steadily. ellis's harsh face relaxed to a sort of grin. "you want me to tell you?" "yes." "what do you think you're hiring, a professor of journalism in the infant class?" the tone of the question offset any apparent ill-nature in the wording. "it might be made worth your while." "all right; i'm hired." "that's good," said hal heartily. "i think you'll find i'm not hard to get along with." "i think _you'll_ find _i_ am," replied the other with some grimness. "but i know the game. well, let's get down to cases. what do you want to do with the 'clarion'?" "make it the cleanest, decentest newspaper in the city." "then you don't think it's that, now." "no. i know it isn't." "did you get that from dr. surtaine?" "partly." "what's the other part?" "first-hand impressions. i've been going through the files." "when?" "since nine o'clock this morning." "with what idea?" "why, having bought a piece of property, i naturally want to know about it." "been through the plant yet? that's your property, too." "no. i thought i'd find out more from the files. i've bought a newspaper, not a building." the characteristic grunt with which ellis favored his employer in reply to this seemed to have a note of approval in it. "well; now that you own the 'clarion,'" he said after a pause, "what do you think of it?" "it's yellow, and it's sensational, and--it's vulgar." there was nothing complimentary in the other's snort this time. "of course it's vulgar. you can't sell a sweet-scented, prim old-maidy newspaper to enough people to pay for the z's in one font of type. people are vulgar. don't forget that. and you've got to make a newspaper to suit them. lesson number one." "it needn't be a muckraking paper, need it, forever smelling out something rotten, and exploiting it in big headlines?" "oh, that's all bluff," replied the journalist easily. "we never turn loose on anything but the surface of things. why, if any one started in really to muckrake this old respectable burg, the smell would drive most of our best citizens to the woods." "frankly, mr. ellis, i don't like cheap cynicism." "prefer to be fed up on pleasant lies?" queried his employee, unmoved. "not that either. i can take an unpleasant truth as well as the next man. but it's got to be the truth." "do you know the nickname of this paper?" "yes. my father told me of it." "it was his set that pinned it on us. 'the daily carrion,' they call us, and they said that our triumphal roosters ought to be vultures. do you know why?" "in plain english because of the paper's lies and blackguardism." "in plainer english, because of its truth. wait a minute, now. i'm not saying that the 'clarion' doesn't lie. all papers do, i guess. they have to. but it's when we've cut loose on straight facts that we've got in wrong." "give me an instance." "well, the sewing-girls' strike." "engineered by a crooked labor leader and a notoriety-seeking woman." "i see the bunch have got to you already, and have filled you up with their dope. never mind that, now. we're supposed to be a sort of tribune of the common people. rights of the ordinary citizen, and that sort of thing. so we took up the strike and printed the news pretty straight. no other paper touched it." "why not?" "didn't dare. we had to drop it, ourselves. not until we'd lost ten thousand dollars in advertising, though, and gained an extra blot on our reputation as being socialistic and an enemy to capital and all that kind of rot." "wasn't it simply a case of currying favor with the working-classes?" "according as you look at it." apparently weary of looking at it at all, mcguire ellis tipped back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. when he spoke his voice floated up as softly as a ring of smoke. "how honest are you going to be, mr. surtaine?" "what!" "i asked you how honest you are going to be." "it's a question i don't think you need to ask me." "i do. how else will i find out?" "i intend the 'clarion' to be strictly and absolutely honest. that's all there is to that." "don't be so young," said mcguire ellis wearily. "'strictly and absol'--see here, did you ever read 'the wrecker'?" "more than once." "remember the chap who says, 'you seem to think honesty as simple as blindman's-buff. i don't. it's some difference of definition, i suppose'? now, there's meat in that." "difference of definition be hanged. honesty is honesty." "and policy is policy. and bankruptcy is bankruptcy." "i don't see the connection." "it's there. honesty for a newspaper isn't just a matter of good intentions. it's a matter of eternal watchfulness and care and expert figuring-out of things." "you mean that we're likely to make mistakes about facts--" "we're certain to. but that isn't what i mean at all. i mean that it's harder for a newspaper to be honest than it is for the pastor of a rich church." "you can't make me believe that." "facts can. but i'm not doing my job. you want to learn the details of the business, and i'm wasting time trying to throw light into the deep places where it keeps what it has of conscience. that'll come later. now where shall i begin?" "with the structure of the business." "all right. a newspaper is divided into three parts. news is the merchandise which it has to sell. advertising is the by-product that pays the bills. the editorial page is a survival. at its best it analyzes and points out the significance of important news. at its worst, it is a mouthpiece for the prejudices or the projects of whoever runs it. few people are influenced by it. many are amused by it. it isn't very important nowadays." "i intend to make it so on the 'clarion.'" ellis turned upon him a regard which carried with it a verdict of the most abandoned juvenility, but made no comment. "news sways people more than editorials," he continued. "that's why there's so much tinkering with it. i'd like to give you a definition of news, but there isn't any. news is conventional. it's anything that interests the community. it isn't the same in any two places. in arizona a shower is news. in new orleans the boll-weevil is news. in worthington anything about your father is news: in denver they don't care a hoot about your father; so, unless he elopes or dies, or buys a fake titian, or breaks the flying-machine record, or lectures on medical quackery, he isn't news away from home. if mrs. festus willard is bitten by a mad dog, every dog-chase for the week following is news. when a martyred suffragette chews a chunk out of the king of england, the local meetings of the votes-for-women sorority become a live topic. if ever you get to the point where you can say with certainty, 'this is news; that isn't,' you'll have no further need for me. you'll be graduated." "where does a paper get its news?" "through mechanical channels, mostly. if you read all the papers in town,--and you'll have to do it,--you'll see that they've got just about the same stuff. why shouldn't they have? the big, clumsy news-mill grinds pretty impartially for all of them. there's one news source at police headquarters, another at the city hall, another in the financial department, another at the political headquarters, another in the railroad offices, another at the theaters, another in society, and so on. at each of these a reporter is stationed. he knows his own kind of news as it comes to him, ready-made, and, usually, not much else. then there's the general, unclassified news of the city that drifts in partly by luck, partly by favor, partly through the personal connections of the staff. one paper is differentiated from another principally by getting or missing this sort of stuff. for instance, the 'banner' yesterday had a 'beat' about you. it said that you had come back and were going to settle down and go into your father's business." "that's not true." "glad to hear it. your hands will be full with this job. but it was news. everybody is interested in the son of our leading citizen. the 'banner' is strong on that sort of local stuff. i think i'll jack up our boys in the city room by hinting that there may be a shake-up coming under the new owner. knowing they're on probation will make 'em ambitious." "and the news of the outside world?" "much the same principle as the local matter and just as machine-like. the 'clarion' is a unit in a big system, the national news exchange bureau. not only has the bureau its correspondents in every city and town of any size, but it covers the national sources of news with special reporters. also the international. theoretically it gives only the plainest facts, uncolored by any bias. as a matter of fact, it's pretty crooked. it suppresses news, and even distorts it. it's got a secret financial propaganda dictated by wall street, and its policies are always open to suspicion." "why doesn't it get honest reporters?" "oh, its reporters are honest enough. the funny business is done higher up, in the executive offices." "isn't there some other association we can get into?" "not very well, just now. the exchange franchise is worth a lot of money. besides," he concluded, yawning, "i don't know that they're any worse than we are." hal got to his feet and walked the length of the office and back, five times. at the end of this exercise he stood, looking down at his assistant. "ellis, are you trying to plant an impression in my mind?" "no." "you're doing it." "of what sort?" "i hardly know. something subtle, and lurking and underhanded in the business. i feel as if you had your hands on a curtain that you might pull aside if you would, but that you don't want to shock my--my youthfulness." "plain facts are what you want, aren't they?" "exactly." "well, i'm giving them to you as plain as you can understand them. i don't want to tell you more than you're ready to believe." "try it, as an experiment." "who do you suppose runs the newspapers of this town?" "why, mr. vane runs the 'banner.' mr. ford owns the 'press.' the 'telegram'--let me see--" "no; no; no," cried ellis, waving his hands in front of his face. "i don't mean the different papers. i mean all of 'em. the 'clarion,' with the others." "nobody runs them all, surely." "three men run them all; pierce, gibbs, and hollenbeck." "e.m. pierce?" "elias middleton pierce." "i had luncheon with him yesterday, and with mr. gibbs--" "ah! that's where you got your notions about the strike." "--and neither of them spoke of any newspaper interests." "catch them at it! they're the publication committee of the retail dry goods union." "what is that?" "the combination of local department stores. and, as such, they can dictate to every worthington newspaper what it shall or shall not print." "nonsense!" "including the 'clarion.'" "there you're wrong, anyway." "the department stores are the biggest users of advertising space in the city. no paper in town could get along without them. if they want a piece of news kept out of print, they tell the editor so, and you bet it's kept out. otherwise that paper loses the advertising." "has it ever been done here?" "has it? get veltman down to tell you about the store employees' federation." "veltman? what does he know of it? he's in the printing-department, isn't he?" "composing-room; yes. outside he's a labor agitator and organizer. a bit of a fanatic, too. but an a man all right. get the composing-room," he directed through the telephone, "and ask mr. veltman to come to mr. surtaine's office." as the printer entered, hal was struck again with his physical beauty. "did you want to see me?" he asked, looking at the "new boss" with somber eyes. "tell mr. surtaine about the newspapers and the store federation, max," said ellis. the german shook his head. "nothing new in that," he said, with the very slightest of accents. "we can't organize them unless the newspapers give us a little publicity." "explain it to me, please. i know nothing about it," said hal. "for years we've been trying to organize a union of department store employees." "aren't they well treated?" "not quite as well as hogs," returned the other in an impassive voice. "the girls wanted shorter hours and extra pay for overtime at holiday time and old home week. every time we've tried it the stores fire the organizers among their employees." "hardly fair, that." "this year we tried to get up a public meeting. reverend norman hale helped us, and dr. merritt, the health officer, and a number of women. it was a good news feature, and that was what we wanted, to get the movement started. but do you think any paper in town touched it? not one." "but why?" "e.m. pierce's orders. he and his crowd." "even the 'clarion,' which is supposed to have labor sympathies?" "the 'clarion'!" there was a profundity of contempt in veltman's voice; and a deeper bitterness when he snapped his teeth upon a word which sounded to hal suspiciously like the biblical characterization of an undesirable citizeness of babylon. "in any case, they won't give the 'clarion' any more orders." "oh, yes, they will," said veltman stolidly. "then they'll learn something distinctly to their disadvantage." the splendid, animal-like eyes of the compositor gleamed suddenly. "do you mean you're going to run the paper honestly?" hal almost recoiled before the impassioned and incredulous surprise in the question. "what is 'honestly'?" "give the people who buy your paper the straight news they pay for?" "certainly, the paper will be run that way." "as easy as rolling off a log," put in mcguire ellis, with suspicious smoothness. veltman looked from one to the other. "yes," he said: and again "yes-s-s." but the life had gone from his voice. "anything more?" "nothing, thank you," answered hal. "brains, fire, ambition, energy, skill, everything but balance," said ellis, as the door closed. "he's the stuff that martyrs are made of--or lunatics. same thing, i guess." "isn't he a trouble-maker among the men?" "no. he's a good workman. something more, too. sometimes he writes paragraphs for the editorial page; and when they're not too radical, i use 'em. he's brought us in one good feature, that 'kitty the cutie' stuff." "i'd thought of dropping that. it's so cheap and chewing-gummy." "catches on, though. we really ought to run it every day. but the girl hasn't got time to do it." "who is she?" "some kid in your father's factory, i understand. protégée of veltman's, he brought her stuff in and we took it right off the bat." "well, i'll tell you one thing that is going." "what?" "the 'clarion's motto. 'we lead: let those who can follow.'" hal pointed to the "black-face" legend at the top of the first editorial column. "got anything in its place?" "i thought of 'with malice toward none: with charity for all.'" "worked to death. but i've never seen it on a newspaper. shall i tell veltman to set it up in several styles so you may take your pick?" "yes. let's start it in to-morrow." that night harrington surtaine went to bed pondering on the strange attitude of the newspaper mind toward so matter-of-fact a quality as honesty; and he dreamed of a roomful of advertisers listening in sodden silence to his own grandiloquent announcement, "gentlemen: honesty is the best policy," while, in a corner, mcguire ellis and max veltman clasped each other in an apoplectic agony of laughter. on the following day the blatant cocks of the shrill "clarion" stood guard at either end of the paper's new golden text. chapter x in the way of trade dr. surtaine sat in little george's best chair, beaming upon the world. by habit, the big man was out of his seat with his dime and nickel in the bootblack's ready hand, almost coincidently with the final clip-clap of the rhythmic process. but this morning he lingered, contemplating with an unobtrusive scrutiny the occupant of the adjoining chair, a small, angular, hard man, whose brick-red face was cut off in the segment of an abrupt circle, formed by a low-jammed green hat. this individual had just briskly bidden his bootblack "hurry it up" in a tone which meant precisely what it said. the youth was doing so. "george," said dr. surtaine, to the proprietor of the stand. "yas, suh." "were you ever in st. jo, missouri?" "yas, suh, doctah suhtaine; oncet." "for long?" "no, suh." "didn't live there, did you?" "no, suh." "george," said his interlocutor impressively, "you're lucky." "yas, suh," agreed the negro with a noncommittal grin. "while you can buy accommodations in a graveyard or break into a penitentiary, don't you ever live in st. jo missouri, george." the man in the adjacent seat half turned toward dr. surtaine and looked him up and down, with a freezing regard. "it's the sink-hole and sewer-pipe of creation, george. they once elected a chicken-thief mayor, and he resigned because the town was too mean to live in. ever know any folks there, george?" "don't have no mem'ry for 'em, doctah." "you're lucky again. they're the orneriest, lowest-down, minchin', pinchin', pizen trash that ever tainted the sweet air of heaven by breathing it, george." "you don' sesso, doctah suhtaine, suh." "i do sess precisely so, george. does the name mcquiggan mean anything to you?" "don' mean nothin' at-tall to me, doctah." "you got away from st. jo in time, then. otherwise you might have met the mcquiggan family, and never been the same afterward." "ef you don' stop youah feet a-fidgittin', boss," interpolated the neighboring bootblack, addressing the green-hatted man in aggrieved tones, "i cain't do no good wif this job." "mcquiggan was the name," continued the volunteer biographer. "the best you could say of the mcquiggans, george, was that one wasn't much cusseder than the others, because he couldn't be. human nature has its limitations, george." "it suttinly have, suh." "but if you had to allow a shade to any of 'em, it would probably have gone to the oldest brother, l.p. mcquiggan. barring a scorpion i once sat down on while in swimming, he was the worst outrage upon the scheme of creation ever perpetrated by a short-sighted providence." "get out of that chair!" the little man had shot from his own and was dancing upon the pavement. "what for?" dr. surtaine's tone was that of inquiring innocence. "to have your fat head knocked off." with impressive agility for one of his size and years, the challenged one descended. he advanced, "squared," and suddenly held out a muscular and plump hand. "hullo, elpy." "huh?" the other glared at him, baleful and baffled. "hullo, i said. don't you know me?" "no, i don't. neither will your own family after i get through with you." "come off, elpy; come off. i licked you once in the old days, and i guess i could do it now, but i don't want to. come and have a drink with old andy." "andy? andy the spieler? andy certain?" "dr. l. andré surtaine, at your service. _now_, will you shake?" still surly, mr. mcquiggan hung back. "what about that roast?" he demanded. "wasn't sure of you. twenty years is a long time. but i knew if it was you you'd want to fight, and i knew if you didn't want to fight it wasn't you. i'll buy you one in honor of the best little city west of the mississip, and the best bunch of sports that ever came out of it, the mcquiggans of st. jo, missouri. does that go?" "it goes," replied the representative of the family concisely. across the café table dr. surtaine contemplated his old acquaintance with friendly interest. "the same old scrappy elpy," he observed. "what's happened to you, since you used to itinerate with the iroquois extract of life?" "plenty." "you're looking pretty prosperous." "have to, in my line." "what is it?" mr. mcquiggan produced a card, with the legend:-- +-----------------------------------------+ | | | mcquiggan & straight | | streaky mountain copper company | | orsten, palas county, nev. | | | | | | l.p. mcquiggan arthur straight | | _president_ _vice-pres. & treas._ | | | +-----------------------------------------+ "any good?" queried the doctor. "best undeveloped property in the state." "why don't you develop it?" "capital." "get the capital." "will you help me?" "sure." "how?" "advertise." "advertising costs money." "and brings two dollars for every one you spend." "maybe," retorted the other, with a skeptical air. "but my game is still talk." "talk gets dimes; print gets dollars," said his friend sententiously. "you have to show me." "show you!" cried the doctor. "i'll write your copy myself." "_you_ will? what do you know about mining?" "not a thing. but there isn't much i don't know about advertising. i've built up a little twelve millions, plus, on it. and i can sell your stock like hot cakes through the 'clarion.'" "what's the 'clarion'?" "my son's newspaper." "thereby keeping the graft in the family, eh?" "don't be a fool, elpy. i'm showing you profits. besides doing you a good turn, i'd like to bring in some new business to the boy. now you take half-pages every other day for a week and a full page sunday--" "pages!" almost squalled the little man. "d'you think i'm made of money?" "elpy," said dr. surtaine, abruptly, "do you remember my platform patter?" "like the multiplication table." "was it good?" "best ever!" "well, i'm a slicker proposition with a pen than i ever was with a spiel. and you're securing my services for nothing. come around to the office, man, and let me show you." still suspicious, mr. mcquiggan permitted himself to be led away, expatiating as he went, upon the unrivaled location and glorious future of his mining property. from time to time, dr. surtaine jotted down an unostentatious note. the first view of the certina building dashed mr. mcquiggan's suspicions; his inspection of his old friend's superb office slew them painlessly. "is this all yours, andy? on the level? did you do it all on your own?" "every bit of it! with my little pen-and-ink. take a look around the walls and you'll see how." he seated himself at his desk and proceeded to jot down, with apparent carelessness, but in broad, sweeping lines, a type lay-out, while his guest passed from advertisement to advertisement, in increasing admiration. before old lame-boy he paused, absolutely fascinated. "i thought that'd get you," exulted the host, who, between strokes of the creative pen had been watching him. "i've seen it in the newspaper, but never connected it with you. being out of the medical line i lost interest. say, it's a wonder! did it fetch 'em?" "fetch 'em? it knocked 'em flat. that picture's the foundation of this business. talk about suggestion in advertising! he's a regular hypnotist, old lame-boy is. plants the suggestion right in the small of your back, where we want it. why, elpy, i've seen a man walk up to that picture on a bill-board as straight as you or me, take one good, long look, and go away hanging onto his kidneys, and squirming like a lizard. fact! what do you think of that? genius, i call it: just flat genius, to produce an effect like that with a few lines and a daub or two of color." "some pull!" agreed mr. mcquiggan, with professional approval. "and then--'try certina,' eh?" "for a starter and, for a finisher 'certina _cures_.' shoves the bottle right into their hands. the first bottle braces 'em. they take another. by the time they've had half a dozen, they love it." "booze?" "sure! flavored and spiced up, nice and tasty. great for the temperance trade. _and_ the best little repeater on the market. now take a look, elpy." he tapped the end of his pen upon the rough sketch of the mining advertisement, which he had drafted. mr. mcquiggan bent over it in study, and fell a swift victim to the magic of the art. "why, that would make a wad of bills squirm out of the toe of a stockin'! it's new game to me. i've always worked the personal touch. but i'll sure give it a try-out, andy." "i guess it's bad!" exulted the other. "i guess i've lost the trick of tolling the good old dollars in! take this home and try it on your cash register! now, come around and meet the boy." thus it was that editor-in-chief harrington surtaine, in the third week of his incumbency received a professional call from his father, and a companion from whose pockets bulged several sheets of paper. "shake hands with mr. mcquiggan, hal," said the doctor. "make a bow when you meet him, too. he's your first new business for the reformed 'clarion.'" "in what way?" asked hal, meeting a grip like iron from the stranger. "news?" "news! i guess not. business, i said. real money. advertising." "it's like this, mr. surtaine," said l.p. mcquiggan, turning his spare, hard visage toward hal. "i've got some copper stock to sell--an a under-developed proposition; and your father, who's an old pal, tells me the 'clarion' can do the business for me. now, if i can get a good rate from you, it's a go." "mr. shearson, the advertising manager, is your man. i don't know anything about advertising rates." "then you'd best get busy and learn," cried dr. surtaine. "i'm learning other things." "for instance?" "what news is and isn't." "look here, boyee." dr. surtaine's voice was surcharged with a disappointed earnestness. "put yourself right on this. news is news; any paper can get it. but advertising is _money_. let your editors run the news part, till you can work into it. _you get next to the door where the cash comes in._" in the fervor of his advice he thumped hal's desk. the thump woke mcguire ellis, who had been devoting a spare five minutes to his favorite pastime. for his behoof, the exponent of policy repeated his peroration. "isn't that right, ellis?" he cried. "you're a practical newspaper man." "it's true to type, anyway," grunted ellis. "sure it is!" cried the other, too bent on his own notions to interpret this comment correctly. "and now, what about a little reading notice for mcquiggan's proposition?" "yes: an interview with me on the copper situation and prospects might help," put in mcquiggan. hal hesitated, looking to ellis for counsel. "you've got to do something for an advertiser on a big order like this, boyee," urged his father. "let's see the copy," put in ellis. the trained journalistic eye ran over the sheets. "lot of gaudy slush about copper mines in general," he observed, "and not much information on streaky mountain." "it's an undeveloped property," said mcquiggan. "strong on geography," continued ellis. "'in the immediate vicinity,'" he read from one sheet, "'lie the copper monarch mine paying per cent dividends, the deep gulch mine, paying per cent, the three sisters, last chance, alkali spring mines, all returning upwards of per cent per annum: and immediately adjacent is the famous strike-for-the-west property which enriches its fortunate stockholders to the tune of per cent a year!' are you on the same range as the strike-for-the-west, mr. mcquiggan?" "it's an adjacent property," growled the mining man. "what d'you know about copper?" "oh, i've seen a little mining, myself. and a bit of mining advertising. that's quite an ad. of yours, mcquiggan." "i wrote that ad.," said dr. surtaine blandly: "and i challenge anybody to find a single misstatement in it." "you're safe. there isn't any. and scarcely a single statement. but if you wrote it, i suppose it goes." "and the interview, too," rasped mcquiggan. "it's usual," said ellis to hal. "the tail with the hide: the soul with the body, when you're selling." "but we're not selling interviews," said hal uneasily. "you're getting nearly a thousand dollars' worth of copy, and giving a bonus that don't cost you anything," said his father. "the papers have done it for me ever since i've been in business." "i guess that's right, too," agreed ellis. "why don't you take mcquiggan down to meet your mr. shearson, hal?" suggested the doctor. "i'll stay here and round out a couple of other ideas for his campaign." hal had risen from his desk when there was a light knock at the door and milly neal's bright head appeared. "hullo!" said dr. surtaine. "what's up? anything wrong at the shop, milly?" the girl walked into the room and stood trimly at ease before the four men. "no, chief," said she. "i understood mr. surtaine wanted to see me." "i?" said hal blankly, pushing a chair toward her. "yes. didn't you? they told me you left word for me in the city room, to see you when i came in again. sometimes i send my copy, so i only just got the message." "miss neal is 'kitty the cutie,'" explained mcguire ellis. "looks it, too," observed l.p. mcquiggan jauntily, addressing the upper far corner of the room. miss neal looked at him, met a knowing and conscious smile, looked right through the smile, and looked away again, all with the air of one who gazes out into nothingness. "guess i'll go look up this shearson person," said mr. mcquiggan, a trifle less jauntily. "see you all later." "i'd no notion you were the writer of the cutie paragraphs, milly," said dr. surtaine. "they're lively stuff." "nobody has. i'm keeping it dark. it's only a try-out. you _did_ send for me, didn't you?" she added, turning to hal. "yes. what i had in mind to say to you--that is, to the author--the writer of the paragraphs," stumbled hal, "is that they're a little too--too--" "too flip?" queried his father. "that's what makes 'em go." "if they could be done in a manner not quite so undignified," suggested the editor-in-chief. color rose in the girl's smooth cheek. "you think they're vulgar," she charged. "that's rather too harsh a word," he protested. "you do! i can see it." she flushed an angry red. "i'd rather stop altogether than have you think that." "don't be young," put in mcguire ellis, with vigor. "kitty has caught on. it's a good feature. the paper can't afford to drop it." "that's right," supplemented dr. surtaine. "people are beginning to talk about those items. they read 'em. i read 'em myself. they've got the go, the pep. they're different. but, milly, i didn't even know you could write." "neither did i," said the girl staidly, "till i got to putting down some of the things i heard the girls say, and stringing them together with nonsense of my own. one evening i showed some of it to mr. veltman, and he took it here and had it printed." "i was going to suggest, mr. surtaine," said mcguire ellis formally, "that we put miss kitty on the five-dollar-a-column basis and make her an every-other-day editorial page feature. i think the stuff's worth it." "we can give it a trial," said his principal, a little dubiously, "since you think so well of it." "then, milly, i suppose you'll be quitting the shop to become a full-fledged writer," remarked dr. surtaine. "no, indeed, chief." the girl smiled at him with that frank friendliness which hal had noted as informing every relationship between dr. surtaine and the employees of the certina plant. "i'll stick. the regular pay envelope looks good to me. and i can do this work after hours." "how would it be if i was to put you on half-time, milly?" suggested her employer. "you can keep your department going by being there in the mornings and have your afternoons for the writing." the girl thanked him demurely but with genuine gratitude. "then we'll look for your copy here on alternate days," said hal. "and i think i'll give you a desk. as this develops into an editorial feature i shall want to keep an eye on it and to be in touch with you. perhaps i could make suggestions sometimes." she rose, thanking him, and hal held open the door for her. once again he felt, with a strange sensation, her eyes take hold on his as she passed him. "pretty kid," observed ellis. "veltman is crazy about her, they say." "_good_ kid, too," added dr. surtaine, emphasizing the adjective. "you might tell veltman that, whoever he is." "tell him, yourself," retorted ellis with entire good nature. "he isn't the sort to offer gratuitous information to." upon this advice, l.p. mcquiggan reëntered. "all fixed," said he, with evident satisfaction. "we went to the mat on rates, but shearson agreed to give me some good reading notices. now, i'll beat it. see you to-night, andy?" dr. surtaine nodded. "you owe me a commission, boyee," said he, smiling at hal as mcquiggan made his exit. "but i'll let you off this time. i guess it won't be the last business i bring in to you. only, don't you and ellis go looking every gift horse too hard in the teeth. you might get bit." "shut your eyes and swallow it and ask no questions, if it's good, eh, doctor?" said mcguire ellis. "that's the motto for your practice." "right you are, my boy. and it's the motto of sound business. what is business?" he continued, soaring aloft upon the wings of a pæan of policy. "why, business is a deal between you and me in which i give you my goods and a pleasant word, and you give me your dollar and a polite reply. some folks always want to know where the dollar came from. not me! i'm satisfied to know that its coming to me. money has wings, and if you throw stones at it, it'll fly away fast. and you want to remember," he concluded with the fervor of honest conviction, "that a newspaper can't be quite right, any more than a man can, unless it makes its own living. well. i'm not going to preach any more. so long, boys." "what do you think of it, mr. surtaine?" inquired mcguire ellis, after the lecturer had gone his way. "pretty sound sense, eh?" "i wonder just what you mean by that, ellis. not what you say, certainly." but ellis only laughed and turned to his "flimsy." meantime the editor of the "clarion" was being quietly but persistently beset by another sermonizer, less cocksure of text than the sweet singer of policy, but more subtle in influence. this was miss esmé elliot. already, the half-jocular partnership undertaken at the outset of their acquaintance had developed into a real, if somewhat indeterminate connection. esmé found her new acquaintance interesting both for himself and for his career. her set in general considered the ripening friendship merely "another of esmé's flirtations," and variously prophesied the dénouement. to the girl's own mind it was not a flirtation at all. she was (she assured herself) genuinely absorbed in the development of a new mission in which she aspired to be influential. that she already exercised a strong sway of personality over hal surtaine, she realized. indeed, in the superb confidence of her charm, she would have been astonished had it been otherwise. just where her interest in the newly adventured professional field ended, and in harrington surtaine, the man, began, she would have been puzzled to say. kathleen pierce had bluntly questioned her on the subject. "yes, of course i like him," said esmé frankly. "he's interesting and he's a gentleman, and he has a certain force about him, and he's"--she paused, groping for a characterization--"he's unexpected." "what gets me," said kathleen, in her easy slang, "is that he never pulls any knighthood-in-flower stuff, yet you somehow feel it's there. know what i mean? there's a scrapper behind that nice-boy smile." "he hasn't scrapped with me, yet, kathie," smiled the beauty. "don't let him," advised the other. "it mightn't be safe. still, i suppose you understand him by now, down to the ground." "indeed i do not. didn't i tell you he was unexpected? he has an uncomfortable trick," complained miss elliot, "just when everything is smooth and lovely, of suddenly leveling those gray-blue eyes of his at you, like two pistols. 'throw up your hands and tell me what you really mean!' one doesn't always want to tell what one really means." "bet you have to with him, sooner or later," returned her friend. this conversation took place at the vanes' _al fresco_ tea, to which hal came for a few minutes, late in the afternoon of his father's visit with mcquiggan, mainly in the hope of seeing esmé elliot. within five minutes after his arrival, worthington society was frowning, or smiling, according as it was masculine or feminine, at their backs, as they strolled away toward the garden. miss esmé was feeling a bit petulant, perhaps because of kathie pierce's final taunt. "i think you aren't living up to our partnership," she accused. "is it a partnership, where one party is absolute slave to the other's slightest wish?" he smiled. "there! that is exactly it. you treat me like a child." "i don't think of you as a child, i assure you." "you listen to all i say with pretended deference, and smile and--and go your own way with inevitable motion." "wherein have i failed in my allegiance?" asked hal, courteously concerned. "haven't we published everything about all the charities that you're interested in?" "oh, yes. so far as that goes. but the paper itself doesn't seem to change any. it's got the same tone it always had." "what's wrong with its tone?" the eyes were leveled at her now. "speaking frankly, it's tawdry. it's lurid. it's--well, yellow." "a matter of method. you're really more interested, then, in the way we present news than in the news we present." "i don't know anything about news, itself. but i don't see why a newspaper run by a gentleman shouldn't be in good taste." "nor do i. except that those things take time. i suppose i've got to get in touch with my staff before i can reform their way of writing the paper." "haven't you done that yet?" "i simply haven't had time." "then i'll make you a nice present of a very valuable suggestion. give a luncheon to your employees, and invite all the editors and reporters. make a little speech to them and tell them what you intend to do, and get them to talk it over and express opinions. that's the way to get things done. i do it with my mission class. and, by the way, don't make it a grand banquet at one of the big hotels. have it in some place where the men are used to eating. they'll feel more at home and you'll get more out of them." "will you come?" "no. but you shall come up to the house and report fully on it." had miss esmé elliot, experimentalist in human motives, foreseen to what purpose her ingenious suggestion was to work out, she might well have retracted her complaint of lack of real influence; for this casual conversation was the genesis of the talk-it-over breakfast, an institution which potently affected the future of the "clarion" and its young owner. chapter xi the initiate within a month after hal's acquisition of the "clarion," dr. surtaine had become a daily caller at the office. "just to talk things over," was his explanation of these incursions, which hal always welcomed, no matter how busy he might be. advice was generally the form which the visitor's talk took; sometimes warning; not infrequently suggestions of greater or less value. always his counsel was for peace and policy. "keep in with the business element, boyee. remember all the time that worthington is a business city, the liveliest little business city between new york and chicago. business made it. business runs it. business is going to keep on running it. anybody who works on a different principle, i don't care whether it's in politics or journalism or the pulpit, is going to get hurt. i don't deny you've braced up the 'clarion.' people are beginning to talk about it already. but the best men, the moneyed men, are holding off. they aren't sure of you yet. sometimes i'm not sure myself. every now and then the paper takes a stand i don't like. it goes too far. you've put ginger into it. i have to admit that. and ginger's a good thing, but sugar catches more flies." the notion of a breakfast to the staff met with the doctor's instant approval. "that's the idea!" said he "i'll come to it, myself. lay down your general scheme and policy to 'em. get 'em in sympathy with it. if any of 'em aren't in sympathy with it, get rid of those. kickers never did any business any good. you'll get plenty of kicks from outside. then, when the office gets used to your way of doing things, you can quit wasting so much time on the news and editorial end." "but that's what makes the paper, dad." "get over that idea. you hire men to get out the paper. let 'em earn their pay while you watch the door where the dollars come in. advertising, my son: that's the point to work at. in a way i'm sorry you let sterne out." the ex-editor had left, a fortnight before, on a basis agreeable to himself and hal, and mcguire ellis had taken over his duties. "certainly you had no reason to like sterne, dad." "for all that, he knew his job. everything sterne did had a dollar somewhere in the background. even his blackmailing game. he worked with the business office, and he took his orders on that basis. now if you had some man whom you could turn over this news end to while you're building up a sound advertising policy--" "how about mcguire ellis?" dr. surtaine glanced over to the window corner where the associate editor was somnambulantly fighting a fly for the privilege of continuing a nap. "too much of a theorist: too much of a knocker." "he's taught me what little i know about this business," said hal. "hi! wake up, ellis. do you know you've got to make a speech in an hour? this is the day of the formal feed." "hoong!" grunted ellis, arousing himself. "speech? i can't make a speech. make it yourself." "i'm going to." "what are you going to talk about?" "well, i might borrow your text and preach them a sermon on honesty in journalism. seriously, i think the whole paper has degenerated to low ideals, and if i put it to them straight, that every man of them, reporter, copy-reader, or editor, has got to measure up to an absolutely straight standard of honesty--" "they'll throw the tableware at you," said mcguire ellis quietly: "at least they ought to, if they don't." the two surtaines stared at him in surprise. "who are you," continued the journalist, "to talk standards of honesty in journalism to those boys?" "he's their boss: that's all he is," said dr. surtaine weightily. "let him set the example, then, jack the paper up where it belongs, and there'll be no difficulty with the men who write it." "but, mac, you've been hammering at me about the crookedness of journalism in worthington from the first." "all right. crookedness there is. where does it come from? from the men in control, mostly. let me tell you something, you two: there's hardly a reporter in this city who isn't more honest than the paper he works for." "hifalutin nonsense," said dr. surtaine. "from your point of view. you're an outsider. it's outsiders that make the newspaper game as bad as it is. look at 'em in this town. who owns the 'banner'? a political boss. who owns the 'news'? a brewer. the 'star'? a promoter, and a pretty scaly one at that. the 'observer' belongs body and soul to an advertising agency, and the 'telegraph' is controlled by the banks. and one and all of 'em take their orders from the dry goods union, which means elias m. pierce, because they live on its advertising." "why not? that's business," said dr. surtaine. "are we talking about business? i thought it was standards. what do those men know about the ethics of journalism? if you put the thing up to him, like as not e.m. pierce would tell you that an ethic is something a doctor gives you to make you sleep." "how about the 'clarion,' mac?" said hal, smiling. "it's run by an outsider, too, isn't it?" "that's what i want to know." there was no answering smile on ellis's somber and earnest face. "i've thought there was hope for you. you've had no sound business training, thank god, so your sense of decency may not have been spoiled." "you don't seem to think much of business standards," said the doctor tolerantly. "not a great deal. i've bumped into 'em too hard. not so long ago i was publisher of a paying daily in an eastern city. the directors were all high-class business men, and the chairman of the board was one of those philanthropist-charity-donator-pillar-of-the-church chaps with a permanent crease of high respectability down his front. well, one day there turned up a double murder in the den of one of these venereal quacks that infest every city. it set me on the trail, and i had my best reporter get up a series about that gang of vampires. naturally that necessitated throwing out their ads. the advertising manager put up a howl, and we took the thing to the board of directors. in those days i had all my enthusiasm on tap. i had an array of facts, too, and i went at that board like a revivalist, telling 'em just the kind of devil-work the 'men's specialists' did. at the finish i sat down feeling pretty good. nobody said anything for quite a while. then the chairman dropped the pencil he'd been puttering with, and said, in a kind of purry voice: 'gentlemen: i thought mr. ellis's job on this paper was to make it pay dividends, and not to censor the morals of the community.'" "and, by crikey, he was right!" cried dr. surtaine. "from the business point of view." "oh, you theorists! you theorists!" dr. surtaine threw out his hands in a gesture of pleasant despair. "you want to run the world like a sunday-school class." "instead of like a three-card-monte game." "with your lofty notions, ellis, how did you ever come to work on a sheet like the 'clarion'?" "a man's got to eat. when i walked out of that directors' meeting i walked out of my job and into a saloon; and from that saloon i walked into a good many other saloons. luckily for me, booze knocked me out early. i broke down, went west, got my health and some sense back again, drifted to this town, found an opening on the 'clarion,' and took it, to make a living." "you won't continue to do that," advised dr. surtaine bluntly, "if you keep on trying to reform your bosses." "but what makes me sick," continued ellis, disregarding this hint, "is to have people assume that newspaper men are a lot of semi-crooks and shysters. what does the petty grafting that a few reporters do--and, mind you, there's mighty little of it done--amount to, compared with the rottenness of a paper run by my church-going reformer with the business standards?" a call from the business office took hal away. at once ellis turned to the older man. "are you going to run the paper, doc?" "no: no, my boy. hal owns it, on his own money." "because if you are, i quit." "that's no way to talk," said the magnate, aggrieved. "there isn't a man in worthington treats his employees better or gets along with 'em smoother than me." "that's right, too, i guess. only i don't happen to want to be your employee." "you're frank, at least, mr. ellis." "why not? i've laid my cards on the table. you know me for what i am, a disgruntled dreamer. i know you for what you are, a hard-headed business man. we don't have to quarrel about it. tell you what i'll do: i'll match you, horse-and-horse, for the soul of your boy." "you're a queer dick, ellis." "don't want to match? then i suppose i've got to fight you for him," sighed the editor. the big man laughed whole-heartedly. "not a chance, my friend! not a chance on earth. i don't believe even a woman could come between hal and me, let alone a man." "_or_ a principle?" "ah--ah! dealing in abstractions again. look out for this fellow, boyee," he called jovially as hal came back to his desk. "he'll make your paper the official organ of the muckrakers' union." "i'll watch him," promised hal. "meantime i'll take your advice about my speech, mac, and blue-pencil the how-to-be-good stuff." "now you're talking! i'll tell you, boss: why not get some of the fellows to speak up. you might learn a few things about your own paper that would interest you." "good idea! but, mac, i wish you wouldn't call me 'boss.' it makes me feel absurdly young." "all right, hal," returned ellis, with a grin. "but you've still got some youngness to overcome, you know." an hour later, looking down the long luncheon table, the editor-owner felt his own inexperience more poignantly. with a very few exceptions, these men, his employees, were his seniors in years. more than that, he thought to see in the faces an air of capability, of assurance, of preparedness, a sort of work-worthiness like the seaworthiness of a vessel which has passed the high test of wind and wave. and to him, untried, unformed, ignorant, the light amateur, all this human mechanism must look for guidance. humility clouded him at the recollection of the spirit in which he had taken on the responsibility so vividly personified before him, a spirit of headlong wrath and revenge, and he came fervently to a realization and a resolve. he saw himself as part of a close-knit whole; he visioned, sharply, the institution, complex, delicate, almost infinitely powerful for good or evil, not alone to those who composed it, but to the community to which it bore so subtle a relationship. and he resolved, with a determination that partook of the nature of prayer and yet was more than prayer, to give himself loyally, unsparingly, devotedly to the common task. in this spirit he rose, at the close of the luncheon, to speak. no newspaper reported the maiden speech of mr. harrington surtaine to the staff of the worthington "clarion." newspapers are reticent about their own affairs. in this case it is rather a pity, for the effort is said to have been an eminently successful one. estimated by its effect, it certainly was, for it materialized with quite spiritistic suddenness, from out the murk of uncertainty and suspicion, the form and substance of a new _esprit de corps_, among the "clarion" men, and established the system of talk-it-over breakfasts which made a close-knit, jealously guarded corporation and club out of the staff. free of all ostentation or self-assertiveness was hal's talk; simple, and, above all virtues, brief. he didn't tell his employees what he expected of them. he told them what they might expect of him. the frankness of his manner, the self-respecting modesty of his attitude toward an audience of more experienced subordinates, his shining faith and belief in the profession which he had adopted; all this eked out by his ease of address and his dominant physical charm, won them from the first. only at the close did he venture upon an assertion of his own ideas or theories. "it is the sydney 'bulletin,' i think, which preserves as its motto the proposition that every man has at least one good story in him. i have been studying newspaper files since i took this job,--all the files of all the papers i could get,--and i'm almost ready to believe that much news which the papers publish has got realer facts up its sleeve: that the news is only the shadow of the facts. i'd like to get at the why of the day's news. do you remember sherlock holmes's 'commonplace' divorce suit, where the real cause was that the husband used to remove his front teeth and hurl 'em at the wife whenever her breakfast-table conversation wasn't sprightly enough to suit him? once out of a hundred times, i suppose, the everyday processes of our courts hide something picturesque or perhaps important in the background. any paper that could get and present that sort of news would liven up its columns a good deal. and it would strike a new note in worthington. i'll give you a motto for the 'clarion,' gentlemen: 'the facts behind the news.' and now i've said my say, and i want to hear from you." here for the first time hal struck a false note. newspaper men, as a class, abhor public speaking. so much are they compelled to hear from "those bores who prate intolerably over dinner tables," that they regard the man who speaks when he isn't manifestly obliged to, as an enemy to the public weal, and are themselves most loath thus to add to the sum of human suffering. merely by way of saving the situation, wayne, the city editor, arose and said a few words complimentary to the new owner. he was followed by the head copy-reader in the same strain. two of the older sub-editors perpetrated some meaningless but well-meant remarks, and the current of events bade fair to end in complete stagnation, when from out of the ruck, midway of the table, there rose the fringed and candid head of one william s. marchmont, the railroad and markets reporter. marchmont was an elderly man, of a journalistic type fast disappearing. there is little room in the latter-day pressure of newspaper life for the man who works on "booze." but though a steady drinker, and occasionally an unsteady one, marchmont had his value. he was an expert in his specialty. he had a wide acquaintance, and he seldom became unprofessionally drunk in working hours. to offset the unwonted strain of rising before noon, however, he had fortified himself for this occasion by several cocktails which were manifest in his beaming smile and his expansive flourish in welcoming mr. surtaine to the goodly fellowship of the pen. "very good, all that about the facts behind the news," he said genially. "very instructive and--and illuminating. but what i wanta ask you is this: we fellows who have to _write_ the facts behind the news; where do we get off?" "i don't understand you," said hal. "lemme explain. last week we had an accident on the mid-and-mud. engineer ran by his signals. rear end collision. seven people killed. coroner's inquest put all the blame on the engineer. engineer wasn't tending to his duty. that's news, isn't it, mr. surtaine?" "undoubtedly." "yes: but here's the facts. that engineer had been kept on duty forty-eight hours with only five hours off. he was asleep when he ran past the block and killed those people." "is he telling the truth, mac?" asked hal in a swift aside to ellis. "if he says so, it's right," replied ellis. "what do you call that?" pursued the speaker. "murder. i call it murder." max veltman, who sat just beyond the speaker, half rose from his chair. "the men who run the road ought to be tried for murder." "oh, _you_ can call it that, all right, in one of your socialist meetings," returned the reporter genially. "but i can't." "why can't you?" demanded hal. "the railroad people would shut down on news to the 'clarion.' i couldn't get a word out of them on anything. what good's a reporter who can't get news? you'd fire me in a week." "can you prove the facts?" "i can." "write it for to-morrow's paper. i'll see that you don't lose your place." marchmont sat down, blinking. again there was silence around the table, but this time it was electric, with the sense of flashes to come. the slow drawl of lindsay, the theater reporter, seemed anti-climatic as he spoke up, slouched deep in his seat. "how much do you know of dramatic criticism in this town, mr. surtaine?" "nothing." "maybe, then, you'll be pained to learn that we're a set of liars--i might even go further--myself among the number. there hasn't been honest dramatic criticism written in worthington for years." "that is hard to believe, mr. lindsay." "not if you understand the situation. suppose i roast a show like 'the nymph in the nightie' that played here last week. it's vapid and silly, and rotten with suggestiveness. i wouldn't let my kid sister go within gunshot of it. but i've got to tell everybody else's kid sister, through our columns, that it's a delightful and enlivening _mélange_ of high class fun and frolic. to be sure, i can praise a fine performance like 'kindling' or 'the servant in the house,' but i've got to give just as clean a bill of health to a gutter-and-brothel farce. otherwise, the high-minded gentlemen that run our theaters will cut off my tickets." "buy them at the box-office," said hal. "no use. they wouldn't let me in. the courts have killed honest criticism by deciding that a manager can keep a critic out on any pretext or without any. besides, there's the advertising. we'd lose that." "speaking of advertising,"--now it was lynch, a young reporter who had risen from being an office boy,--"i guess it spoils some pretty good stories from the down-town district. look at that accident at scheffer and mintz's; worth three columns of anybody's space. tank on the roof broke, and drowned out a couple of hundred customers. panic, and broken bones, and all kinds of things. how much did we give it? one stick! and we didn't name the place: just called it 'a washington street store.' there were facts behind _that_ news, all right. but i guess mr. shearson wouldn't have been pleased if we'd printed 'em." in fact, shearson, the advertising manager, looked far from pleased at the mention. "if you think a one-day story would pay for the loss of five thousand a year in advertising, you've got another guess, young man," he growled. "he's right, there," said dr. surtaine, on one side of hal; and from the other, mcguire ellis chirped:-- "things are beginning to open up, all right, mr. editor." two aspirants were now vying for the floor, the winner being the political reporter for the paper. "would you like to hear some facts about the news we don't print?" he asked. "go ahead," replied hal. "you have the floor." "you recall a big suffrage meeting here recently, at which mrs. barkerly from london spoke. well, the chairman of that meeting didn't get a line of his speech in the papers: didn't even get his name mentioned. do you know why?" "i can't even imagine," said hal. "because he's the socialist candidate for governor of this state. he's blackballed from publication in every newspaper here." "by whom?" inquired hal. "by the hinted wish of the chamber of commerce. they're so afraid of the socialist movement that they daren't even admit it's alive." "not at all!" dr. surtaine's rotund bass boomed out the denial. "there are some movements that it's wisest to disregard. they'll die of themselves. socialism is a destructive force. why should the papers help spread it by noticing it in their columns?" "well, i'm no socialist," said the political reporter, "but i'm a newspaper man, and i say it's news when a socialist does a thing just as much as when any one else does it. yet if i tried to print it, they'd give me the laugh on the copy-desk." "it's a fact that we're all tied down on the news in this town," corroborated wayne; "what between the chamber of commerce and the dry goods union and the theaters and the other steady advertisers. you must have noticed, mr. surtaine, that if there's a shoplifting case or anything of that kind you never see the name of the store in print. it's always 'a state street department store' or 'a warburton avenue shop.' ask ellis if that isn't so." "correct," said ellis. "why shouldn't it be so?" cried shearson. "you fellows make me tired. you're always thinking of the news and never of the advertising. who is it pays your salaries, do you think? the men who advertise in the 'clarion.'" "hear! hear!" from dr. surtaine. "and what earthly good does it do to print stuff like those shoplifting cases? where's the harm in protecting the store?" "i'll tell you where," said ellis. "that mcburney girl case. they got the wrong girl, and, to cover themselves, they tried to railroad her. it was a clear case. every paper in town had the facts. yet they gave that girl the reputation of a thief and never printed a correction for fear of letting in the store for a damage suit." "did the 'clarion' do that?" asked hal. "yes." "get me a full report of the facts." "what are you going to do?" asked shearson. "print them." "oh, my lord!" groaned shearson. the circle was now drawing in and the talk became brisker, more detailed, more intimate. to his overwhelming amazement hal learned some of the major facts of that subterranean journalistic history which never gets into print; the ugly story of the blackmail of a president of the united states by a patent medicine concern (dr. surtaine verified this with a nod); the inside facts of the failure of an important senatorial investigation which came to nothing because of the drunken debauchery of the chief senatorial investigator; the dreadful details of the death of a leading merchant in a great eastern city, which were so glossed over by the local press that few of his fellow citizens ever had an inkling of the truth; the obtainable and morally provable facts of the conspiracy on the part of a mighty financier which had plunged a nation into panic; these and many other strange narratives of the news, known to every old newspaper man, which made the neophyte's head whirl. then, in a pause, a young voice said: "well, to bring the subject up to date, what about the deaths in the rookeries?" "shut up," said wayne sharply. there followed a general murmur of question and answer. "what about the rookeries?"--"don't know."--"they say the death-rate is a terror."--"are they concealing it at the city hall?"--"no; merritt can't find out."--"bet tip o'farrell can."--"oh, he's in on the game."--"just another fake, i guess." in vain hal strove to catch a clue from the confused voices. he had made a note of it for future inquiry, when some one called out: "mac ellis hasn't said anything yet." the others caught it up. "speech from mac!"--"don't let him out."--"if you can't speak, sing a song."--"play a tune on the _bazoo_."--"hike him up there, somebody."--"silence for the macguire!!" "i've never made a speech in my life," said ellis, glowering about him, "and you fellows know it. but last night i read this in plutarch: 'themistocles said that he certainly could not make use of any stringed instrument; could only, were a small and obscure city put into his hands, make it great and glorious.'" ellis paused, lifting one hand. "fellows," he said, and he turned sharply to face hal surtaine, "i don't know how the devil old themistocles ever could do it--unless he owned a newspaper!" silence followed, and then a quick acclaiming shout, as they grasped the implicit challenge of the corollary. then again silence, tense with curiosity. no doubt of what they awaited. their expectancy drew hal to his feet. "i had intended to speak but once," he said, in a constrained voice, "but i've learned more here this afternoon--more than--than i could have thought--" he broke off and threw up his hand. "i'm no newspaper man," he cried. "i'm only an amateur, a freshman at this business. but one thing i believe; it's the business of a newspaper to give the news without fear or favor, and that's what the 'clarion' is going to do from this day. on that platform i'll stand by any man who'll stand by me. will you help?" the answer rose and rang like a cheer. the gathering broke into little, excited, chattering groups, sure symptom of the success of a meeting. much conjecture was expressed and not a little cynicism. "compared to us ishmael would be a society favorite if surtaine carries this through," said one. "it means suspension in six months," prophesied shearson. but most of the men were excitedly enthusiastic. your newspaper man is by nature a romantic; otherwise he would not choose the most adventurous of callings. and the fighting tone of the new boss stimulated in them the spirit of chance and change. slowly and reluctantly they drifted away to the day's task. at the close hal sat, thoughtful and spent, in a far corner when ellis walked heavily over to him. the associate editor gazed down at his bemused principal for a time. from his pocket he drew the thick blue pencil of his craft, and with it tapped hal thrice on the shoulder. "rise up, sir newspaper man," he pronounced solemnly. "i hereby dub thee knight-editor." chapter xii the thin edge across the fresh and dainty breakfast table, dr. miles elliot surveyed his even more fresh and dainty niece and ward with an expression of sternest disapproval. not that it affected in any perceptible degree that attractive young person's healthy appetite. it was the habit of the two to breakfast together early, while their elderly widowed cousin, who played the part of feminine propriety in the household in a highly self-effacing and satisfactory manner, took her tea and toast in her own rooms. it was further dr. elliot's custom to begin the day by reprehending everything (so far as he could find it out) which miss esmé had done, said, or thought in the previous twenty-four hours. this, as he frequently observed to her, was designed to give her a suitably humble attitude toward the scheme of creation, but didn't. "out all night again?" he growled. "pretty nearly," said esmé cheerfully, setting a very even row of very white teeth into an apple. "humph! what was it this time?" "a dinner-dance at the norris's." "have a good time?" "beautiful! my frock was pretty. and i was pretty. and everybody was nice to me. and i wish it were going to happen right over again to-night." "whom did you dance with mostly?" "anybody that asked me." "dare say. how many new victims?" he demanded. "don't be a silly guardy. i'm not a man-eating tiger or tigress, or the great american puma--or pumess. don't you think 'pumess' is a nice lady-word, guardy?" "did you dance with will douglas?" catechised the grizzled doctor, declining to be shunted off on a philological discussion. next to acting as legal major domo to e.m. pierce, douglas's most important function in life was apparently to fetch and carry for the reigning belle of worthington. his devotion to esmé elliot had become stock gossip of the town, since three seasons previous. "almost half as often as he asked me," said the girl. "that was eight times, i think." "nice boy, will." "boy!" there was a world of expressiveness in the monosyllable. "not a day over forty," observed the uncle. "and you are twenty-two. not that you look it"--judicially--"like thirty-five, after all this dissipation." esmé rose from her seat, walked with great dignity past her guardian, and suddenly whirling, pounced upon his ear. "do i? do i?" she cried. "do i look thirty-five? quick! take it back." "ouch! oh! no. not more'n thirty. oo! all right; twenty-five, then. fifteen! three!!!" she kissed the assaulted ear, and pirouetted over to the broad window-seat, looking in her simple morning gown like a school-girl. "wonder how you do it," grumbled dr. elliot. "up all night roistering like a sophomore--" "i was in bed at three." "down next morning, fresh as a--a--" "rose," she supplied tritely. "--cake o' soap," concluded her uncle. "now, as for you and will douglas, as between will's forty--" "marked down from forty-five," she interjected. "and your twenty-two--" "looking like thirty-something." "never mind," said dr. elliot in martyred tones. "_i_ don't want to finish _any_ sentence. why should i? got a niece to do it for me." "nobody wants you to finish that one. you're a matchmaking old maid," declared esmé, wrinkling her delicate nose at him, "and if you're ever put up for our sewing-circle i shall blackball you. gossip!" "oh, if i wanted to gossip, i'd begin to hint about the name of surtaine." the girl's color did not change. "as other people have evidently been doing to you." "a little. did you dance with him last night?" "he wasn't there. he's working very hard on his newspaper." "you seem to know a good deal about it." "naturally, since i've bought into the paper myself. i believe that's the proper business phrase, isn't it?" "bought in? what do you mean? you haven't been making investments without my advice?" "don't worry, guardy, dear. it isn't strictly a business transaction. i've been--ahem--establishing a sphere of influence." "over harrington surtaine?" "over his newspaper." "look here, esmé! how serious is this surtaine matter?" dr. elliot's tone had a distinct suggestion of concern. "for me? not serious at all." "but for him?" "how can i tell? isn't it likely to be serious for any of the unprotected young of your species when a great american pumess gets after him?" she queried demurely. "but you can't know him very well. he's been here only a few weeks, hasn't he?" "more than a month. and from the first he's gone everywhere." "that's quite unusual for your set, isn't it? i thought you rather prided yourselves on being careful about outsiders." "no one's an outsider whom jinny willard vouches for. besides every one likes hal surtaine for himself." "you among the number?" "yes, indeed," she responded frankly. "he's attractive. and he seems older and more--well--interesting than most of the boys of my set." "and that appeals to you?" "yes: it does. i get awfully bored with the just-out-of-college chatter of the boys. i want to see the wheels go round, guardy. real wheels, that make up real machinery and get real things done. i'm not quite an _ingénue_, you know." "thirty-five, thirty, twenty-five, fifteen, three," murmured her uncle, rubbing his ear. "and does young surtaine give you inside glimpses of the machinery of his business?" "sometimes. he doesn't know very much about it himself, yet." "it's a pretty dirty business, honey. and, i'm afraid, he's a pretty bad breed." "the father _is_ rather impossible, isn't he?" she said, laughing. "but they say he's very kindly, and well-meaning, and public-spirited, and that kind of thing." "he's a scoundrelly old quack. it's a bad inheritance for the boy. where are you off to this morning?" "to the 'clarion' office." "what! well, but, see here, dear, does cousin clarice approve of that sort of thing?" "wholly," esmé assured him, dimpling. "it's on behalf of the recreation club. that's the reverend norman hale's club for working-girls, you know. we're going to give a play. and, as i'm on the press committee, it's quite proper for me to go to the newspapers and get things printed." "humph!" grunted dr. elliot. "well: good hunting--pumess." after the girl had gone, he sat thinking. he knew well the swift intimacies, frank and clean and fine, which spring up in the small, close-knit social circles of a city like worthington. and he knew, too, and trusted and respected the judgment of mrs. festus willard, whose friendship was tantamount to a certificate of character and eligibility. as against that, he set the unforgotten picture of the itinerant quack, vending his poison across the countryside, playing on desperate fears and tragic hopes, coining his dollars from the grimmest of false dies; and now that same quack,--powerful, rich, generous, popular, master of the good things of life,--still draining out his millions from the populace, through just such deadly swindling as that which had been lighted up by the flaring exploitation of the oil torches fifteen years before. could any good come from such a stock? he decided to talk it out with esmé, sure that her fastidiousness would turn away from the ugly truth. meantime, the girl was making a toilet of vast and artful simplicity wherewith to enrapture the eye of the beholder. the first profound effect thereof was wrought upon reginald currier, alias "bim," some fifteen minutes later, at the outer portals of the "clarion" office. "hoojer wanter--" he began, and then glanced up. almost as swiftly as he had aforetime risen under hal's irate and athletic impulsion, the redoubtable bim was lifted from his seat by the power of miss elliot's glance. "gee!" he murmured. the great american pumess, looking much more like a very innocent, soft, and demurely playful kitten, accepted this ingenuous tribute to her charms with a smile. "good-morning," she said. "is mr. surtaine in?" "same t'you," responded the courteous mr. currier. "sure he is. walk this way, maddim!" they found the editor at his desk. his absorbed expression brightened as he jumped up to greet his visitor. "you!" he cried. esmé let her hand rest in his and her glance linger in his eyes, perhaps just a little longer than might have comported with safety in one less adept. "how is the paper going?" she inquired, taking the chair which he pulled out for her. "completely to the dogs," said hal. "no! why i thought--" "you haven't given any advice to the editor for six whole days," he complained. "how can you expect an institution to run, bereft of its presiding genius? is it your notion of a fair partnership to stay away and let your fellow toilers wither on the bough? i only wonder that the presses haven't stopped." "would this help at all?" the visitor produced from her shopping-bag the written announcement of the recreation club play. "undoubtedly it will save the day. lost atlantis will thrill to hear, and deep-sea cables bear the good news to unborn generations. what is it?" she frowned upon his levity. "it is an interesting item, a _very_ interesting item of news," she said impressively. "bring one in every day," he directed: "in person. we can't trust the mails in matters of such vital import." and scrawling across the copy a single hasty word in pencil, he thrust it into a wire box. "what's that you've written on it?" "the mystic word 'must.'" "does it mean that it must be printed?" "precisely, o fountain of intuition. it is one of the proud privileges which an editor-in-chief has. otherwise he does exactly what the city desk or the advertising manager or the head proof-reader or the fourth assistant office boy tells him. that's because he's new to his job and everybody in the place knows it." "yet i don't think it would be easy for any one to make you do a thing you really didn't want to do," she observed, regarding him thoughtfully. "when you lift your eyebrows like that--" "i thought you weren't to make pretty speeches to me in business hours," she reproached him. "such a stern and rock-bound partner! very well. how does the paper suit your tastes?" "you've got an awfully funny society column." "we strive to amuse. but i thought only people outside of society ever read society columns--except to see if their names were there." "i read _all_ the paper," she answered severely. "and i'd like to know who mrs. wolf tone maher is." "ring up 'information,'" he suggested. "don't be flippant. also mr. and mrs. b. kirschofer, and miss amelia sproule. all of which give teas in the society columns of the 'clarion.' _or_ dances. _or_ dinners. and i notice they're always sandwiched in between the willards or the vanes or the ellisons or the pierces, or some of our own crowd. i'm curious." "so am i. let's ask wayne." accordingly the city editor was summoned and duly presented to miss elliot. but when she put the question to him, he looked uncomfortable. like a good city editor, however, he defended his subordinate. "it isn't the society reporter's fault," he said. "he knows those people don't belong." "how do they get in there, then?" asked hal. "mr. shearson's orders." "is mr. shearson the society editor?" asked esmé. "no. he's the advertising manager." "forgive my stupidity, but what has the advertising manager to do with social news?" "a big heap lot," explained wayne. "it's the most important feature of the paper to him. wolf tone maher is general manager of the bee hive department store. we get all their advertising, and when mrs. maher wants to see her name along with the 'swells,' as she would say, mr. shearson is glad to oblige. b. kirschofer is senior partner in the firm of kirschofer & kraus, of the bargain emporium. miss sproule is the daughter of alexander sproule, proprietor of the agony parlors, three floors up." "agony parlors?" queried the visitor. "painless dentistry," explained wayne. "mr. shearson handles all that matter and sends it down to us." "marked 'must,' i suppose," remarked miss elliot, not without malice. "so the mystic 'must' is not exclusively a chief-editorial prerogative?" the editor-in-chief looked annoyed, thereby satisfying his visitor's momentary ambition. "hereafter, mr. wayne, all copy indorsed 'must' is to be referred to me," he directed. "that kills the 'must' thing," commented the city editor cheerfully. "what about 'must not'?" "another complication," laughed esmé. "i fear i'm peering into the dark and secret places of journalism." "for example, a story came in last night that was a hummer," said wayne; "about e.m. pierce's daughter running down an apple-cart in her sixty-horse-power car, and scattering dago, fruit, and all to the four winds of heaven. robbins saw it, and he's the best reporter we have for really funny stuff." "kathleen drives that car like a demon out on a spree," said esmé. "but of course you wouldn't print anything unpleasant about it." "why not?" asked wayne. "well, she belongs to our crowd,--mr. surtaine's friends, i mean,--and it was accidental, i suppose, and so long as the man wasn't hurt--" "only a sprained shoulder." "--and i'm sure agnes would be more than willing to pay for the damage." "oh, yes. she asked the worth of his stock and then doubled it, gave him the money, and drove off with her mud guards coquettishly festooned with grapes. that's what made it such a good story." "but, mr. wayne"--esmé's eyes were turned up to his pleadingly: "those things are funny to tell. but they're so vulgar, in the paper. think, if it were your sister." "if my sister went tearing through crowded streets at forty miles an hour, i'd have her examined for homicidal mania. that pierce girl will kill some one yet. even then, i suppose we won't print a word of it." "what would stop us?" asked hal. "the fear of elias m. pierce. his 'must not' is what kills this story." "let me see it." "oh, it isn't visible. but every editor in town knows too much to offend the president of the consolidated employers' organization, let alone his practical control of the dry goods union." "you were at the staff breakfast yesterday, i believe, mr. wayne." "what? yes; of course i was." "and you heard what i said?" "yes. but you can't do that sort of thing all at once," replied the city editor uneasily. "we certainly never shall do it without making a beginning. please hold the pierce story until you hear from me." "tell me all about the breakfast," commanded esmé, as the door closed upon wayne. briefly hal reported the exchange of ideas between himself and his staff, skeletonizing his own speech. "splendid!" she cried. "and isn't it exciting! i love a good fight. what fun you'll have. oh, the luxury of saying exactly what you think! even i can't do that." "what limits are there to the boundless privileges of royalty?" asked hal, smiling. "conventions. for instance, i'd love to tell you just how fine i think all this is that you're doing, and just how much i like and admire you. we've come to be real friends, haven't we? and, you see, i can be of some actual help. the breakfast was my suggestion, wasn't it? so you owe me something for that. are you properly grateful?" "try me." "then, august and terrible sovereign, spare the life of my little friend kathie." hal drew back a bit. "i'm afraid you don't realize the situation." the great american pumess shot forth a little paw--such a soft, shapely, hesitant, dainty, appealing little paw--and laid it on hal's hand. "please," she said. "but, esmé,"--he began. it was the first time he had used that intimacy with her. her eyes dropped. "we're partners, aren't we?" she said. "of course." "then you won't let them print it!" "if miss pierce goes rampaging around the streets--" "please. for me,--partner." "one would have to be more than human, to say no to you," he returned, laughing a little unsteadily. "you're corrupting my upright professional sense of duty." "it can't be a duty to hold a friend up to ridicule, just for a little accident." "i'm not so sure," said hal, again. "however, for the sake of our partnership, and if you'll promise to come again soon to tell us how to run the paper--" "i knew you'd be kind!" there was just the faintest pressure of the delicate paw, before it was withdrawn. the great american pumess was feeling the thrill of power over men and events. "i think i like the newspaper business. but i've got to be at my other trade now." "what trade is that?" "didn't you know i was a little sister of the poor? when you've lost all your money and are ill, i'll come and lay my cooling hand on your fevered brow and bring wine jelly to your tenement." "aren't you afraid of contagious diseases?" he asked anxiously. "such places are always full of them." "oh, they placard for contagion. it's safe enough. and i'm really interested. it's my only excuse to myself for living." "if bringing happiness wherever you go isn't enough--" "no! no!" she smiled up into his eyes. "this is still a business visit. but you may take me to my car." on his way back hal stopped to tell wayne that perhaps the pierce story wasn't worth running, after all. unease of conscience disturbed his work for a time thereafter. he appeased it by the excuse that it was no threat or pressure from without which had influenced his action. he had killed the item out of consideration for the friend of his friend. what did it matter, anyway, a bit of news like that? who was harmed by leaving it out? as yet he was too little the journalist to comprehend that the influences which corrupt the news are likely to be dangerous in proportion as they are subtle. wayne understood better, and smiled with a cynical wryness of mouth upon mcguire ellis, who, having passed hal and esmé on the stairs, had lingered at the city desk and heard the editor-in-chief's half-hearted order. "still worrying about dr. surtaine's influence over the paper?" asked the city editor, after hal's departure. "yes," said ellis. "don't." "why not?" "did you happen to notice about the prettiest thing that ever used eyes for weapons, in the hall?" "something of that description." "let me present you, in advance, to miss esmé elliot, the new boss of our new boss," said wayne, with a flourish. "god save the irish!" said mcguire ellis. chapter xiii new blood echoes of the talk-it-over breakfast rang briskly in the "clarion" office. it was suggested to hal that the success of the function warranted its being established as a regular feature of the shop. later this was done. one of the participants, however, was very ill-pleased with the morning's entertainment. dr. surtaine saw, in retrospect and in prospect, his son being led astray into various radical and harebrained vagaries of journalism. none of those at the breakfast had foreseen more clearly than the wise and sharpened quack what serious difficulties beset the course which hal had laid out for himself. trouble was what dr. surtaine hated above all things. whatever taste for the adventurous he may have possessed had been sated by his career as an itinerant. now he asked only to be allowed to hatch his golden dollars peacefully, afar from all harsh winds of controversy. that his own son should feel a more stirring ambition left him clucking, a bewildered hen on the brink of perilous waters. but he clucked cunningly. and before he undertook his appeal to bring the errant one back to shore he gave himself two days to think it over. to this extent dr. surtaine had become a partisan of the new enterprise; that he, too, previsioned an ideal newspaper, a newspaper which, day by day, should uphold and defend the best interests of the community, and, as an inevitable corollary, nourish itself on their bounty. by the best interests of the community--he visualized the phrase in large print, as a creed for any journal--dr. surtaine meant, of course, business in the great sense. gloriously looming in the future of his fancy was the day when the "clarion" should develop into the perfect newspaper, the fine flower of journalism, an organ in which every item of news, every line of editorial, every word of advertisement, should subserve the one vital purpose, business; should aid in some manner, direct or indirect, in making a dollar for the "clarion's" patrons and a dime for the "clarion's" till. but how to introduce these noble and fortifying ideals into the mind of that flighty young bird, hal? dr. surtaine, after studying the problem, decided to employ the instance of the mid-state and great muddy river railroad as the entering wedge of his argument. hal owned a considerable block of stock, earning the handsome dividend of eight per cent. under attacks possibly leading to adverse legislation, this return might well be reduced and hal's own income suffer a shrinkage. therefore, in the interests of all concerned, hal ought to keep his hands off the subject. could anything be clearer? obviously not, the senior surtaine thought, and so laid it before the junior, one morning as they were walking down town together. hal admitted the assault upon the mid-and-mud; defended it, even; added that there would be another phase of it presently in the way of an attempt on the part of the paper to force a better passenger service for worthington. dr. surtaine confessed a melancholious inability to see what the devil business it was of hal's. "it isn't i that's making the fight, dad. it's the 'clarion.'" "the same thing." "not at all the same thing. something very much bigger than i or any other one man. i found that out at the breakfast." that breakfast! socialistic, anarchistic, anti-christian, were the climactic adjectives employed by dr. surtaine to signify his disapproval of the occasion. "sorry you didn't like it, dad. you heard nothing but plain facts." "plain slush! just look at this railroad accident article broad-mindedly, boyee. you own some mid-and-mud stock." "thanks to you, dad." "paying eight per cent. how long will it go on paying that if the newspapers keep stirring up trouble for it? anti-railroad sentiment is fostered by just such stuff as the 'clarion' printed. what if the engineer _was_ worked overtime? he got paid for it." "and seven people got killed for it. i understand the legislature is going to ask why, mainly because of our story and editorial." "there you are! sicking a pack of demagogues onto the mid-and-mud. how can it make profits and pay your dividends if that kind of thing keeps up?" "i don't know that i need dividends earned by slaughtering people," said hal slowly. "maybe you don't need the dividends, but there's plenty of people that do, people that depend on 'em. widows and orphans, too." "oh, that widow-and-orphan dummy!" cried hal. "what would the poor, struggling railroads ever do without it to hide behind!" "you talk like ellis," reproved his father. "boyee, i don't want you to get too much under his influence. he's an impractical will-o'-the-wisp chaser. just like all the writing fellows." by this time they had reached the "clarion" building. "come in, dad," invited hal, "and we'll talk to ellis about old home week. he's with you there, anyway." "oh, he's all right aside from his fanatical notions," said the other as they mounted the stairs. the associate editor nodded his greetings from above a pile of left-over copy. "old home week?" he queried. "let's see, when does it come?" "in less than six months. it isn't too early to give it a start, is it?" asked hal surtaine. "no. it's news any time, now." "more than that," said dr. surtaine. "it's advertising. i can turn every ad. that goes out to the 'clarion.'" "last year we got only the pickings," remarked ellis. "last year your owner wasn't the son of the committee's chairman." "by the way, dad, i'll have to resign that secretaryship. every minute of my spare time i'm going to put in around this office." "i guess you're right. but i'm sorry to lose you." "think how much more i can do for the celebration with this paper than i could as secretary." "right, again." "some one at the breakfast," observed hal, "mentioned the rookeries, and wayne shut him up. what are the rookeries? i've been trying to remember to ask." the other two looked at each other with raised eyebrows. as well might one have asked, "what is the city hall?" in worthington. ellis was the one to answer. "hell's hole and contamination. the worst nest of tenements in the state. two blocks of 'em, owned by our best citizens. run by a political pull. so there's no touching 'em." "what's up there now; more murders?" asked the doctor. "somebody'll be calling it that if it goes much further," replied the newspaper man. "i don't know what the official _alias_ of the trouble is. if you want details, get wayne." in response to a telephone call the city editor presented his lank form and bearded face at the door of the sanctum. "the rookeries deaths?" he said. "oh, malaria--for convenience." "malaria?" repeated dr. surtaine. "why, there aren't any mosquitoes in that locality now." "so the health officer, dr. merritt, says. but the certificates keep coming in. he's pretty worried. there have been over twenty cases in no. and no. alone. three deaths in the last two days." "is it some sort of epidemic starting?" asked hal. "that would be news, wouldn't it?" at the word "epidemic," dr. surtaine had risen, and now came forward flapping his hand like a seal. "the kind of news that never ought to get into print," he exclaimed. "that's the sort of thing that hurts a whole city." "so does an epidemic if it gets a fair start," suggested ellis. "epidemic! epidemic!" cried the doctor. "ten years ago they started a scare about smallpox in those same rookeries. the smallpox didn't amount to shucks. but look what the sensationalism did to us. it choked off old home week, and lost us hundreds of thousands of dollars." "i was a cub on the 'news' then," said wayne. "and i remember there were a lot of deaths from chicken-pox that year. i didn't suppose people--that is, grown people--died of chicken-pox very often: not more often, say, than they die of malaria where there are no mosquitoes." "suspicion is one thing. fact is another," said dr. surtaine decisively. "hal, i hope you aren't going to take up with this nonsense, and risk the success of the centennial old home week." "i can't see what good we should be doing," said the new editor. "it's big news, if it's true," suggested wayne, rather wistfully. "suppression of a real epidemic." "ghost-tales and goblin-shine," laughed the big doctor, recovering his good humor. "who's the physician down there?" "dr. de vito, an italian. nobody else can get into the rookeries to see a case. o'farrell's the agent, and he sees to that." "tip o'farrell, the labor politician? i know him. and i know de vito well. in fact, he does part-time work in the certina plant. i'll tell you what, hal. i'll just make a little expert investigation of my own down there, and report to you." "the 'clarion's special commissioner, dr. l. andré surtaine," said ellis sonorously. "no publicity, boys. this is a secret commission. and here's your chance right now to make the 'clarion' useful to the committee, hal, by keeping all scare-stuff out of the paper." "if it really does amount to anything, wouldn't it be better," said hal, "to establish a quarantine and go in there and stamp the thing out? we've plenty of time before old home week." "no; no!" cried the doctor. "think of the publicity that would mean. it would be a year before the fear of it would die out. every other city that's jealous of worthington would make capital of it and thousands of people whose money we want would be scared away." ellis drew wayne aside. "what does dr. merritt really think? smallpox?" "no. the place has been too well vaccinated. it might be scarlet fever, or diphtheria, or even meningitis. merritt wants to go in there and open it up, but the mayor won't let him. he doesn't dare take the responsibility without any newspaper backing. and none of the other papers dares tackle the ownership of the rookeries." "then we ought to. a good, rousing sensation of that sort is just what the paper needs." "we won't get it. there's too many ropes on the boy boss. first the girl and now the old man." "wait and see. he's got good stuff in him and he's being educated every day. give him time." "mr. wayne, i'd like to see the health office reports," called hal, and the two went out. selecting one of his pet cigars, dr. surtaine advanced upon mcguire ellis, extending it. "mac, you're a good fellow at bottom," he said persuasively. "what's the price," asked ellis, "of the cigar and the compliment together? in other words, what do you want of me?" "keep your hands off the boy." "didn't i offer fair and square to match you for his soul? you insisted on fight." "if you'd just let him alone," pursued the quack, "he'd come around right side up with care. he's sound and sensible at bottom. he's got a lot of me in him. but you keep feeding him up on your yellow journal ideas. what'll they ever get him? trouble; nothing but trouble. even if you should make a sort of success of the paper with your wild sensationalism it wouldn't be any real good to hal. it wouldn't get him anywhere with the real people. it'd be a sheet he'd always have to be a little ashamed of. i tell you what, mac, in order to respect himself a man has got to respect his business." "just so," said mcguire ellis. "do you respect your business, doc?" "do i!! it makes half a million a year clear profit." the associate editor turned to his work whistling softly. chapter xiv the rookeries two conspicuous ornaments of worthington's upper world visited worthington's underworld on a hot, misty morning of early june. both were there on business, dr. l. andré surtaine in the fulfillment of his agreement with his son--the exact purpose of the visit, by the way, would have inspired harrington surtaine with unpleasant surprise, could he have known it; and miss esmé elliot on a tour of inspection for the visiting nurses' association, of which she was an energetic official. whatever faults or foibles might be ascribed to miss elliot, she was no faddist. that which she undertook to do, she did thoroughly and well; and for practical hygiene she possessed an inborn liking and aptitude, far more so than, for example, her fortuitous fellow slummer of the morning, dr. surtaine, whom she encountered at the corner where the rookeries begin. the eminent savant removed his hat with a fine flourish, further reflected in his language as he said:-- "what does beauty so far afield?" "thank you, if you mean me," said esmé demurely. "do you see something else around here that answers the description?" "no: i certainly don't," she replied, letting her eyes wander along the street where sadler's shacks rose in grime and gauntness to offend the clean skies. "i am going over there to see some sick people." "ah! charity as well as beauty; the perfect combination." the doctor's pomposity always amused esmé. "and what does science so far from its placid haunts?" she mocked. "are you scattering the blessings of certina amongst a grateful proletariat?" "not exactly. i'm down here on some other business." "well, i won't keep you from it, dr. surtaine. good-bye." the swinging doors of a saloon opened almost upon her, and a short, broad-shouldered foreigner, in a ruffled-up silk hat, bumped into her lightly and apologized. he jogged up to dr. surtaine. "hello, de vito," said dr. surtaine. "at the service of my distinguish' confrère," said the squat italian. "am i require at the factory?" "no. i've come to look into this sickness. where is it?" "the opposite eemediate block." dr. surtaine eyed with disfavor the festering tenement indicated. "new cases?" "two, only." "who's treating them?" "i am in charge. mr. o'farrell employs my services: so the pipple have not to pay anything. all the time which i am not at the certina factory, i am here." "just so. and no other doctor gets in?" "there is no call. they are quite satisfied." "and is the board of health satisfied?" the employee shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. "how is it you americans say? 'what he does not know cannot hurt somebody.'" "is o'farrell agent for all these barracks?" dr. surtaine inquired as they walked up the street. "all. many persons own, but mr. o'farrell is boss of all. this number , mr. gibbs owns. he is of the great department store. you know. a ver' fine man, mr. gibbs." "a very fine fool," retorted the doctor, "to let himself get mixed up with such rotten property. why, it's a reflection on all us men of standing." "nobody knows he is owner. and it pays twelve per cent," said the italian mildly. he paused at the door. "do we go in?" he asked. an acrid-soft odor as of primordial slime subtly intruded upon the sensory nerves of the visitor. the place breathed out decay; the decay of humanity, of cleanliness, of the honest decencies of life turned foul. something lethal exhaled from that dim doorway. there was a stab of pestilence, reaching for the brain. but the old charlatan was no coward. "show me the cases," he said. for an hour he moved through the black, stenchful passageways, up and down ramshackle stairs, from human warren to human warren, pausing here to question, there to peer and sniff and poke with an exploring cane. out on the street again he drew full, heaving breath. "o'farrell's got to clean up. that's all there is to that," he said decisively. "the doctor thinks?" queried the little physician. dr. surtaine shook his head. "i don't know. but i'm sure of one thing. there's three of them ought to be gotten out at once. the third-floor woman, and that brother and sister in the basement." "and the german family at the top?" dr. surtaine tapped his chest significantly. "sure to be plenty of that in this kind of hole. nothing to do but let 'em die." he did not mention that he had left a twenty-dollar bill and a word of cheer with the gasping consumptive and his wife. outside of the line of business dr. surtaine's charities were silent. "how many of the _other_ cases have you had here?" "eleven. seven deaths. four i take away." "and what is your diagnosis, doctor?" inquired the old quack professionally of the younger ignoramus. again de vito shrugged. "for public, malignant malaria. how you call it? pernicious. for me, i do' know. maybe--" he leaned forward and spoke a low word. "meningitis?" repeated the other. "possibly. i've never seen much of the infectious kind. what are you giving for it?" "certina, mostly." dr. surtaine looked at him sharply, but the italian's face was innocent of any sardonic expression. "as well that as anything," muttered its proprietor. "by the way, you might get testimonials from any of 'em that get well. can you find o'farrell?" "yes, sir." "tell him i want to see him at my office at two o'clock." "ver' good. what do you think it is, doctor?" dr. surtaine waved a profound hand. "very obscure. demands consideration. but get those cases out of the city. there's no occasion to risk the board of health seeing them." at the corner dr. surtaine again met miss elliot and stopped her. "my dear young lady, ought you to be risking your safety in such places as these?" "no one ever interferes. my badge protects me." "but there's so much sickness." "that is what brings me," she smiled. "it might be contagious. in fact, i have reason to believe that there is--er--measles in this block." "i've had it, thank you. may i give you a lift in my car?" "no, thank you. but i think you should consult your uncle before coming here again." "the entire surtaine family seems set upon barring me from the rookeries. i wonder why." with which parting shot she left him. going home, he bathed and changed into his customary garb of smooth black, to which his rotund placidity of bearing imparted an indescribably silky finish. his discarded clothes he put, with his own hands, into an old grip, sprinkled them plenteously with a powerful disinfectant, and left orders that they be destroyed. it was a phase of dr. surtaine's courage that he never took useless risks, either with his own life, or (outside of business) with the lives of others. having lunched, he went to his office where he found o'farrell waiting. the politician greeted him with a mixture of deference and familiarity. at one stage of their acquaintance familiarity had predominated, when having put through a petty but particularly rancid steal for the benefit of the certina business, o'farrell had become inspired with effusiveness to the extent of addressing his patron as "doc." he never made that particular error again. yet, to the credit of dr. surtaine's tact and knowledge of character be it said, o'farrell was still the older man's loyal though more humble friend, after the incident. to-day he was plainly apprehensive. "them other cases the same thing?" he asked. "yes, o'farrell." "what is it?" "that i can't tell you." "you went in and saw 'em?" dr. surtaine nodded. "by god, i wouldn't do it," declared o'farrell, shivering. "i wouldn't go in there, not to collect the rent! it's catching, ain't it?" "in all probability it is a contagious or zymotic disease." the politician shook his head, much impressed, as it was intended he should be. "cleaning-up time for you, i guess, o'farrell," pursued the other. "all right, if you say so. but i won't have any board o' health snitches bossing it. they'd want to pull the whole row down." "exactly what ought to be done." "what! and it averagin' better'n ten per cent," cried the agent in so scandalized a tone that the doctor could not but smile. "how have you managed to keep them out, thus far?" "haven't. there's been a couple of inspectors around, but i stalled 'em off. and we got the sick cases out right from under 'em." "dr. merritt is a hard man to handle if he once gets started." "he's got his hands full. the papers have been poundin' him because his milk regulations have put up the price. persecution of the dairymen, they call it. well, persecution of an honest property owner--with a pull--won't look pretty for mr. health officer if he don't find nothing there. and the papers'll back me." "ellis of the 'clarion' has his eye on the place." "you can square that through your boy, can't you?" the doctor had his own private doubts, but didn't express them. "leave it to me," he said. "get some disinfectants and clean up. your owners can stand the bill--at ten per cent. much obliged for coming in, o'farrell." as the politician went out an office girl entered and announced: "there's a man out in the reception hall, doctor, waiting to see you. he's asleep with his elbow on the stand." "wake him up and ask him for his berth-check, alice," said dr. surtaine, "and if he says his name is ellis, send him in." ellis it was who entered and dropped into the chair pushed forward by his host. "glad to see you, my boy," dr. surtaine greeted him. "i thought you were going to send a reporter." "ordinarily we would have sent one. but i'm pretty well interested in this myself. i expected to hear from you long ago." "busy, my boy, busy. it's only been a week since i undertook the investigation. and these things take time." "apparently. what's the result?" "nothing." the quack spread his hands abroad in a blank gesture. "false alarm. couple of cases of typhoid and some severe tonsillitis, that looked like diphtheria." "people die of tonsillitis, do they?" "sometimes." "and are buried?" "naturally." "what in?" "why, in coffins, i suppose." "then why were these bodies buried in quicklime?" "what bodies?" "last week's lot." "you mean in canadaga county? o'farrell said nothing about quicklime." "that's what i mean. apparently o'farrell _did_ say something about more corpses smuggled out last week." "mr. ellis," said the doctor, annoyed at his slip, "i am not on the witness stand." "dr. surtaine," returned the other in the same tone, "when you undertake an investigation for the 'clarion,' you are one of my reporters and i expect a full and frank report from you." "bull's-eye for you, my boy. you win. they did run those cases out. before we're through with it they'll probably run more out. you see, the health bureau has got it in for o'farrell, and if they knew there was anything up there, they'd raise a regular row and queer things generally." "what _is_ up?" "honestly, i don't know." "nor even suspect?" "well, it might be scarlet fever. or, perhaps diphtheria. you see strange types sometimes." "if it's either, failure to report is against the law." "technically, yes. but we've got it fixed to clean things up. the people will be looked after. there's no real danger of its spreading much. and you know how it is. the rookeries have got a bad name, anyway. anything starting there is sure to be exaggerated. why, look at that chicken-pox epidemic a few years ago." "i understand nobody who had been vaccinated got any of the chicken-pox, as you call it." "that's as may be. what did it amount to, anyway? nothing. yet it almost ruined old home week." "naturally you don't want the centennial home week endangered. but we don't want the health of the city endangered." "'we.' who's we?" "well, the 'clarion.'" "don't work the guardian-of-the-people game on me, my boy. and don't worry about the city's health. if this starts to spread we'll take measures." by no means satisfied with this interview, mcguire ellis left the certina plant, and almost ran into dr. elliot, whom he hailed, for he had the faculty of knowing everybody. "not doing any doctoring nowadays, are you?" "no," retorted the other. "doing any sickening, yourself?" ellis grinned. "it's despairing weariness that makes me look this way. i'm up against a tougher job than old diogenes. i'm looking for an honest doctor." "you fish in muddy waters," commented his acquaintance, glancing up at the certina building. "there's something very wrong down in the twelfth ward." "not going in for reform politics, are you?" "this isn't political. some kind of disease has broken out in o'farrell's rookeries." "delirium tremens," suggested dr. elliot. "yes: that's a funny joke," returned the other, unmoved; "but did you ever hear of any one sneaking d-t cases across the county line at night to a pest-house run by a political friend of o'farrell's?" "can't say i have." "or burying the dead in quicklime?" "quicklime? what's this, 'clarion' sensationalism?" "don't be young. i'm telling you. quicklime. canadaga county." not only had dr. elliot served his country in the navy, but he had done duty in that efficient fighting force, which reaps less honor and follows a more noble, self-sacrificing and courageous ideal than any army or navy, the united states public health service. under that banner he had fought famines, panic, and pestilence, from the stricken lumber-camps of the north, to the pent-in, quarantined bayous of the south; and now, at the hint of danger, there came a battle-glint into his sharp eyes. "tell me what you know." "now you're talking!" said the newspaper man. "it's little enough. but we've got it straight that they've been covering up some disease for weeks." "what do the certificates call it?" "malaria and septic something, i believe." "septicæmia hemorrhagica?" "that's it." "an alias. that's what they called bubonic plague in san francisco and yellow fever in texas in the old days of concealment." "it couldn't be either of those, could it?" "no. but it might be any reportable disease: diphtheria, smallpox, any of 'em. even that hardly explains the quicklime." "could you look into it for us; for the 'clarion'?" "i? work for the 'clarion'?" "why not?" "i don't like your paper." "but you'd be doing a public service." "possibly. how do i know you'd print what i discovered--supposing i discovered anything?" "we're publishing an honest paper, nowadays." "_are_ you? got this morning's?" like all good newspaper men, mcguire ellis habitually went armed with a copy of his own paper. he produced it from his coat pocket. "honest, eh?" muttered the physician grimly as he twisted the "clarion" inside out. "honest! well, not to go any farther, what about this for honesty?" top of column, "next to reading," as its contract specified, the lure of the neverfail company stood forth, bold and black. "boon to troubled womanhood" was the heading. dr. elliot read, with slow emphasis, the lying half-promises, the specious pretenses of the company's "relief pills." "no case too obstinate": "suppression from whatever cause": "thousands of women have cause to bless this sovereign remedy": "saved from desperation." "no doubt what that means, is there?" queried the reader. "it seems pretty plain." "what do you mean, then, by telling me you run an honest paper when you carry an abortion advertisement every day?" "will that medicine cause abortion?" "certainly it won't cause abortion!" "well, then." "can't you see that makes it all the worse, in a way? it promises to bring on abortion. it encourages any fool girl who otherwise might be withheld from vice by fear of consequences. it puts a weapon of argument into the hands of every rake and ruiner; 'if you get into trouble, this stuff will fix you all right.' how many suicides do you suppose your 'boon to womanhood' and its kind of hellishness causes in a year, thanks to the help of your honest journalism?" "when i said we were honest, i wasn't thinking of the advertising." "but i am. can you be honest on one page and a crook on another? can you bang the big drum of righteousness in one column and promise falsely in the next to commit murder? ellis, why does the 'clarion' carry such stuff as that?" "do you really want to know?" "well, you're asking me to help your sheet," the ex-surgeon reminded him. "because dr. l. andré surtaine _is_ the neverfail company." "oh," said the other. "and i suppose dr. l. andré surtaine _is_ the 'clarion,' also. well, i don't choose to be associated with that honorable and high-minded polecat, thank you." "don't be too sure about the 'clarion.' harrington surtaine isn't his father." "the same rotten breed." "plus another strain. where it comes from i don't know, but there's something in the boy that may work out to big ends." dr. miles elliot was an abrupt sort of person, as men of independent lives and thought are prone to be. "look here, ellis," he said: "are you trying to be honest, yourself? now, don't answer till you've counted three." "one--two--three," said mcguire ellis solemnly. "i'm honestly trying to put the 'clarion' on the level. that's what you really want to know, i suppose." "against all the weight of influence of dr. surtaine?" "bless you; he doesn't half realize he's a crook. thinks he's a pretty fine sort of chap. the worst of it is, he _is_, too, in some ways." "good to his family, i suppose, in the intervals of distributing poison and lies." "he's all wrapped up in the boy. which is going to make it all the harder." "make what all the harder?" "prying 'em apart." "have you set yourself that little job?" "since we're speaking out in meeting, i have." "good. why are you speaking out in meeting to me, particularly?" "on the theory that you may have reason for being interested in mr. harrington surtaine." "don't know him." "your niece does." "just how does that concern this discussion?" "what business is it of mine, you mean. well, dr. elliot, i'm pretty much interested in trying to make a real newspaper out of the 'clarion.' my notion of a real newspaper is a decent, clean newspaper. if i can get my young boss to back me up, we'll have a try at my theory. to do this, i'll use any fair means. and if miss elliot's influence is going to be on my side, i'm glad to play it off against dr. surtaine's." "look here, ellis, i don't like this association of my niece's name with young surtaine." "all right. i'll drop it, if you object. maybe i'm wrong. i don't know miss elliot, anyway. but sooner or later there's coming one big fight in the 'clarion' office, and it's going to open two pairs of eyes. old doc surtaine is going to discover his son. hal surtaine is going to find out about the old man. neither of 'em is going to be awfully pleased. and in that ruction the fate of the neverfail company's ad. is going to be decided and with it the fate and character of the 'clarion.' now, dr. elliot, my cards are on the table. will you help me in the rookeries matter?" "what do you want me to do?" "go cautiously, and find out what that disease is." "i'll go there to-morrow." "they won't let you in." "won't they?" dr. elliot's jaw set. "don't risk it. some of o'farrell's thugs will pick a fight with you and the whole thing will be botched." "how about getting a united states public health surgeon down here?" "fine! can you do it?" "i think so. it will take time, though." "that can't be helped. i'll look you up in a few days." "all right. and, ellis, if i can help in the other thing--the clean-up--i'm your man." meantime from his office dr. surtaine had, after several attempts, succeeded in getting the medical office of canadaga county on the telephone. "hello! that you, doctor simons?--seen o'farrell?--yes; you ought to get in touch with him right away--three more cases going over to you.--oh, they're there, are they? you're isolating them, aren't you?--pest-house? that's all right.--all bills will be paid--liberally. you understand?--what are you calling it? diphtheria?--good enough for the present.--ever see infectious meningitis? i thought it might be that, maybe--no? what do you think, then?--_what_! good god, man! it can't be! such a thing has never been heard of in this part of the country--what?--yes: you're right. we can't talk over the 'phone. come over to-morrow. good-bye." putting up the receiver, dr. surtaine turned to his desk and sat immersed in thought. presently he shook his head. he scratched a few notes on a pad, tore off the sheet and thrust it into the small safe at his elbow. proof of a half-page certina display beckoned him in buoyant, promissory type to his favorite task. he glanced at the safe. once again he shook his head, this time more decisively, took the scribbled paper out and tore it into shreds. turning to the proof he bent over it, striking out a word here, amending there, jotting in a printer's direction on the margin; losing himself in the major interest. the "special investigator" of the "clarion" was committing the unpardonable sin of journalism. he was throwing his paper down. chapter xv juggernaut misfortunes never come singly--to the reckless. the first mischance breeds the second, apparently by ill luck, but in reality through the influence of irritant nerves. thus descended nemesis upon miss kathleen pierce. not that miss pierce was of a misgiving temperament: she had too calm and superb a conviction of her own incontrovertible privilege in every department of life for that. but esmé elliot had given her a hint of her narrow escape from the "clarion," and she was angry. to the pierce type of disposition, anger is a spur. kathleen's large green car increased its accustomed twenty-miles-an-hour pace, from which the police of the business section thoughtfully averted their faces, to something nearer twenty-five. three days after the wreck of the apple cart, she got results. harrington surtaine was crossing diagonally to the "clarion" office when the moan of a siren warned him for his life, and he jumped back from the pierce juggernaut. as it swept by he saw kathleen at the wheel. beside her sat her twelve-year-old brother. a miscellaneous array of small luggage was heaped behind them. "never mind the speed laws," murmured hal softly. "_sauve qui peut_. there, by heavens, she's done it!" the car had swerved at the corner, but not quite quickly enough. there was a snort of the horn, a scream that gritted on the ear like the clamor of tortured metals, and a huddle of black and white was flung almost at hal's feet. equally quick with him, a middle-aged man, evidently of the prosperous working-classes, helped him to pick the woman up. she was a trained nurse. the white band on her uniform was splotched with blood. she groaned once and lapsed, inert, in their arms. "help me get her to the automobile," said hal. "this is a hospital case." "what automobile?" said the other. hal glanced up the street. he saw the green car turning a corner, a full block away. "she didn't even stop," he muttered, in a paralysis of surprise. "stop?" said the other. "her? that's e.m. pierce's she-whelp. true to the breed. she don't care no more for a workin'-woman's life than her father does for a workin'-man's." a policeman hurried up, glanced at the woman and sent in an ambulance call. "i want your name," said hal to the stranger. "what for?" "publication now. later, prosecution. i'm the editor of the 'clarion.'" the man took off his hat and scratched his head. "leave me out of it," he said. "you won't help me to get justice for this woman?'" cried hal. "what can you do to e.m. pierce's girl in this town?" retorted the man fiercely. "don't he own the town?" "he doesn't own the 'clarion.'" "let the 'clarion' go up against him, then. i daresn't." "you'll never get him," said a voice close to hal's ear. it was veltman, the foreman of the 'clarion' composing-room. "he's a street-car employee. it's as much as his job is worth to go up against pierce." they were pressed back, as the clanging ambulance arrived with its white-coated commander. "no; not dead," he said. "help me get her in." this being accomplished, hal hurried up to the city room of the paper. he remembered the pile of suit-cases in the pierce car, and made his deductions. "send a reporter to the union station to find kathleen pierce. she's in a green touring-car. she's just run down a trained nurse. have him interview her; ask her why she didn't turn back after she struck the woman; whether she doesn't know the law. find out if she's going to the hospital. get her estimate of how fast she was going. we'll print anything she says. then he's to go to st. james hospital, and ask about the nurse. i'll give him the details of the accident." news of a certain kind, of the kind important to the inner machinery of a newspaper, spreads swiftly inside an office. within an hour, shearson, the advertising manager, was at his chief's desk. "about that story of miss pierce running over the trained nurse," he began. "what is your suggestion?" asked hal curiously. "e.m. pierce is a power in this town, and out of it. he's the real head of the retail dry goods union. he's a director in the security power products company. he's the big boss of the national consolidated employers' association. he practically runs the retail dry goods union. gibbs, of the boston store, is his brother-in-law, and the girl's uncle. mr. pierce has got a hand in pretty much everything in worthington. and he's a bad man in a fight." "so i have heard." "if we print this story--" "we're going to print the story, mr. shearson." "it's full of dynamite." "it was a brutal thing. if she hadn't driven right on--" "but she's only a kid." "the more reason why she shouldn't be driving a car." "why have you got it in for her, mr. surtaine?" ventured the other. "i haven't got it in for her. but we've let her off once. and this is too flagrant a case." "it means a loss of thousands of dollars in advertising, just as like as not." "that can't be helped." shearson did the only thing he could think of in so unheard-of an emergency. he went out to call up the office of e.m. pierce. left to his own thoughts, the editor-in-chief reconstructed the scene of the outrage. none too strong did that term seem to him. the incredible callousness of the daughter of millions, speeding away without a backward glance at the huddled form in the gutter, set a flame of wrath to heating his brain. he built up a few stinging headlines, and selected one which he set aside. "girl plays juggernaut. elias m. pierce's daughter seriously injures nurse and leaves her lying in gutter." not long after he had concluded, mcguire ellis entered, slumped into his chair, and eyed his employer from under bent brows. "got a grip on your temper?" he asked presently. "what's the occasion?" countered hal. "i think you're going to have an interview with elias m. pierce." "where and when?" "in his office. as soon as you can get there." "i think not." "not?" repeated ellis, conning the other with his curious air. "why should i go to elias m. pierce's office?" "because he's sent for you." "don't be absurd, mac." "and don't _you_ be young. in all worthington there aren't ten men that don't jump when elias m. pierce crooks his finger. who are you, to join that noble company of martyrs?" achieving no nibble on this bait, the speaker continued: "jerry saunders has been keeping wayne's telephone on the buzz, ordering the story stopped." "who is jerry saunders?" "pierce's man, and master of our fates. so he thinks, anyway. in other words, general factotum of the boston store. wayne told him the matter was in your hands. all storm signals set, and e.m.'s secretary telephoning that the great man wants to see you at once. _don't_ you think it would be safer to go?" mr. harrington surtaine swung full around on his chair, looked at his assistant with that set and level gaze of which esmé elliot had aforetime complained, and turned back again. a profound chuckle sounded from behind him. "this'll be a shock to mr. pierce," said ellis. "i'll break it diplomatically to his secretary." and thus was the manner of the celt's diplomacy. "hello,--mr. pierce's secretary?--tell mr. pierce--get this _verbatim_, please,--that mr. harrington surtaine is busy at present, but will try to find time to see him here--_here_, mind you, at the 'clarion' office, at . this afternoon--what? oh, yes; you understood, all right. don't be young.--what? do _not_ sputter into the 'phone.--just give him the message.--no; mr. surtaine will not speak with you.--nor with mr. pierce. he's busy.--_good_-bye." "two hours leeway before the storm," said hal. "why deliberately stir him up, mac?" "no one ever saw pierce lose his temper. i've a curiosity in that direction. besides, he'll be easier to handle, mad. do you know pierce?" "i've lunched with him, and been there to the house to dinner once or twice. wish i hadn't." "let me give you a little outline of him. elias m. is the hard-shell new england type. he was brought up in the fear of god and the poor-house. god was a good way off, i guess; but there stood the poor-house on the hill, where you couldn't help but see it. the way of salvation from it was through the dollar. elias m. worked hard for his first dollar, and for his millionth. he's still working hard. he still finds the fear of god useful: he puts it into everybody that goes up against his game. the fear of the poor-house is with him yet, though he doesn't realize it. it's the mainspring of his religion. there's nothing so mean as fear; and elias m.'s fear is back of all his meanness, his despotism in business, his tyranny as an employer. i tell you, boss, if you ever saw a hellion in a cutaway coat, elias m. pierce is it, and you're going to smell sulphur when he gets here. better let him do the talking, by the way." prompt to the minute, elias m. pierce arrived. with him came william douglas, his personal counsel. having risen to greet them, hal stood leaning against his desk, after they were seated. the lawyer disposed himself on the far edge of his chair, as if fearing that a more comfortable pose might commit him to something. mr. pierce sat solid and square, a static force neatly buttoned into a creaseless suit. his face was immobile, but under the heavy lids the eyes smouldered, dully. the tone of his voice was lifelessly level: yet with an immanent menace. "i do not make appointments outside my own office--" he began, looking straight ahead of him. mindful of ellis's advice, hal stood silent, in an attitude of courteous attention. "but this is a case of saving time. my visit has to do with the accident of which you know." whether or not hal knew was undeterminable from sign or speech of his. "it was wholly the injured woman's fault," pursued mr. pierce, and turned a slow, challenging eye upon hal. over his shoulder the editor-in-chief caught sight of mcguire ellis laying finger on lip, and following up this admonition by a gesture of arms and hands as of one who pays out line to a fish. douglas fidgeted on his desperate edge. "you sent a reporter to interview my daughter. he was impertinent. he should be discharged." still mr. pierce was firing into silence. something rattled and flopped in a chute at his elbow. he turned, irritably. that mr. pierce's attention should have been diverted even for a moment by this was sufficient evidence that he was disconcerted by the immobility of the foe. but his glance quickly reverted and with added weight. heavily he stared, then delivered his ultimatum. "the 'clarion' will print nothing about the accident." the editor of the "clarion" smiled. at sight of that smile some demon-artist in faces blocked in with lightning swiftness parallel lines of wrath at right angles to the corners of the pierce mouth. through the lips shone a thin glint of white. "you find me amusing?" men had found elias m. pierce implacable, formidable, inscrutable, even amenable, in some circumstances, with a conscious and godlike condescension; but no opponent had ever smiled at his commands as this stripling of journalism was doing. still there was no reply. in his chair mcguire ellis leaned back with an expression of beatitude. the lawyer, shrewd enough to understand that his principal was being baited, now took a hand. "you may rely on mr. pierce to have the woman suitably cared for." now the editorial smile turned upon william douglas. it was gentle, but unsatisfying. "_and_ the reporter will be discharged at once," continued elias m. pierce, exactly as if douglas had not spoken at all. "mr. ellis," said hal, "will you 'phone mr. wayne to send up the man who covered the pierce story?" the summoned reporter entered the room. he was a youth named denton, one year out of college, eager and high-spirited, an enthusiast of his profession, loving it for its adventurousness and its sense of responsibility and power. these are the qualities that make the real newspaper man. they die soon, and that is why there are no good, old reporters. elias m. pierce turned upon him like a ponderous machine of vengeance. "what have you to say for yourself?" he demanded. up under denton's fair skin ran a flush of pink. "who are you?" he blurted. "you are speaking to mr. elias m. pierce," said douglas hastily. six weeks before, young denton would perhaps have moderated his attitude in the interests of his job. but now through the sensitive organism of the newspaper office had passed the new vigor; the feeling of independence and of the higher responsibility to the facts of the news only. the men believed that they would be upheld within their own rights and those of the paper. harrington surtaine's standards had been not only absorbed: they had been magnified and clarified by minds more expert than his own. subconsciously, denton felt that his employer was back of him, must be back of him in any question of professional honor. "what i've got to say, i've said in writing." "show it to me." the insolence of the command was quite unconscious. the reporter turned to hal. "mr. denton," said hal, "did miss pierce explain why she didn't return after running the nurse down?" "she said she was in a hurry: that she had a train to catch." "did you ask her if she was exceeding the speed limit?" "she was not," interjected elias m. pierce. "she said she didn't know; that nobody ever paid any attention to speed laws." "what about her license?" "i asked her and she said it was none of my business." "quite right," approved mr. pierce curtly. "tell the desk to run the interview _verbatim_, under a separate head. will the nurse die?" mr. pierce snorted contemptuously. "die! she's hardly hurt." "dislocated shoulder, two ribs broken, and scalp wounds. she'll get well," said the reporter. "now, see here, surtaine," said douglas smoothly, "be reasonable. it won't do the 'clarion' any good to print a lot of yellow sensationalism about this. there are half a dozen witnesses who say it was the nurse's fault." "we have evidence on the other side." "from whom?" "max veltman, of our composing-room." "veltman? veltman?" repeated elias m. pierce, who possessed a wonderful memory for men and events. "he's that anarchist fellow. hates every man with a dollar. stirred up the labor troubles two years ago. i told my men to smash his head if they ever caught him within two blocks of our place." "speaking of anarchy," said mcguire ellis softly. "a prejudiced witness; one of your own employees," pointed out the lawyer. "i wouldn't believe him under oath," said pierce. "perhaps you wouldn't believe me, either. i saw the whole thing myself," said hal quietly. "and you intend to print it?" demanded pierce. "it's news. the 'clarion's business is to print the news." "then there remains only to warn you," said douglas, "that you will be held to full liability for anything you may publish, civil _and_ criminal." "take that down, mr. denton," said hal. "i've got it," said the reporter. "that isn't all." elias m. pierce rose and his eyes were wells of somber fury. "you print that story--one word of it--and i'll smash your paper." "take that down, mr. denton." hal's voice was even. "i've got it," said denton in the same tone. "you don't know what i am in this city." every word of the great man's voice rang with the ruthless arrogance of his power. "i can make or mar any man or any business. i've fought the demagogues of labor and driven 'em out of town. i've fought the demagogues of politics and killed them off. and you think with your little spewing demagoguery of newspaper filth, you can override me? you think because you've got your father's quack millions behind you, that you can stand up to me?" "take that down, mr. denton." "i've got it." "then take this, too," cried elias m. pierce, losing all control, under the quiet remorselessness of this goading: "people like my daughter and me aren't at the mercy of scum like you. we've got rights that aren't responsible to every little petty law. by god, i've made and unmade judges in this town: and i'll show you what the law can do before i'm through with you. i'll gut your damned paper." "not missing anything, are you, mr. denton?" "i've got it all." throughout, douglas, with a strained face, had been plucking at his principal's arm. now elias m. pierce turned to him. "go to judge ransome," he said sharply, "and get an injunction against the 'clarion.'" mcguire ellis sauntered over. "i wouldn't," he drawled. "i'm not asking your advice." "and i'm not looking for gratitude. but just let me suggest this: ransome may be one of the judges you brag of owning. but if he grants an injunction i'll advise mr. surtaine to publish a spread on the front page, stating that we have the facts, that we're enjoined from printing them at present, but that now or a year from now we'll tell the whole story in every phase. with that hanging over him, i don't believe judge ransome will care to issue any fake injunction." "there's such a thing as contempt of court," warned douglas. "making and unmaking judges, for example?" suggested ellis. "just one final word to you." the pierce face was thrust close to hal's. "you keep your hands off my daughter if you expect to live in this town." "my one regret for miss pierce is that she is your daughter," retorted hal. "you have given me the material for a leading editorial in to-morrow's issue. i recommend you to buy the paper." the other glared at him speechless. "it will be called," said hal, "'a study in heredity.' good-day." and he gave the retiring magnate a full view of his back as he sat down to write it. chapter xvi the strategist "never write with a hot pen." thus runs one of mcguire ellis's golden rules of journalism. had his employer better comprehended, in those early days, the ellisonian philosophy, perhaps the "heredity" editorial might never have appeared. now, as it lay before him in proof, it seemed but the natural expression of a righteous wrath. "neither kathleen pierce nor her father can claim exemption or consideration in this instance," hal had written, in what he chose to consider his most telling passage. "were it the girl's first offense of temerity, allowance might be made. but the city streets have long been the more perilous because of her defiance of the rights of others. here she runs true to type. she is her father's own daughter. in the light of his character and career, of his use of the bludgeon in business, of his resort to foul means when fair would not serve, of his brutal disregard of human rights in order that his own power might be enhanced, of his ruthless and crushing tyranny, not alone toward his employees, but toward all labor in its struggle for better conditions, we can but regard the girl who left her victim crushed and senseless in the gutter and sped on because, in the words of her own bravado, she 'had a train to catch,' as a striking example of the influence of heredity. if the law which she so contemptuously brushed aside is to be aborted by the influence and position of her family, the precept will be a bitter and dangerous one. much arrant nonsense is vented concerning the 'class-hatred' stirred up by any criticism of the rich. one such instance as the running-down of miss cleary bears within it far more than the extremest demagoguery the potentialities of an unleashed hate. it is a lesson in lawlessness." still in the afterglow of composition, hal, tinkering lightly with the proofs, felt a hand on his shoulder. "well, boy-ee," said the voice of dr. surtaine. "hello, father," returned hal. "sit down. what's up?" "i've just had a message from e.m. pierce." "did you obey a royal command and go to his office?" "no." "neither did i." "with you it's different. you're a younger man. and elias m. pierce is the most powerful--um--er--well, _as_ powerful as any man in worthington." "outside of this office, possibly." "don't you be foolish, boy-ee. you can't fight him." "nor do i want to," said hal, a little chilled, nevertheless, by the gravity of the paternal tone. "but when he comes in here and dictates what the 'clarion' shall and shall not print--" "about his own daughter." "news, father. it's news." "news is what you print. if you don't print it, it isn't news. isn't that right? well, then!" "not quite. news is what happens. if no paper published this, it would be current by word of mouth just the same. a hundred people saw it." "anyway, tone your article down, won't you, boy-ee?" "i'm afraid i can't, dad." "of course you can. here, let me see it." mcguire ellis looked up sharply, his face wrinkled into an anxious query. it relaxed when hal handed the editorial proof to the doctor, saying, "look at this, instead." dr. surtaine read slowly and carefully. "do you know what you're doing?" he said, replacing the strip of paper. "i think so." "that editorial will line up every important business man in worthington against you." "i don't see why it should." "because they'll see that none of 'em are safe if a newspaper can do that sort of thing. it's never been done here. the papers have always respected men of position, and their business and their families, too. worthington won't stand for that sort of thing." "it's true, isn't it?" "all the more harm if it is," retorted dr. surtaine, thus codifying the sum and essence of the outsider's creed of journalism. "do you know what they'll call you if you print that? they'll call you an anarchist." "will they?" "ask ellis." "probably," agreed the journalist. "every friend and business associate of pierce's will be down on you." "the whole angry hive of capital and privilege," confirmed ellis. "you see," cried the pleader; "you can't print it. publishing an article about kathleen pierce will be bad enough, but it's nothing to what this other roast would be. one would make pierce hate you as long as he lives. the other will make the whole business interests of the city your enemy. how can you live without business?" "business isn't as rotten as that," averred hal. "if it is, i'm going to fight it." "fight business!" it was almost a groan. "tell him, ellis, what a serious thing this is. you agree with me in that, don't you?" "entirely." "and that the 'clarion' can't afford to touch the thing at all? you're with me there, too, aren't you?" "absolutely not." "you're going to stand by and see my boy turn traitor to his class?" "damn his class," said mcguire ellis, in mild, conversational tones. "as much as you like," agreed the other, "in talk. but when it comes to print, remember, it's our class that's got the money." "wouldn't it be a refreshing change," suggested ellis, "to have one paper in worthington that money won't buy?" "all very well, if you were strong enough." the wily old charlatan shifted his ground. "wait until you've built up to it. then, when you've got the public, you can afford to be independent." "get your price and then reform. is that the idea, father?" said hal. "boy-ee, i don't know what's come over you lately. journalism seems to have got into your blood." "blame ellis. he's been my preceptor." "both of you have got your lesson to learn." "well, i've learned one," asserted hal: "that it's the business of a newspaper to print the news." "there's only one sound business principle, success. when it costs you more to print a thing than not to print it, it's bad business to print it." "i'm sorry, dad, but the 'clarion' is going to carry this to-morrow." "in case you're nervous about mr. pierce," put in mcguire ellis with machiavellian innuendo, "i can pass it on to him that you're in no way responsible for the 'clarion's policy." "me, afraid of elias m. pierce?" our leading citizen's prickly vanity was up in arms at once. "i'll match him or fight him dollar for dollar, as long as my weasel-skin lasts. no, sir: if hal's going to fight, i'll stick by him as long as there's a dollar in the till." "it's mighty good of you, dad, and i know you'd do it. but i've made up my mind to win out or lose out on the capital you gave me. and i won't take a cent more." "that's business, too, son. i like that. but i hate to see you lose. by publishing your editorial you're committing your paper absolutely to a policy, and a fatal one. well, i won't argue any more. but i haven't given up yet." "well, that's over," said hal, as his father departed, gently smoothing down his silk hat. "and i hope that ends it." "do you?" mcguire ellis raised a tuneful baritone in song:-- 'you may think you've got 'em going,' said the bar-keep to the bum. 'but cheer up and beer up. the worst is yet to come!' "unless my estimate of e.m. pierce is wrong," he continued, "you'll begin to hear from the other newspapers soon." so it proved. advertising managers called up and talked interminably over the telephone. editors-in-chief wrote polite notes. one fellow proprietor called. by all the canons of editorial courtesy they exhorted mr. surtaine to hold his hand from the contemplated sacrilege against their friend and patron, elias m. pierce. equally polite, mr. surtaine replied that the "clarion" would print the news. how much of the news would he print? all the news, now and forever, one and inseparable, or words to that effect. painfully and protestingly the noble fellowship of the free and untrammeled press pointed out that if the "clarion" insisted on informing the public, they too, in self-defense, must supply something in the way of information to cover themselves, loth though they were so to do. but the burden of sin and vengeance would rest upon the paper which forced them into such a course. still patient, hal found refuge in truism: to wit, that what his fellow editors chose to do was wholly and specifically their business. from the corollary, he courteously refrained. meantime, the object of editor surtaine's scathing had not been idle. to the indignant journalist, miss kathleen pierce had appeared a brutal and hardened scion of wealth and injustice. this was hardly a just view. careless she was, and unmindful of standards; but not cruel. in this instance, panic, not callousness, had been the mainspring of her apparent cruelty. she was badly scared; and when her angry father told her what she might expect at the hands of a "yellow newspaper," she became still more badly scared. in this frame of mind she fled for refuge to miss esmé elliot. "i didn't mean to run over her," she wailed. "you know i didn't, esmé. she ran out just like a m-m-mouse, and i felt the car hit her, and then she was all crumpled up in the gutter. oh, i was so frightened! i wanted to go back, but i was afraid, and phil began to cry and say we'd killed her, and i lost my head and put on speed. i didn't mean to, esmé!" "of course you didn't, dear. who says you did?" "the newspaper is going to say so. that awful reporter! he caught me at the station and asked me a lot of questions. i just shook my head and wouldn't say a word," lied the frightened girl. "but they're going to print an awful interview with me, father says. he's furious at me." "in what paper, kathie?" "the 'clarion.' father says the other papers won't publish anything about it, but he can't stop the 'clarion.'" "i can," said miss esmé elliot confidently. the heiress to the pierce millions lifted her woe-begone face. "you?" she cried incredulously. "how?" "i've got a pull," said esmé, dimpling. a light broke in upon her suppliant. "of course! hal surtaine! but father has been to see him and he won't promise a thing. i don't see what he's got against me." "don't worry, dear. perhaps your father doesn't understand how to go about it." "no," said the other thoughtfully. "father would try to bully and threaten. he tried to bully me!" miss pierce stamped a well-shod foot in memory of her manifold wrongs. then feminine curiosity interposed a check. "esmé! are you engaged to hal surtaine?" "no, indeed!" the girl's laughter rang silvery and true. "are you going to be?" "i'm not going to be engaged to anybody. not for a long time, anyway. life is too good as it is." "is he in love with you?" persisted kathleen. esmé lifted up a very clear and sweet mezzo-soprano in a mocking lilt of song:-- "how should my heart know what love may be?" the visitor regarded her admiringly. "of course he is. what man wouldn't be! and you've seen a lot of him lately, haven't you?" "i'm helping him run his paper--with good advice." "oh-h-h!" miss pierce's soft mouth and big eyes formed three circles. "and you're going to advise him--" "i'm going to advise him ver-ree earnestly not to say a word about you in the paper, if you'll promise never, never to do it again." the other clasped her in a bear-hug. "you duck! i'll just crawl through the streets after this. you watch me! the police will have to call time on me to make sure i'm not obstructing the traffic. but, esmé--" "well?" kathleen caught her hand and snuggled it up to her childishly. "how often do you see hal surtaine?" "you ought to know. there's something going on every evening now. and he goes everywhere." "yes: but outside of that?" esmé laughed. "how hard you're working to make a romance that isn't there. i go to his office once in a while, just to see the wheels go 'round." "and are you going to the office now?" "no," said esmé, after consideration. "hal surtaine is coming here. this evening." "you have an appointment with him?" "not yet. i'll telephone him." "father telephoned him, but he wouldn't come to see father. so father had to go to see him." "mahomet! well, i'm the mountain in this case. go in peace, my child." esmé patted the other's head with an absurd and delightful affectation of maternalism. "and look in the 'clarion' to-morrow with a clear assurance. you shan't find your name there--unless in the social doings column. good-bye, dear." having thus engaged her honor, the advisor to the editor sat her down to plan. at the conclusion of a period of silent thought, she sent a telephone message which made the heart of young mr. surtaine accelerate its pace perceptibly. was he too busy to come up to greenvale, dr. elliot's place, at . sharp? busy he certainly was, but not too busy to obey any behest of his partner. that was very nice of him. it would take but a few minutes. as many minutes as she could use, she might have, or hours. then he was to consider himself gratefully thanked and profoundly curtsied to, over the wire. by the way, if he had a galley proof of anything that had been written about kathleen pierce's motor accident, would he bring that along? and didn't he think it quite professional of her to remember all about galleys and things? highly professional and clever (albeit in a somewhat altered tone, not unnoted by the acute listener). yes, he would bring the proof. at . , then, sharp. "the new boss of our new boss," wayne had styled the charming interloper, on the occasion of her first visit to the "clarion" office. had she heard, esmé would have approved. more, she would have believed, though not without misgivings. well she knew that she had not yet proved her power over her partner. many and various as were the men upon whom, in the assay of her golden charm, she had exercised the arts of coquetry, this test was on a larger scale. this was the potential conquest of an institution. could she make a newspaper change its hue, as she could make men change color, with the power of a word or the incitement of a glance? the very dubiety of the issue gave a new zest to the game. behold, now, miss esmé elliot, snarer of men's eyes and hearts, sharpening her wits and weapons for the fray; aye, even preparing her pitfall. cunningly she made a bower of one end of the broad living-room at greenvale with great sprays of apple blossoms from the orchard, ravishing untold spoilage of her mother and forerunner, eve, for the bedecking of the quiet, cozy nook. pink was ever her color; the hue of the flushing of spring, of the rising blood in the cheek of maidenhood, and the tenderest of the fruit-blooms was not more downy-soft of tint than the face it bent to brush. at the close of the task, a heavy voice startled her. "what's all this about?" "uncle guardy! you mustn't, you really mustn't come in on tiptoe that way." "stamped like an elephant," asserted dr. elliot. "but you were so immersed in your floral designs--what kind of a play is it?" she turned upon him the sparkle of golden lights in wine-brown eyes. "it's a fairy bower. i'm going to do a bewitchment." "upon what victim?" "upon a newspaper. i'm going to be a fairy godmother sort of witch and save my foster-child by--by arointing something out of print." "doing _what_?" "arointing it. don't you know, you say, 'aroint thee, witch,' when you want to get rid of her? well, if a witch can be arointed, why shouldn't she aroint other things?" "all very well, if you understand the process. do you?" "of course. it's done 'with woven paces and with waving arms.' 'beware, beware; her flashing eyes, her float--'" "stop it! you shall not make a poetry cocktail out of tennyson and coleridge, and jam it down my throat; or i'll aroint myself. besides, you're not a witch, at all. i know you for all your big cap, and your cloak, and the basket on your arm. 'grandmother, what makes your teeth so white?'" "no, no. i'm not that kind of a beastie, at all. wrong guess, guardy." "yet there's a gleam of the hunt about you. is it, oh, is it, the great american pumess that i have the honor to address?" she made him a sweeping bow. "in a good cause." "about which i shall doubtless hear to-morrow?" "don't i always confess my good actions?" "at what hour does the victim's dying shriek rend the quivering air?" "mr. surtaine is due here at half past eight." "humph! young surtaine, eh? shy bird, if it has taken all this time to bring him down. well, run and dress. it's after five and that gives you less than three hours for prinking up, counting dinner in." whatever time and effort may have gone to the making of the great american pumess's toilet, hal thought, as he came down the long room to where she stood embowered in pink, that he had never beheld anything so freshly lovely. she gave him a warm and yielding hand in welcome, and drew away a bit, surveying him up and down with friendly eyes. "you're looking unusually smart to-night," she approved. "london clothes don't set so well on many americans. but your tie is askew. wait. let me do it." with deft fingers she twitched and patted the bow into submission. the touch of intimacy represented the key in which she had chosen to pitch her play. sinking back into a cushioned corner of the settee, she curled up cozily, and motioned him to a chair. "draw it around," she directed. "i want you where you can't get away, for i'm going to cast a spell over you." "_going_ to?" the accent on the first word was stronger than the reply necessitated. "do many people ask favors of an editor?" "more than enough." "and is the editor often kind and obliging?" "that depends on the favor." "not a little bit on the asker?" "naturally, that, too." "your tone isn't very encouraging." she searched his face with her limpid, lingering regard. "did you bring the proofs?" "yes." still holding his eyes to hers, she stretched out her hand to receive the strip of print, "do you think i'd better read it?" "no." "then i will." studying her face, as she read, hal saw it change from gay to grave, saw her quiver and wince with a swiftly indrawn breath, and straightened his spine to what he knew was coming. "oh, it's cruel," she said in a low tone, letting the paper fall on her knee. "it's true," said hal. "oh, no! even if it were, it ought not to be published." "why?" "because--" the girl hesitated. "because she's one of us?" "no. yes. it has something to do with my feeling, i suppose. why, you've been a guest at her house." "suppose i have. the 'clarion' hasn't." "isn't that rather a fine distinction?" "on the contrary. personally, i might refrain from saying anything about it. journalistically, how can i? it's the business of the 'clarion' to give the news. more than that: it's the honor of the 'clarion.'" "but what possible good will it do?" "if it did no other good, it would warn other reckless drivers." "let the police look to that. it's their business." "you know that the police dare do nothing to the daughter of elias m. pierce. see here, partner,"--hal's tone grew gentle,--"don't you recall, in that long talk we had about the paper, one afternoon, how you backed me up when i told you what i meant to do in the way of making the 'clarion' honest and clean and strong enough to be straight in its attitude toward the public? why, you've been the inspiration of all that i've been trying to do. i thought that was the true esmé. wasn't it? was i wrong? you're not going back on me, now?" "but she's so young," pleaded esmé, shifting her ground before this attack. "she doesn't think. she's never had to think. your article makes her look a--a murderess. it isn't fair. it isn't true, really. if you could have seen her here, so frightened, so broken. she cried in my arms. i told her it shouldn't be printed. i promised." here was the great american pumess at bay, and suddenly splendid in her attitude of protectiveness. in that moment, she had all but broken hal's resolution. he rose and walked over to the window, to clear his thought of the overpowering appeal of her loveliness. "how can i--" he began, coming back: but paused because she was holding out to him the proof. across it, in pencil, was written, "must not," and the initials, e.s.m.e. "kill it," she urged softly. "and my honesty with it." "oh, no. it can't be so fatal, to be kind for once. let her off, poor child." hal stood irresolute. "if it were i?" she insisted softly. "if it were you, would you ask it?" "i shouldn't have to. i'd trust you." the sweetness of it shook him. but he still spoke steadily. "others trust me, now. the men in the office. trust me to be honest." again she felt the solid wall of character blocking her design, and within herself raged and marveled, and more deeply, admired. resentment was uppermost, however. find a way through that barrier she must and would. whatever scruples may have been aroused by his appeal to her she banished. no integer of the impressionable sex had ever yet won from her such a battle. none ever should: and assuredly not this one. the great american pumess was now all feline. she leaned forward to him. "you promised." "i?" "have you forgotten?" "i have never forgotten one word that has passed between us since i first saw you." "ah; but when was that?" "seven weeks ago to-day, at the station." [illustration: "kill it," she urged softly.] "fifteen years ago this summer," she corrected. "you _have_ forgotten," she laughed gayly at the amazement in his face. "and the promise." up went a pink-tipped finger in admonition. "listen and be ashamed, o faithless knight. 'little girl, little girl: i'd do anything in the world for you, little girl. anything in the world, if ever you asked me.' think, and remember. have you a scar on your left shoulder?" the effort of recollection dimmed hal's face. "wait! i'm beginning to see. the light of the torches across the square, and the man with the knife.--then darkness.--was unconscious, wasn't i?--then the fairy child with the soft eyes, looking down at me. little girl, little girl, it was you! that is why i seemed to remember, that day at the station, before i knew you." "yes," she said, smiling up at him. "how wonderful! and you remembered. how more than wonderful!" "yes, i remembered." it was no part of her plan--quite relentless, now--to tell him that her uncle had recounted to her the events of that far-distant night, and that she had been holding them in reserve for some hitherto undetermined purpose of coquetry. so she spoke the lie without a tremor. what he would say next, she almost knew. nor did he disappoint her expectation. "and so you've come back into my life after all these years!" "you haven't taken back your proof." she slipped it into his hand. "what have you done with my subscription-flower?" "the arbutus? it stands always on my desk." "do you see the rest of it anywhere?" her eyes rested on a tiny vase set in a hanging window-box of flowers, and holding a brown and withered wisp. "i tend those flowers myself," she continued. "and i leave the dead arbutus there to remind me of the responsibilities of journalism--and of the hold i have over the incorruptible editor." "does it weigh upon you?" he answered the tender laughter in her eyes. "only the uncertainty of it." "do you realize how strong it is, esmé?" "not so strong, apparently, as certain foolish scruples." a soft color rose in her face, as she half-buried it in a great mass of apple blossom. from the mass she chose a spray, and set it in the bosom of her dress, then got to her feet and moved slowly toward him. "you're not wearing my colors to-night." this was directed to the white rose in his buttonhole. he took it out and tossed it into the fireplace. "pink's the only wear," declared the girl gayly. with delicate fingers she detached a little luxuriant twig of the bloom from her breast, and set it in the place where the rose had been. her face was close to his. he could feel her hands above his heart. "please," she breathed. "what?" he was playing for time and reason. "for kathleen pierce. please." his hand closed over hers. "you are bribing me." if she said it again, she knew that he would kiss her. so she spoke, with lifted face and eyes of uttermost supplication. "for me. please." men had kissed esmé elliot before; for she had played every turn of the game of coquetry. some she had laughed to scorn and dismissed; some she had sweetly rebuked, and held to their adoring fealty. she had known the kiss of headlong passion, of love's humility, of desperation, even of hot anger; but none had ever visited her lips twice. the game, for her, was ended with the surrender and the avowal; and she protected herself the more easily in that her pulses had never been stirred to more than the thrill of triumph. in hal surtaine's arms she was playing for another stake. so intent had she been upon her purpose that the guerdon of the modern venus victrix, the declaration of the lover, was held in the background of her mind. for a swift, bewildering moment, she felt his lips upon hers, the gentlest, the tenderest pressure, instantly relaxed: then the sudden knowledge of him for what he was, a loyal and chivalrous gentleman thus beguiled, burned her with a withering and intolerable shame. simultaneously she felt her heart go out to him as never yet had it gone to any man, and in that secret shock to her maidenhood, the coquette in her waned and the woman waxed. she drew back, quivering, aghast. with all the force of this new and tumultuous emotion, she hoped for her own defeat: yearned over him that he should refuse that for which she had unworthily pressed. yet, such is the perversity of that strange struggle against the great surrender, that she gathered every power of her sex to gain the dreaded victory. by an effort she commanded her voice, releasing herself from his arms. "wait. don't speak to me for a minute," she said hoarsely. "but i must speak, now,--dear, dearest." "am--am i that to you?" the feline in her caught desperately at the opportunity. "always. from the first." "but--you forgot." "let me atone with the rest of my life for that treason." he laughed happily. "you keep your promise, then, to the little girl?" at her feet lay the galley proof. birdlike she darted down upon it, seized, and tore it half across. "no: you do it," she commanded, thrusting it into his hand. no longer was he master of himself. the kiss had undermined him. "must i?" he said. victorious and aghast, she yet smiled into his face. "i knew i could believe in you," she cried. "you're a true knight, after all. i declare you my knight-editor. no well-equipped journalistic partnership should be without one." perhaps had the phrase been different, hal might have yielded. so narrow a margin of chance divides the paths of honor and dishonor, to mortals groping dimly through the human maze. but the words were an echo to wake memory. rugged, harsh, and fine the face of mcguire ellis rose before hal. he heard the rough voice, with its undertone of affection beneath the jocularity of the rather feeble pun, and it called him back like a trumpet summons to the loyalty which he had promised to the men of the "clarion." he slipped the half-torn paper into his pocket. "i can't do it, esmé." "you--can't--do--it?" "no." finality was in the monosyllable. she looked into his leveled and quiet eyes, and knew that she had lost. and the demon of perversity, raging, stung her to its purposes. "after this, you tell me that you can't, you won't?" "dearest! you're not going to let it make a difference in our love for each other." "_our_ love! you go far, and fast." "do i go too far, since you have let me kiss you?" "i didn't," she cried. "then you meant nothing by it?" she shrugged her shoulders. "you are trying to take advantage of a position which you forced," she said coldly. "let me understand this clearly." he had turned white. "you let me make love to you, in order to entrap me and save your friend. is that it?" no reply came from her other than what he could read in compressed lips and smouldering eyes. "so that is the kind of woman you are." there were both wonder and distress in his voice. "that is the kind of woman for whose promise to be my wife i would have given the heart out of my body." at this the tumult and catastrophe of her emotion fused into a white hot, illogical anger against this man who was suffering, and by his suffering made her suffer. "your wife? yours?" she smiled hatefully. "the wife of the son of a quack? you do yourself too much honor, hal surtaine." "i fear that i did you too much honor," he replied quietly. suffocation pressed upon her throat as she saw him go to the door. for a moment the wild desire to hold him, to justify herself, to explain, even to ask forgiveness, seized her. bitterly she fought it down, and so stood, with wide eyes and smiling lips. at the door he turned to look, with a glance less of appeal than of incredulity that she, so lovely, so alluring, so desirable beyond all the world, a creature of springtime and promise embowered amidst the springtime and promise of the apple-bloom, could be such as her speech and action proclaimed her. hal carried from her house, like a barbed arrow, the memory of that still and desperate smile. chapter xvii reprisals working on an empty heart is almost as severe a strain as the less poetic process of working on an empty stomach. on the morning after the failure of esmé's strategy and the wrecking of hal's hopes, the young editor went to his office with a languid but bitter distaste for its demands. the first item in the late afternoon mail stung him to a fitter spirit, as a sharp blow will spur to his best efforts a courageous boxer. this was a packet, containing the crumbled fragments of a spray of arbutus, and a note in handwriting now stirringly familiar. i have read your editorial. from a man dishonest enough to print deliberate lies and cowardly enough to attack a woman, it is just such an answer as i might have expected. eleanor s.m. elliot. at first the reference to the editorial bewildered hal. then he remembered. esmé had known nothing of the editorial until she read it in the paper. she had inferred that he wrote it after leaving her, thus revenging himself upon her by further scarification of the friend for whom she had pleaded. to the charge of deliberate mendacity he had no specific clue, not knowing that kathleen pierce had denied the authenticity of the interview. he mused somberly upon the venomed injustice of womankind. the note and its symbol of withered sweetness he buried in his waste-basket. if he could but discard as readily the vision of a face, strangely lovely in its anger and chagrin, and wearing that set and desperate smile! well, there was but one answer to her note. that was to make the "clarion" all that she would have it not be! no phantoms of lost loveliness came between mcguire ellis and his satisfaction over the pierce _coup_. characteristically, however, he presented the disadvantageous as well as the favorable aspects of the matter to his employer. "some paper this morning!" he began. "the town is humming like a hive." "over the pierce story?" asked hal. "nothing else talked of. we were sold out before nine this morning." "selling papers is our line of business," observed the owner-editor. "you won't think so when you hear shad shearson. he's an avalanche of woe, waiting to sweep down upon you." "what's his trouble? the department store advertising?" "the boston store advertising is gone. others are threatening to follow. pierce has called a meeting of the publications committee of the dry goods union. discipline is in the air, boss. have you seen the evening papers?" "yes." "what did you think of their stories of the accident?" "i seemed to notice a suspicious similarity." "you can bet every one of those stories came straight from e.m. pierce's own office. you'll see, they'll be the same in to-morrow morning's papers. now that we've opened up, they all have to cover the news, so they've thoughtfully sent around to inquire what elias m. would like to have printed." "from what they say," remarked hal flippantly, "the nurse ought to be arrested for trying to bump a sixty-horsepower car out of the roadway." "we strive to please, in the local newspaper shops." ellis turned to answer the buzzing telephone. "get on your life preserver," he advised his principal. "shearson's coming up to weep all over you." the advertising manager entered, his plump cheeks sagging into lugubrious and reproachful lines, speaking witnesses to a sentiment not wholly unjustifiable in his case. to see circulation steadily going up and advertising as steadily going down, is an irritant experience to the official responsible for the main income of a daily paper, advertising revenue. "advertisers have some rights," he boomed, in his heavy voice. "including that of homicide?" asked hal. "let the law take care of that. it ain't our affair." "would it be our affair if pierce didn't control advertising?" shearson's fat hands went to his fat neck in a gesture of desperation. "that's different," he cried. "i can't seem to make you see my point. why looka here, mr. surtaine. who pays for the running of a newspaper? the advertisers. where do your profits come from? advertising. there never was a paper could last six months on circulation alone. it's the ads. that keep every paper going. well, then: how's a paper going to live that turns against its own support? tell me that. if you were running a business, and a big buyer came in, would you roast him and knock his methods, and criticize his family, and then expect to sell him a bill of goods? or would you take him out to the theater and feed him a fat cigar, and treat him the best you know how? you might have your own private opinion of him--" "a newspaper doesn't deal in private opinions," put in hal. "well, it can keep 'em private for its own good, can't it? how many readers care whether e.m. pierce's daughter ran over a woman or not? what difference does it make to them? they'd be just as well satisfied to read about the latest kick-up in mexico, or the scandal at washington, or mrs. whoopdoodle's newport dinner to the troupe of educated fleas. but it makes a lot of difference to e.m. pierce, and he can make it a lot of difference to us. so long as he pays us good money, he's got a right to expect us to look out for his interests." "so have our readers who pay us good money, mr. shearson." "what are their interests?" asked the advertising manager, staring. "to get the news straight. you've given me your theory of journalism; now let me give you mine. as i look at it, there's a contract of honor between a newspaper and its subscribers. tacitly the newspaper says to the subscriber, 'for two cents a day, i agree to furnish you with the news of your town, state, nation, and the outside world, selected to the best of my ability, and presented without fear or favor.' on this basis, if the newspaper fakes its news, if it distorts facts, or if it suppresses them, it is playing false with its subscribers. it is sanding its sugar, and selling shoddy for all-wool. isn't that true?" "every newspaper does it," grumbled shearson. "and the public knows it." "doubted. the public knows that newspapers make mistakes and do a lot of exaggerating and sensationalizing. but you once get it into their heads that a certain newspaper is concealing and suppressing news, and see how long that paper will last. the circulation will drop and the very men like pierce will be the first to withdraw their advertising patronage. your keen advertiser doesn't waste time fishing in dead pools. so even as a matter of policy the straight way may be the best, in the long run. whether it is or not, get this firmly into your mind, mr. shearson. from now on the first consideration of the 'clarion' will be news and not advertising." "then, good-_night_ 'clarion,'" pronounced shearson with entire solemnity. "is that your resignation, mr. shearson?" "do you want me to quit?" "no; i don't. i believe you're an efficient man, if you can adjust yourself to new conditions. do you think you can?" "well, i ain't much on the high-brow stuff, mr. surtaine, but i can take orders, i guess. i'm used to the old 'clarion,' and i kinda like you, even if we don't agree. maybe this virtuous jag'll get us some business for what it loses us. but, say, mr. surtaine, you ain't going to get virtuous in your advertising columns, too, are you?" "i hadn't considered it," said hal. "one of these days i'll look into it." "for god's sake, don't!" pleaded shearson, with such a shaken flabbiness of vehemence that both hal and ellis laughed, though the former felt an uneasy puzzlement. the article and editorial on the pierce accident had appeared in a thursday's "clarion." in their issues of the following day, the other morning papers dealt with the subject most delicately. the "banner" published, without obvious occasion, a long and rather fulsome editorial on e.m. pierce as a model of high-minded commercial emprise and an exemplar for youth: also, on the same page in its "pointed paragraphs," the following, with a point quite too palpably aimed:-- "it is said, on plausible if not direct authority, that one of our morning contemporaries will appropriately alter its motto to read, 'with malice toward all: with charity for none.'" but it remained for that evening's "telegram" to bring up the heavy guns. from its first edition these headlines stood out, black and bold:-- e.m. pierce defends daughter * * * * * magnate incensed at unjust attacks will push case against her traducers to a finish there followed an interview in which the great man announced his intention of bringing both civil and criminal action for libel against the "clarion." mcguire ellis frowned savagely at the sheet. "dirty skunk!" he growled. "meaning our friend pierce?" queried hal. "no. meaning parker, and the whole 'telegram' outfit." "why?" "because they printed that interview." "what's wrong with it? it's news." "don't be positively infantile, boss. newspapers don't print libel actions brought against other newspapers. it's unprofessional. it's unethical. it isn't straight." "no: i don't see that at all," decided hal, after some consideration. "that amounts simply to this, that the newspapers are in a combination to discourage libel actions, by suppressing all mention of them." "certainly. why not? libel suits are generally holdups." "i think the 'telegram' is right. whatever pierce says is news, and interesting news." "you bet parker would never have carried that if his holding corporation wasn't a heavy borrower in the pierce banks." "maybe not. but i think we'll carry it." "in the 'clarion'?" almost shouted ellis. "certainly. let's have wayne send a reporter around to pierce. if pierce won't give us an interview, we'll reprint the 'telegram's,' with credit." "we'd be cutting our own throats, and playing pierce's game. besides, stuff about ourselves isn't news." hal's inexperience had this virtue, that it was free of the besetting and prejudicial superstitions of the craft of print. "if it's interesting, it's the 'clarion' kind of news." ellis, about to protest further, met the younger man's level gaze, and swallowed hard. "all right," he said. "i'll tell wayne." so the "clarion" violated another tradition of newspaperdom, to the amused contempt of its rivals, who were, however, possibly not quite so amused or so contemptuous as they appeared editorially to be. also it followed up the interview with an explicit statement of its own intentions in the matter, which were not precisely music to the savage breast of e.m. pierce. evidences of that formidable person's hostilities became increasingly manifest from day to day. one morning a fire marshal dropped casually in upon the "clarion" office, looked the premises over, and called the owner's attention to several minor and unsuspected violations of the law, the adjustment of which would involve no small inconvenience and several hundred dollars outlay. by a curious coincidence, later in the day, a factory inspector happened around,--a newspaper office being, legally, within the definition of a factory,--and served a summons on mcguire ellis as publisher, for permitting smoking in the city room. from time immemorial every edition of every newspaper in the united states of america has evolved out of rolling clouds of tobacco smoke: but the "clarion" alone, apparently, had come within the purview of the law. subsequently, hal learned, to his amusement, that all the other newspaper offices were placarded with notices of the law in yiddish, so that none might be unduly disturbed thereby! to give point to the discrimination, down on the street, a zealous policeman arrested one of the "clarion's" bulk-paper handlers for obstructing the sidewalk. "pierce's political pull is certainly working," observed ellis, "but it's coarse work." finer was to come. two libel suits mushroomed into view in as many days, provoked, as it were, out of conscious nothing; unimportant but harassing: one, brought by a ne'er-do-well who had broken a leg while engaged in a drunken prank months before, the other the outcome of a paragraph on a little, semi-fraudulent charity. "i'll bet that eminent legal light, mr. william douglas, could tell something about these," said ellis, "though his name doesn't appeal on the papers." "we'll print these, too,--and we'll tell the reason for them," said hal. but on this last point his assistant dissuaded him. the efficient argument was that it would look like whining, and the one thing which a newspaper must not do was to lament its own ill-treatment. on top of the libel suits came a letter from the midland national bank, stating with perfect courtesy that, under its present organization, a complicated account like that of the "clarion" was inconvenient to handle; wherefore the bank was reluctantly obliged to request its withdrawal. "bottling us up financially," remarked ellis. "i expected this, before." "there are other banks than the midland that'll be glad of our business," replied hal. "probably not." "no? then they're curious institutions." "there isn't one of 'em in which elias m. pierce isn't a controlling factor. ask your father." on the following day when dr. surtaine, who had been out of town for several days, dropped in at the office, hal had a memorandum ready on the point. the old quack eased himself into a chair with his fine air of ample leisure, creating for himself a fragrant halo of cigar smoke. "well, boyee." the tone was a mingling of warm affection and semi-humorous reproach. "you went and did it to elias m., didn't you?" "yes, sir. we went and did it." the doctor shook his head, looking at the other through narrowing eyes. "and it's worrying you. you're not looking right." "oh, i'm well enough: a little sleeplessness, that's all." he did not deem it necessary to tell his father that upon his white nights the unforgettable face of esmé elliot had gleamed persistently from out the darkness, banishing rest. "suppose you let me do some of the worrying, boyee." "haven't you enough troubles in your own business, dad?" smiled hal. "machinery, son. automatic, at that. runs itself and turns out the dollars, regular, for breakfast. very different from the newspaper game." "i _should_ like your advice." "on the take-it-or-leave-it principle, i suppose," answered dr. surtaine, with entire good humor. "in the pierce matter you left it. how do you like the results?" "not very much." dr. surtaine spread out upturned hands, in dumb, oracular illustration of his own sagacity. "but i'd do the same thing over again if it came up for decision." "that's exactly what you mustn't do, hal. banging around the shop like that, cracking people on the knuckles may give you a temporary feeling of power and importance" (hal flushed boyishly), "but it don't pay. now, if i get you out of this scrape, i want you to go more carefully." "how are you going to get me out of it?" "square it with e.m. pierce. he's a good friend of mine." "do you really like mr. pierce, dad?" "hm! ah--er--well, boyee, as for that, that's another tail on a cat. in a business way, i meant." "in a business way he's trying to be a pretty efficient enemy of mine. how would you like it if he undertook to interfere with certina?" by perceptible inches dr. surtaine's chest rounded in slow expansion. "legislatures and government bureaus have tried that. they never got away with it yet. elias pierce is a pretty big man in this town, but i guess he knows enough to keep hands and tongue off me." "if not off your line of business," amended ellis. "did you see his interview in the 'telegram'?" he tossed over a copy of the paper folded to a column wherein mr. pierce, with more temper than tact, had possessed himself of his adversary's editorial text, "heredity," and proceeded to perform a variant thereon. "if this young whippersnapper," mr. pierce had said, "this fledgling thug of journalism, had stopped to think of the source of his unearned money, perhaps he wouldn't talk so glibly about heredity." thence the interview pursued a course of indirect reflection upon the matter and method of the patent medicine trade, as exemplified in certina and its allied industries. the top button of dr. surtaine's glossy morning coat, as he read, seemed in danger of flying off into infinite space. his powerful hands opened and closed slowly. leaning forward he reached for the telephone, but checked himself. "mr. pierce seems to have let go both barrels at once," he said with a strong effort of control. "pretty little exhibition of temper, isn't it?" said hal, smiling. "temper's expensive. perhaps we'll teach elias m. pierce that lesson before we're through. you remember it, too, next time you start in on a muckraking jag." "our muckraking, as you call it, isn't a question of temper, dad," said hal earnestly. "it's a question of policy. what the 'clarion' is doing, is done because we're trying to be a newspaper. we've got to stick to that. i've given my word." "who to?" "to the men on the staff." "what's more," put in mcguire ellis, turning at the door on his way out to see a caller, "the fellows have got hold of the idea. that's what gives the 'clarion' the go it's got. we're all rowing one stroke." "and the captain can't very well quit in mid-race." hal took up the other's metaphor, as the door closed behind him. "so you see, dad, i've got to see it through, no matter what it costs me." the father's rich voice dropped to a murmur. "hasn't it cost you something more than money, already, boyee? i understand miss esmé is a pretty warm friend of pierce's girl." hal winced. "all right, boyee. i don't want to pry. but lots of things come quietly to the old man's ear. you've got a right to your secrets." "it isn't any secret, dad. in fact, it isn't anything any more," said hal, smiling wanly. "yes, the price was pretty high. i don't think any other will ever be so high." dr. surtaine heaved his bulk out of the chair and laid a heavy arm across his son's shoulder. "boyee, you and i don't agree on a lot of things. we're going to keep on not agreeing about a lot of things. you think i'm an old fogy with low-brow standards. i think you've got a touch of that prevalent disease of youth, fool-in-the-head. but, i guess, as father and son, pal and pal, we're pretty well suited,--eh?" "yes," said hal. there was that in the monosyllable which wholly contented the older man. "go ahead with your 'clarion,' boyee. blow your fool head off. deave us all deaf. play any tune you want, and pay yourself for your piping. i won't interfere--any more'n i can help, being an old meddler by taste. blood's thicker than water, they say. i guess it's thicker than printer's ink, too. remember this, right or wrong, win or lose, boyee, i'm with you." chapter xviii milly all hal's days now seemed filled with pierce. pierce's friends, dependents, employees, associates wrote in, denouncing the "clarion," canceling subscriptions, withdrawing advertisements. pierce's club, the huron, compelled the abandonment of mr. harrington surtaine's candidacy. pierce's clergyman bewailed the low and vindictive tone of modern journalism. the pierce newspapers kept harassing the "clarion"; the pierce banks evinced their financial disapproval; the pierce lawyers diligently sought new causes of offense against the foe; while pierce's mayor persecuted the newspaper office with further petty enforcements and exactions. pierce's daughter, however, fled the town. with her went miss esmé elliot. according to the society columns, including that of the "clarion," they were bound for a restful voyage on the pierce yacht. from time to time editor surtaine retaliated upon the foe, employing the news of the slow progress of miss cleary, the nurse, to maintain interest in the topic. protests invariably followed, sometimes from sources which puzzled the "clarion." one of the protestants was hugh merritt, the young health officer of the city, who expressed his views to mcguire ellis one day. "no," ellis reported to his employer, on the interview, "he didn't exactly ask that we let up entirely. but he seemed to think we were going too strong. i couldn't quite get his reasons, except that he thought it was a terrible thing for the pierce girl, and she so young. queer thing from merritt. they don't make 'em any straighter than he is." alone of the lot of protests, that of mrs. festus willard gained a response from hal. "you're treating her very harshly, hal." "we're giving the facts, lady jinny." "_are_ they the facts? _all_ the facts?" "so far as human eyes could see them." "men's eyes don't see very far where a woman is concerned. she's very young and headstrong, and, hal, she hasn't had much chance, you know. she's elias pierce's daughter." "thus having every chance, one would suppose." "every chance of having everything. very little chance of being anything." there was a pause. then: "very well, hal, i know i can trust you to do what you believe right, at least. that's a good deal. festus tells me to let you alone. he says that you must fight your own fight in your own way. that's the whole principle of salvation in festus's creed." "not a bad one," said hal. "i'm not particularly liking to do this, you know, lady jinny." "so i can understand. have you heard anything from esmé elliot since she left?" "no." "you mustn't drop out of the set, hal," said the little woman anxiously. "you've made good so quickly. and our crowd doesn't take up with the first comer, you know." since esmé elliot had passed out of his life, as he told himself, hal found no incentive to social amusements. hence he scarcely noticed a slow but widening ostracism which shut him out from house after house, under the pressure of the pierce influence. but mrs. festus willard had perceived and resented it. that any one for whom she had stood sponsor should fail socially in worthington was both irritating and incredible to her. hence she made more of hal than she might otherwise have found time to do, and he was much with her and festus willard, deriving, on the one hand, recreation and amusement from her sparkling _camaraderie_, and on the other, support and encouragement from her husband's strong, outspoken, and ruggedly honest common sense. neither of them fully approved of his attack on kathleen pierce, whom they understood better than he did. but they both--and more particularly festus willard--appreciated the courage and honor of the "clarion's" new standards. except for an occasional dinner at their house, and a more frequent hour late in the afternoon or early in the evening, with one or both of them, hal saw almost nothing of the people into whose social environment he had so readily slipped. because of his exclusion, there prospered the more naturally a casual but swiftly developing intimacy which had sprung up between himself and milly neal. it began with her coming to hal for his counsel about her copy. from the first she assumed an attitude of unquestioning confidence in his wisdom and taste. this flattered the pedagogue which is inherent in all of us. he was wise enough to see promptly that he must be delicately careful in his criticism, since here he was dealing out not opinion, but gospel. poised and self-confident the girl was in her attitude toward herself: the natural consequence of early success and responsibility. but about her writing she exhibited an almost morbid timidity lest it be thought "vulgar" or "common" by the editor-in-chief; and once mcguire ellis felt called upon to warn hal that he was "taking all the gimp out of the 'kitty the cutie' stuff by trying to sewing-circularize it." of literature the girl knew scarcely anything; but she had an eager ambition for better standards, and one day asked hal to advise her in her reading. not without misgivings he tried her with stevenson's "virginibus puerisque" and was delighted with the swiftness and eagerness of her appreciation. then he introduced her by careful selection to the poets, beginning with tennyson, through wordsworth, to browning, and thence to the golden-voiced singers of the sonnet, and all of it she drank in with a wistful and wondering delight. soon her visits came to be of almost daily occurrence. she would dart in of an evening, to claim or return a book, and sit perched on the corner of the big work-table, like a little, flashing, friendly bird; always exquisitely neat, always vividly pretty and vividly alive. sometimes the talk wandered from the status of instructor and instructed, and touched upon the progress of the "clarion," the view which milly's little world took of it, possible ways of making it more interesting to the women readers to whom the "cutie" column was supposed to cater particularly. more than once the more personal note was touched, and the girl spoke of her coming to the certina factory, a raw slip of a country creature tied up in calico, and of dr. surtaine's kindness and watchfulness over her. "he wanted to do well by me because of the old man--my father, i mean," she caught herself up, blushing. "they knew each other when i was a kid." "where?" asked hal. "oh, out east of here," she answered evasively. again she said to him once, "what i like about the 'clarion' is that it's trying to do something for _folks_. that's all the religion i could ever get into my head: that human beings are mostly worth treating decently. that counts for more than all your laws and rules and church regulations. i don't like rules much," she added, twinkling up at him. "i always want to kick 'em over, just as i always want to break through the police lines at a fire." "but rules and police lines are necessary for keeping life orderly," said hal. "i suppose so. but i don't know that i like things too orderly. my teacher called me a lawless little demon, once, and i guess i still am. suppose i should break all the rules of the office? would you fire me?" and before he could answer she was up and had flashed away. as the intimacy grew, hal found himself looking forward to these swift-winged little visits. they made a welcome break in the detailed drudgery; added to the day a glint of color, bright like the ripple of half-hidden flame that crowned milly's head. once veltman, intruding on their talk, had glared blackly and, withdrawing, had waited for the girl in the hallway outside from whence, as she left, hal could hear the foreman's deep voice in anger and her clear replies tauntingly stimulating his chagrin. having neglected the willards for several days, hal received a telephone message, about a month after esmé elliot's departure, asking him to stop in. he found mrs. willard waiting him in the conservatory. his old friend looked up as he entered, with a smile which did not hide the trouble in her eyes. "aren't you a lily-of-the-field!" admired the visitor, contemplating her green and white costume. "it's the vanes' dance. not going?" "not asked. besides, i'm a workingman these days." "so one might infer from your neglect of your friends. hal, i've had a letter from esmé elliot." "any message?" he asked lightly, but with startled blood. there was no answering lightness in her tones. "yes. one i hate to give. hal, she's engaged herself to will douglas. it must have been by letter, for she wasn't engaged when she left. 'tell hal surtaine' she says in her letter to me." "thank you, lady jinny," said hal. the diminutive lady looked at him and then looked away, and suddenly a righteous flush rose on her cheeks. "i'm fond of esmé," she declared. "one can't help but be. she compels it. but where men are concerned she seems to have no sense of her power to hurt. i could _kill_ her for making me her messenger. hal, boy," she rose, slipping an arm through his caressingly, "i do hope you're not badly hurt." "i'll get over it, lady jinny. there's the job, you know." he started for the office. then, abruptly, as he went, "the job" seemed purposeless. unrealized, hope had still persisted in his heart--the hope that, by some possible turn of circumstance, the shattered ideal of esmé elliot would be revivified. the blighting of his love for her had been no more bitter, perhaps less so, than the realization which she had compelled in him of her lightness and unworthiness. still, he had wanted her, longed for her, hoped for her. now that hope was gone. there seemed nothing left to work for, no adequate good beyond the striving. he looked with dulled vision out upon blank days. with a sudden weakening of fiber he turned into a hotel and telephoned mcguire ellis that he wouldn't be at the office that evening. to the other's anxious query was he ill, he replied that he was tired out and was going home to bed. meantime, far across the map at a famous florida hostelry, the great american pumess, in the first flush and pride of her engagement which all commentators agree upon as characteristic of maidenhood's vital resolution, lay curled up in a little fluffy coil of misery and tears, repeating between sobs, "i hate him! i _hate_ him!" meaning her _fiancé_, mr. william douglas, with whom her mind and emotions should properly have been concerned? not so, perspicacious reader. meaning mr. harrington surtaine. upon _his_ small portion of the map, that gentleman wooed sleep in vain for hours. presently he arose from his tossed bed, dressed quietly, slipped out of the big door and walked with long, swinging steps down to the "clarion" building. there it stood, a plexus of energies, in the midst of darkness and sleep. eye-like, its windows peered vigilantly out into the city. a door opened to emit a voice that bawled across the way some profane demand for haste in the delivery of "that grub"; and through the shaft of light hal could see brisk figures moving, and hear the roar and thrill of the press sealing its irrevocable message. again he felt, with a pride so profound that its roots struck down into the depths of humility, his own responsibility to all that straining life and energy and endeavor. he, the small atom, alone in the night, _was_ the "clarion." those men, the fighting fellowship of the office, were rushing and toiling and coordinating their powers to carry out some ideal still dimly inchoate in his brain. what mattered his little pangs? there was a man's test to meet, and the man within him stretched spiritual muscles for the trial. "if i could only be sure what's right," he said within himself, voicing the doubt of every high-minded adventurer upon unbeaten paths. sharply, and, as it seemed to him, incongruously, he wondered that he had never learned to pray; not knowing that, in the unfinished phrase he had uttered true prayer. a chill breeze swept down upon him. looking up into the jeweled heavens he recalled from the far distance of memory, the prayer of a great and simple soul,-- "make thou my spirit pure and clear as are the frosty skies." hal set out for home, ready now for a few hours' sleep. at a blind corner he all but collided with a man and a woman, walking at high speed. the woman half turned, flinging him a quick and silvery "good-evening." it was milly neal. the man with her was max veltman. chapter xix donnybrook worthington began to find the "clarion" amusing. it blared a new note. common matter of everyday acceptance which no other paper in town had ever considered as news, became, when trumpeted from between the rampant roosters, vital with interest. and whithersoever it directed the public attention, some highly respectable private privilege winced and snarled. worthington did not particularly love the "clarion" for the enemies it made. but it read it. now, a newspaper makes its enemies overnight. friends take months or years in the making. hence the "clarion," whilst rapidly broadening its circle of readers, owed its success to the curiosity rather than to the confidence which it inspired. meantime the effect upon its advertising income was disastrous. if credence could be placed in the lamenting shearson, wherever it attacked an abuse, whether by denunciation or ridicule, it lost an advertiser. moreover the public, not yet ready to credit any journal with honest intentions, was inclined to regard the "clarion" as "a chronic kicker." the "banner's" gibing suggestion of a reversal of the editorial motto between the triumphant birds to read "with malice toward all," stuck. but there were compensations. the blatant cocks had occasional opportunity for crowing. with no small justification did they shrill their triumph over the midland & big muddy railroad. the "mid and mud" had declared war upon the "clarion," following the paper's statement of the true cause of the walkersville wreck, as suggested by marchmont, the reporter, at the breakfast. marchmont himself had been banished from the railroad offices. all sources of regular news were closed to him. therefore, backed by the "clarion," he proceeded to open up a line of irregular news which stirred the town. for years the "mid and mud" had given to worthington a passenger service so bad that no community less enslaved to a _laissez-faire_ policy would have endured it. through trains drifted in anywhere from one to four hours late. local trains, drawn by wheezy, tin-pot locomotives of outworn pattern, arrived and departed with such casualness as to render schedules a joke, and not infrequently "bogged down" between stations until some antediluvian engine could be resuscitated and sent out to the rescue. the day coaches were of the old, dangerous, wooden type. the pullman service was utterly unreliable, and the station in which the traveling populace of worthington spent much of its time, a draft-ridden barn. yet worthington suffered all this because it was accustomed to it and lacked any means of making protest vocal. then the "clarion" started in publishing its "yesterday's time-table of the midland & big muddy r.r. co." to this general effect: day express due a.m. arrived . a.m. late hour min. noon local due a.m. arrived . p.m. late hrs. min. sunrise limited due p.m. arrived . p.m. late hrs. min. and so on. from time to time there would appear, underneath, a special item, of which the following is an example: "the eastern states through express of the midland & big muddy railroad arrived and departed on time yesterday. when asked for an explanation of this phenomenon, the officials declined to be interviewed." against this "persecution," the "mid and mud" authorities at first maintained a sullen silence. the "clarion" then went into statistics. it gave the number of passengers arriving and departing on each delayed train, estimated the value of their time, and constructed tables of the money value of time lost in this way to the city of worthington, per day, per month, and per year. the figures were not the less inspiring of thought, for being highly amusing. people began to take an interest. they brought or sent in personal experiences. a commercial traveler, on the . train (arriving at . , that day), having lost a big order through missing an appointment, told the "clarion" about it. a contractor's agent, gazing from the windows of the stalled "limited" out upon "fresh woods and pastures new" twenty miles short of worthington, what time he should have been at a committee meeting of the council, forfeited a $ , contract and rushed violently into "clarion" print, breathing slaughter and law-suits. judge abner halloway and family, arriving at the new york pier in a speeding taxi from the eastern express (five hours late out of worthington), just in time to see the lusitania take his forwarded baggage for a pleasant outing in europe, hired a stenographer (male) to tell the "clarion" what he thought of the matter, in words of seven syllables. professor beeton trachs, the globe-trotting lecturer, who arrived via the "m. and m." for an eight o'clock appearance, at . , gave the "clarion" an interview proper to the occasion of having to abjure a $ guaranty, wherein the mildest and most judicial opinion expressed by professor trachs was that crawling through a tropical jungle on all fours was speed, and being hurtled down a mountain on the bosom of a landslide, comfort, compared to travel on the "mid and mud." all these and many similar experiences, the "clarion" published in its "news of the m. and m." column. it headed them, "stories of survivors." for six weeks the railroad endured the proddings of ridicule. then the fourth vice-president of the road appeared in mr. harrington surtaine's sanctum. he was bland and hinted at advertising. two weeks later the third vice-president arrived. he was vague and hinted at reprisals. the second vice-president presented himself within ten days thereafter, departed after five unsatisfactory minutes, and reported at headquarters, with every symptom of an elderly gentleman suffering from shock, that young mr. surtaine had seemed bored. the first vice-president then arrived on a special train. "what do you want, anyway?" he asked. "decent passenger service for worthington," said the editor. "just what i've told every other species _and_ number of vice-president on your list." "you get it," said the first vice-president. thus was afforded another example of that super-efficiency which, we are assured, marks the caste of the american railroad as superior to all others, and which consists in sending four men and spending several weeks to do what one could do better in a single day. in the course of a few weeks the midland & big muddy did bring its service up to a reasonable standard, and the owner of the "clarion" savored his first pleasant proof of the power of the press. vastly less important, but swifter and more definite in results and more popular in effect, was the "clarion's" anti-hat-check campaign. the stickler, worthington's newest hotel, had established a coat-room with the usual corps of girl-bandits, waiting to strip every patron of his outer garments before admitting him to the restaurant, and returning them only upon the blackmail of a tip. all the other good restaurants had followed suit. worthington resented it, as it resented most innovations; but endured the imposition, for lack of solidarity, until the "clarion" took up the subject in a series of paragraphs. "do you think," blandly inquired the editorial roosters, "that when you tip the hat-check girl she gets the tip? she doesn't. it goes to a man who rents from the restaurant the privilege of bullying you out of a dime or a quarter. the girl holds you up, because if she doesn't extort fifteen dollars a week, she loses her job and her own munificent wages of seven dollars. the 'clarion' takes pleasure in announcing a series of portraits of the high-minded pirates of finance whom you support in luxury, when you 'give up' to the check-girl. our first portrait, ladies and gentlemen, is that of mr. abe hotzenmuller, race-track bookmaker and whiskey agent, who, in the intervals of these more reputable occupations, extracts alms from the patrons of the hotel stickler." next in line was "shirty" macdonough, a minor politician, "appropriately framed in silver dimes," as the "clarion" put it. he was followed by eddie perkins, proprietor of a dubious resort on mail street. by this time coat-room franchises had suffered a severe depreciation. they dropped almost to zero when the newspaper, having clinched the lesson home with its "photo-graft gallery of leading dime-hunters," exhorted its readers: "if you think you need your change as much as these men do, watch for the coupon in to-morrow's 'clarion,' and stick it in your hat." the coupon was as follows: i read the clarion. i will not give one cent in tips to any coat-room grafter. what are you going to do about it? the enterprise hit upon the psychological moment. every check-room bristled with hats proclaiming defiance, and, incidentally, advertising the "clarion." the "cut-out coupon" ran for three weeks. in one month the stickler check-room, last to surrender, gave up the ghost, and mr. hotzenmuller sued the proprietor for his money back! over the theatrical managers the paper's victory was decisive in this, that it established honest dramatic criticism in worthington. but only at a high cost. not a line of theater advertising appeared in the columns after the editorial announcement of independence. press tickets were cut off. the "clarion's" dramatic reporter was turned back from the gate of the various theaters, after paying for admittance. nevertheless, the "clarion" continued to publish frank criticism of current drama, through a carefully guarded secret arrangement with the critic of the "evening news." about this time a famous star, opening a three days' engagement, got into difficulties with the scene-shifters' union over an unjust demand for extra payment, refused to be blackmailed, and canceled the second performance. one paper only gave the facts, and that was the "clarion," generally regarded as the defender and mouthpiece of the laboring as against the capitalistic interests. great was the wrath of the unions. boycott was threatened; even a strike in the office. in response, the editorial page announced briefly that its policy of giving the news accurately and commenting upon it freely exempted no man or organization. the trouble soon died out, but, while making new enemies amongst the rabid organization men, strengthened the "clarion's" growing repute for independence. one of the most violent objectors was max veltman, whose protest, delivered to hal and mcguire ellis, was so vehement that he was advised curtly and emphatically to confine his activities and opinions to his own department. "look out for that fellow," advised ellis, as the foreman went away fuming. "he hates you." "only his fanaticism," said hal. "more than that. it's personal. i think," added the associate editor after some hesitancy, "it's 'kitty the cutie.' he's jealous, hal. and i think he's right. that girl's getting too much interested in you." hal flushed sharply. "nonsense!" he said, and the subject lapsed. meantime the manager of the ralston opera house, where the labor trouble had occurred, made tentative proffer of peace in the form of sending in the theater advertising again. hal promptly refused to accept it, by way of an object-lesson, despite the almost tearful protest of his own business office. this blow almost killed shearson. in fact, the unfortunate advertising manager now lived in an atmosphere of stygian gloom. two of the most extensive purchasers of newspaper space, the boston store and the triangle store, had canceled their contracts immediately after the attack on the pierces, through a "joker" clause inserted to afford such an opportunity. all the other department stores threatened to follow suit when the "clarion" took up the cause of the consumers' league. mrs. festus willard was president of the organization, which had been practically moribund since its inception, for the sufficient reason that no mention of its activities, designs, or purposed reforms could gain admission to any newspaper in worthington. the retail union saw to that through its all-potent publication committee. perceiving the crescent emancipation of the "clarion," mrs. willard, after due consultation with her husband, appealed to hal. would he help the league to obtain certain reforms? specifically, seats for shopgirls, and extra pay for extra work, as during old home week, when the stores kept open until p.m.? hal agreed, and, in the face of the dismalest forecasts from shearson, prepared several editorials. moreover, "kitty the cutie" took up the campaign in her column, and her series of "lunch-time chats," with their slangy, pungent, workaday flavor, presented the case of the overworked saleswomen in a way to stir the dullest sympathies. the event fully justified shearson in his rôle of cassandra. half of the remaining stores represented in the retail union notified the "clarion" of the withdrawal of their advertising. thus some twelve hundred dollars a week of income vanished. moreover, the union, it was hinted, would probably blacklist the "clarion" officially. and the shop-folk gained nothing by the campaign. the merchants were strong enough to defeat the league and its sole backer at every point. this was one of the "clarion's" failures. coincident with the ebb of the store advertising occurred a lapse in circulation, inexplicable to the staff until an analysis indicated that the women readers were losing interest. it was young mr. surtaine who solved the mystery, by a flash of that newspaper instinct with which ellis had early credited him. "department store advertising is news," he decided, in a talk with ellis and shearson. "how can advertising be news?" objected the manager. "anything that interests the public is news, on the authority of no less an expert than mr. mcguire ellis. shopping is the main interest in life of thousands of women. they read the papers to find out where the bargains are. watch 'em on the cars any morning and you'll see them studying the ads. the information in those ads. is what they most want. now that we don't give it to them, they are dropping the paper. so we've got to give it to them." "now you're talking," cried shearson. "cut out this consumers' league slush and i'll get the stores back." "we'll cut out nothing. but we'll put in something. we'll print news of the department stores as news, not as advertising." "well, if that ain't the limit!" lamented shearson. "if you give 'em advertising matter free, how can you ever expect 'em to pay for it?" "we're not giving it to the stores. we're giving it to our readers." "in which case," remarked mcguire ellis with a grin, "we can afford to furnish the real facts." "exactly," said hal. from this talk developed a unique department in the "clarion." an expert woman shopper collected the facts and presented them daily under the caption, "where to find real bargains," and with the prefatory note, "no paid matter is accepted for this column." the expert had an allowance for purchasing, where necessary, and the utmost freedom of opinion was granted her. thus, in the midst of a series of items, such as--"the boston store is offering a special sale of linens at advantageous prices"; "the necktie sale at the emporium contains some good bargains"; and "scheffler and mintz's 'furniture week' is worth attention, particularly in the rocking-chair and dining-set lines"--might appear some such information as this: "in the special bargain sale of ribbons at the emporium the prices are slightly higher than the same lines sold for last week, on the regular counter"; or, "the heavily advertised antique rug collection at the triangle is mostly fraudulent. with a dozen exceptions the rugs are modern and of poor quality"; or, "the boston shop's special sale of rain coats are mostly damaged goods. accept none without guarantee." never before had mercantile worthington known anything like this. something not unlike panic was created in commercial circles. lawyers were hopefully consulted, but ascertained in the first stages of investigation, that wherever a charge of fraud was brought, the "clarion" office actually had the goods, by purchase. all this was costly to the "clarion." but it added nearly four thousand solid circulation, of the buying class, a class of the highest value to any advertiser. only with difficulty and by exercise of pressure on the part of e.m. pierce, were the weaker members among the withdrawing advertisers dissuaded from resuming their patronage of the "clarion." "i wouldn't have thought it possible," said the dictator, angrily, to his associates. "the thing is getting dangerous. the damned paper is out for the truth." "and the public is finding it out," supplemented gibbs, his brother-in-law. "wait till my libel suit comes on," said pierce grimly. "i don't believe young mr. surtaine will have enough money left to indulge in the luxury of muckraking, after that." "won't the old man back him up?" "tells me that the boy is playing a lone hand," said pierce with satisfaction. herein he spoke the fact. while the "clarion's" various campaigns were still in mid-career, dr. surtaine had made his final appeal to his son in vain, ringing one last change upon his pæan of policy. "what good does it all do you or anybody else? you're stirring up muck, and you're getting the only thing you ever get by that kind of activity, a bad smell." he paused for his effect; then delivered himself of a characteristically vigorous and gross aphorism: "boyee, you can't sell a stink, in this town." "perhaps i can help to get rid of it," said hal. "not you! nobody thanks you for your pains. they take notice for a while, because their noses compel 'em to. then they forget. what thanks does the public give a newspaper? but the man you've roasted--he's after you, all the time. a sore toe doesn't forget. look at pierce." "pierce has bothered me," confessed hal. "he's shut me off from the banks. none of them will loan the 'clarion' a cent. i have to go out of town for my money." "can you blame him? i'd have done the same if he'd roasted you as you roasted his girl." "news, dad," said hal wearily. "it was news." "let's not go over that again. you'll stick to your policy, i suppose, till it ruins you. about finances, by the way, where do you stand?" "stand?" repeated hal. "i wish we did. we slip. downhill; and pretty fast." "why wouldn't you? fighting your own advertisers." "some advertising has come in, though. mostly from out of town." "foreign proprietary," said dr. surtaine, using the technical term for patent-medicine advertising from out of town, "isn't it? i've been doing a little missionary work among my friends in the trade, hal; persuaded them to give the 'clarion' a try-out. the best of it is, they're getting results." "they ought to. do you know we're putting on circulation at the rate of nearly a thousand a week?" "expensive, though, isn't it?" "pretty bad. the paper costs a lot more to get out. we've enlarged our staff. now we need a new press. there's thirty-odd thousand dollars, in one lump." "how long can you go on at this rate?" "without any more advertising?" "you certainly aren't gaining, by your present policy." "well, i can stick it out through the year. by that time the advertising will be coming in. it's _got_ to come to the paper that has the circulation, dad." "hum!" droned the big doctor, dubiously. "have you reckoned the pierce libel suits in?" "he can't win them." "can't he? i don't know. he intends to try. and he feels pretty cocky about it. e.m. pierce has something up his sleeve, boyee." "that would be a body-blow. but he can't win," repeated hal. "why, i saw the whole thing myself." "just the same you ought to have the best libel lawyer you can get from new york. all the good local men are tied up with pierce or afraid of him." "can't afford it." to this point the big man had been leading up. "i've been thinking over this pierce matter, hal, and i've made up my mind. pierce is getting to think he's the whole thing around here. he's bullied this town all his life, just as he's bullied his employees until they hate him like poison. but now he's gone up against the wrong game. roast certina, will he? the pup! why, if he'd ever run his factories or his store or his consolidated employees' organization one hundredth part as decently as i've run our business, he wouldn't have to stay in nights for fear some one might sneak a knife into him out of the dark." this was something less than just to elias m. pierce, who, whatever his other faults, had never been a fearful man. "libel, eh?" continued the genius of certina, quietly but formidably. "we'll teach him a few things about libel, before he's through. here's my proposition, boyee. you can fight pierce, but you can't fight all worthington. every enemy you make for the 'clarion' becomes an ally of pierce. quit all these other campaigns. stop roasting the business men and advertisers. drop your attack on the mid and mud: you've got 'em licked, anyway. let up on the street railway: i notice you're taking a fall out of them on their overcrowding. treat the theaters decently: they're entitled to a fair chance for their money. cut out this consumers' league foolishness (i'm surprised at milly neal--the way she's lost her head over that). make friends instead of foes. and go after elias m. pierce, to the finish. do this, and i'll back you with the whole certina income. come on, now, boyee. be sensible." hal's reply came without hesitation. "i'm sorry, dad: but i can't do it. i've told you i'd stand or fall on what you've already given me. if i can't pull through on that, i can't pull through at all. let's understand each other once and for all, dad. i've got to try this thing out to the end. and i won't ask or take one cent from you or any one else, win or lose." "all right, boyee," returned his father sorrowfully. "you're wrong, dead wrong. but i like your nerve. only, let me tell you this. you think you're going to keep on printing the news and the whole news and all that sort of thing. i tell you, it can't be done." "why can't it be done?" "because, sooner or later, you'll bump up against your own interests so hard that you'll have to quit." "i don't see that at all, sir." "no, you don't. but one of these days something in the news line will come up that'll hit you right between the eyes, if ever it gets into print. then see what you'll do." "i'll print it." "no, you won't, boyee. human nature ain't built that way. you'll smother it, and be glad you've got the power to." "dad, you believe i'm honest, don't you?" "too blamed honest in some ways." "but you'd take my word?" "oh, that! yes. for anything." "then i put my honor on this. if ever the time comes that i have to suppress legitimate news to protect or aid my own interests, i'll own up i'm beaten: i'll quit fighting, and i'll make the 'clarion' a very sucking dove of journalism. is that plain?" "shake, boyee. you've bought a horse. just the same, i hate to let up on pierce. sure you won't let me hire a new york lawyer for the libel suit?" "no. thank you just as much, dad. that's a 'clarion' fight, and the 'clarion's money has got to back it." it was the gist of this decision which, some days later, had reached e.m. pierce, and caused him such satisfaction. with the "clarion" depending upon its own resources, unbacked by the great reserve wealth of certina's proprietor, he confidently expected to wreck it and force its suspension by an overwhelming verdict of damages. for, as dr. surtaine had surmised, he held a card up his sleeve. chapter xx the lesser tempting seven days of the week did mr. harrington surtaine labor, without by any means doing all his work. for to the toil which goes to the making of many newspapers there is no end; only ever a fresh beginning. had he brought to the enterprise a less eager appetite for the changeful adventure of it, the unremitting demand must soon have dulled his spirit. abounding vitality he possessed, but even this flagged at times. one soft spring sunday, while the various campaigns of the newspaper were still in mid-conflict, he decided to treat himself to a day off. so, after a luxurious morning in bed, he embarked in his runabout for an exploration around the adjacent country. having filled his lungs with two hours of swift air, he lunched, none too delicately, at a village fifty miles distant, and, on coming out of the hotel, was warned by a sky shaded from blue to the murkiest gray, into having the top of his car put up. the rain chased him for thirty miles and whelmed him in a wild swirl at the thirty-first. driving through this with some caution, he saw ahead of him a woman's figure, as supple as a willow withe, as gallant as a ship, beating through the fury of the elements. hal slowed down, debating whether to offer conveyance, when he caught a glint of ruddy waves beneath the drenched hat, and the next instant he was out and looking into the flushed face and dancing eyes of milly neal. "what on earth are you doing here?" he cried. "can't you see?" she retorted merrily. "i'm a fish." "you need to be. get in. you're soaked to the skin," he continued, dismayed, as she began to shiver under the wrappings he drew around her. "never mind. i'll have you home in a few minutes." but the demon of mischance was abroad in the storm. before they had covered half a mile the rear tire went. milly was now shaking dismally, for all her brave attempts to conceal it. a few rods away a sign announced "markby's road-house." concerned solely to get the girl into a warm and dry place, hal turned in, bundled her out, ordered a private room with a fireplace, and induced the proprietor's wife by the persuasions of a ten-dollar bill to provide a change of clothing for the outer, and hot drinks for the inner, woman. half an hour later when he had affixed a new tire to the wheel, he and milly sat, warmed and comforted before blazing logs, waiting for her clothes to dry out. "i know i look a fright," she mourned. "that mrs. markby must buy her dresses by the pound." she gazed at him comically from above a quaint and nondescript garment, to which she had given a certain daintiness with a cleverly placed ribbon or two and an adroit use of pins. privately, hal considered that she looked delightfully pretty, with her provocative eyes and the deep gleam of red in her hair like flame seen through smoke. "do you often go out wading, ten miles from home?" he asked. "not very. i was running away." "i didn't see any one in pursuit." "they knew too much." her firm little chin set rather grimly. "do you want to hear about it?" "yes. i'm curious," confessed hal. "i went to lunch with another girl and a couple of drummers, out at callender's pond hotel. she said she knew the men and they were all right. they weren't. they got too fresh altogether. so i told florence she could do as she pleased, but i was for home and the trolley. i guess i could have made it with a life-preserver," she laughed. hal was surprisedly conscious of a rasp of anger within him. "you ought not to put yourself into such a position," he declared. she threw him a covert glance from the corner of her sparkling eyes. "oh, i guess i can take care of myself," she decided calmly. "i always have. when fresh drummers begin to talk private dining-room and cold bottles, i spread my little wings and flit." "to another private room," mocked hal. "aren't you afraid?" "with you? you're different." there sounded in her voice the purring note of utter content which is the subtlest because the most unconscious flattery of womankind. a silence fell between them. hal stared into the fire. "are you warm enough?" he asked presently. "yes." "do you want something to eat? or drink? what did you have to drink?" he added, glancing at the empty glass on the table. "certina." "certina?" he queried, uncertain at first whether she was joking. "how could you get certina here?" "why not? they keep it at all these places. there's quite a bar-trade in it." "is that so?" said hal, with a vague feeling of disturbance of ideas. "which job do you like best: the certina or the newspaper, miss neal?" "my other boss calls me milly," she suggested. "very well,--milly, then." "oh, i'm for the office. it's more exciting, a lot." "your stuff," said hal, in the language of the cult, "is catching on." "you don't like it, though," she countered quickly. "yes, i do. much better than i did, anyway. but the point is that it's a success. editorially i _have_ to like it." "i'd rather you liked it personally." "some of it i do. the 'lunch-time chats'--" "and some of it you think is vulgar." "one has to suit one's style to the matter," propounded hal. "'kitty the cutie' isn't supposed to be a college professor." "i hate to have you think me vulgar," she insisted. "oh, come!" he protested; "that isn't fair. i don't think _you_ vulgar, milly." "i like to have you call me milly," she said. "it seems quite natural to," he answered lightly. "i've thought sometimes i'd like to try my hand at a regular news story," she went on, in a changed tone. "i think i've got one, if i could only do it right; one of those facts-behind-the-news stories that you talked to us about. do you remember meeting me with max veltman the other night?" "yes." "did you think it was queer?" "a little." "a girl i used to know back in the country tried to kill herself. she wrote me a letter, but it didn't get to me till after midnight, so i called up max and got him to go with me down to the rookeries district where she lives. poor little maggie! she got caught in one of those sewing-girl traps." "some kind of machinery?" "machinery? you don't know much about what goes on in your town, do you?" "not as much as an editor ought to know--which is everything." "i'll bring you maggie's letter. that tells it better than i can. and i want to write it up, too. let me write it up for the paper." she leaned forward and her eyes besought him. "i want to prove i can do something besides being a vulgar little 'kitty the cutie.'" "oh, my dear," he said, half paternally, but only half, "i'm sorry i hurt you with that word." "you didn't mean to." her smile forgave him. "maggie's story means another fight for the paper. can we stand another?" he warmed to the possessive "we." "so you know about our warfare," he said. "more than you think, perhaps. the books you gave me aren't the only things i study. i study the 'clarion,' too." "why?" he asked, interested. "because it's yours." she looked at him straightly now. "can you pull it through, boss?" "i think so. i hope so." "we've lost a lot of ads. i can reckon that up, because i had some experience in the advertising department of the certina shop, and i know rates." she pursed her lips with a dainty effect of careful computation. "somewhere about four thousand a week out, isn't it?" "four thousand, three hundred and seventy in store business last week." the talk settled down and confined itself to the financial and editorial policies of the paper, milly asking a hundred eager and shrewd questions, now and again proffering some tentative counsel or caution. impersonal though it seemed, through it hal felt a growing tensity of intercourse; a sense of pregnant and perilous intimacy drawing them together. "since you're taking such an interest, i might get you to help mr. ellis run the paper when i go away," he suggested jocularly. "you're not going away?" the query came in a sort of gasp. "next week." "for long?" her hand, as if in protest against the dreaded answer, went out to the arm of his chair. his own met and covered it reassuringly. "not very. it's the new press." "we're going to have a new press?" "hadn't you heard? you seem to know so much about the office. we're going to build up the basement and set the press just inside the front wall and then cut a big window through so that the world and his wife can see the 'clarion' in the very act of making them better." both fell silent. their hands still clung. their eyes were fixed upon the fire. suddenly a log, half-consumed, crashed down, sending abroad a shower of sparks. the girl darted swiftly up to stamp out a tiny flame at her feet. standing, she half turned toward hal. "where are you going?" she asked. "to new york." "take me with you." so quietly had the crisis come that he scarcely realized it. for a measured space of heart-beats he gazed into the fireplace. as he stared, she slipped to the arm of his chair. he felt the alluring warmth of her body against his shoulder. then he would have turned to search her eyes, but, divining him, she denied, pressing her cheek close against his own. "no; no! don't look at me," she breathed. "you don't know what you mean," he whispered. "i do! i'm not a child. take me with you." "it means ruin for you." "ruin! that's a word! words don't frighten me." "they do me. they're the most terrible things in the world." she laughed at that. "is it the word you're afraid of, or is it me?" she challenged. "i'm not asking you anything. i don't want you to marry me. oh!" she cried with a sinking break of the voice, "do you think i'm _bad_?" freeing himself, he caught her face between his hands. "are you--have you been 'bad,' as you call it?" "i don't blame you for asking--after what i've said. but i haven't." "and now?" "now, i care. i never cared before. it was that, i suppose, kept me straight. don't you care for me--a little, hal?" he rose and strode to the window. when he turned from his long look out into the burgeoning spring she was standing silent, expectant. like stone she stood as he came back, but her arms went up to receive him. her lips melted into his, and the fire of her face flashed through every vein. "and afterward?" he said hoarsely. there was triumph in her answering laughter, passion-shaken though it was. "then you'll take me with you." "but afterward?" he repeated. lingeringly she released herself. "let that take care of itself. i don't care for afterward. we're free, you and i. what's to hinder us from doing as we please? who's going to be any the worse for it? oh, i told you i was lawless. it's the hardscrabbler blood in me, i guess." deep in hal's memory a response to that name stirred. "somewhere," he said, "i have run across a hardscrabbler before." "me. but you've forgotten." "have i? let me see. it was in the old days when dad and i were traveling. you were the child with the wonderful red hair, the night i was hurt. _were_ you?" "and next day i tried to bite you because you wanted to play with a prettier little girl in beautiful clothes." esmé! the electric spark of thought leaped the long space of years from the child, esmé, to the girl, in the vain love of whom he had eaten his heart hollow. for the moment, passion for the vivid woman-creature before him had dulled that profounder feeling almost to obliteration. perhaps--so the thought came to him--he might find forgetfulness, anodyne in milly neal's arms. but what of milly, taken on such poor terms? the bitter love within him gave answer. not loyalty to esmé elliot whom he knew unworthy, but to milly herself, bound him to honor and restraint; so strangely does the human soul make its dim and perilous way through the maze of motives. even though the girl, now questing his face with puzzled, frightened eyes, asked nothing but to belong to him; demanded no bond of fealty or troth, held him free as she held herself free, content with the immediate happiness of a relation that, must end in sorrow for one or the other, yet he could not take what she so prodigally, so gallantly proffered, with the image of another woman smiling through his every thought. that, indeed, were to be unworthy, not of esmé, not of himself, but of milly. he made a step toward her, and her glad hands went out to him again. very gently he took them; very gently he bent and kissed her cheek. "that's for good-bye," he said. the voice in which he spoke seemed alien to his ears, so calm it was, so at variance with his inner turmoil. "you won't take me with you?" "no." "you promised." "i know." he was not concerned now with verbal differentiations. truly, he had promised, wordlessly though it had been. "but i can't." "you don't care?" she said piteously. "i care very much. if i cared less--" "there's some other woman." "yes." flame leaped in her eyes. "i hope she poisons your life." "i hope i haven't poisoned yours," he returned, lamely enough. "oh, i'll manage to live on," she gibed. "i guess there are other men in the world besides you." "don't make it too hard, milly." "you're pitying me! don't you dare pity me!" a sob rose, and burst from her. then abruptly she seized command over herself. "what does it all matter?" she said. "go away now and let me change my clothes." "are they dry?" "i don't care whether they're dry or not. i don't care what becomes of me now." all the sullen revolt of generations of lawlessness was vocal in her words. "you wait and see!" somehow hal got out of the room, his mind awhirl, to await her downstairs. in a few moments she came, and with eyes somberly averted got into the runabout without a word. as they swung into the road, they met mcguire ellis and wayne, who bowed with a look of irrepressible surprise. during the ride homeward hal made several essays at conversation. but the girl sat frozen in a white silence. only when they pulled up at her door did she speak. "i'm going to try to forget this," she said in a dry, hard voice. "you do the same. i won't quit my job unless you want me to." "don't," said hal. "but you won't be bothered with seeing me any more. i'll send you maggie breen's letter and the story. i guess i understand a little better now how she felt when she took the poison." with that rankling in his brain, hal surtaine sat and pondered in his private study at home. his musings arraigned before him for judgment and contrast the two women who had so stormily wrought upon his new life. esmé elliot had played with his love, had exploited it, made of it a tinsel ornament for vanity, sought, through it, to corrupt him from the hard-won honor of his calling. she had given him her lips for a lure; she had played, soul and body, the petty cheat with a high and ennobling passion. yet, because she played within the rules by the world's measure, there was no stain upon her honor. by that same measure, what of milly neal? in her was no trickery of sex; only the ungrudging, wide-armed offer of all her womanhood, reckless of aught else but love. debating within himself the phrase, "an honest woman," hal laughed aloud. his laughter lacked much of being mirthful, and something of being just. for he had reckoned two daughters of eve by the same standard, which is perhaps the oldest and most disastrous error hereditary to all the sons of adam. chapter xxi the power of print hal paid thirty-two thousand dollars for the new press. it was a delicate giant of mechanism, able not only to act, but also to think with stupendous accuracy and swiftness; lacking only articulate speech to be wholly superhuman. but in signing the check for it, hal, for the first time in his luxurious life experienced a financial qualm. always before there had been an inexhaustible source wherefrom to draw. now that he had issued his declaration of pecuniary independence, he began to appreciate the perishable nature of money. he came back from his week's journey to new york feeling distinctly poorer. moreover there was an uncomfortable paradox connected with his purchase. that he should be put to so severe an expenditure merely for the purpose of incurring an increased current expense, struck him as a rather sardonic joke. yet so it was. circulation does not mean direct profit to a newspaper. on the contrary, it implies loss in many cases. for some weeks it had been costing the "clarion," to print the extra papers necessitated by the increased demand, more than the money received from their sale. until the status of the journal should justify a higher advertising charge, every added paper sold would involve a loss. true, an augmented circulation logically commands a higher advertising rate; it is thus that a newspaper reaps its harvest; and soon hal hoped to be able to raise his advertising rate from fifteen to twenty-five cents a line. at that return his books would show a profit on a normal volume of advertising. meantime he performed an act of involuntary philanthropy with every increase of issue, nevertheless, hal felt for his mechanical giant something of the new-toy thrill. to him it was a symbol of productive power. it made appeal to his imagination, typifying the reborn "clarion." he saw it as a master-loom weaving fresh patterns, day by day, into the fabric of the city's life and thought. that all might view the process, he had it mounted high from the basement, behind a broad plate-glass show window set in the front wall, a highly unstrategic position, as mcguire ellis pointed out. "suppose," said he, "a horse runs wild and makes a dive through that window? or a couple of bums get shooting at each other, and a stray bullet comes whiffling through the glass and catches young mr. press in his delikit insides. we're out of business for a week, maybe, mending him up." shearson, however, was in favor of it. it suggested prosperity and aroused public interest. on hal's return from new york, the fat and melancholious advertising manager had exhibited a somewhat mollified pessimism. "the boston store is coming back," he visited hal's sanctum to announce. "why, that's john m. gibbs's store, isn't it?" "sure." "and he's e.m. pierce's brother-in-law. i thought he'd stick by his family in fighting the 'clarion.'" "family is all right, but grinder gibbs is for business first and everything else afterwards. our rates look good to him, with the circulation we're showing. and he knows we bring results. he's been using us on the quiet for a little side issue of his own." "what's that?" "some sewing-girls' employment thing. it's in the 'classified' department. don't amount to much; but it's proved to him that the 'clarion' ad does the business. i've been on his trail for two weeks. so the store starts in sunday with half-pages. they say pierce is crazy mad." "no wonder." "the best of it is that now the retail union won't fight us, as a body, for taking up the consumers' league fight. they can't very well, with their second biggest store using the 'clarion's columns." mcguire ellis, too, was feeling quite cheerful over the matter. "it shows that you can be independent and get away with it," he declared, "if you get out an interesting enough paper. by the way, that's a hot little story 'kitty the cutie' turned in on the breen girl's suicide." "it was only attempted suicide, wasn't it?" "the first time. she had a second trial at it day before yesterday and turned the trick. you'll find neal's copy on your desk. i held it for you." from out of a waiting heap of mail, proof, and manuscript, hal selected the sheets covered with milly neal's neat business chirography. she had written her account briefly and with restraint, building her "story" around the girl's letter. it set forth the tragedy of a petty swindle. the scheme was as simple as it was cruel. a concern calling itself "the sewing aid association" advertised for sewing-women, offering from ten to fifteen dollars a week to workers; experience not necessary. maggie breen answered the advertisement. the manager explained to her that the job was making children's underclothing from pattern. she would be required to come daily to the factory and sew on a machine which she would purchase from the company, the price, thirty dollars, being reckoned as her first three weeks' wages. to all this, duly set forth in a specious contract, the girl affixed her signature. she was set to work at once. the labor was hard, the forewoman a driver, but ten dollars a week is good pay. hoping for a possible raise maggie turned out more garments than any of her fellow workers. for two weeks and a half all went well. in another few days the machine would be paid for, the money would begin to come in, and maggie would get a really square meal, which she had come to long for with a persistent and severe hankering. then the trap was sprung. maggie's work was found "unsatisfactory." she was summarily discharged. in vain did she protest. she would try again; she would do better. no use; "the house" found her garments unmarketable. sorrowfully she asked for her money. no money was due her. again she protested. the manager thrust a copy of her contract under her nose and turned her into the street. thus the "sewing aid association" had realized upon fifteen days' labor for which they had not paid one cent, and the "installment" sewing-machine was ready for its next victim. this is a very pleasant and profitable policy and is in use, in one form or another, in nearly every american city. proof of which the sufficiently discerning eye may find in the advertising columns of many of our leading newspapers and magazines. to maggie breen it was small consolation that she was but one of many. even her simple mind grasped the "joker" in the contract. she tore up that precious document, went home, reflected that she was rather hungry and likely to be hungrier, quite wretched and likely to be wretcheder; and so made a decoction of sulphur matches and drank it. an ambulance surgeon disobligingly arrived in time to save her life for once; but the second time she borrowed some carbolic acid, which is more expeditious than any ambulance surgeon. this was the story which "kitty the cutie," while sticking close to the facts, had contrived to inform with a woman's wrath and a woman's pity. reading it, hal took fire. he determined to back it up with an editorial. but first he would look into the matter for himself. with this end in view he set out for number sperry street, where maggie breen's younger sister and bedridden mother lived. it was his maiden essay at reporting. sperry street shocked hal. he could not have conceived that a carefully regulated and well-kept city such as worthington (he knew it, be it remembered, chiefly from above the wheels of an automobile) would permit such a slum to exist. on either side of the street, gaunt wooden barracks, fire-traps at a glance, reared themselves five rackety stories upward, for the length of a block. across intersecting grant street the sky-line dropped a few yards, showing ragged through the metal cornice and sickly brick chimneys of a tenement row only a degree less forbidding than the first. the street itself was a mere refuse patch smeared out over bumpy cobbles. the visitor entered the tenement at , between reeking barrels which had waited overlong for the garbage cart. he was received without question, as a reporter for the "clarion." at first sadie breen, anæmic, hopeless-eyed, timorous, was reluctant to speak. but the mother proved hal's ally. "let 'im put it in the paper," she exhorted. "maybe it'll keep some other girl away from them sharks." "why didn't your sister sue the company?" asked hal. "where'd we get the money for a lawyer?" whined sadie. "it's no use, anyway," said mrs. breen. "they've tried it in municipal court. the sharks always wins. somebody ought to shoot that manager," she added fiercely. "yes; that's great to say," jeered sadie, in a whine. "but look what happened to that mason girl from hoppers hollow. she hit at him with a pair of scissors, an' they sent her up for a year." "better that than cissy green's way. you know what become of her. went on the street," explained mrs. breen to hal. they poured out story after story of poor women entrapped by one or another of those lures which wring the final drop of blood from the bleakest poverty. in the midst of the recital there was a knock at the door, and a tall young man in black entered. he at once introduced himself to hal as the reverend norman hale, and went into conference with the two women about a place for sadie. this being settled, hal's mission was explained to him. "a reporter?" said the reverend norman. "i wish the papers _would_ take this thing up. a little publicity would kill it off, i believe." "won't the courts do anything?" "they can't. i've talked to the judge. the concern's contract is water-tight." the two young men went down together through the black hallways, and stood talking at the outer door. "how do people live in places like this?" exclaimed hal. "not very successfully. the death-rate is pretty high. particularly of late. there's what a friend of mine around the corner--he happens to be a barkeeper, by the way--calls a lively trade in funerals around here." "is your church in this district?" "my club is. people call it a mission, but i don't like the word. it's got too much the flavor of reaching down from above to dispense condescending charity." "charity certainly seems to be needed here." "help and decent fairness are needed; not charity. what's your paper, by the way?" "the 'clarion.'" "oh!" said the other, in an altered tone. "i shouldn't suppose that the 'clarion' would go in much for any kind of reform." "do you read it?" "no. but i know dr. surtaine." "dr. surtaine doesn't own the 'clarion.' i do." "you're harrington surtaine? i thought i had seen you somewhere before. but you said you were a reporter." "pardon me, i didn't. mrs. breen said that. however, it's true; i'm doing a bit of reporting on this case. and i'm going to do some writing on it before i'm through." "as for dr. surtaine--" began the young clergyman, then checked himself, pondering. what further he might have had to say was cut off by a startling occurrence. a door on the floor above opened; there was a swift patter of feet, and then from overhead, a long-drawn, terrible cry. immediately a young girl, her shawl drawn about her face, ran from the darkness into the half-light of the lower hall and would have passed between them but that norman hale caught her by the arm. "lemme go! lemme go!" she shrieked, pawing at him. "quiet," he bade her. "what is it, emily?" "oh, mr. hale!" she cried, recognizing him and clutching at his shoulder. "don't let it get me!" "nothing's going to hurt you. tell me about it." "it's the death," she shuddered. the man's face changed. "here?" he said. "in this block?" "don't you go," she besought. "don't you go, mr. hale. you'll get it." "where is it? answer me at once." "first-floor front," sobbed the girl. "mrs. schwarz." "don't wait for me," said the minister to hal. "in fact you'd better leave the place. good-day." thus abruptly discarded from consideration, hal turned to the fugitive. "is some one dead?" "not yet." "dying, then?" "as good as. it's the death," said the girl with a strong shudder. "you said that before. what do you mean by the death?" "don't keep me here talkin'," she shivered. "i wanta go home." hal walked along with her, wondering. "i wish you would tell me," he said gently. "all i know is, they never get well." "what sort of sickness is it?" "search me." the petty slang made a grim medium for the uncertainty of terror which it sought to express. "they've had it over in the rookeries since winter. there ain't no name for it. they just call it the death." "the rookeries?" said hal, caught by the word. "where are they?" "don't you know the rookeries?" the girl pointed to the long double row of grisly wooden edifices down the street. "them's sadler's shacks on this side, and tammany barracks on the other. they go all the way around the block." "you say the sickness has been in there?" "yes. now it's broken out an' we'll all get it an' die," she wailed. a little, squat, dark man hurried past them. he nodded, but did not pause. "i know him," said hal. "who is he?" "doc de vito. he tends to all the cases. but it's no good. they all die." "you keep your head," advised hal. "don't be scared. and wash your hands and face thoroughly as soon as you get home." "a lot o' good that'll do against the death," she said scornfully, and left him. back at the office, hal, settling down to write his editorial, put the matter of the rookeries temporarily out of mind, but made a note to question his father about it. milly neal's article, touched up and amplified by hal's pen, appeared the following morning. the editorial was to be a follow-up in the next day's paper. coming down early to put the finishing touches to this, hal found the article torn out and pasted on a sheet of paper. across the top of the paper was written in pencil: "_clipped from the clarion; a deadly parallel_." the penciled legend ran across the sheet to include, under its caption a second excerpt, also in "clarion" print, but of the advertisement style: wanted--sewing-girls for simple machine work. experience not necessary. $ to $ a week guaranteed. apply in person at manning street. the sewing aid association. below, in the same hand writing was the query: "_what's your percentage of the blood-money, mr. harrington surtaine?"_ hal threw it over to ellis. "whose writing is that?" he asked. "it looks familiar to me." "max veltman's," said ellis. he took in the meaning of it. "the insolent whelp!" he said. "insolent? yes; he's that. but the worst of it is, i'm afraid he's right." and he telephoned for shearson. the advertising manager came up, puffing. hal held out the clipping to him. "how long has that been running?" "on and off for six months." "throw it out." "throw it out!" repeated the other bitterly. "that's easy enough said." "and easily enough done." "it's out already. taken out by early notice this morning." "that's all right, then." "_is_ it all right!" boomed shearson. "_is_ it! you won't think so when you hear the rest of it." "try me." "do you know _who_ the sewing aid association is?" "no." "it's john m. gibbs! that's who it is!" "yell louder, shearson. it may save you from apoplexy," advised mcguire ellis with tender solicitude. "and we lose every line of the boston store advertising, that i worked so hard to get back." "that'll hurt," allowed ellis. "hurt! it draws blood, that does. that sewing aid association is gibbs's scheme to supply the children's department of his store. why couldn't you find out who you were hitting, mr. surtaine?" demanded shearson pathetically, "before you went and mucksed everything up this way? see what comes of all this reform guff." "are you sure that john m. gibbs is back of that sewing-girl ad?" "sure? didn't he call me up this morning and raise the devil?" "thank you, mr. shearson. that's all." to his editorial galley-proof hal added two lines. "what's that, mr. surtaine?" asked the advertising manager curiously. "that's outside of your department. but since you ask, i'll tell you. it's an editorial on the kind of swindle that causes tragedies like maggie breen's. and the sentence which i have just added, thanks to you, is this: "'the proprietor of this scheme which drives penniless women to the street or to suicide is john m. gibbs, principal owner of the boston store.'" words failed shearson; also motive power, almost. for reckonable seconds he stood stricken. then slowly he got under way and rolled through the door. once, on the stairs, they heard from him a protracted rumbling groan. "ruin," was the one distinguishable word. it left an echo in hal's brain, an echo which rang hollowly amongst misgivings. "_is_ it ruin to try and run a newspaper without taking a percentage of that kind of profits, mac?" he asked. "well, a newspaper can't be too squeamish about its ads." was the cautious answer. "do all newspapers carry that kind of stuff?" "not quite. most of them, though. they need the money." "what's the matter with business in this town? everything seems to be rotten." ellis took refuge in a proverb. "business is business," he stated succinctly. "and it's as bad everywhere as here? this is all new to me, you know. i rather expected to find every concern as decently and humanly run as certina." one swift, suspicious glance ellis cast upon his superior, but hal's face was candor itself. "well, no," he admitted. "perhaps it isn't as bad in some cities. the trouble here is that all the papers are terrorized or bribed into silence. until we began hitting out with our little shillalah, nobody had ever dared venture a peep of disapproval. so, business got to thinking it could do as it pleased. you can't really blame business much. immunity from criticism isn't ever good for the well-known human race." hal took the matter of the "sewing aid" swindle home with him for consideration. hitherto he had considered advertising only as it affected or influenced news. now he began to see it in another light, as a factor in itself of immense moral moment and responsibility. it was dimly outlined to his conscience that, as a partner in the profit, he became also a partner in the enterprise. thus he faced the question of the honesty or dishonesty of the advertising in his paper. and this is a question fraught with financial portent for the honorable journalist. chapter xxii patriots worthington's old home week is a gay, gaudy, and profitable institution. during the six days of its course the city habitually maintains the atmosphere of a three-ringed circus, the bustle of a county fair, and the business ethics of the bowery. allured by widespread advertising and encouraged by special rates on the railroads, the countryside for a radius of one hundred miles pours its inhabitants into the local metropolis, their pockets filled with greased dollars. upon them worthington lavishes its left-over and shelf-cluttering merchandise, at fifty per cent more than its value, amidst general rejoicings. as festus willard once put it, "there is a sound of revelry by night and larceny by day." but then mr. willard, being a manufacturer and not a retailer, lacks the subtler sympathy which makes lovely the spirit of old home hospitality. this year the celebration was to outdo itself. because of the centennial feature, no less a person than the president of the united states, who had spent a year of his boyhood at a local school, was pledged to attend. in itself this meant a record crowd. crops had been good locally and the toil-worn agriculturist had surplus money wherewith to purchase phonographs, gold teeth, crayon enlargements of self and family, home instruction outfits for hand-painting sofa cushions, and similar prime necessities of farm life. to transform his static savings into dynamic assets for itself was worthington's basic purpose in holding its gala week. and now this beneficent plan was threatened by one individual, and he young, inexperienced, and a new worthingtonian, mr. harrington surtaine. this unforeseen cloud upon the horizon of peace, prosperity, and happiness rose into the ken of dr. surtaine the day after the appearance of the sewing-girl editorial. dr. surtaine hadn't liked that editorial. with his customary air of long-suffering good nature he had told hal so over his home-made apple pie and rich milk, at the cheap and clean little luncheon place which he patronized. hal had no defense or excuse to offer. indeed, his reference to the topic was of the most casual order and was immediately followed by this disconcerting question: "what about the rookeries epidemic, dad?" "epidemic? there's no epidemic, boyee." "well, there's something. people are dying down there faster than they ought to. it's spread beyond the rookeries now." this was no news to the big doctor. but it was news to him that hal knew it. "how do you know?" he asked. "i've been down there and ran right upon it." the father's affection and alarm outleapt his caution at this. "you better keep away from there, boyee," he warned anxiously. "if there's no epidemic, why should i keep away?" "there's always a lot of infection down in those tenements," said dr. surtaine lamely. "dad, when you made your report for the 'clarion' did you tell us all you knew?" "all except some medical technicalities," said the doctor, who never told a lie when a half-lie would serve. "i've just had a talk with the health officer, dr. merritt." "merritt's an alarmist." "he's alarmed this time, certainly." "what does he think it is?" "it?" said hal, a trifle maliciously. "the epidemic?" "epidemic's a big word. the sickness." "how can he tell? he's had no chance to see the cases. they still mysteriously disappear before he can get to them. by the way, your dr. de vito seems to have a hand in that." "hal, i wish you'd get over your trick of seeing a mystery in everything," said his father with a mild and tempered melancholy. "it's a queer slant to your brain." "there's a queer slant to this business of the rookeries somewhere, but i don't think it's in my brain. merritt says the mayor is holding him off, and he believes that tip o'farrell, agent for the rookeries, has got the mayor's ear. he wants to force the issue by quarantining the whole locality." "and advertise to the world that there's some sort of contagion there!" cried dr. surtaine in dismay. "well, if there is--" "think of old home week," adjured his father. "the whole thing would be stamped out long before then." "but not the panic and the fear of it. hal, i do hope you aren't going to take this up in the 'clarion.'" "not at present. there isn't enough to go on. but we're going to watch, and if things get any worse i intend to do something. so much i've promised merritt." the result of this conversation was that dr. surtaine called a special meeting of the committee on arrangements for old home week. in conformity with the laws of its genus, the committee was made up of the representative business men of the city, with a clergyman or two for compliment to the church, and most of the newspaper owners or editors, to enlist the "services of the press." its chairman was thoroughly typical of the mental and ethical attitude of the committee. he felt comfortably assured that as he thought upon any question of local public import, so would they think. nevertheless, he didn't intend to tell them all he knew. such was not the purpose of the meeting. its real purpose, not to put too fine a point on it, was to intimidate the newspapers, lest, if the "clarion" broke the politic silence, others might follow; and, as a secondary step, to furnish funds for the handling of the rookeries situation. since dr. surtaine designed to reveal as little as possible to his colleagues, he naturally began his speech with the statement that he would be perfectly frank with them. "there's more sickness than there ought to be in the rookeries district," he proceeded. "it isn't dangerous, but it may prove obstinate. some sort of malarious affection, apparently. perhaps it may be necessary to do some cleaning up down there. in that case, money may be needed." "how much?" somebody asked. "five thousand dollars ought to do it." "that's a considerable sum," another pointed out. "and this is a serious matter," retorted the chairman. "many of us remember the disastrous effect that rumors of smallpox had on old home week, some years back. we can't afford to have anything of that sort this time. an epidemic scare might ruin the whole show." now, an epidemic to these hard-headed business men was something that kept people away from their stores. and the rumor of an epidemic might accomplish that as thoroughly as the epidemic itself. therefore, without questioning too far, they were quite willing to spend money to avert such disaster. the sum suggested was voted into the hands of a committee of three to be appointed by the chair. "in the mean time," continued dr. surtaine, "i think we should go on record to the effect that any newspaper which shall publish or any individual who shall circulate any report calculated to inspire distrust or alarm is hostile to the best interests of the city." "well, what newspaper is likely to do that?" demanded leroy vane, of the "banner." "if it's any it'll be the 'clarion,'" growled colonel parker, editor of the "telegram." "the newspaper business in this town is going to the dogs since the 'clarion' changed hands," said carney ford, of the "press," savagely. "nobody can tell what they're going to do next over there. they're keeping the decent papers on the jump all the time, with their yellowness and scarehead muckraking." "a big sensational story about an epidemic would be great meat for the 'clarion,'" said vane. "what does it care for the best interests of the town?" "as an editor," observed dr. surtaine blandly, "my son don't appear to be over-popular with his confrères." "why should he be?" cried parker. "he's forever publishing stuff that we've always let alone. then the public wants to know why we don't get the news. get it? of course we get it. but we don't always want to print it. there's such a thing as a gentleman's understanding in the newspaper business." "so i've heard," replied the chairman. "well, gentlemen, the boy's young. give him time." "i'll give him six months, not longer, to go on the way he's been going," said john m. gibbs, with a vicious snap of his teeth. "does the 'clarion' really intend to publish anything about an epidemic?" asked stickler, of the hotel stickler. "nothing is decided yet, so far as i know. but i may safely say that there's a probability of their getting up some kind of a sensational story." "can't you control your own son?" asked some one bluntly. "understand this, if you please, gentlemen. over the worthington 'clarion' i have no control whatsoever." "well, there's where the danger lies," said vane. "if the 'clarion' comes out with a big story, the rest of us have got to publish something to save our face." "what's to be done, then?" cried stickler. "this means a big loss to the hotel business." "to all of us," amended the chairman. "my suggestion is that our special committee be empowered to wait upon the editor of the 'clarion' and talk the matter over with him." embodied in the form of a motion this was passed, and the chair appointed as that committee three merchants, all of whom were members of the publication committee of the retail union; and, as such, exercised the most powerful advertising control in worthington. dr. surtaine still pinned his hopes to the dollar and its editorial potency. unofficially and privately these men invited to go with them to the "clarion" office elias m. pierce, who had not been at the meeting. at first he angrily refused. he wished to meet that young whelp surtaine nowhere but in a court of law, he announced. but after bertram hollenbeck, of the emporium, the chairman of the subcommittee, had outlined his plan, pierce took a night to think it over, and in the morning accepted the invitation with a grim smile. forewarned by his father, who had begged that he consider carefully and with due regard to his own future the proposals to be set before him, hal was ready to receive the deputation in form. pierce's presence surprised him. he greeted all four men with equally punctilious politeness, however, and gave courteous attention while hollenbeck spoke for his colleagues. the merchant explained the purpose of the visit; set forth the importance to the city of the centennial old home week, and urged the inadvisability of any sensationalism which might alarm the public. "we have sufficient assurance that there's nothing dangerous in the present situation," he said. "i haven't," said hal. "if i had, there would be nothing further to be said. the 'clarion' is not seeking to manufacture a sensation." "what is the 'clarion' seeking to do?" asked stensland, another of the committee. "discover and print the news." "well, it isn't news until it's printed," hollenbeck pointed out comfortably. "and what's the use of printing that sort of thing, anyway? it does a lot of people a lot of harm; but i don't see how it can possibly do any one any good." "oh, put things straight," said stensland. "here, mr. editor; you've stirred up a lot of trouble and lost a lot of advertising by it. now, you start an epidemic scare and kill off the biggest retail business of the year, and you won't find an advertiser in town to stand by you. is that plain?" "plain coercion," said hal. "call it what you like," began the apostle of frankness, when hollenbeck cut in on him. "no use getting excited," he said. "let's hear mr. surtaine's views. what do you think ought to be done about the rookeries?" in anticipation of some such question hal had been in consultation with dr. elliot and the health officer that morning. "open up the rookeries to the health authorities and to private physicians other than dr. de vito. call tip o'farrell's blockade off. clean out and disinfect the tenements. if necessary, quarantine every building that's suspected." "why, what do you think the disease is?" cried hollenbeck, taken aback by the positiveness of hal's speech. "do _you_ tell _me_. you've come here to give directions." "something in the nature of malaria," said hollenbeck, recovering himself. "so there's no call for extreme measures. the old home week committee will look after the cleaning-up. as for quarantine, that would be a confession. and we want to do the thing as quietly as possible." "you've come to the wrong shop to buy quiet," said hal mildly. "now listen to _me_." elias m. pierce sat forward in his chair and fixed his stony gaze on hal's face. "this is what you'll do with the 'clarion.' you'll agree here and now to print nothing about this alleged epidemic." hal turned upon him a silent but benign regard. the recollection of that contained smile lent an acid edge to the magnate's next speech. "you will further promise," continued pierce, "to quit all your muckraking of the business interests and business men of this town." still hal smiled. "and you will publish to-morrow a full retraction of the article about my daughter and an ample apology for the attack upon me." the editorial expression did not change. "on those conditions," pierce concluded, "i will withdraw the criminal proceedings against you, but not the civil suit. the indictment will be handed down to-morrow." "i'm ready for it." "are you ready for this? we have two unbiased witnesses--unbiased, mind you--who will swear that the accident was miss cleary's own fault. and--" there was the hint of an evil smile on the thin lips, as they released the final words very slowly--"and miss cleary's own affidavit to that effect." for the moment the words seemed a jumble to hal. meaning, dire and disastrous, informed them, as he repeated them to himself. providentially his telephone rang, giving him an excuse to go out. he hurried over to mcguire ellis. "i'm afraid it's right, boss," said the associate editor, after hearing hal's report. "but how can it be? i saw the whole thing." "e.m. pierce is rich. the nurse is poor. that is, she has been poor. lately i've had a man keeping tabs on her. since leaving the hospital, she's moved into an expensive flat, and has splurged out into good clothes. whence the wherewithal?" "bribery!" "without a doubt." "then pierce has got us." "it looks so," admitted ellis sorrowfully. "but we can't give in," groaned hal. "it means the end of the 'clarion.' what is there to do?" "play for time," advised the other. "go back there with a stiff upper lip and tell 'em you won't be bulldozed or hurried. then we'll have a council." "suppose they demand an answer." "refuse. see here, hal. i know pierce. he'd never give up his revenge, for any good he could do to the cause of the city by holding off the 'clarion' on this old home week business if there weren't something else. pierce isn't built that way. that bargain offer is mighty suspicious. there's a weak spot in his case somewhere. hold him off, and we'll hunt for it." none could have guessed, from the young editor's bearing, on his return, that he knew himself to be facing a crucial situation. with the utmost nonchalance he insisted that he must have time for consideration. influenced by pierce, who was sure he had hal beaten, the committee insisted on an immediate reply to their ultimatum. "you go up against this bunch," advised stensland, "and it's dollars to doughnuts the receiver'll have your 'clarion' inside of six months." hal leaned indolently against the door. "speaking of dollars and doughnuts," he said, "i'd like to tell you gentlemen a little story. you all know who babson is, the biggest stock-market advertiser in the country. well, babson's vanity is to be a great man outside of his own line. he owns a big country place down east, near the old town of singatuck; one of the oldest towns on the coast. babson is as new as singatuck is old. the people didn't care much about his patronizing ways. nevertheless, he kept doing things to 'brace the town up,' as he put it. the town needed it. it was about bankrupt. the fire department was a joke, the waterworks a farce, and the town hall a ruin. babson thought this gave him a chance to put his name on the map. so he said to his local factotum, 'you go down to the meeting of the selectmen next week, shake a bagful of dollars in front of those old doughnuts, and make 'em this proposition: i'll give five thousand dollars to the fire department, establish a water system, rebuild the town hall, pay off the town debt and put ten thousand dollars into the treasury if they'll change the name of the town from singatuck to babson.' "the factotum went to the meeting and presented the proposition. now singatuck is proud of its age and character with a local pride that is quite beyond the babson dollars or the babson type of imagination. his proposition aroused no debate. there was a long silence. then an old moss-farmer who hadn't had money enough to buy himself a new tooth for twenty years arose and said: 'i move you, mister chairman, that this body thank mr. babson kindly for his offer and tell him to go to hell.' "the motion was carried unanimously, and the meeting proceeded to the consideration of other business. i cite this, gentlemen, merely as evidence that the disparity between the dollar and the doughnut isn't as great as some suppose." the third member of the committee, who had thus far spoken no word, peered curiously at hal from above a hooked nose. he was mintz, of sheffler and mintz. "do i get you righd?" he observed mildly; "you're telling us to go where the selectmen sent misder babson." "plumb," replied hal, with his most amiable expression. "so far as any immediate decision is concerned." "less ged oud," said mr. mintz to his colleagues. they got out. mintz was last to go. he came over to hal. "i lyg your story," he said. "i lyg to see a feller stand up for his bizniz against the vorlt. i'm a jew. i hope you lose--but--goot luck!" he held out his hand. hal took it. "mr. mintz, i'm glad to know you," said he earnestly. nothing now remained for the committee to do but to expend their allotted fund to the best purpose. their notion of the proper method was typically commercial. they thought to buy off an epidemic. many times this has been tried. never yet has it succeeded. it embodies one of the most dangerous of popular hygienic fallacies, that the dollar can overtake and swallow the germ. chapter xxiii creeping flame for sheer uncertainty an epidemic is comparable only to fire on shipboard. the wisest expert can but guess at the time or place of its catastrophic explosion. it may thrust forth here and there a tongue of threat, only to subside and smoulder again. sometimes it "sulks" for so protracted a period that danger seems to be over. then, without warning, comes swift disaster with panic in its train. but one man in all worthington knew, early, the true nature of the disease which quietly crept among the rookeries licking up human life, and he was well trained in keeping his own counsel. in this crisis, whatever dr. surtaine may have lacked in scrupulosity of method, his intentions were good. he honestly believed that he was doing well by his city in veiling the nature of the contagion. scientifically he knew little about it save in the most general way; and his happy optimism bolstered the belief that if only secrecy could be preserved and the fair repute of the city for sound health saved, the trouble would presently die out of itself. he looked to his committee to manage the secrecy. unfortunately this particular form of trouble hasn't the habit of dying out quietly and of itself. it has to be fought and slain in the open. as dr. surtaine's committee hadn't the faintest notion of how to handle their five-thousand-dollar appropriation, they naturally consulted the honorable tip o'farrell, agent for and boss of the rookeries. and as the honorable tip had a very definite and even eager notion of what might be done with that amount of ready cash, he naturally volunteered to handle the fund to the best advantage, which seemed quite reasonable, since he was familiar with the situation. therefore the disposition of the money was left to him. do not, however, oh high-minded and honorable reader, be too ready to suppose that this was the end of the five thousand dollars, so far as the rookeries are concerned. politicians of the o'farrell type may not be meticulous on points of finance. but they are quite likely to be human. tip o'farrell had seen recently more misery than even his toughened sensibilities could uncomplainingly endure. some of the fund may have gone into the disburser's pocket. a much greater portion of it, i am prepared to affirm, was distributed in those intimate and effective forms of beneficence which, skillfully enough managed, almost lose the taint of charity. o'farrell was tactful and he knew his people. many cases over which organized philanthropy would have blundered sorely, were handled with a discretion little short of inspired. much wretchedness was relieved; much suffering and perhaps some lives saved. the main issue, nevertheless, was untouched. the epidemic continued to spread beneath the surface of silence. o'farrell wasn't interested in that side of it. he didn't even know what was the matter. what money he expended on that phase of the difficulty was laid out in perfecting his system of guards, so that unauthorized doctors couldn't get in, or unauthorized news leak out. also he continued to carry on an irregular but costly traffic in dead bodies. meantime, the special committee of the old home week organization, thus comfortably relieved of responsibility and the appropriation, could now devote itself single-mindedly to worrying over the "clarion." according to elias m. pierce, no mean judge of men, there was nothing to worry about in that direction. that snake, he considered, was scotched. it might take time for said snake, who was a young snake with a head full of poison (his uncomplimentary metaphor referred, i need hardly state, to mr. harrington surtaine), to come to his serpentine senses; but in the end he must realize that he was caught. the committee wasn't so smugly satisfied. time was going on and there was no word, one way or the other, from the "clarion" office. inside that office more was stirring than the head of it knew about. on a warmish day, mcguire ellis, seated at his open window, had permitted the bland air of early june to lull him to a nap, which was rudely interrupted by the intrusion of a harsh point amongst his waistcoat buttons. stumbling hastily to his feet he confronted dr. miles elliot. "wassamatter?" he demanded, in the thick tones of interrupted sleep. "what are you poking me in the ribs for?" "mcburney's point," observed the visitor agreeably. "now, if you had appendicitis, you'd have yelped. you haven't got appendicitis." "much obliged," grumped mr. ellis. "couldn't you tell me that without a cane?" "i spoke to you twice, but all you replied was 'hoong!' as i speak only the mandarin dialect of chinese--" "sit down," said ellis, "and tell me what you're doing in this den of vice and crime." "vice and crime is correct," confirmed the physician. "you're still curing cancer, consumption, corns, colds, and cramps in print, for blood money. i've come to report." mcguire ellis stared. "what on?" "the rookeries epidemic." "quick work," the journalist congratulated him sarcastically. "the assignment is only a little over two months old." "well, i might have guessed, any time in those two months, but i wanted to make certain." "_are_ you certain?" "reasonably." "what is it?" "typhus." "what's that? something like typhoid?" "it bears about the same relation to typhoid," said the doctor, eyeing the other with solemnity, "as housemaid's knee does to sunstroke." "well, don't get funny with me. i don't appreciate it. is it very serious?" "not more so than cholera," answered the doctor gravely. "hey! then why aren't we all dead?" "because it doesn't spread so rapidly. not at first, anyway." "how does it spread? come on! open up!" "probably by vermin. it's rare in this country. there was a small epidemic in new york in the early nineties. it was discovered early and confined to one tenement. there were sixty-three people in the tenement when they clapped on the quarantine. thirty-two of 'em came out feet first. the only outside case was a reporter who got in and wrote a descriptive article. he died a week later." "sounds as if this little affair of the rookeries might be some story." "it is. there may have been fifty deaths to date; or maybe a hundred. we don't know." ellis sat back in his chair with a bump. "who's 'we'?" "dr. merritt and myself." "the health bureau is on, then. what's merritt going to do about it?" "what can he do?" "give out the whole thing, and quarantine the district." "the mayor will remove him the instant he opens his mouth, and kill any quarantine. merritt will be discredited in all the papers--unless the 'clarion' backs him. will it?" ellis dropped his head in his hand. "i don't know," he said finally. "not running an honest paper this week?" sneered the physician lightly. "by the way, where's young hopeful?" "see here, dr. elliot," said ellis. "you're a good old scout. if you hadn't poked me in the stomach i believe i'd tell you something." "try it," encouraged the other. "all right. here it is. they've put it up to hal surtaine pretty stiff, this gang of perfectly honorable business men, leading citizens, pillars of the church, porch-climbers, and pickpockets who run the city. i guess you know who i mean." dr. elliot permitted himself a reserved grin. "all right. they've got him in a clove hitch. at least it looks so. and one of the conditions for letting up on him is that he suppresses all news of the epidemic. then they'll have the 'clarion' right where they've got every other local paper." "nice town, worthington," observed dr. elliot, with easy but apparently irrelevant affability. but mcguire ellis went red. "it's easy enough for you to sit there and be righteous," he said. "but get this straight. if the young boss plays straight and tells 'em all to go to hell, it'll be a close call of life or death for the paper." "and if he doesn't?" "easy going. advertising'll roll in on us. money'll come so fast we can't dodge it. are you so blame sure what _you'd_ do in those conditions?" "mac," said the brusque physician, for the first time using the familiar name: "between man and man, now: _what_ about the boy?" from the ancient loyalty of his race sprang mcguire ellis's swift word, "my hand in the fire for any that loves him." "but--stanch, do you think?" persisted the other. "i hope it." "well, i wish it was you owned the 'clarion.'" "do you, now? i don't. how do _i_ know what i'd do?" "human lives, mac: human lives, on this issue." "who else knows it's typhus, doc?" "nobody but merritt and me. you bound me in confidence, you know." "good man!" "there's one other ought to know, though." "who's that?" "norman hale." "the reverend norman's all right. we could do with a few more ministers like him around the place. but why, in particular, should he know?" "for one thing, he suspects, anyway. then, he's down in the slums there most of the time, and he could help us. besides, he's got some rights of safety himself. he's out in the reception room now, under guard of that man-eating office boy of yours." "all right, if you say so." accordingly the reverend norman hale was summoned, sworn to confidence, and informed. he received the news with a quiver of his long, gaunt features. "i was afraid it was something like that," he said. "what's to be done?" "i'll tell you my plan," said ellis, who had been doing some rapid thinking. "i'll put the best man in the office on the story, and give him a week on it if necessary. how soon is the epidemic likely to break, doctor?" "god knows," said the physician gravely. "well, we'll hurry him as much as we can. our reporter will work independently. no one else on the staff will know what he's doing. i'll expect you two and dr. merritt to give him every help. i'll handle the story myself, at this end. and i'll see that it's set up in type by our foreman, whom i can trust to keep quiet. therefore, only six people will know about it. i think we can keep the secret. then, when i've got it all in shape, two pages of it, maybe, with all the facts, i'll pull a proof and hit the boss right between the eyes with it. that'll fetch him, i _think_." the others signified their approval. "but can't we do something in the mean time?" asked dr. elliot. "a little cleaning-up, maybe? who owns that pest-hole?" "any number of people," said the clergyman. "it's very complicated, what with ground leases, agencies, and trusteeships. i dare say some of the owners don't even know that the property belongs to them." "one of the things we might find out," said ellis. "might be interesting to publish." "i'll send you a full statement of what i got about the burials in canadaga county," promised dr. elliot. "coming along, mr. hale?" "no. i want to speak to mr. ellis about another matter." the clergyman waited until the physician had left and then said, "it's about milly neal." "well, what about her?" "i thought you could tell me. or perhaps mr. surtaine." remembering that encounter outside of the road house weeks before, ellis experienced a throb of misgiving. "why mr. surtaine?" he demanded. "because he's her employer." ellis gazed hard at the young minister. he met a straight and clear regard which reassured him. "he isn't, now," said he. "she's left?" "yes." "that's bad," worried the clergyman, half to himself. "bad for the paper. 'kitty the cutie' was a feature." "why did she leave?" "just quit. sent in word about ten days ago that she was through. no explanation." "mr. ellis, i'm interested in milly neal," said the minister, after some hesitation. "she's helped me quite a bit with our club down here. there's a lot in that girl. but there's a queer, un-get-at-able streak, too. do you know a man named veltman?" "max? yes. he's foreman of our composing-room." "she's been with him a great deal lately." "why not? they're old friends. no harm in veltman." "he's a married man." "that so! i never knew that. well, 'kitty the cutie' ought to be keen enough to take care of herself." "there's the difficulty. she doesn't seem to want to take care of herself. she's lost interest in the club. for a time she was drinking heavily at some of the all-night places. and this news of her quitting here is worst of all. she seemed so enthusiastic about the work." "her job's open for her if she wants to come back." "good! i'm glad to hear that. it gives me something to work on." "by the way," said mcguire ellis, "how do you like the paper?" sooner or later he put this question to every one with whom he came in contact. what he found out in this way helped to make him the journalistic expert he was. "pretty well," hesitated the other. "what's wrong with it?" inquired ellis. "well, frankly, some of your advertising." "we're the most independent paper in this town on advertising," stated ellis with conviction. "i know you dropped the sewing aid society advertisement," admitted hale. "but you've got others as bad. yes, worse." "show 'em to me." leaning forward to the paper on ellis's desk, the visitor indicated the "copy" of relief pills. ellis's brow puckered. "you're the second man to kick on that," he said. "the other was a doctor." "it's a bad business, mr. ellis. it's the devil's own work. isn't it hard enough for girls to keep straight, with all the temptations around them, without promising them immunity from the natural results of immorality?" "those pills won't do the trick," blurted ellis. "they won't?" cried the other in surprise. "so doctors tell me." "then the promise is all the worse," said the clergyman hotly, "for being a lie." "well, i have troubles enough over the news part of the paper, without censoring the ads. when an advertiser tries to control news or editorial policy, i step in. otherwise, i keep out. there's my platform." hale nodded. "let me know how i can help on the epidemic matter," said he, and took his leave. "the trouble with really good people," mused mcguire ellis, "is that they always expect other people to be as good as they are. and _that's_ expensive," sighed the philosopher, turning back to his desk. while ellis and his specially detailed reporter were working out the story of the rookeries epidemic in the light of dr. elliot's information, hal surtaine, floundering blindly, sought a solution to his problem, which was the problem of his newspaper. indeed, it meant, as far as he could judge, the end of the "clarion" in a few months, should he decide to defy elias m. pierce. against the testimony of the injured nurse, he could scarcely hope to defend the libel suits successfully. even though the assessed damages were not heavy enough to wreck him, the loss of prestige incident to defeat would be disastrous. moreover, there was the chance of imprisonment or a heavy fine on the criminal charge. furthermore, if he decided to print the account of the epidemic (always supposing that he could discover what it really was), practically every local advertiser would desert him in high dudgeon over the consequent ruin of the centennial celebration. was it better to publish an honest paper for the few months and die fighting, or compromise for the sake of life, and do what good he might through the agency of a bound, controlled, and tremulous journalistic policy? for the first time, now that the crisis was upon him, he realized to the full how profoundly the "clarion" had become part of his life. at the outset, only the tool of a casual though fascinating profession, later, the lever of an expanding and increasing power, the paper had insensibly intertwined with every fiber of his ambition. to a degree that startled him he had come to think, feel, and hope in terms of this thought-machine which he owned, which owned him. it had taken on for him a character; his own, yet more than his own and greater. for it spoke, not of his spirit alone, but with a composite voice; sometimes confused, inarticulate, only semi-expressive; again as with the tongues of prophecy. his ship was beginning to find herself; to evolve, from the anarchic clamor of loose effort, a harmony and a personality. with the thought came a warm glow of loyalty to his fellow workers; to the men who, knowing more than he knew, had yet accepted his ideals so eagerly and stood to them so loyally; to the spirit that had flashed to meet his own at that first "talk-it-over" breakfast, and had never since flagged; to ellis, the harsh, dogged, uncouth evangel, preaching his strange mission of honor; to wayne, patient, silent, laborious, dependable; to young denton, a "gentleman unafraid," facing the threats of e.m. pierce; even to portly shearson, struggling against such dismal odds for _his_ poor little principle of journalism--to make the paper pay. how could he, their leader, recant his doctrine before these men? yet--and the qualifying thought dashed cold upon his enthusiasm--what did the alternative imply for them? the almost certain loss of their places. to be thrown into the street, a whole officeful of them, seeking jobs which didn't exist, on the collapse of the "clarion." could he do that to them? did he not, at least, owe them a living? some had come to the "clarion" from other papers, even from other cities, attracted by its enterprise, by its "ginger," by the rumor of a fresh and higher standard in journalism. what of them? for himself he had only reputation, ethical standard, the intangible matter of existence to consider. for them it might be hunger and want. here, indeed, was a conflicting ideal. his mind reverted to the things he had been able to get done, in the few months of his editorial tenure; the success of some of his campaigns, the educational effect of them even where they had failed of their definite object, as had the fight for the consumers' league. one article had put the chief gambler of the city on the defensive to an extent which seriously crippled his business. another had killed forever the vilest den in town, a saloon back-room where vicious women gathered in young boys and taught them to snuff cocaine, and had led to an anti-cocaine ordinance, which the saloon element, who instinctively resented any species of "reform" as a threat against business, opposed. whereupon, hal, in an editorial on the prohibition movement, had tartly pointed out that where the saloons were openly vaunting themselves disdainful of public decency, the public was in immediate process of wiping out the saloons. which citation of fact caused a cold chill to permeate the spines of the liquor interests, and led the large, sleek leader of that clan to make a surpassingly polite and friendly call upon hal, who, rather to his surprise, found that he liked the man very much. they had parted, indeed, on hearty terms and the understanding that there would be no further objection to the "coke-law" from the saloon keepers. there wasn't. the liquor men kept faith. though aiming at independence in politics, the "clarion" had been drawn into a number of local political fights, and more than once had gone wrong in advocating an apparently useful measure only to find itself serving some hidden politician's selfish ends. these same politicians, hal came in time to learn, were not all bad, even the worst of them. the toughest and crookedest of the grafting aldermen felt a genuine interest and pride in his vice-sodden ward, and when the "clarion" had helped to abate a notorious nuisance there, dropped in to see the editor. "mr. surtaine," said he, chewing his cigar with some violence, "you and me ain't got much in common. you think i'm a grafter, and i think you're a lily-finger. but i came to thank you just the same for helping us out over there." "glad to help you out when i can," said hal, with his disarming smile: "or to fight you when i have to." "shake," said the heeler. "i guess we'll average down into pretty good enemies. lemme know whenever i can do you a turn." then there was the electric light fight. since the memory of man worthington had paid the most exorbitant gas rate in the state. the "clarion" set out to inquire why. so insistent was its thirst for information that the "banner" and the "telegram" took up the cudgels for the public-spirited corporation which paid ten per cent dividends by overcharging the local public. thereupon the "clarion" pointed out that the president of the gas company was the second largest stockholder in the "telegram," and that the local editorial writer of the "banner" derived, for some unexplained reason, a small but steady income in the form of salary, from the gas company. this exposure was regarded as distinctly "not clubby" by the newspaper fraternity in general: but the public rather enjoyed it, and made such a fuss over it that a legislative investigation was ordered. meantime, by one of those curious by-products of the journalistic output, the local university preserved to itself the services of its popular professor of political economy, who was about to be discharged for _lèse majesté_, in that he had held up as an unsavory instance of corporate control, the worthington gas company, several of whose considerable stockholders were members of the institution's board of trustees. the "clarion" made loud and lamentable noises about this, and the board reconsidered hastily. louder and much more lamentable were the noises made by the president of the university, the reverend dr. knight, a little brother of one of the richest and greatest of the national corporations, in denunciation of the "clarion": so much so, indeed, that they were published abroad, thereby giving the paper much extensive free advertising. pleasant memories, these, to hal. not always pleasant, perhaps, but at least vividly interesting, the widely varying types with whom his profession had brought him into contact: mcguire ellis, "tip" o'farrell, the reverend norman hale, dr. merritt, elias m.-- the mechanism of thought checked with a wrench. pierce had it in his power to put an end to all this. he must purchase the right to continue, and at pierce's own price. but was the price so severe? after all, he could contrive to do much; to carry on many of his causes; to help build up a better and cleaner worthington; to preserve a moiety of his power, at the sacrifice of part of his independence; and at the same time his paper would make money, be successful, take its place among the recognized business enterprises of the town. as for the rookeries epidemic upon which all this turned, what did he really know of it, anyway? very likely it had been exaggerated. probably it would die out of itself. if lives were endangered, that was the common chance of a slum. then, of a sudden, memory struck at his heart with the thrust of a more vital, more personal, dread. for one day, wandering about in the stricken territory, he had seen esmé elliot entering a tenement doorway. chapter xxiv a failure in tactics miss eleanor stanley maxwell elliot, home from her wanderings, stretched her hammock and herself in it between two trees in a rose-sweet nook at greenvale, and gave herself up to a reckoning of assets and liabilities. decidedly the balance was on the wrong side. miss esmé could not dodge the unseemly conclusion that she was far from pleased with herself. this was perhaps a salutary frame of mind, but not a pleasant one. if possible, she was even less pleased with the world in which she lived. and this was neither salutary nor pleasant. furthermore, it was unique in her experience. hitherto she had been accustomed to a universe made to her order and conducted on much the same principle. now it no longer ran with oiled smoothness. her trip on the pierce yacht had been much less restful than she had anticipated. for this she blamed that sturdy knight of the law, mr. william douglas. mr. douglas's offense was that he had inveigled her into an engagement. (i am employing her own term descriptive of the transaction.) it was a crime of brief duration and swift penalty. the relation had endured just four weeks. possibly its tenure of life might have been longer had not the young-middle-aged lawyer accepted, quite naturally, an invitation to join the cruise of the pierce family and _his fiancée_. the lawyer's super-respectful attitude toward his principal client disgusted esmé. she called it servile. for contrast she had the memory of another who had not been servile, even to his dearest hope. there were more personal contrasts of memory, too; subtler, more poignant, that flushed in her blood and made the mere presence of her lover repellent to her. the status became unbearable. esmé ended it. in plain english, she jilted the highly eligible mr. william douglas. to herself she made the defense that he was not what she had thought, that he had changed. this was unjust. he had not changed in the least; he probably never would change from being the private-secretary type of lawyer. toward her, in his time of trial, he behaved not ill. justifiably, he protested against her decision. finding her immovable, he accepted the prevailing worthingtonian theory of miss elliot's royal prerogative as regards the male sex, and returned, miserably enough, to his home and his practice. another difficulty had arisen to make distasteful the pierce hospitality. kathleen pierce, in a fit of depression foreign to her usually blithe and easy-going nature, had become confidential and had blurted out certain truths which threw a new and, to esmé, disconcerting light upon the episode of the motor accident. in her first appeal to esmé, it now appeared, the girl had been decidedly less than frank. therefore, in her own judgment of hal and the "clarion," esmé had been decidedly less than just. in her resentment, esmé had almost quarreled with her friend. common honesty, she pointed out, required a statement to harrington surtaine upon the point. would kathleen write such a letter? no! kathleen would not. in fact, kathleen would be d-a-m-n-e-d, darned, if she would. very well; then it remained only (this rather loftily) for esmé herself to explain to mr. surtaine. later, she decided to explain by word of mouth. this would involve her return to worthington, which she had come to long for. she had become sensible of a species of homesickness. in some ill-defined way harrington surtaine was involved in that nostalgia. not that she had any desire to see him! but she felt a certain justifiable curiosity--she was satisfied that it was justifiable--to know what he was doing with the "clarion," since her established sphere of influence had ceased to be influential. was he really as unyielding in other tests of principle as he had shown himself with her? already she had altered her attitude to the extent of admitting that it _was_ principle, even though mistaken. esmé had been subscribing to the "clarion," and studying it; also she had written, withal rather guardedly, to sundry people who might throw light on the subject; to her uncle, to dr. hugh merritt, her old and loyal friend largely by virtue of being one of the few young men of the place who never had been in love with her (he had other preoccupations), to young denton the reporter, who was a sort of cousin, and to mrs. festus willard, who, alone of the correspondents, suspected the underlying motive. from these sundry informants she garnered diverse opinions; the sum and substance of which was that, on the whole, hal was fighting the good fight and with some success. thereupon esmé hated him harder than before--and with considerably more difficulty. on a late may day she had slipped quietly back into worthington. that small portion of the populace which constituted worthington society was ready to welcome her joyously. but she had no wish to be joyously welcomed. she didn't feel particularly joyous, herself. and society meant going to places where she would undoubtedly meet will douglas and would probably not meet hal surtaine. esmé confessed to herself that douglas was rather on her conscience, a fact which, in itself, marked some change of nature in the great american pumess. she decided that society was a bore. for refuge she turned to her interest in the slums, where the reverend norman hale, for whom she had a healthy, honest respect and liking, was, so she learned, finding his hands rather more than full. always an enthusiast in her pursuits, she now threw herself into this to the total exclusion of all other interests. to herself she explained this on the theory that she needed something to occupy her mind. something _else_ she really meant, for mr. harrington surtaine was now occupying it to an inexcusable extent. she wished very much to see harrington surtaine, and, for the first time in her life, she feared what she wished. what she had so loftily announced to kathleen pierce as her unalterable determination toward the editor of the "clarion" wasn't as easy to perform as to promise. yet, the explanation of the partial error, into which the self-excusatory miss pierce had led her, was certainly due him, according to her notions of fair play. if she sent for him to come, he would, she shrewdly judged, decline. the alternative was to beard him in his office. in the strengthening and self-revealing solitude of her garden, this glowing summer day, esmé sat trying to make up her mind. a daring brown thrasher, his wings a fair match for the ruddy-golden glow in the girl's eyes, hopped into her haunt, and twittered his counsel of courage. "i'll do it now," said esmé, and the bird, with a triumphant chirp of congratulation, swooped off to tell the news to the world of wings and flowers. to the consequent interview there was no witness. so it may best be chronicled in the report made by the interviewer to her friend mrs. festus willard, who, in the cool seclusion of her sewing-room, was overwhelmed by a rush of esmé to the heart, as she put it. not having been apprised of miss elliot's conflicting emotions since her departure, mrs. willard's mind was as a page blank for impressions when her visitor burst in upon her, pirouetted around the room, appropriated the softest corner of the divan, and announced spiritedly: "you needn't ask me where i've been, for i won't tell you; or what i've been doing, for it's my own affair; anyway, you wouldn't be interested. and if you insist on knowing, i've been revisiting the pale glimpses of the moon--at three o'clock p.m." "what do you mean, moon?" inquired mrs. willard, unconsciously falling into a pit of slang. "the moon we all cry for and don't get. in this case a haughty young editor." "you've been to see hal surtaine," deduced mrs. willard. "you have guessed it--with considerable aid and assistance." "what for?" "on a matter of journalistic import," said miss elliot solemnly. "but you don't cry for hal surtaine," objected her friend, reverting to the lunar metaphor. "don't i? i'd have cried--i'd have burst into a perfect storm of tears--for him--or you--or anybody who so much as pointed a finger at me, i was so scared." "scared? you! i don't believe it." "i don't believe it myself--now," confessed esmé, candidly. "but it felt most extremely like it at the time." "you know i don't at all approve of--" "of me. i know you don't, jinny. neither does he." "what did you do to him?" "me? i cooed at him like a dove of peace. "but he was very stiff and proud he said, 'you needn't talk so loud,'" chanted miss esmé mellifluously. "he didn't!" "well, if he didn't, he meant it. he wanted to know what the big, big d-e-v, dev, i was doing there, anyway." "norrie elliot! tell me the truth." "very well," said miss elliot, aggrieved. "_you_ report the conversation, then, since you won't accept my version." "if you would give me a start--" "just what he wouldn't do for me," interrupted esmé. "i went in there to explain something and he pointed the finger of scorn at me and accused me of frequenting low and disreputable localities." "norrie!" "well," replied the girl brazenly, "he said he'd seen me about the rookeries district; and if that isn't a low--" "had he?" "nothing more probable, though i didn't happen to see him there." "what were you doing there?" "precisely what he wanted to know. he said it rather as if he owned the place. so i explained in words of one syllable that i went there to pick edelweiss from the fire escapes. jinny, dear, you don't know how hard it is to crowd 'edelweiss' into one syllable until you've tried. it splutters." "so do you," said the indignant mrs. willard. "you do worse; you gibber. if you weren't just the prettiest thing that heaven ever made, some one would have slain you long ago for your sins." "pretty, yourself," retorted esmé. "my real charm lies in my rigid adherence to the spirit of truth. your young friend mr. surtaine scorned my floral jest. he indicated that i ought not to be about the tenements. he said there was a great deal of sickness there. that was why i was there, i explained politely. then he said that the sickness might be contagious, and he muttered something about an epidemic and then looked as if he wished he hadn't." "i've heard some talk of sickness in the rookeries. ought you to be going there?" asked the other anxiously. "mr. surtaine thinks not. quite severely. and in elderly tones. naturally i asked him what kind of an epidemic it was. he said he didn't know, but he was sure the place was dangerous, and he was surprised that uncle guardy hadn't warned me. uncle guardy _had_, but i don't do everything i'm warned about. so then i asked young mr. editor why, as he knew there was a dangerous epidemic about, he should warn little me privately instead of warning the big public, publicly." "meddlesome child! can you never learn to keep your hands off?" "i was spurring him to his editorial duties. "but he was very proud and stiff ... he said that he would tell me, if--" lilted miss esmé, rising to do a _pas seul_ upon the willards' priceless anatolian rug. "sit down," commanded her hostess. "if--what?" "if nothing. just if. that's the end of the song. don't you know your lewis carroll? "i sent a message to the fish, i told them, 'this is what i wish.' the little fishes of the sea, they sent an answer--" "i don't want to know about the fish," disclaimed mrs. willard vehemently. "i want to know what happened between you and hal surtaine." "and you the vice-president of the poetry club!" reproached esmé. "very well. he was very proud and--oh, i said that before. but he really was, this time. he said, 'our last discussion of the policy of the "clarion" closed that topic between us.' somebody called him away before i could think of anything mean and superior enough to answer, and when he came back--always supposing he isn't still hiding in the cellar--i was no longer present." "then you didn't give him the message you went for." "no. didn't i say i was scared?" mrs. willard excused herself, ostensibly to speak to a maid; in reality to speak to a telephone. on her return she made a frontal attack:-- "norrie, what made you break your engagement to will douglas?" "why? don't you approve?" "did you break it for the same reason that drove you into it?" "what reason do you think drove me into it?" "hal surtaine." "he didn't!" she denied furiously. "and you didn't break it because of him?" "no! i broke it because i don't want to get married," cried the girl in a rush of words. "not to will douglas. or to--to anybody. why should i? i don't want to--i won't," she continued, half laughing, half sobbing, "go and have to bother about running a house and have a lot of babies and lose my pretty figure--and get fat--and dowdy--and slow-poky--and old. look at molly vane: twins already. she's a horrible example. why do people always have to have children--" she stopped, abruptly, herself stricken at the stricken look in the other's face. "oh, jinny, darling jinny," she gasped; "i forgot! your baby. your little, dead baby! i'm a fool; a poor little silly fool, chattering of realities that i know nothing about." "you will know some day, my dear," said the other woman, smiling valiantly. "don't deny the greatest reality of all, when it comes. are you sure you're not denying it now?" the sunbeams crept and sparkled, like light upon ruffled waters, across esmé's obstinately shaken head. "perhaps you couldn't help hurting him. but be sure you aren't hurting yourself, too." "that's the worst of it," said the girl, with one of her sudden accesses of sweet candor. "i needn't have hurt him at all. i was stupid." she paused in her revelation. "but he was stupider," she declared vindictively; "so it serves him right." "how was he stupider?" "he thought," said esmé with sorrowful solemnity, "that i was just as bad as i seemed. he ought to have known me better." the older woman bent and laid a cheek against the sunny hair. "and weren't you just as bad as you seemed?" "worse! anyway, i'm afraid so," said the confessional voice, rather muffled in tone. "but i--i just got led into it. oh, jinny, i'm not awfully happy." mrs. willard's head went up and she cocked an attentive ear, like an expectant robin. "some one outside," said she. "i'll be back in a moment. you sit there and think it over." esmé curled back on the divan. a minute later she heard the curtains part at the end of the dim room, and glanced up with a smile, to face, not jeannette willard, but hal surtaine. "you 'phoned for me, lady jinny," he began: and then, with a start, "esmé! i--i didn't expect to find you here." "nor i to see you," she said, with a calmness that belied her beating heart. "sit down, please. i have something to tell you. it's what i really came to the office to say." "yes?" "about kathleen pierce." hal frowned. "do you think there can be any use--" "please," she begged, with uplifted eyes of entreaty. "she--she didn't tell me the truth about that interview with your reporter. it was true; but she made me think it wasn't. she confessed to me, and she feels very badly. so do i. i believed that you had deliberately made that up, about her saying that she didn't turn back because she wanted to catch a train. i believed, too, that the editorial was written after our--our talk. i'm sorry." hal stood above her, looking rather stern, and a little old and worn, she thought. "if that is an apology, it is accepted," he said with surface politeness. to him she was, in that moment, a light-minded woman apologizing for the petty misdeed, and paying no heed to the graver wrong that she had done him. jeannette willard could have set him right in a word; could have shown him what the girl felt, unavowedly to herself but with underlying conviction, that for so great an offense no apology could suffice; nothing short of complete surrender. but mrs. willard was not there to help out. she was waiting hopefully, outside. "and that is all?" he said, after a pause, with just a shade of contempt in his voice. "all," she said lightly, "unless you choose to tell me how the 'clarion' is getting on." "as well as could be expected. we pay high for our principles. but thus far we've held to them. you should read the paper." "i do." "to expect your approval would be too much, i suppose." "no. in many ways i like it. in fact, i think i'll renew my subscription." it was innocently said, without thought of the old playful bargain between them, which had terminated with the mailing of the withered arbutus. but to hal it seemed merely a brazen essay in coquetry; an attempt to reconstitute the former relation, for her amusement. "the subscription lists are closed, on the old terms," he said crisply. "oh, you couldn't have thought i meant that!" she whispered; but he was already halfway down the room, on the echo of his "good-afternoon, miss elliot." as before, he turned at the door. and he carried with him, to muse over in the depths of his outraged heart once more, the mystery of that still and desperate smile. any woman could have solved it for him. any, except, possibly, esmé elliot. "it didn't come out as i hoped, festus," said the sorrowful little mrs. willard to her husband that evening. "i don't know that hal will ever believe in her again. how can he be so--so stupidly unforgiving!" "always the man's fault, of course," said her big husband comfortably. "no. she's to blame. but it's the fault of men in general that norrie is what she is; the men of this town, i mean. no man has ever been a man with norrie elliot." "what have they been?" "mice. it's a tradition of the place. they lie down in rows for her to trample on. so of course she tramples on them." "well, i never trampled on mice myself," observed festus willard. "it sounds like uncertain footing. but i'll bet you five pounds of your favorite candy against one of your very best kisses, that if she undertakes to make a footpath of hal surtaine she'll get her feet hurt." "or her heart," said his wife. "and, oh, festus dear, it's such a real, warm, dear heart, under all the spoiled-childness of her." chapter xxv stern logic between dr. surtaine and his son had risen a barrier built up of reticences. at the outset of their reunion, they had chattered like a pair of schoolboy friends, who, after long separation, must rehearse to each other the whole roster of experiences. the doctor was an enthusiast of speech, glowingly loquacious above knife and fork, and the dinner hours were enlivened for his son by his fund of far-gathered business incidents and adventures, pointed with his crude but apt philosophy, and irradiated with his centripetal optimism. he possessed and was conscious of this prime virtue of talk, that he was never tiresome. yet recently he had noted a restlessness verging to actual distaste on hal's part, whenever he turned the conversation upon his favorite topic, the greatness of certina and the commercial romance of the proprietary medicine business. in his one close fellowship, the old quack cultivated even the minor and finer virtues. with hal he was scrupulously tactful. if the boy found _his_ business an irksome subject, he would talk about the boy's business. and he did, sounding the pæan of policy across the surtaine mahogany in a hundred variations supported by a thousand instances. but here, also, hal grew restive. he responded no more willingly to leads on journalism than to encomiums of certina. again the affectionate diplomat changed his ground. he dropped into the lighter personalities; chatted to hal of his new friends, and was met halfway. but in secret he puzzled and grieved over the waning of frankness and freedom in their intercourse. dinner, once eagerly looked forward to by both as the best hour of the day, was now something of an ordeal, a contact in which each must move warily, lest, all unknowing, he bruise the other. of the underlying truth of the situation dr. surtaine had no inkling. had any one told him that his son dared neither speak nor hear unreservedly, lest the gathering suspicions about his father, against which he was fighting while denying to himself their very existence, should take form and substance of unescapable facts, the doctor would have failed utterly of comprehension. he ascribed hal's unease and preoccupation to a more definite cause. sedulous in everything which concerned his "boyee," he had learned something of the affair with esmé elliot, and had surmised distressfully how hard the blow had been: but what worried him much more were rumors connecting hal's name with milly neal. several people had seen the two on the day of the road-house adventure. milly, with her vivid femininity was a natural mark for gossip. the mere fact that she had been in hal's runabout was enough to set tongues wagging. then, sometime thereafter, she had resigned her position in the "clarion" office without giving any reason, so dr. surtaine understood. the whole matter looked ugly. not that the charlatan would have been particularly shocked had hal exhibited a certain laxity of morals in the matter of women. for this sort of offense dr. surtaine had an easy toleration, so long as it was kept decently under cover. but that his son should become entangled with one of his--dr. surtaine's--employees, a woman under the protection of his roof, even though it were but the factory roof--that, indeed, would be a shock to his feudal conception of business honor. such dismal considerations the doctor had suppressed during an unusually uncomfortable dinner, on a hot and thunder-breeding evening when both of the surtaines had painfully talked against time. immediately after the meal, hal, on pretext of beating the storm to the office, left. his father took his forebodings to the club and attempted to lose them along with several rubbers of absent-minded bridge. meantime the woman for whom his loyalty was concerned as well as for his son, was stimulating a resolution with the slow poison of liquor around the corner from the "clarion" office. nine p.m. is slack tide in a morning newspaper office. the afternoon news is cleared up; the night wires have not yet begun to buzz with outer-world tidings of importance; the reporters are still afield on the evening's assignments. as the champion short-distance sleeper of his craft, which distinction he claimed for himself without fear of successful contradiction, mcguire ellis was wont to devote half an hour or more, beginning on the ninth stroke of the clock, to the cultivation of morpheus. intruders were not popular at that hour. to respect for this habitude, reginald currier, known to mortals as bim, guardian of the sacred gates, had been rigorously educated. but bim had a creed of his own which mollified the rigidity of specific standards, and one tenet thereof was the apothegm, "once a 'clarion' man, always a 'clarion' man," the same applying to women. therefore, when milly neal appeared at the gate at . in the evening, the cerberus greeted her professionally with a "how goes it, miss cutie?" and passed her in without question. she went straight to the inner office. "hoong!" grunted mcguire ellis, rubbing his eyes in a desperate endeavor to disentangle dreams from actualities. "what are _you_ doing here?" "i want to see mr. surtaine." something in the girl's aspect put ellis on his guard. "what do you want to see him about?" he asked. "i don't see any examination bureau license pinned to you, ellis," she retorted hardily. "the boss is out." "i don't believe it." "all right," said mcguire ellis equably. "i'm a liar." "then you're the proper man for a 'clarion' job," came the savage retort. "come off, kitty. don't be young!" "i want to see hal surtaine," she said with sullen insistence. shaking himself out of his chair, the associate editor started across the room to the telephone at hal's desk, but halted sharply in front of the girl. "you've been drinking," he said. "what's it to you if i have?" the man's hand fell on her shoulder. there was no familiarity in the act; only comradeship. comradeship in the voice, also, and concern, as he said, "cut it, neal, cut it. there's nothing in it. you're too good stuff to throw yourself away on that." "don't you worry about me." she shook off his hand, and seated herself. "still working at the certina joint?" "no. i'm not working." "see here, neal: what made you quit us?" the girl withheld speech back of tight-pressed lips. "oh, well, never mind that. the point is, we miss you. we miss the 'cutie' column. it was good stuff. we want you back." still silence. "and i guess you miss us. you liked the job, didn't you?" the girl gazed past him with ashen eyes. "oh, my god!" she said under her breath. "your job back and no questions asked," pursued ellis, with an outer cheerfulness which cost him no small effort in the face of his growing conviction of some tragic issue pending. now she looked directly at him, and there was a flicker of flame in her regard. "do you know what a hardscrabbler is, ellis?" she asked. the other rubbed his head in puzzlement. "i don't believe i do," he confessed. "then you won't understand when i tell you that i'm one and that i'd see your 'clarion' blazing in hell before i'd take another cent of your money." the fire died from her face, and in her former tone of dulled stolidity she repeated, "i want to see mr. surtaine." with every word uttered, mcguire ellis's forebodings had grown darker. that hal surtaine, carried away by the girl's vividness and allure, might have involved himself in a _liaison_ with her was credible enough. he recalled the episode of the road-house, on that stormy spring day. that hal would have deserted her afterward, ellis could not believe. and yet--and yet--why otherwise should she come with the marks of fierce misery in her face, demanding an interview at this time? on one point ellis's mind was swiftly made up: she should not see hal. "miss neal," he said quietly, "you can sit there all night, but you can't see the boss unless you tell me your errand." the girl rose, slowly. "oh, i guess you all stand together here," she said. "well, remember: i gave him his chance to square himself." when hal came up from a visit to the new press half an hour later, ellis had decided to say nothing of the call. later, he must have it out with his employer, for the sake of both of them and of the "clarion." but it was an ordeal which he was glad to postpone. nothing more, he judged, was to be feared that night, from milly neal; he could safely sleep over the problem. having a certain sufficient religion of his own, mcguire ellis still believes that a merciful heaven forgives us our sins; but, looking back on that evening's decision, he sometimes wonders whether it ever fully pardons our mistakes. while he sat reading proof on the status of a flickering foreign war, the hardscrabbler's daughter, in a quiet back room farther down the block, slowly sipped more gin; and gin is fire and fury to the hardscrabbler blood. at eleven o'clock that evening, dr. surtaine, returning to that massive hybrid of architecture which he called home, found milly neal waiting in his study. "well, milly: what's up?" he asked, cheerfully enough in tone, but with a sinking heart. "i want to know what you're going to do for me?" "something wrong?" "you've got a right to know. i'm in trouble." "what kind of trouble?" "the kind you make money out of with your relief pills." "milly! milly!" cried the quack, in honest distress. "i wouldn't have believed it of you." "yes: it's terrible, isn't it!" mocked the girl. "what are you going to do about it? it's up to you." "up to me?" queried the doctor, bracing himself for what was coming. "don't you promise, with your relief pills to get women out of trouble?" dr. surtaine's breath came a little easier. perhaps she was not going to force the issue upon him by mentioning hal. if this were diplomacy, he would play the game. "certainly not! certainly not!" he protested with a scandalized air. "we've never made such a claim. it would be against the law." "look at this." she held up in her left hand a clipping, showing a line-cut of a smiling woman, over the caption "a happy lady"; and announcing in wide print, "every form of suppression relieved. the most obstinate cases yield at once. thousands of once desperate women bless the name of relief pills." "i don't want to look at it," said the doctor. "no, i guess you don't! it's from the 'clarion,' that clipping. and the neverfail company that makes the fake abortion pills is _you_." "it doesn't mean--that. you've misread it." "it _does_ mean just that to every poor, silly fool of a girl that reads it. what else can it mean? 'the most obstinate cases'--" "don't! don't!" there was a pause, then: "of course, you can't stay in the certina factory after this." a bitter access of mirth seized the girl. the sound of it "rang cracked and thin, like a fiend's laughter, heard in hell, far down." "of course!" she mocked. "the pious and holy dr. surtaine couldn't have an employee who went wrong. not even though it was his lies that helped tempt her." "don't try to put it off on me. you are suffering for your own sin, my girl," accused the quack. "i'll stand my share of it; the suffering and the disgrace, if there is any. but you've got to stand your share. you promised to get me out of this and i believed you." "_i_! promised to--" "in plain print." she tossed the clipping at him with her left hand. the other she held in her lap, under a light wrap which she carried. "and i believed you. i thought you were square. then when the pills didn't help, i went to a doctor, and he laughed and said they were nothing but sugar and flavoring. he wouldn't help me. he said no decent doctor would. _you_ ain't a decent doctor. you're a lying devil. are you going to help me out?" "if you had come in a proper spirit--" "that's enough. i've got my answer." she rose slowly to her feet. "after i found out what was wrong with me, i went home to my father. i didn't tell him about myself. but i told him i was quitting the certina business. and he told me about my mother, how you sent her to her death. one word from me would have brought him here after you. _this_ time he wouldn't have missed you. then they'd have hung him, i suppose. that's why i held my tongue. you killed my mother, you and your quack medicines; and now you've done this to me." her hand jerked up out of the wrap. "i don't see where you come in to live any longer," said milly neal deliberately. dr. surtaine looked into the muzzle of a revolver. there was a step on the soft rug outside, the curtain of the door to dr. surtaine's right parted, and hal appeared. he carried a light stick. "i thought i heard--" he began. then, seeing the revolver, "what's this! put that down!" "don't move, either of you," warned the girl. "i haven't said my say out. you're a fine-matched pair, you two! him with his sugar-pills and you, hal surtaine, with your lying promises." lying promises! the phrase, thus used in the girl's mouth against the son, struck to the father's heart, confirming his dread. it _was_ hal, then. for the moment he forgot his instant peril, in his sorrow and shame. "i don't know why i shouldn't kill you both," went on the half-crazed girl. "that'd even the score. two surtaines against two neals, my mother and me." the light of slaying was in her eyes, as she stiffened her arm. just a fraction of an inch the arm swerved, for a streak of light was darting toward her. hal had taken the only chance. he had flung his cane, whirling, in the hope of diverting her aim, and had followed it at a leap. the two shots were almost instantaneous. at the second, the quack reeled back against the wall. the girl turned swiftly upon hal, and as he seized her he felt the cold steel against his neck. the touch seemed to paralyze him. strangely enough, the thought of death was summed up in a vast, regretful curiosity to know why all this was happening. then the weapon fell. "i can't kill _you_!" cried the girl, in a bursting sob, and fell, face down, upon the floor. hal, snatching up the revolver, ran to his father. "i'm all right," declared the quack. "only the shoulder. just winged. get me a drink from that decanter." his son obeyed. with swift, careful hands he got the coat off the bulky-muscled arm, and saw, with a heart-lifting relief, that the bullet had hardly more than grazed the flesh. meantime the girl had crawled, still sobbing, to a chair. "did i kill him?" she asked, covering her eyes against what she might see. "no," said hal. "listen," commanded dr. surtaine. "some one's coming. keep quiet." he walked steadily to the door and called out, "it's nothing. just experimenting with a new pistol. go back to your bed." "who was it?" asked hal. "the housekeeper. there's just one thing to do for the sake of all of us. this has _got_ to be hushed up. i'm going out to telephone. don't let her get away, hal." "get away! oh, my god!" breathed the girl. hal walked over to her, his heart wrung with pity. "why did you come here to kill my father, milly?" he asked. she stooped to pick up the "happy lady" clipping from the floor. "that's why," she said. "good god!" said hal. "have you been taking that--those pills?" "taking 'em? yes, and believing in 'em, till i found out it was all damned lies. and your fine and noble and honest 'clarion' advertises the lies just as your fine and noble and honest father makes the pills. they're no good. do you get that? and when i came here and told your father he'd got to help me out of my trouble, what do you think he told me? that i'd lost my job at the factory!" "who is the man, milly?" "what business is that of yours?" "i'll go after him and see that he marries you if it takes--" "oh, he'd be only too glad to marry me if he could. he can't. poor max has got a wife somewhere--" "max? it's veltman!" cried hal. "the dirty scoundrel." "oh, don't blame max," said the girl wearily. "it isn't his fault. after you threw me down"--hal winced--"i started to run wild. it's the hardscrabbler in me. i took to drinking and running around, and max pulled me out of it, and i went to live with him. i didn't care. nothing mattered, anyway. and i wasn't afraid of anything like this happening, because i thought the pills made it all safe." here dr. surtaine reappeared. "i've got a detective coming that i can trust." "a detective?" cried hal. "oh, dad--" "you keep out of this," retorted his father, in a tone such as his son had never heard from him before. "i guess you've done enough. the question is"--he continued as regardless of milly as if she had been deaf--"how to hush her up." "you've had your chance to hush me up," said the girl sullenly. "any money within reason--" "i don't want your money." "listen here, then. you tried to murder me. that's ten years in state's prison. now, if ever i hear of you opening your mouth about this, i'll send you up. i guess that will keep you quiet. now, then, what's your answer?" "give me a glass of whiskey, and i'll tell you." hal poured her out a glass. she passed a swift hand above it. "here's peace and quiet in the proprietary medicine business," she said, and drank. "i guess that'll--make--some--stir," she added, with an effect of carefully timing her words. her body lapsed quite gently back into the chair. the two men ran and bent over her as the glass tinkled and rolled on the floor. there was an acrid, bitter scent in the air. they lifted their heads, and their eyes met in a haggard realization. no longer was there any need of hushing up milly neal. chapter xxvi the parting the doorbell buzzed. "that's the detective," said dr. surtaine to hal. "stay here." he wormed himself painfully into an overcoat which concealed his scarified shoulder, and went out. in a few moments he and the officer reappeared. the latter glanced at the body. "heart disease, you say?" he asked. "yes: valvular lesion." "better 'phone the coroner's office, eh?" "not necessary. i can give a certificate. the coroner will be all right," said dr. surtaine, with an assurance derived from the fact that a year before he had given that functionary five hundred dollars for not finding morphine in the stomach of a baby who had been dosed to death on the "sure soother" powders. "that goes," agreed the detective. "what undertaker?" "any. and, murtha, while you're at the 'phone, call up the 'clarion' office and tell mcguire ellis to come up here on the jump, will you?" left to themselves, with the body between them, father and son fell into a silence, instinct with the dread of estranging speech. hal made the first effort. "your shoulder?" he said. "nothing," declared the doctor. "later on will do for that." he brooded for a time. "you can trust ellis, can you?" "absolutely." "it's the newspapers we have to look out for. everything else is easy." he conducted the detective, who had finished telephoning, into the library, set out drinks and cigars for him and returned. nothing further was said until ellis arrived. the associate editor's face, as he looked from the dead girl to hal, was both sorrowful and stern. but he was there to act; not to judge or comment. he consulted his watch. "eleven forty-five," he said. "better give out the story to-night." "why not wait till to-morrow?" asked dr. surtaine. "the longer you wait, the more it will look like suppressing it." "but we _want_ to suppress it." "certainly," agreed ellis. "i'm telling you the best way. fix the story up for the 'clarion' and the other papers will follow our lead." "if we can arrange a story that they'll believe--" began hal. "oh, they won't believe it! not the kind of story we want to print. they aren't fools. but that won't make any difference." "i should think it would be just the sort of possible scandal our enemies would catch at." "you've still got a lot to learn about the newspaper game," replied his subordinate contemptuously. "one newspaper doesn't print a scandal about the owner of another. it's an unwritten law. they'll publish just what we tell 'em to--as we would if it was their dis--i mean misfortune. come, now," he added, in a hard, businesslike voice, "what are we going to call the cause of death?" "miss neal died of heart disease." "call it heart disease," confirmed the other. "circumstances?" this was a poser. dr. surtaine and hal looked at each other and looked away again. "how would this do?" suggested ellis briskly. "miss neal came here to consult dr. surtaine on an emergency in her department at the factory, was taken ill while waiting, and was dead when he--no; that don't fit. if she died without medical attendance, the coroner would have to give a permit for removal. died shortly after dr. surtaine's arrival in spite of his efforts to revive her; that's it!" "just about how it happened," said dr. surtaine gratefully. "for publication. now give me the real facts--under that overcoat of yours." dr. surtaine started, and winced as the movement tweaked the raw nerves of his wound. "there's nothing else to tell," he said. "you brought me here to lie for you," said the journalist. "all right, i'm ready. but if i'm to lie and not get caught at it, i must know the truth. now, when i see a man wearing an overcoat over a painful arm, and discover what looks like a new bullet hole in the wall of the room, i think a dead body may mean something more than heart disease." "i don't see--" began the charlatan. but hal cut him short. "for god's sake," he cried in a voice which seemed to gouge its way through his straining throat, "let's have done with lies for once." and he blurted out the whole story, eking out what he lacked in detail, by insistent questioning of his father. when they came to the part about the relief pills, ellis looked up with a bitter grin. "works out quite logically, doesn't it?" he observed. then, walking over to the body, he looked down into the face, with a changed expression. "poor little girl!" he muttered. "poor little kitty!" he whirled swiftly upon the surtaines. "by god, _i'd_ like to write her story!" he cried. the outburst was but momentary. instantly he was his cool, capable self again. "you've had experience in this sort of thing before, i suppose?" he inquired of dr. surtaine. "yes. no! whaddye mean?" blustered the quack. "only that you'll know how to fix the police and the coroner." "no call for any fixing." "so all that i have to do is to handle the newspapers," pursued the other imperturbably. "all right. there'll be no more than a paragraph in any paper to-morrow. 'working-girl drops dead,' or something like that. you can sleep easy, gentlemen." so obvious was the taunt that hal stared at his friend, astounded. upon the doctor it made no impression. "say, ellis. do something for me, will you?" he requested. "wire to belford couch, the willard, washington, to come on here by first train." "couch? oh, that's certina charley, isn't it? your professional fixer?" "never mind what he is. you'll be sure to do it, won't you?" "no. do it yourself," said ellis curtly, and walked out without a good-night. "well, whaddye think of that!" spluttered dr. surtaine. "that fellow's getting the big-head." hal made no reply. he had dropped into a chair and now sat with his head between his hands. when he raised his face it was haggard as if with famine. "dad, i'm going away." "where?" demanded his father, startled. "anywhere, away from this house." "no wonder you're shaken, boyee," said the other soothingly. "we'll talk about it in the morning. after a night's rest--" "in this house? i couldn't close my eyes for fear of what i'd see!" "it's been a tough business. i'll give you a sleeping powder." "no; i've got to think this out: this whole business of the relief pills." dr. surtaine was instantly on the defensive. "don't go getting any sentimental notions now, hal. it's a perfectly legal business." "so much the worse for the law, then." "you talk like an anarchist!" returned his father, shocked. "do you want to be better than the law?" "if the law permits murder--i do," said hal, very low. indignation rose up within dr. surtaine: not wholly unjustified, considering his belief that hal was primarily responsible for the tragedy. "are your hands so clean, then?" he asked significantly. "god knows, they're not!" cried the son, with passion. "i didn't know. i didn't realize." "yet you turn on me--" "oh, dad, i don't want to quarrel with you. all i know is, i can't stay in this house any more." dr. surtaine pondered for a few minutes. perhaps it was better that the boy should go for a time, until his conscience worked out a more satisfactory state of mind. his own conscience was clear. he was doing business within the limits set for him by the law and the post office authorities, which had once investigated the "pills" and given them a clean bill. milly neal should not put the onus of her own recklessness and immorality upon him. nevertheless, he was glad that belford couch was coming on; and, by the way, he must telephone a dispatch to him. rising, he addressed his son. "where shall you go?" "i don't know. some hotel. the dunstan." "very well. i'll see you at the office soon, i suppose. good-night." all hal's world whirled about him as he saw his father leave the room. what seemed to him a monstrous manifestation of chance had overwhelmed and swept him from all moorings. but was it chance? was it not, rather, as mcguire ellis had suggested, the exemplification of an exact logic? the closing of the door behind his father sent a current of air across the room in which a bit of paper on the floor wavered and turned. hal picked it up. it was the clipping from the "clarion"--his newspaper--which milly neal had brought as her justification. one line of print stood out, writhing as if in an uncontrollable access of diabolic glee: "only $ a box: satisfaction guaranteed"; and above it the face of the happy lady, distorted by the crumpling of the paper, smirked up at him with a taunt. he thought to interpret that taunt in the words which veltman had used, aforetime:-- "what's _your_ percentage?" chapter xxvii the greater tempting journalistic worthington ran true to type in the milly neal affair. no newspaper published more than a paragraph about the "sudden death." suicide was not even hinted at in print. but newspaperdom had its own opinion, magnified and colored by the processes of gossip, over which professional courtesy exercised no control. that the girl had killed herself was generally understood: that there had been a shooting, previous to her death, was also current. eager report recalled and exaggerated the fact that she had been seen with hal surtaine at a dubious road-house some months previous. the popular "inside knowledge" of the tragedy was that milly had gone to the surtaine mansion to force hal's hand, failing in which she had shot him, inflicting an inconsiderable wound, and then killed herself; and that dr. surtaine had thereupon turned his son out of the house. hal's removal to the hotel served to bear out this surmise, and the doctor's strategic effort to cover the situation by giving it out that his son's part of the mansion was being remodeled--even going to the lengths of actually setting a force of men to work there--failed to convince the gossips. between the two men, the situation was now most difficult. quite instinctively hal had fallen in with his father's theory that the primal necessity, after the tragedy, was to keep everything out of print. that by so doing he wholly subverted his own hard-won policy did not, in the stress of the crisis, occur to him. later he realized it. yet he could see no other course of action as having been possible to him. the mere plain facts of the case constituted an accusation against dr. surtaine, unthinkable for a son to publish against his father. and hal still cozened himself into a belief in the quack's essential innocence, persuading his own reason that there was a blind side to the man which rendered it impossible for him to see through the legal into the ethical phases of the question. by this method he was saving his loyalty and affection. but so profound had been the shock that he could not, for a time, endure the constant companionship of former days. consequently the frequent calls which dr. surtaine deemed it expedient to make for the sake of appearances, at hal's hotel, resulted in painful, rambling, topic-shifting talks, devoid of any human touch other than the pitiful and thwarted affection of two personalities at hopeless odds. "least said soonest mended" was a favorite aphorism of the experienced quack. but in this tangle it failed him. it was he who first touched on the poisoned theme. "look here, boy-ee," said he, a week after the burial. "we're both scared to death of what each of us is thinking. let's agree to forget this until you are ready to talk it out with me." "what good will talk do?" said hal drearily. "none at present." his father sighed. he had hoped for a clean breast of it, a confession of the intrigue that should leave the way open to a readjustment of relations. "so let's put the whole thing aside." "all right," agreed hal listlessly. "i suppose you know," he added, "before we close the subject, that i've ordered the relief pills advertising out of the 'clarion.'" "you needn't have bothered. it won't be offered again." silence fell between them. "i've about decided to quit that line," the charlatan resumed with an obvious effort. "not that it isn't strictly legal," he added, falling back upon his reserve defense. "but it's too troublesome. the copy is ticklish; i've had to write all those ads. myself. and, at that, there's some newspapers won't accept 'em and others that want to edit 'em. belford couch and i have been going over the whole matter. he's the diplomat of the concern. and we've about decided to sell out. anyway," he added, brightening, "there ain't hardly money enough in a side-line like the pills to pay for the trouble of running it separate." if dr. surtaine had looked for explicit approval of his virtuous resolution, he was disappointed. yet hal experienced, or tried to believe that he experienced, a certain factitious glow of satisfaction at this proof that his father was ready to give up an evil thing even without being fully convinced of its wrongfulness. this helped the son to feel that, at least, his sacrifice had been made for a worthy affection. still, he had no word to say except that he must get to the office. the doctor left with gloom upon his handsome face. with mcguire ellis, hal's association had become even more difficult than with the doctor. since his abrupt and unceremonious departure from the room of death, in the belief in hal's guilt, ellis had maintained a purely professional attitude toward his employer. for a time, in his wretchedness and turmoil of spirit, hal had scarcely noticed ellis's withdrawal of fellowship, vaguely attributing his silence to unexpressed sympathy. but later, when he broached the subject of milly's death, he was met with a stony avoidance which inspired both astonishment and resentment. sub-normal as he now was in nervous strength and tension, he shrank from having it out with ellis. but he felt, for the first time in his life, forlorn and friendless. on his part mcguire ellis brooded over a deep anger. he was not a man to yield lightly of his best; but he had given to hal, first a fine loyalty, and later, as they grew into closer association, a warm if rather reticent affection. for the rough idealist had found in his employer an idealism not always as clear and intelligent as his own, yet often higher and finer; and along with the professional protectiveness which he had assumed over the younger man's inexperience had come an honest admiration and far-reaching hopes. now he saw in his chief one who had betrayed his cause through a weak and selfish indulgence. the clear-sighted journalist knew that the newspaper owner with a shameful secret binds his own power in the coils of that secret. and fatally in error as he was as to the nature of the entanglement in which hal was involved, he foresaw the inevitable effect of the situation upon the "clarion." moreover, he was bitterly disappointed in hal as a man. had his superior "gone on the loose" and contracted a _liaison_ with some woman of the outer world, ellis would have passed over the abstract morality of the question. but to take advantage of a girl in his own employ, and then so cruelly to leave her to her fate,--there was rot at the heart of the man who could do that. the excision of the offending "relief pills" ad. after the culmination of the tragedy, was simply a sop to hypocrisy. only once had ellis made any reference to milly's death. on the day of her funeral max veltman had disappeared, without notice. a week later he reported for duty, shaken and pallid. "do you want to take him back?" ellis inquired of hal. hal's first impulse was to say "no"; but he conquered it, remembering milly neal's pitiful generosity toward her lover. "where has he been?" he asked. "drunk, i guess." "what do you think?" "i think yes." "all right, if he's sobered up. tell him it mustn't happen again." there was a gleam in mcguire ellis's eye. "suppose _you_ tell him that it mustn't happen again. it would come with more force from you." hal whirled in his chair. "mac, what's the matter with you?" "nothing. i was just thinking of 'kitty the cutie.'" "what were you thinking of her?" "only that max veltman would have gone through hell-fire for her. and, from his looks, he's been through and had the heart burned out of him." with that he resumed his proof-reading in a dogged silence. to hal's great relief veltman kept out of his way. the man seemed dazed with misery, but did his work well enough. rumors reached the office that he was striving to gain a refuge from his sufferings by giving all his leisure hours to work in the rookeries district, under the direction of the reverend norman hale. ellis was of the opinion that his mind was somewhat affected, and that he would bear watching a bit; and was the more disturbed in that veltman shared the secret of the great epidemic "spread," now practically completed for the "clarion's" publishing or suppressing. ellis held the belief that, now, hal would order it suppressed. the man who had shirked his responsibility to milly neal could hardly be relied on for the stamina necessary to such an exploitation. the time was at hand for the decision to be made. the two physicians, elliot and merritt, pressed for publication. every day, they pointed out, not only meant a further risk of life, but also increased the impending danger of a general outburst which would find the city wholly unprepared. on the other hand, the journalists, ellis and wayne, held out for delay. they perceived the one weak point in their case, that neither a dead body nor a living patient had as yet come to the hands of the constituted authorities for diagnosis. the sole determination had been made on corpses carried across the line and now probably impossible of identification. the committee fund was doing its work of concealment effectually. but fate tripped the strategy board at last, using the reverend norman hale as its agent. since milly neal's death, the reverend norman had tried to find time to call on hal surtaine, and had failed. he wished to talk with him about veltman. three days after the funeral he had hauled the "clarion's" foreman out of the gutter, stood between him and suicide for one savage night of struggle, and listened to the remorse of a haunted soul. being a man and a brother, the reverend norman forbore blame or admonition; being a physician of the inner being, he devised work for the wreck in his slums, and had driven him relentlessly that he might find peace in the service of others. slowly the man won back to sanity. one obsession persisted, however, disturbing to the clergyman. veltman was willing to do penance himself, in any possible way, but he insisted that, since the surtaines shared his guilt, they, too, must make amends, before his dead mistress could rest in her grave. apprised by veltman of the whole wretched story, hale secretly sympathized with this view of the surtaines' responsibility. but he was concerned lest, in veltman, it take some form of direct vengeance. when he learned that veltman had returned to the "clarion" composing-room to work, the minister, unable to spare time for a call from his almost sleepless activities, sent an urgent request to hal to meet him at the recreation club. hal being out, ellis got the note, observed the "immediate and important" on the envelope, read the contents, and set out for the rendezvous. he never got there. for at the corner of sperry street he was met by a messenger who knew him. "the back room at mcmaney's," said the urchin. "he's in there, waitin'." ellis entered the place. at a table sat the reverend norman hale, with an expression of radiant happiness on his gaunt face. the barkeeper, who, on his own initiative, had just brought in a steaming hot drink, stood watching him with unfeigned concern. hale welcomed ellis warmly, and drew a chair close for him. "you sent for mr. surtaine," said ellis. "did i?" asked the other vaguely. "i forget. it doesn't matter. nothing matters, now. ellis, i've found out the secret." "what secret?" "the great secret. the solution," replied the young minister, buoyantly. "all that is necessary is to get the bodies." "yes, of course," agreed the other, with rising uneasiness. "but they smuggle them out as fast--" "they won't when i've told them. mcguire ellis,"--he gripped his companion suddenly with fingers that clamped like a burning vise,--"_i can bring the dead back to life_." "tell me about it. but take a swallow of this first." ellis pushed the hot drink toward him. "you're cold." "nothing but excitement. the glory of it! all this suffering and grief and death--" "wait a minute. i want a drink myself." he turned to the bartender. "get an auto," he whispered. "quick!" "there's a rig outside," said the man. "i seen he was sick when he came in, so i sent for it." "good man!" said ellis. "telephone to dr. merritt at the health office to meet me instantly at the hospital. tell him why. now, mr. hale," he added, "come on. let's get along. you can tell me on the way." still rapt with his vision the minister rose, and permitted himself to be guided to the carriage. once inside he fell into a semi-stupor. only at the hospital, where dr. merritt was waiting to see him safe within the isolation ward, did he come to his rightful senses, cool, and, as ever, thoughtful of everything but himself. "you've got your chance for a diagnosis at last, doctor," he whispered to the health officer. half an hour later, dr. merritt came out to the waiting journalist. "typhus," he said, with grievous exultation. "unmistakably and officially typhus. we've got our case. only, i wish to god it had been any of the rest of us." "will he die?" queried ellis. "god knows. i should say his chance was worse than even. he's worn out from overwork." for assurance, dr. elliot was sent for and added his diagnosis. ellis got authoritative interviews with both men, and the "clarion's" great, potential sensation was now fully ripe for print. denton the reporter had done the previous work well. his "story," leaded out and with subheads, ran flush to two pages of the paper, and every paragraph of it struck fire. it would, as ellis said, set off a ton of dynamite beneath sleepy worthington. that night veltman "pulled" a proof, and ellis stayed far into the morning, pasting up a dummy of the article for hal's inspection and final judgment. it was on thursday that norman hale was taken to the hospital. friday noon mcguire ellis laid before his principal the carefully constructed dummy with the brief comment: "there's the epidemic story." hal accepted and read it in silence. once or twice he made a note. when he had finished, he turned to find ellis's gaze fixed upon him. "we ought to run it monday," said ellis. "we can round it all up by then." monday is the dead day of journalism, the day for which news articles which do not demand instant production are reserved, both to liven up a dull paper and because the sensation produced is greater. however, the sensation inevitable to the publishing of this article, as hal instantly realized, would be enormous on any day. "it's big stuff," said he, with a long breath. ellis nodded. "shall i release it for monday?" "n-n-no," came the dubious reply. "it's been held already for ten days." "then what does it matter if we hold it a little longer?" "human lives, maybe. isn't that matter enough?" "that's only a guess. i've got to have time on this," insisted hal. "it's the most vital question of policy that the paper has had to face." "policy!" grunted ellis savagely. "besides, i've given my word to the chamber of commerce committee that we wouldn't publish any epidemic news without due warning to them." "then it's to be killed?" "'wait for orders' proof," said hal stonily. "i might have known," sneered ellis, with an infinite depth of scorn, and went to bear the bitter message to wayne. while the "clarion" policy trembled in the balance, dr. surtaine's committee on suppression was facing a new crisis brought about by the striking down of norman hale, of which they received early information. should he die, as was believed probable, the news, whether or not the full facts got into print, would surely become a focus for the propagation of alarmist rumors. in their distress, the patriots of commerce paid a hasty visit to their chief, craving counsel. having foreseen the possibility of some such contingency, dr. surtaine was ready with a plan. the committee would enlarge itself, call a meeting of the representative men of the town, organize an emergency health committee of one hundred, and take the field against the onset of pernicious malaria. this show of fighting force would allay public alarm, a large fund would be raised, the newspapers would be kept in thorough subjection, and the disease could be wiped out without undue publicity or the imperiling of old home week. "what about the 'clarion'?" inquired hollenbeck, of the committee. "they're still holding off." "safe as your hat," dr. surtaine assured the questioner with a smile. "at the meeting you told us you couldn't answer for your son's paper," stensland recalled. "i can now," said the confident quack. "just you leave it to me." he went direct to the "clarion" office, revolving in his mind the impending interview. for the first time since the tragedy he anticipated a meeting with his son without embarrassment, for now he had a definite topic to talk about, difficult though it might be. finding hal at the editorial desk he went direct to the point. "boy-ee, the epidemic is spreading." "i know it." "i'm going to take hold of the matter personally, from now on." "in what way?" "by organizing a committee of one hundred to cover the city and make a scientific campaign." "are you going to let people know that it's typhus?" "sh-sh-sh! so you know, do you? well, the important thing now is to see that others don't find out. don't even whisper the word. malaria's our cue; pernicious malaria. what's the use of scaring every one to death? we'll call a public meeting for next week--" "publicity is the last thing you want, i should think." "semi-public, i should have said. the epidemic has gone so far that people are beginning to take notice. we've got to reassure them and the right kind of an emergency health committee is the way to do it, belford couch is working up the meeting now. i've kept him over on purpose for it. he's the best little diplomat in the proprietary business. and yours truly will be elected chairman of the committee. it'll cost us a ten-thousand-dollar donation to the fund, but it's worth it to the business." "to the business? i don't quite see how." "simple as a pin! when it's all over and we're ready to let the account of it get into print, dr. surtaine, proprietor of certina, will be the principal figure in the campaign. what's that worth in advertising to the year's business? not that i'm doing it for that. i'm doing it to save old home week." "with a little profit on the side." dr. surtaine deemed it politic to ignore the tone of the commentary. "why not? nobody's hurt by it. you'll be on the central committee, boy-ee." "no; i don't think so." "why not?" "i think i'd better keep out of the movement, dad." "as you like. and you'll see that the 'clarion' keeps out of it, too?" "so that's it." "yes, boy-ee: that's it. you can see, for yourself, that a newspaper sensation would ruin everything just now--and also ruin the paper that sprung it." "so i heard from elias m. pierce sometime since." "for once pierce is right." "are you asking me to suppress the epidemic story?" "to let us handle it our own way," substituted the doctor. "we've got our campaign all figured out and ready to start. do you know what the great danger is now?" "letting the infection go on without taking open measures to stop it." "you're way wrong! starting a panic that will scatter it all over the place is the real danger. have you heard of a single case outside of the rookeries district, so far?" hal strove to recall the death-list on the proof. "no," he admitted. "you see! it's confined to one locality. now, what happens if you turn loose a newspaper scare? why, those poor, ignorant people will swarm out of the rookeries and go anywhere to escape the quarantine that they know will come. you'll have an epidemic not localized, but general. the situation will be ten times as difficult and dangerous as it is now." struck with the plausibility of this reasoning, hal hesitated. "that's up to the authorities," he said. "the authorities!" cried the charlatan, in disdain. "what could they do? the damage would be done before they got ready to move. you see, we've got to handle this situation diplomatically. look here, boyee; what's the worst feature of an epidemic? panic. you know the bible parable. the seven plagues came to egypt and ten thousand people died. the grand vizier said to the plagues, 'how many of my people have you slain?' the plagues said, 'a thousand.' 'what about the other nine thousand?' said the grand vizier. 'not guilty!' said the plagues. 'they were slain by fear.' maybe it was in 'paradise lost' and not the bible. but the lesson's the same. panic is the killer." "but the disease is increasing all the time," objected hal. "are we to sit still and--" "is it?" broke in the wily controversialist. "how do you account for this, then?" he drew from his pocket a printed leaflet. "take a peek at those figures. fewer deaths in the rookeries this last week than in any week since march." this was true. not infrequently there comes an inexplicable subsidence of mortality in mid-epidemic. no competent hygienist is deceived into mistaking this phenomenon for an indication of the end. not being a hygienist hal was again impressed. "the health bureau's own statistics," continued the argumentator, pushing his advantage. "with dr. merritt's signature at the bottom." "dr. merritt says that the epidemic is being fostered by secrecy, suppression, and lying." "all sentimentalism. merritt would turn the city upside down if he had his way. was it him that told you it was typhus?" "no. we've got a two-page story in proof now, giving the whole facts of the epidemic." "you can't publish it, boy-ee," said his father firmly. "can't? that sounds like an order." adroitly dr. surtaine caught at the word. "an order drawn on your word of honor." "if there's any question of honor to the 'clarion,' it's to tell the truth plainly and take the consequences." "who said anything about the 'clarion's honor? this is between you and me." "you'll have to speak more plainly," said hal with a dawning dread. "boyee, i hate to do this, but i've got to, to save the city. you gave me your word that the day you had to suppress news for your own sake, you'd quit this don quixotic business and treat others as decently and considerately as you treated yourself." "go on," said hal, in a half whisper. "well--milly neal." dr. surtaine wet his lips nervously. "you saved yourself there by keeping the story out of the papers. of course you were right. you were dead right. you'd have been a fool to do anything else. but there you are. and there's your promise." a nausea of the soul sickened hal. that his father, whom he had so loved and honored, should make of the loyalty which had, at the cost of principle, protected the name of surtaine against open disgrace, a tool wherewith to tear down his professional standards--it was like some incredible and malign jocosity of a devilish logic. of what was going on in the quack's mind he had no inkling. he could not know that his father saw in the suppression of the suicide news, only a natural and successful effort on the part of hal to conceal his own guilt in milly's death. no more could dr. surtaine comprehend that it was the dreadful responsibility of the surtaine quackery for which hal had unhesitantly sacrificed the declared principle of the "clarion." so they gazed darkly at each other across the chasm, each seeing his opponent in the blackest colors. "you hold me to that?" demanded hal, half choked. "i have to, boy-ee." to dr. surtaine the issue which he had raised was but the distasteful means to a necessary end. to hal it meant the final capitulation to the forces against which he had been fighting since his first enlightenment. "i might as well sell the 'clarion' now, and be done with it," he declared bitterly. "nonsense! if you stuck to this foolishness you'd have to sell it or lose it. you'd be ruined, both in influence and in money. how would you feel when mac ellis, and wayne, and all the fellows that stuck by you found themselves out of a job because of your pig-headedness? and what harm are you doing by dropping the story, anyway? we've got this thing beaten, right now. it isn't spreading. it's dropping off. what'll the 'clarion' look like when its great sensation peters out into thin air? but by that time the harm'll be done and the whole country will think we're a plague-stricken city. don't do all that damage and spoil everything just for a false delusion, boyee." but hal's mind was brooding on the fatal promise which he had so confidently made his father. one way out there was. "since it's a question of my word to you," he said, "i could still publish the truth about milly neal." "no. you couldn't do that, boyee," said his father in a tone, half sorrowful, half shamed. "no. you're right. i couldn't--god help me!" to proclaim his own father a moral criminal in his own paper was the one test which hal lacked the power to meet. it was the world-old conflict between loyalty and principle--in which loyalty so often and so tragically wins the first combat. after all, hal forced himself to consider, he was not serving his public ill by this particular sacrifice of principle. the official mortality figures helped him to persuade himself that the typhus was indeed ebbing. for himself, as the price of silence, there was easy sailing under the flag of local patriotism, and with every success in prospect. yet it was with sunken eyes that he turned to the tempter. "all right," he said, with a half groan, "i give in. we won't print it." dr. surtaine heaved a great sigh of relief. "that's horse sense!" he cried jovially. "now, you go ahead on those lines and you'll make the 'clarion' the best-paying proposition in worthington. i'll drop a few hints where they'll do the most good, and you'll see the advertisers breaking their necks to come in. journalism is no different from any other business, boy-ee. live and let live. bear and forbear. there's the rule for you. the trouble with you, boy-ee, has been that you've been trying to run a business on pink-tea principles." "the trouble with me," said his son bitterly, "is that i've been trying to reform a city when i ought to have been reforming myself." "oh, you're all right, boy-ee," his affectionate and admiring father reassured him. "you're just finding yourself. as for this reform--" and he was launched upon the second measure of the pæan of policy when hal cut him short by ringing a bell and ordering the boy to send mcguire ellis to him. ellis came up from the city room. "kill the epidemic story, mr. ellis," he ordered. red passion surged up into ellis's face. "kill--" he began, in a strangled voice. "kill it. you understand?" the associate editor's color receded. he looked with slow contempt from father to son. "oh, yes, i understand," he said. "any other orders to-day?" hal made no reply. his father, divining that this was no time for further speech, took his departure. mcguire ellis went out with black despair at his heart, a soldier betrayed by his captain. and the proprietor of the "clarion," his feet now set in the path of success and profit, turned back to his work in sodden disenchantment, sighing as youth alone sighs, and as youth sighs only when it foregoes the dream of ideals which is its immortal birthright. chapter xxviii "whose bread i eat" having yielded, hal proposed to take profit by his surrender. with a cynicism born of his bitter disappointment and self-contempt, he took a certain savage and painful satisfaction in stating the new policy editorially. "as the 'clarion' is going to be a journalistic prostitute," said he to his father, across the luncheon table, where they were consulting on details of the new policy, "i'm going to go after the business on that basis." dr. surtaine was pained. every effort of his own convenient logic he put forth to prove that, in this instance, the path of duty and of glory (financial) was one and the same. hal refused the proffered gloss. "at least you and i can call things by their right names now," said he. but however hal might talk, what he wrote met his elder's unqualified approval, as it appeared in the proof sent him by his son. it was a cunningly worded leading editorial, headed "standards," and it dealt appreciatively, not to say reverently, with the commercial greatness of worthington. business, the editor stated, might have to adjust itself to new conditions and opinions in worthington as elsewhere, but nobody who understood the character of the city's leading men could doubt their good purpose or ability to effect the change with the least damage to material prosperity. meantime the fitting attitude for the public was one not of criticism but of forbearance and assistance. this was equally true of journalism. the "clarion" admitted seeing a new light. constructive rather than destructive effort was called for. and so forth, and so on. no intelligent reader could have failed, reading it, to understand that the "clarion" had hauled down its flag. yet the capitulation must not, for business reasons, be too obvious. hal spent some toilful hours over the proof, inserting plausible phrases, covering his tracks with qualifying clauses, putting the best front on the shameful matter, with a sick but determined heart, and was about to send it up with the final "o.k." when he came out of his absorption to realize that some one was standing waiting, had been standing waiting, for some minutes at his elbow. he looked around and met the intent gaze of the foreman of the composing-room. "what is it, veltman?" he asked sharply. "that epidemic story." "well? what about it?" "did you order it killed?" "certainly. haven't you thrown it down?" "no. it's still in type." "throw it down at once." "mr. surtaine, have you thought what you are doing?" "it is no part of your job to catechize me, veltman." "between man and man." he stepped close to hal, his face blazing with exaltation. "i must speak now or forever hold my peace." "speak fast, then." "it's your last chance, this epidemic spread. your last chance to save the 'clarion' and yourself." "that will do, velt--" "no, no! listen to me. i didn't say a word when you kept milly's suicide out of print." "i should think not, indeed!" retorted hal angrily. "that's my shame. i ought to have seen that published if i had to set it up myself." "perhaps you're not aware, veltman, that i know your part in the neal affair." "i'd have confessed to you, if you hadn't. but do you know your own? yours and your father's?" "keep my father out of this!" "your own, then. do you know that the money that bought this paper for you was coined out of the blood of deceived girls? do you know that you and i are paid with the proceeds of the ad. that led milly neal to her death? do you know that?" "and if i do, what then?" asked hal, overborne by the man's conviction and vehemence. "tell it!" cried the other, beating his fist upon the desk until the blood oozed from the knuckles. "tell it in print. confess, man, and warn others!" "veltman, suppose we were to print that whole wretched story to-morrow, including the truth about your relations with her." "do it! do it!" cried the other, choked with eagerness. "i'd thank you on my knees. penance! give me my chance to do penance! i'll make my own confession in writing. i'll write it in my own blood if need be." "steady, veltman. keep cool." "you think i'm crazy? perhaps i am. there's a fire at my brain since she died. i loved her, mr. surtaine." "but you sacrificed her, veltman," returned hal in a gentler tone, for the man's face was livid with agony. "don't i know it! my god, don't i know it! but _you_ can't escape the responsibility because of my sin. it was your paper that helped fool her. she believed in the paper, and in your father." "the relief pills advertising is out. that much i'll tell you." "now that it's done its work. not enough! you and i can't bring milly back to life, mr. surtaine, but we can save other lives in peril. god has given you your chance, in this epidemic." "how do you know about the epidemic?" "hasn't it taken mr. hale, the only friend i've got in the world? and won't it take its hundreds of other lives unless warning is given? why doesn't the 'clarion' speak out, mr. surtaine? _why is that story ordered killed?_" "consideration of policy which--" "policy! oh, my god! and the people dying! harrington surtaine,"--his eyes blazed into the other's with the flame of fanaticism,--"i tell you, if you don't accept this opportunity that the lord gives you, you and your paper are damned. do you know what it means to damn the soul of a paper? why, man, there are people who believe in the 'clarion' like gospel." hal got to his feet. "veltman, i dare say you mean well. but you don't understand this." "don't i!" the face took on a sudden appalling savagery. "don't i know you're bought and paid for! sold out! that's what you've done. a bargain! a bargain! pay my little price and i'll do your meanest bidding. i'd rather have hell burning at my heart as it burns now than what you've got rotting at yours, young surtaine." the tensity of hal's restraint broke. with one powerful effort he sent the foreman whirling through the open door into the hall, slammed the door after him, and stood shaking. he heard and felt the jar of veltman's body as it struck the wall, and slumped to the floor; then the slow limp of his retreating footsteps. with a seething brain he returned to his proof--and shuddered away from it. there was blood spattered over the print. hurriedly he thrust it aside and rang for a fresh galley. but the red spots rose between his eyes and the work, like an accusation, like a prophecy. of a sudden he beheld this great engine of print which had been, first, the caprice of his last flicker of irresponsible and headlong youth, then the very mould in which his eager and ambitious manhood was to form and fulfill itself--he beheld this vast mechanism blazingly illumined as with some inner fire, and now become a terrific genius, potent beyond the powers of humanity, working out the dire complications of men, and the tragic destruction of women. and he beheld himself, fast in its grip. he thrust the proof into the tube, scrawled the "o.k." order on it for the morrow, and hurried away from the office as from a place accursed. that night conscience struck at him once more, making a weapon of words from the book of a dead master. he had been reading "beauchamp's career"; and, seeking refuge from the torture of thought in its magic, he came upon the novelist-philosopher's damning indictment of modern journalism: _"and this press, declaring itself independent, can hardly walk for fear of treading on an interest here, an interest there. it cannot have a conscience. it is a bad guide, a false guardian; its abject claim to be our national and popular interpreter--even that is hollow and a mockery. it is powerful only when subservient. an engine of money, appealing to the sensitiveness of money, it has no connection with the mind of the nation. and that it is not of, but apart from the people, may be seen when great crises come--in strong gales the power of the press collapses; it wheezes like a pricked pigskin of a piper."_ hal flung the book from him. but its accusations pursued him through the gates of sleep, and poisoned his rest. in the morning he had recovered his balance, and with it his dogged determination to see the matter through. he forced himself to read the leading editorial, finding spirit even to admire the dexterity with which he had held out the promise of good behavior to the business interests, whilst pretending to a sturdy independence. shearson met him at the entrance to the building, beaming. "that'll bring business," said the advertising manager. "i've had half a dozen telephones already about it." "that's good," replied hal half-heartedly. "yes, _sir_," pursued the advertising manager: "i can smell money in the air to-day. and, by the way, i've got a tip that, for a little mild apology, e.m. pierce will withdraw both his suits." "i'll think about it," promised hal. he was rather surprised at the intensity of his own relief from the prospect of the court ordeal. at least, he was getting his price. mcguire ellis was, for once, not asleep, though there was no work on his desk when hal entered the sanctum. "veltman's quit," was his greeting. "i'm not surprised," said hal. "then you've seen the editorial page this morning?" "yes. but what has that to do with veltman's resignation?" "everything, i should think. notice anything queer about the page?" "no." "look it over again." hal took up the paper and scrutinized the sheet. "i don't see a thing wrong," he said. "that lets me out," said ellis grimly. "if you can't see it when you're told it's there, i guess i can't be blamed for not catching it in proof. of course the last thing one notices is a stock line that's always been there unchanged. look at the motto of the paper. veltman must have chiseled out the old one, and set this in, himself, the last thing before we went to press. how do you like it? looks to me to go pretty well with our leading editorial this morning." there between the triumphal cocks, where formerly had flaunted the braggart boast of the old "clarion," and more latterly had appeared the gentle legend of the martyred president, was spread in letters of shame to the eyes of the "clarion's" owner, the cynic profession of the led captain, of the prostituted pen, of all those who have or shall sell mind and soul and honor for hire;-- _"whose bread i eat, his song i sing."_ chapter xxix certina charley mr. belford couch was a man of note. you might search vainly for the name among the massed thousands of "who's who in america," or even in those biographical compilations which embalm one's fame and picture for a ten-dollar consideration. shout the cognomen the length of fifth avenue, bellow it up walnut and down chestnut street, lend it vocal currency along the lake shore drive, toss it to the winds that storm in from the golden gate to assault nob hill, and no answering echo would you awake. but give to its illustrious bearer his familiar title; speak but the words "certina charley" within the precincts of the nation's capital and the very asphalt would find a viscid voice wherewith to acclaim the joke, while senate would answer house, and department reply to bureau with the curses of the stung ones. for mr. belford couch was least loved where most laughed at. from the nature of his profession this arose. his was a singular career. he pursued the fleeting testimonial through the mazy symptoms of disease (largely imaginary) and cure (wholly mythical). to extract from the great and shining ones of political life commendations of certina; to beguile statesmen who had never tasted that strange concoction into asseverating their faith in the nostrum's infallibility for any and all ailments; to persuade into fulsome print solemnly asinine senators and unwarily flattered congressmen--that was the touchstone of his living. some the demon rum betrayed into his hands. others he won by sheer personal persuasiveness, for he was a master of the suave plea. again, political favors or "inside information" made those his debtors from whom he exacted and extracted the honor of their names for dr. surtaine's upholding. blackmail, even, was hinted at. "what does it matter?" thought the deluded or oppressed victim. "merely a line of meaningless indorsement to sign my name to." and within a fortnight advertising print, black and looming, would inform the reading populace of the whole country that "united states senator gull says of certina: 'it is, in my opinion, unrivaled as a never-failing remedy for coughs and colds,'" with a picture, coarse-screen, libelously recognizable. certina charley was not a testimonial-chaser alone. had he been, dr. surtaine would not have retained him at a generous salary, but would have paid him, as others of his strange species are paid, by the piece; one hundred dollars for a representative, two hundred and fifty dollars for a senator, and as high as five hundred for a hero conspicuous in the popular eye. the special employee of certina was a person of diverse information and judicious counsel. his chief had not incorrectly described him as the diplomat of the trade. no small diplomacy had been required for the planning of the emergency committee scheme, the details of which mr. couch had worked out, himself. it was, as he boasted to dr. surtaine, "a clincher." "look out for the medicos," he had said to dr. surtaine in outlining his great idea. "they're mean to handle. you can always buy or bluff a newspaper, but a doctor is different. some of 'em you can grease, but they're the scrubs. the real fellers won't touch money, and the worst of 'em just seem to love trouble. merritt's that kind. but we can fix merritt by raising twenty or thirty thousand dollars and handing it over to him to organize his campaign against the epidemic. from all i can learn, merritt has got the goods as a health officer. he knows his business. there's no man in town could handle the thing better, unless it's you, chief, and you don't want to mix up in the active part of it. merritt'll be crazy to do it, too. that's where we'll have him roped. you say to him, 'take this money and do the work, but do it on the quiet. that's the condition. if you can't keep our secret, we'll have you fired and get some man that can.' the mayor will chuck him if the committee says so. but it won't be necessary, if i've got merritt sized up. he wants to get into this fight so bad that he'll agree to almost anything. his assistants we can square. "so much for the official end of it. but what about the run of the medical profession? if they go around diagnosing typhus, the news'll spread almost as fast as through the papers. so here's how we'll fix them. recommend the city council to pass an ordinance making it a misdemeanor punishable by fine, imprisonment, and revocation of license to practice, for a physician to make a diagnosis of any case as a pestilential disease. the council will do it on the committee's say-so." "whew!" whistled the old charlatan. "that's going pretty strong, bel. the doctors won't stand for that." "believe me, they will. it's been tried and it worked fine, on the coast, when they had the plague there. that's where i got the notion: but the revocation of the license is my own scheme. that'll scare 'em out of their wits. you'll find they don't dare peep about typhus. especially as there aren't a dozen doctors in town that ever saw a case of it." "that's so," agreed his principal. "i guess you're right after all, bel." "sure, am i! you say you've got the newspapers fixed." "sewed up tight." "keno! our programme's complete. you and mr. pierce and the mayor see merritt and get him. call the meeting for next week. make some good-natured, diplomatic feller chairman. send out the call to about three hundred of your solidest men. then we'll elect you permanent chairman, you can pick your emergency committee, put the resolution about pest-diagnosis up to the city council--and there you are. my job's done. i shall _not_ be among those present." "done, and mighty well done, bel. you'll be going back to washington?" "no, i guess i better stick around for a while--in case. besides, i want a little rest." like so many persons of the artistic temperament, certina charley was subject to periods of relaxation. with him these assumed the phase of strong drink, evenly and rather thickly spread over several days. on the afternoon before the carefully planned meeting, ten days after norman hale was taken to the hospital, the diplomat of quackery, his shoulders eased of all responsibility, sat lunching early at the hotel dunston. his repast consisted of a sandwich and a small bottle of well-frappéd champagne. to him, lunching, came a drummer of the patent medicine trade; a blatant and boastful fellow, from whose methods the diplomat in mr. belford couch revolted. nevertheless, the newcomer was a forceful person, and when, over two ponies of brandy ordered by the luncher in the way of inevitable hospitality, he launched upon a criticism of some of the recent certina legislative strategy as lacking vigor (a reproach by no means to be laid to the speaker's language), mr. couch's tenderest feelings were lacerated. with considerable dignity for one in his condition, he bade his guest go farther and fare worse, and in mitigation of the latter's parthian taunt, "kid-glove fussing, 'bo," called heaven and earth and the whole café to witness that, abhorrent though self-trumpeting was to him, no man had ever handled more delicately a prickly proposition than he had handled the certina legislative interests. gazing about him for sympathy he espied the son of his chief passing between the tables, and hailed him. two casual meetings with certina charley had inspired in hal a mildly amused curiosity. therefore, he readily enough accepted an invitation to sit down, while declining a coincident one to have a drink, on the plea that he was going to work. "say," appealed charley, "did you hear that cough-lozenge-peddling boob trying to tell me where to get off, in the proprietary game? me!" "perhaps he didn't know who you are," suggested hal tactfully. "perhaps he don't know the way from his hand to his face with a glass of booze, either," retorted the offended one, with elaborate sarcasm. "everybody in the trade knows me. sure you won't have a drink?" "no, thank you." "don't drink much myself," announced the testimonial-chaser. "just once in a while. weak kidneys." "that's a poor tribute from a certina man." "oh, certina's all right--for those that want it. the best doctor is none too good for me when i'm off my feed." "well, they call certina 'the people's doctor,'" said hal, quoting an argument his father had employed. "one of the chief's catchwords. and ain't it a corker! he's the best old boy in the business, on the bunk." "just what do you mean by that?" asked hal coldly. but certina charley was in an expansive mood. it never occurred to him that the heir of the certina millions was not in the certina secrets: that he did not wholly understand the nature of his father's trade, and view it with the same jovial cynicism that inspired the old quack. "who's to match him?" he challenged argumentatively. "i tell you, they all go to school to him. there ain't one of our advertising tricks, from old lame-boy down to the money-back guarantee, that the others haven't crabbed. take that 'people's doctor' racket. schwarzman copied it for his marovian mixture. vollmer ran his 'poor man's physician' copy six months, on marsh-weed. 'poor man's doctor'! it's pretty dear treatment, i tell you." "surely not," said hal. "sure _is_ it! what's a doctor's fee? three dollars, probably." "and certina is a dollar a bottle. if one bottle cures--" "does _what_? quit your jollying," laughed certina charley unsteadily. "cures the disease," said hal, his suspicions beginning to congeal into a cold dread that the revelation which he had been unconfessedly avoiding for weeks past was about to be made. "if it did, we'd go broke. do you know how many bottles must be sold to any one patron before the profits begin to come in? six! count them, six." "nonsense! it can't cost so much to make as--" "make? of course it don't. but what does it cost to advertise? you think i'm a little drink-taken, but i ain't. i'm giving you the straight figures. it costs just the return on six bottles to get certina into mr. e.z. mark's hands, and until he's paid his seventh dollar for his seventh bottle our profits don't come in. advertising is expensive, these days." "how many bottles does it take to cure?" asked hal, clinging desperately to the word. "nix on the cure thing, 'bo. you don't have to put up any bluff with me. i'm on the inside, right down to the bottom." "very well. maybe you know more than i do, then," said hal, with a grim determination, now that matters had gone thus far, to accept this opportunity of knowledge, at whatever cost of disillusionment. "go ahead. open up." "a real cure couldn't make office-rent," declared the expert with conviction. "what you want in the proprietary game is a jollier. certina's that. the booze does it. you ought to see the farmers in a no-license district lick it up. three or four bottles will give a guy a pretty strong hunch for it. and after the sixth bottle it's all velvet to us, except the nine cents for manufacture and delivery." "but it must be some good or people wouldn't keep on buying it," pursued hal desperately. "you've got all the old stuff, haven't you! the good ol' stock arguments," said certina charley, giggling. "the chief has taught you the lesson all right. must be studyin' up to go before a legislative committee. well, here's the straight of it. folks keep on buying certina for the kick there is in it. it's a bracer. and it's a repeater, the best repeater in the trade." "but it must cure lots of them. look at the testimonials. surely they're genuine." "so's a rhinestone genuine--as a rhinestone. the testimonials that ain't bought, or given as a favor, are from rubes who want to see their names in print." "at least i suppose it isn't harmful," said hal desperately. "no more than any other good ol' booze. it won't hurt a well man. i used to soak up quite a bit of it myself till my doc gave me an option on dyin' of bright's disease or quittin'." "bright's disease!" exclaimed hal. "oh, yes, i know: we cure bright's disease, don't we? well, if there's anything worse for old george w. bright's favorite ailment than raw alcohol, then my high-priced physizzian don't know his business." "let me get this straight," said hal with a white face. "do i understand that certina--" "say, wassa matter?" broke in certina charley, in concern; "you look sick." "never mind me. you go on and tell me the truth about this thing." "i guess i been talkin' too much," muttered certina charley, dismayed. he gulped down the last of his champagne with a tremulous hand. "this's my second bottle," he explained. "an' brandy in between. say, i thought you knew all about the business." "i know enough about it now so that i've got to know the rest." "you--you won't gimme away to the chief? i didn't mean to show up his game. i'm--i'm pretty strong for the old boy, myself." "i won't give you away. go on." "whaddye want to know, else?" "is there _anything_ that certina is good for?" "sure! didn't i tell you? it's the finest bracer--" "as a cure?" "it's just as good as any other prup-proprietary." "that isn't the question. you say it is harmful in bright's disease." "why, looka here, mr. surtaine, you know yourself that booze is poison to any feller with kidney trouble. rheumatism, too, for that matter. but they get the brace, and they think they're better, and that helps push the trade, too." "and that's where my money came from," said hal, half to himself. "it's all in the trade," cried certina charley, summoning his powers to a defense. "there's lots that's worse. there's the cocaine dopes for catarrh; they'll send a well man straight to hell in six months. there's the baby dopes; and the g-u cures that keep the disease going when right treatment could cure it; and the methylene blue--" "stop it! stop it!" cried hal. "i've heard enough." alcohol, the juggler with men's thoughts, abruptly pressed upon a new center of ideation in certina charley's brain. "d'you think i like it?" he sniveled, with lachrymose sentimentality. "i gotta make a living, haven't i? here's you and me, two pretty decent young fellers, having to live on a fake. well," he added with solacing philosophy, "if we didn't get it, somebody else would." "tell me one thing," said hal, getting to his feet. "does my father know all this that you've been telling me?" "does the chief _know_ it? _does_ he? why, say, my boy, ol' doc surtaine, he _wrote_ the proprietary medicine business!" misgivings beset the optimistic soul of certina charley as his guest faded from his vision; faded and vanished without so much as a word of excuse or farewell. for once hal had been forgetful of courtesy. gazing after him his host addressed the hovering waiter:-- "say, bill, i guess i been talkin' too much with my face. bring's another of those li'l bo'ls." chapter xxx illumination certina charley, plus an indeterminate quantity of alcohol, had acted upon hal's mind as a chemical precipitant. all the young man's hitherto suppressed or unacknowledged doubts of the certina trade and its head were now violently crystallized. hal hurried out of the hotel, the wrath in his heart for the deception so long wrought upon him chilled by a profounder feeling, a feeling of irreparable loss. he thought in that moment that his love for his father was dead. it was not. it was only his trust that was dying, and dying hard. since that day of his first visit to the certina factory, hal's standards had undergone an intrinsic but unconscious alteration. brought up to the patent medicine trade, though at a distance, he thought of it, by habit, as on a par with other big businesses. one whose childhood is spent in a glue factory is not prone to be supersensitive to odors. so, to harrington surtaine, those ethical and moral difficulties which would have bulked huge to one of a different training, were merely inherent phases of a profitable business. misgivings had indeed stirred, at first. for these he had chided himself, as for an over-polite revulsion from the necessary blatancy of a broadly advertised enterprise. more searching questions, as they arose within him, he had met with the counter-evidence of the internal humanism and fair-dealing of the certina shop, and of the position of its beloved chief in the commercial world. in the face of the relief pills exposure, hal could no longer excuse his father on the ground that dr. surtaine honestly credited his medicines with impossible efficacies. still, he had reasoned, the doctor had been willing instantly to abandon this nostrum when the harm done by it was concretely brought home to him. though this argument had fallen far short of reconciling hal to the surtaine standards, nevertheless it had served as a makeshift to justify in part his abandonment of the hard-won principles of the "clarion," a surrender necessary for the saving of a loved and honored father in whose essential goodness he had still believed. now the edifice of his faith was in ruins. if certina itself, if the tutelary genius of the house of surtaine, were indeed but a monstrous quackery cynically accepted as such by those in the secret, what shred of defense remained to him who had so prospered by it? through the wreckage of his pride, his loyalty, his affection, hal saw, in place of the glowing and benign face of dr. surtaine, the simulacrum of fraud, sleek and crafty, bloated fat with the blood of tragically hopeful dupes. one great lesson of labor hal had already learned, that work is an anodyne. from his interview with certina charley he made straight for the "clarion" office. as he hurried up the stairs, the door of shearson's room opened upon him, and there emerged therefrom a brick-red, agile man who greeted him with a hard cordiality. "your paper certainly turned the trick. i gotta hand it to you!" "what trick?" asked hal, not recognizing the stranger. "selling my stock. streaky mountain copper company. don't you remember?" hal did remember now. it was l.p. mcquiggan. "more of the same for me, _if_ you please," continued the visitor. "i've just made the deal with shearson. he's stuck me up on rates a little. that's all right, though. the 'clarion' fetches the dough. i want to start the new campaign with an interview on our prospects. is it o.k.?" "come up and see mr. ellis," said hal. having led him to the editorial office, hal sat down to work, but found no escape from his thoughts. there was but one thing to do: he must have it out at once with dr. surtaine. he telephoned the factory for an appointment. sharp-eared mcquiggan caught the call. "that my old pal, andy?" said he. "gimme a shot at him while you've got him on the wire, will you?" cheery, not to say chirpy, was the mining promoter's greeting projected into the transmitter which hal turned over to him. straightway, however, a change came o'er his blithe spirit. "something's biting the old geezer," he informed hal and ellis. "seems to have a grouch. says he's coming over, pronto--right quick." five minutes later, while mr. mcquiggan was running over some proofs which he had brought with him, dr. surtaine walked into the office. there was about him a formidable smoothness, as of polished metal. he greeted his old friend with a nod and a cool "back again, i see, elpy." "and doing business at the old stand," rejoined his friend. "worthington's the place where the dollars grow, all right." "grow, _and_ stay," said dr. surtaine. "meaning?" inquired mcquiggan solicitously. "that you've over-medicated this field." "have i got any dollars away from you, andy?" "no. but you have from my people." "well, their money's as good to buy booze with as anybody else's, i reckon." dr. surtaine had sat down, directly opposite the visitor, fronting him eye-to-eye. nothing loath, mcquiggan accepted the challenge. his hard, brisk voice, with a sub-tone of the snarl, crossed the doctor's strong, heavy utterance like a rapier engaging a battle-axe. both assumed a suavity of manner felt to be just at the breaking point. the two spectators sat, surprised and expectant. "i don't suppose," said dr. surtaine, after a pause, "there's any use trying to get you to refund." "still sticking out for the money-back-if-not-satisfied racket--in the other fellow's business, eh, andy? better practice it in your own." "hal,"--dr. surtaine turned to his son,--"has mcquiggan brought in a new batch of copy?" "so i understand." "the 'clarion' mustn't run it." "the hell it mustn't!" said mcquiggan. "it's crooked," said the quack bluntly. the promoter laughed. "a hot one, you are, to talk about crookedness." "he's paying his advertising bills out of my people's pay envelopes!" accused dr. surtaine. "how's that, doc?" asked ellis. "why, when he was here before, he spent some time around the certina plant and got acquainted with the department managers and a lot of the others, and damn me!" cried dr. surtaine, grinning in spite of his wrath, "if he didn't sting 'em all for stock." "how do you know they're stung?" inquired ellis. "from an expert on the ground. i got anxious when i found my own people were in it, and had a man go out there from phoenix. he reports that the streaky mountain hasn't got a thing but expectations and hardly that." "well, you didn't say there was anything more, did you?" inquired the bland mcquiggan. "i? i didn't say?" "yes, _you_. you got up the ads." "well--well--well, of all the nerve!" cried dr. surtaine, grievously appealing to the universe at large. "i got 'em up! you gave me the material, didn't you?" "sure, did i. hot stuff it was, too." "hot bunk! and to flim-flam my own people with it, too!" "anybody that works in your joint ought to be wise to the bunk game," suggested mcquiggan. "i'll tell you one thing: you don't run any more of it in this town." "maybe i don't and then again maybe i do. it won't be as good as your copy, p'r'aps. but it'll get _some_ coin, i reckon. take a look," he taunted, and tossed his proofs to the other. the quack broke forth at the first glance. "look here! you claim fifty thousand tons of copper in sight." "so there is." "with a telescope, i suppose." "well, telescope's sight, ain't it? you wouldn't try to hear through one, would you?" "and $ , . worth, ready for milling," continued the critic. "printer's error in the decimal point," returned the other, with airy impudence. "move it two to the left. keno! there you have it: $ . ." "very ingenious, mr. mcquiggan," said hal. "but you're practically admitting that your ads. are faked." "admittin' nothin'! i offer you the ads. and i've got the ready stuff to pay for 'em." "and you think that is all that's necessary?" "sure do i!" "mr. mcquiggan," remarked ellis, "has probably been reading our able editorial on the reformed and chastened policy of the 'clarion.'" hal turned an angry red. "that doesn't commit us to accepting swindles." "don't it?" queried mcquiggan. "since when did you get so pick-an'-choosy?" "straight advertising," announced dr. surtaine, "has been the unvarying policy of this paper since my son took it over." "straight!" vociferated mcquiggan. "_straight?_ ladies and gents: the well-known surtaine family will now put on their screamin' farce entitled 'honesty is the best policy.'" "when you're through playing the clown--" began hal. "straight advertising," pursued the other. "did i really hear them sweet words in andy certain's voice? no! say, somebody ring an alarm-clock on me. i can't wake up." "i think we've heard enough from you, mcquiggan," warned hal. "do you!" the promoter sprang from his chair and all the latent venom of his temper fumed and stung in the words he poured out. "well, take another think. i've got some things to tell you, young feller. don't you come the high-and-holy on me. you and your smooth, big, phony stuffed-shirt of a father." "here, you!" shouted the leading citizen thus injuriously designated, but the other's voice slashed through his protest like a blade through pulp. "certina! ho-oh! warranted to cure consumption, warts, heart-disease, softening of the brain, and the bloody pip! and what is it? morphine and booze." "you're a liar," thundered the outraged proprietor: "ten thousand dollars to any one who can show a grain of morphine in it." "changed the formula, have you? pure food law scared you out of the dope, eh? well, even at that it's the same old bunk. what about your testimonials? fake 'em, and forge 'em, and bribe and blackmail for 'em and then stand up to me and pull the pious plate-pusher stuff about being straight. oh, my gawd! it'd make a straddle-bug spit at the sun, to hear you. why, i'm no saint, but the medical line was too strong for my stomach. i got out of it." "yes, you did, you dirty little dollar-snatcher! you got put of it into jail for peddling raw gin--." "don't you go raking up old muck with me, you rotten big poisoner!" roared mcquiggan: "or you'll get the hot end of it. how about that girl that went batty after taking cert--" "wait a moment! father! please!" hal broke in, aghast at this display. "we're not discussing the medical business. we're talking advertising. mcquiggan, yours is refused. we don't run that class of matter in the 'clarion.'" "no? since when? you'd better consult an oculist, young surtaine." "if ever this paper carried such a glaring fake as your streaky mountain--" "stop right there! stop! look! and listen!" he caught up the day's issue from the floor and flaunted it, riddling the flimsy surface with the stiffened finger of indictment. "look at it! look at this ad.--and this--and this." the paper was rent with the vehemence of his indication. "put my copy next to that, and it'd come to life and squirm to get away." "nothing there but what every paper takes," defended ellis. "every paper'd be glad to take my stuff, too. why, streaky mountain copy is the holy bible compared to what you've got here. take a slant at this: 'consumption cured in three months.'--'cancer cured or your money back.'--catarrh dopes, headache cures, germ-killers, baby-soothers, nerve-builders,--the whole stinkin' lot. don't i know 'em! either sugar pills that couldn't cure a belly-ache, or hell's-brew of morphine and booze. certina ain't the worst of 'em, any more than it's the best. i may squeeze a few dollars out of easy boobs, but you, andy certain, you and your young whelp here, you're playin' the poor suckers for their lives. and then you're too lily-fingered to touch a mining proposition because there's a gamble in it!" he crumpled the paper in his sinewy hands, hurled it to the floor, kicked it high over dr. surtaine's head, and stalking across to hal's desk, slapped down his proofs on it with a violence that jarred the whole structure. "you run that," he snarled, "or i'll hire the biggest hall in worthington and tell the whole town what i've just been telling you." his face, furrowed and threatening, was thrust down close to hal's. thus lowered, the eyes came level with a strip of print, pasted across the inner angle of the desk. "'whose bread i eat, his song i sing,'" he read. "what's that?" "a motto," said mcguire ellis. "the complete guide to correct journalistic conduct. put there, lest we forget." "h'm!" said mcquiggan, puzzled. "it's in the right place, all right, all right. well, does my ad. go?" "no," said hal. "but i'm much obliged to you, mcquiggan." "you go to hell. what're you obliged to me for?" said the visitor suspiciously. "for the truth. i think you've told it to me. anyway you've made me tell it to myself." "i guess i ain't told you much you don't know about your snide business." "you have, though. go ahead and hire your hall. but--take a look at to-morrow's 'clarion' before you make your speech. now, good-day to you." mcquiggan, wondering and a little subdued by a certain quiet resolution in hal's speech, went, beckoning ellis after him for explication. hal turned to his father. "i don't suppose," he began haltingly, "that you could have told me all this yourself." "what?" asked dr. surtaine, consciously on the defensive. "about the medical ads." "mcquiggan's a sore-head"--began the doctor. "but you might have told me about certina, as i've been living on certina money." "there's nothing to tell." all the self-assurance had gone out of the quack's voice. "father, does certina cure bright's disease?" "cure? why, boyee, what _is_ a cure?" "does it cure it?" insisted hal. "sit down and cool off. you've let that skunk, mcquiggan, get you all excited." "this began before mcquiggan." "then you've been talking to some jealous doctor-crank." "for god's sake, father, answer my plain question." "why, there's no such thing as an actual cure for bright's disease." "don't you say in the advertisements that certina will cure it?" "oh, advertisements!" returned the quack with an uneasy smile. "nobody takes an advertisement for gospel." "i'm answered. will it cure diabetes?" "no medicine will. no doctor can. they're incurable diseases. certina will do as much--" "is it true that alcohol simply hastens the course of the disease?" "authorities differ," said the quack warily. "but as the disease is incurable--" "then it's all lies! lies and murder!" "you're excited, boy-ee," said the charlatan with haggard forbearance. "let me explain for a moment." "isn't it pretty late for explanations between you and me?" "this is the gist of the proprietary trade," said the doctor, picking his words carefully. "most diseases cure themselves. medicine isn't much good. doctors don't know a great deal. now, if a patent medicine braces a patient up and gives him courage, it does all that can be done. then, the advertising inspires confidence in the cure and that's half the battle. there's a lot in christian science, and a lot in common between christian science and the proprietary business. both work on the mind and help it to cure the body. but the proprietary trade throws in a few drugs to brace up the system, allay symptoms, and push along the good work. there you have certina." hal shook his head in dogged misery. "it can't cure. you admit it can't cure. and it may kill, in the very cases where it promises to cure. how could you take money made that way?" a flash of cynicism hardened the handsome old face. "somebody's going to make a living off the great american sucker. if it wasn't us, it'd be somebody else." he paused, sighed, and in a phrase summed up and crystallized the whole philosophy of the medical quack: "life's a cut-throat game, anyway." "and we're living on the blood," said hal. "it's a good thing," he added slowly, "that i didn't know you as you are before milly neal's death." "why so?" "because," cried the son fiercely, "i'd have published the whole truth of how she died and why, in the 'clarion.'" "it isn't too late yet," retorted dr. surtaine with pained dignity, "if you wish to strike at the father who hasn't been such a bad father to you. but would you have told the truth of your part in it?" "my part in it?" repeated hal, in dull puzzlement. "you mean the ad?" "you know well enough what i mean. boy-ee, boy-ee,"--there was an edge of genuine agony in the sonorous voice,--"we've drawn far apart, you and i. is all the wrong on my side? can you judge me so harshly, with your own conscience to answer?" "what i've got on my conscience you've put there. you've made me turn back on every principle i have. i've dishonored myself and my office for you. you've cost me the respect of the men i work with, and the faith of the best friend i've got in the world." "the _best_ friend, boy-ee?" questioned the doctor gently. "the best friend: mcguire ellis." hal's gaze met his father's. and what he saw there all but unmanned him. from the liquid depths of the old quack's eyes, big and soft like an animal's, there welled two great tears, to trickle slowly down the set face. hal turned and stumbled from the office. hardly knowing whither he went, he turned in at the first open door, which chanced to be shearson's. there he sat until his self-control returned. as the aftermath of his anger there remained with him a grim determination. it was implicit in his voice, as he addressed shearson, who walked in upon him. "cut out every line of medical from the paper." "when?" gasped shearson. "now. for to-morrow's paper." "but, mr. surtaine--" "every--damned--line. and if any of it ever gets back, the man responsible loses his job." "yes, sir," said the cowed and amazed shearson. hal returned to his sanctum, to find ellis in his own place and dr. surtaine gone. "ellis, you put that motto on my desk." "yes." "what for?" "lest we forget," repeated ellis. "not much danger of that," replied his employer bitterly. "now, i want you to take it down." "is that an order?" "would you obey it if it were?" "no." "you'd resign first?" "yes." "then i'll take it down myself." with his letter-opener he pried the offensive strip loose, tore it across thrice, and scattered the pieces on the floor. "mr. ellis," said he formally, "hereafter no medical advertising will be accepted for or published in the 'clarion.' the same rule applies to fraudulent advertising of any kind. i wish you and the other members of the staff to act as censors for the advertising." "yes, sir," said mcguire ellis. he turned back to his desk, and sprawled his elbows on it. his head lapsed lower and lower until it attained the familiar posture of rest. but mcguire ellis was not sleeping. he was thinking. chapter xxxi the voice of the prophet two hundred and fifty representative citizens, mostly of the business type, with a sprinkling of other occupations not including physicians, sat fanning themselves into a perspiration in the chamber of commerce assembly rooms, and wondering what on earth an emergency health meeting might be. congressman brett harkins, a respectable nonentity, who was presiding, had refrained from telling them: deliberately, it would appear, as his speech had dealt vaguely with the greatness of worthington's material prosperity, now threatened--if one might credit his theory--by a combination of senseless panic and reckless tongues; and had concluded by stating that mr. william douglas, one of the leaders of our bar, as all the chairman's hearers well knew, would explain the situation and formulate a plan for the meeting's consideration. explanation, however, did not prove to be mr. william douglas's forte. coached by that practiced diplomat, certina charley, he made a speech memorable chiefly for what it did not say. the one bright, definite gleam, amidst rolling columns of oratory, was the proposal that an emergency committee of one hundred be appointed to cope with the situation, that the initial sum of twenty-five thousand dollars be pledged by subscription, and that their distinguished fellow citizen, dr. l. andré surtaine, be permanent chairman of said committee, with power to appoint. dr. surtaine had generously offered to subscribe ten thousand dollars to the fund. (loud and prolonged applause; the word "thousand" preceding the word "dollars" and itself preceded by any numeral from one to one million, inclusive, being invariably provocative of acclaim in a subscription meeting of representative citizens.) mr. douglas took pride in nominating that midas of medicine, dr. surtaine. (more and louder applause.) the reverend dr. wales, of dr. surtaine's church, sonorously seconded the nomination. so did hollis myers, of the security power products company. so, a trifle grumpily, did elias m. pierce. also col. parker, editor of the "telegram," aaron scheffler, of scheffler and mintz, and councilman carlin. the presiding officer inquired with the bland indifference of the assured whether there were any further nominations. there were not. but turning in his second-row seat, festus willard, who was too important a figure commercially to leave out, though dr. surtaine had entertained doubts of his "soundness," demanded of mcguire ellis, seated just behind him, what it was all about. "ask the chairman," suggested ellis. "i will," said willard. he got up and did. the honorable brett harkins looked uncomfortable. he didn't really know what it was all about. moreover, it had been intimated to him that he'd perhaps better not know. he cast an appealing glance at douglas. "that is not exactly the question before the meeting," began douglas hastily. "it is the question i asked," persisted willard. "before we elect dr. surtaine or any one else chairman of a committee with a fund to spend, i want to know what the committee is for." "to cope with the health situation of the city." "very well. now we're getting somewhere. where's dr. merritt? i think we ought to hear from him on that point." murmurs of assent were heard about the room. dr. surtaine rose to his feet. "if i may be pardoned for speaking to a motion of which i am a part," he said in his profound and mellow voice. "i think i can throw light upon the situation. quite a number of us have observed with uneasiness the increase of sickness in worthington. sensationalists have gone so far as to whisper that there is an epidemic. i have myself made a rigid investigation. more than this, my son, mr. harrington surtaine, has placed the resources of the 'clarion' staff at our disposal, and on the strength of both inquiries, i am prepared to assure this gathering that nothing like an epidemic exists." "well, i _am_ damned!" was mcguire ellis's astounded and none too low-voiced comment upon this bold perversion of the "clarion" enterprise. stretching upward from his seat he looked about for hal. the young editor sat in a far corner, his regard somberly intent upon the speaker. "alarm there has undoubtedly been, and is," pursued dr. surtaine. "to find means to allay it is the purpose of the meeting. we must remove the cause. both our morbidity and our mortality rate, though now retrograding, have been excessive for several weeks, especially in the rookeries district. there has been a prevalence of malaria of a severe type, which, following last winter's epidemic of grip, has proven unusually fatal. dr. merritt believes that he can wipe out the disease quietly if a sufficient sum is put at his disposal." this was not authoritative. merritt had declined to commit himself, but dr. surtaine was making facts of his hopes. "in this gathering it is hardly necessary for me to refer to the municipal importance of old home week and to the damage to its prospects which would be occasioned by any suspicion of epidemic," continued the speaker. "whatever may be the division of opinion as to methods, we are surely unanimous in wishing to protect the interests of the centennial celebration. and this can best be done through a committee of representative men, backing the constituted health authorities, without commotion or disturbance. have i answered your doubts, mr. willard?" he concluded, turning a brow of benign inquiry upon that gentleman. "not wholly," said festus willard. "i've heard it stated on medical authority that there is some sort of plague in the rookeries." a murmur of inquiry rose. "plague? what kind of plague?"--"who says so?"--"does he mean bubonic?"--"no doctor that knows his business--"--"they say doctors are shut out of the rookeries."--"order! order!" through the confusion cleaved the edged voice of e.m. pierce, directed to the chairman: "shut that off." a score took the cue. "question! question!" they cried. "do i get an answer to my question?" persisted willard. "what is your question?" asked the harassed chairman. "is there a pestilence in the rookeries? if so, what is its nature?" "there is not," stated dr. surtaine from his seat. "who ever says there is, is an enemy to our fair and healthy city." this noble sentiment, delivered with all the impressiveness of which the old charlatan was master, roused a burst of applause. to its rhythm there stalked down the side aisle and out upon the rostrum the gaunt figure of the reverend norman hale. "mr. chairman," he said. "how did that fellow get here?" dr. surtaine asked of douglas. "we invited all the ministers," was the low response. "i understood he was seriously ill." "he is a trouble-maker. tell harkins not to let him talk." douglas spoke a word in the chairman's ear. "there's a motion before the house--i mean the meeting," began congressman harkins, when the voice behind him cut in again, hollow and resonant: "mr. chairman." "do you wish to speak to the question?" asked the chairman uncertainly. "i do." "no, no!" called douglas. "out of order. question!" voices from the seats below supported him. but there were other calls for a hearing for the newcomer. curiosity was his ally. the meeting anticipated a sensation. the chairman, lacking a gavel, hammered on the stand with a tumbler, and presently produced a modified silence, through which the voice of the reverend norman hale could be heard saying that he wished but three minutes. he stepped to the edge of the platform, and the men below noticed for the first time that he carried in his right hand a wreath of metal-mounted, withered flowers. there was no mistaking the nature of the wreath. it was such as is left lying above the dead for wind and rain to dissipate. hale raised it slowly above his head. the silence in the hall became absolute. "i brought these flowers from a girl's grave," said the reverend norman hale. "the girl had sinned. death was the wage of her sin. she died by her own hand. so her offense is punished. that account is closed." "what has all this to do--" began the chairman; but he stopped, checked by a wave of sibilant remonstrance from the audience. the speaker went on, with relentless simplicity, still holding the mortuary symbol aloft:-- "but there is another account not yet closed. the girl was deceived. not by the father of her unborn child. that is a different guilt, to be reckoned with in god's own time. the deception for which she has paid with her life was not the deception of hot passion, but of cold greed. a man betrayed her, as he has betrayed thousands of other unfortunates, to put money into his own pockets. he promised her immunity. he said to her and to all women, in print, that she need not fear motherhood if she would buy his medicine. she believed the promise. she paid her dollar. and she found, too late, that it was a lie. "so she went to the man. she knew him. and she determined either that he should help her or that she would be revenged on him. all this she told me in a note, to be opened in case of her death. he must have refused to help. he had not the criminal courage to produce the abortion which he falsely promised in his advertisements. what passed between them i do not know. but i believe that she attempted to kill him and failed. she attempted to kill herself and succeeded. the blood of camilla neal is on every cent of dr. surtaine's ten-thousand-dollar subscription." he tossed the wreath aside. it rolled, clattering and clinking, and settled down at the feet of the midas of medicine who stared at it with a contorted face. the meeting sat stricken into immovability. it seemed incredible that the tensity of the silence should not snap. yet it held. "i shall vote 'no' on the motion," said the reverend norman hale, still with that quiet and appalling simplicity. "i came here from a hand-to-hand struggle with death to vote 'no.' i have strength for only a word more. the city is stricken with typhus. it is no time for concealment or evasion. we are at death-grips with a very dreadful plague. it has broken out of the rookeries district. there are half a dozen new foci of infection. in the face of this, silence is deadly. if you elect dr. surtaine and adopt his plan, you commit yourself to an alliance with fraud and death. you deceive and betray the people who look to you for leadership. and there will be a terrible price to pay in human lives. i thank you for hearing me patiently." no man spoke for long seconds after the young minister sat down, wavering a little as he walked to a chair at the rear. but through the representative citizenship of worthington, in that place gathered, passed a quiver of sound, indeterminate, obscure, yet having all the passion of a quelled sob. eyes furtively sought the face of dr. surtaine. but the master-quack remained frozen by the same bewilderment as his fellows. perhaps alone in that crowd, elias m. pierce remained untouched emotionally. he rose, and his square granite face was cold as abstract reason. there was not even feeling enough in his voice to give the semblance of a sneer to his words as he said: "all this is very well in its place, and doubtless does credit to the sentimental qualities of the speaker. but it is not evidence. it is an unsupported statement, part of which is admittedly conjecture. allowing the alleged facts to be true, are we to hold a citizen of dr. surtaine's standing and repute responsible for the death of a woman caused by her own immorality? the woman whose death mr. hale has turned to such oratorical account was, i take it, a prostitute--" "that is a damned lie!" hal surtaine came down the aisle in long strides, speaking as he came. "milly neal was my employee and my father's employee. if she went astray once, who are you to judge her? who are any of us to judge her? i took part of that blood-money. the advertisement was in my paper, paid for with surtaine money. what mr. hale says is the living truth. no man shall foul her memory in my hearing." "and what was she to you? you haven't told us that yet?" there was a rancid sneer in pierce's insinuation. hal turned from the aisle and went straight for him. a little man rose in his way. it was mintz, who had given him the heartening word after the committee meeting. in his blind fury hal struck him a staggering blow. but the little jew was plucky. he closed with the younger man, and clinging to him panted out his good advice. "don'd fighd 'im, nod here. it's no good. go to the pladform an' say your say. we'll hear you." but it was impossible to hear any one now. uproar broke loose. men shouted, stormed, cursed; the meeting was become a rabble. above the din could be distinguished at intervals the voice of the honorable brett harkins, who, in frantic but not illogical reversion to the idea of a political convention, squalled for the services of the sergeant-at-arms. there was no sergeant-at-arms. mintz's pudgy but clogging arms could restrain an athlete of hal's power only a brief moment; but in that moment sanity returned to the fury-heated brain. "i beg your pardon, mintz," he said; "you're quite right. i thank you for stopping me." he returned to the aisle, pressing forward, with what purpose he could hardly have said, when he felt the sinewy grasp of mcguire ellis on his shoulder. "tell 'em the whole thing," fiercely urged ellis. "be a man. own up to the whole business, between you and the girl." "i don't know what you mean!" cried hal. "don't be young," groaned ellis; "you've gone halfway. clean it up. then we can face the situation with the 'clarion.' tell 'em you were her lover." "milly's? i wasn't. it was veltman." "good god of mercy!" "did you think--" "yes;--lord forgive me! why didn't you tell me?" "how could i tell you suspected--" "all right! i know. we'll talk it out later. the big thing now is, what's the paper going to do about this meeting?" "print it." into ellis's face flashed the fervor of the warrior who sees victory loom through the clouds of hopeless defeat. "you mean that?" "every word of it. and run the epidemic spread--" before he could finish, ellis was fighting his way to a telephone. hal met his father's eyes, and turned away with a heartsick sense that, in the one glance, had passed indictment, conviction, a hopeless acquiescence, and the dumb reproach of the trapped criminal against avenging justice. he turned and made for the nearest exit, conscious of only two emotions, a burning desire to be away from that place and a profound gladness that, without definite expression of the change, the bitter alienation of mcguire ellis was past. as hal left, there arose, out of the turmoil, one clear voice of reason: the thundering baritone of festus willard moving an adjournment. it passed, and the gathering slowly dispersed. avoiding the offered companionship of congressman harkins and douglas, dr. surtaine took himself off by a side passage. at the end of it, alone, stood the reverend norman hale, leaning against the sill of an open window. the old quack rushed upon him. "keep off!" warned the young minister, throwing himself into an attitude of defense. "no, no," protested dr. surtaine: "don't think i meant _that_. i--i want to thank you." "thank _me_?" the minister put his hand to his head. "i don't understand." "for leaving my boy out of it." "oh! that. i didn't see the necessity of dragging him in." "that was kind. you handled me pretty rough. well, i'm used to rough work. but the boy--look here, you knew all about this milly neal business, didn't you?" "yes." "maybe you could tell me," went on the old quack miserably. "i can understand hal's getting into a--an affair with the girl--being kinda carried away and losing his head. what i can't get is his--his quittin' her when she was in trouble." "i still don't understand," protested the minister. "my head isn't very good. i've been ill, you know." "you let him off without telling his name to-night. and that made me think maybe he wasn't in wrong so far as i thought. maybe there were--what-ye-call-'em?--mitigating circumstances. were there?" a light broke in upon the reverend norman hale. "did you think your son was milly neal's lover? he wasn't." "are you sure?" gasped the father. "as sure as of my faith in heaven." the old man straightened up, drawing a breath so profound that it seemed to raise his stature. "i wouldn't take a million dollars for that word," he declared. "but your own part in this?" queried the other in wonderment. "i hated to have to say--" "what does it matter?" "you have no concern for yourself?" puzzled the minister. "oh, i'll come out on top. i always come out on top. what got to my heart was my boy. i thought he'd gone wrong. and now i know he hasn't." the old charlatan's strong hand fell on his assailant's shoulder, then slipped down supportingly under his arm. "you look pretty shaky," said he with winning solicitude. "let me take you home in my car. it's waiting outside." the reverend norman hale accepted, marveling greatly over the complex miracle of the soul of man--who is formed in the image of his maker. chapter xxxii the warning tradition of the "clarion" office embalms "the evening the typhus story broke" as a nightmare out of which was born history. chronologically, according to the veracious records of bim the guardian of portals, the tumult began at exactly . , with the arrival of mr. mcguire ellis, traveling up the staircase five steps at a jump and calling in a strangled voice for wayne. that usually controlled journalist rushed out of an inner room in alarm, demanding to know whether new york city had been whelmed with a tidal wave or the king of england murdered in his bed, and in an instant was struggling in the grasp of his fellow editor. "what's left of the epidemic spread?" demanded the new arrival breathlessly. "the killed story?" "what's left of it?" clamored ellis, dancing all over his colleague's feet. "can you find the copy? notes? anything?" "proofs," said wayne. "i saved a set." ellis sat down in a chair and regarded his underling with an expression of stupefied benevolence. "wayne," he said, "you're a genius. you're the fine flower and perfect blossom of american journalism. i love you, wayne. with passionate fervor, i love you. now, _gitta move on_!!!" his voice soared and exploded. "we're going to run it to-morrow!" "to-morrow? how? it isn't up to date. nobody's touched it since--" "bring it up to date! fire every man in the office out on it. tear the hide off the old paper and smear the story all over the front page. haul in your eyes and _start_!" the whirl of what ensued swamped even bim's cynic and philosophic calm. amidst a buzz of telephones and a mighty scurrying of messengers the staff of the "clarion" was gathered into the fold, on a "drop-everything" emergency call, and instantly dispersed again to the hospitals, the homes of the health officials, the undertakers' establishments, the cemeteries, and all other possible sources of information. the composing-room seethed and clanged. copy-readers yelled frantically through tubes, and received columns of proofs which, under the ruthless slaughter of their blue pencils, returned as "stickfuls," that room might be made for the great story. cable news was slashed right and left. telegraph "skeletons" waited in vain for their bones to be clothed with the flesh of print. the home advice department sank with all on board, and the most popular sensational preacher in town, who had that evening made a stirring anti-suffrage speech full of the most unfailing jokes, fell out of the paper and broke his heart. the carnage in news was general and frightful. two pages plus of a story that "breaks" after p.m. calls for heroic measures. at . mr. harrington surtaine arrived, hardly less tempestuously than his predecessor. he did not even greet bim as he passed through the gate, which was unusual; but went direct to ellis. "can we do it, mac?" "the epidemic story? yes. there was a proof saved." "good. can you do the story of the meeting?" ellis hesitated. "all of it?" "every bit. leave out nothing." "hadn't you better think it over?" "i've thought." "it'll hit the old--your father pretty hard." "i can't help it." a surge of human pity overswept ellis's stimulated journalistic keenness. "you don't _have_ to do this, hal," he suggested. "no other paper--" "i do have to do it," retorted the other. "and worse." ellis stared. "i've got to print the story of milly's death: the facts just as they happened. and i've got to write it myself." the professional zest surged up again in mcguire ellis. "my lord!" he exclaimed. "_what a paper to-morrow's 'clarion' will be!_ but why? why? why the neal story--now?" "because i can't print the epidemic spread unless i print the other. i've given my word. i told my father if ever i suppressed news for my own protection, i'd give up the fight and play the game like all the other papers. i've tried it. mac, it isn't my game." "no," replied his subordinate in a curious tone, "it isn't your game." "you'll write the meeting?" "yes." "save out a column for my story." ellis returned to wayne at the news desk. "hell's broke loose at the emergency health meeting," he remarked, employing the conventional phrasing of his craft. and wayne, in the same language, inquired: "how much?" "two columns. and a column from the boss on another story." "whew!" whistled wayne. "we _shall_ have some paper." from midnight until . in the morning the reporters on the great story dribbled in. each, as he arrived, said a brief word to wayne, got a curt direction, slumped into his seat, and silently wrote. it was all very methodical and quiet and orderly. a really big news event always is after the first disturbance of adjustment. newspaper offices work smoothest when the tension is highest. at . a.m. bim received two flurried aldermen and the head of a city department. at . he held spirited debate with the deputy commissioner of health. just as the clock struck one, two advertising managers, arriving neck and neck, merged their appeals in an ineffectual attempt to obtain information from the youthful cerberus, which he loftily declined to furnish, as to the whereabouts of anyone with power to ban or bind, on the "clarion." at . the guardian of the gate had the honor and pleasure of meeting, for the first time, his honor the mayor of the city. finally, at . he "took a chance," as he would have put it, and, misliking the autocratic deportment of a messenger from e.m. pierce, told that emissary that he could tell mr. pierce exactly where to go to--and go there himself. all the while, unmoved amidst protestation, appeal, and threat, the steady news-machine went on grinding out unsuppressible history for itself and its city. sharp to the regular hour, the presses clanged, and the building thrilled through its every joint to the pulse of print. hal surtaine rose from his desk and walked to the window. mcguire ellis also rose, walked over and stood near him. "three pretty big beats to-morrow," he said awkwardly, at length. "the milly neal story won't be a beat," replied hal. "no? how's that?" "i've sent our proofs to all the other papers." "well, i'm--what's the idea? "we lied to them about the story in the first instance. they played fair, according to the rules, and took our lie. we can't beat 'em on our own story, now." "right you are. bet none of 'em prints it, though." wherein he was a true prophet. there was a long, uneasy pause. "hal," said ellis hesitantly. "well?" "i'm a fool." the white weariness of hal's face lit up with a smile. "why, mac--" he began. "a pin-head," persisted the other stubbornly. "a block of solid ivory from the collar up. i'm--i'm _young_ in the head," he concluded, with supreme effort of self-condemnation. "it's all right," said his chief, perfectly knowing what ellis meant. "have i said enough?" "plenty." "you didn't put veltman in your story?" "no. what was the good?" "that's right, too." "good-night, mac, i'm for the hotel." "good-night, hal. see you in the morning." "yes. i'll be around early." ellis's eyes followed his chief out through the door. he returned to his desk and sat thinking. he saw, with pitiless clearness, the storm gathering over the "clarion": the outburst of public hostility, the depletion of advertisers and subscribers, the official opposition closing avenues of information, the disastrous probabilities of the pierce libel suits, now soon to be pushed; and his undaunted spirit of a crusader rose and lusted for the battle. "they may lick us," he said to his paste-pot, the recipient of many a bitter confidence and thwarted hope in the past; "but we'll show 'em what a real newspaper is, for once. and"--his eyes sought the door through which hal surtaine had passed--"i've got this much out of it, anyway: i've helped a boy make himself a man." ten thousand extra copies sped from the new and wonder-working press of the "clarion" that night, to be absorbed, swallowed, engulfed by a mazed populace. in all the city there was perhaps not a man, woman, or child who, by the following evening, had not read or heard of the "clarion's" exposure of the epidemic--except one. max veltman lay, senseless to all this, between stupor and a fevered delirium in which the spirit of milly neal called on him for delayed vengeance. chapter xxxiii the good fight earthquake or armed invasion could scarce have shocked staid worthington more profoundly than did the "clarion's" exposure. of the facts there could be no reasonable doubt. the newspaper's figures were specific, and its map of infection showed no locality exempt. the city had wakened from an untroubled sleep to find itself poisoned. as an immediate result of the journalistic tocsin, the forebodings of dr. surtaine and his associates as to the effects of publicity bade fair to be justified. undeniably there was danger of the disease scattering, through the medium of runaways from the stricken houses. but the "clarion" had its retort pat for the tribe of "i-told-you-so," admitting the prospect of some primary harm to save a great disaster later. more than one hundred lives, it pointed out, giving names and dates, had already been sacrificed to the shibboleth of secrecy; the whole city had been imperiled; the disease had set up its foci of infection in a score of places, and there were some three hundred cases, in all, known or suspected. one method only could cope with the situation: the fullest public information followed by radical hygienic measures. of information there was no lack. so tremendous a news feature could not be kept out of print by the other dailies, all of whom now admitted the presence of the pestilence, while insisting that its scope had been greatly exaggerated, and piously deprecating the "sensationalism" of their contemporary. thus the city administration was forced to action. an appropriation was voted to the health bureau. dr. merritt, seizing his opportunity, organized a quarantine army, established a detention camp and isolation hospital, and descended upon the tenement districts, as terrible (to the imagination of the frantic inhabitants) as a malevolent god. the emergency health committee, meantime, died and was forgotten overnight. something not unlike panic swept the rookeries. wild rumors passed from mouth to mouth, growing as they went. a military cordon, it was said, was to be cast about the whole ward and the people pent up inside to die. refugees were to be shot on sight. the infected buildings were to be burned to the ground, and the tenants left homeless. the water-supply was to be poisoned, to get rid of the exposed--had already been poisoned, some said, and cited sudden mysterious deaths. such savage imaginings of suspicion as could spring only from the ignorant fears of a populace beset by a secret and deadly pest, roused the district to a rat-like defiance. such of the residents as were not home-bound by the authorities, growled in saloon back rooms and muttered in the streets. hatred of the "clarion" was the burden of their bitterness. two of its reporters were mobbed in the hard-hit ward, the day after the publication of the first article. nor was the paper much better liked elsewhere. it was held responsible for all the troubles. though the actuality of the quarantine fell far short of the expectant fears, still there was a mighty turmoil. families were separated, fugitives were chased down and arrested, and close upon the heels of the primary harassment came the threat of economic complications, as factories and stores all over the city, for their own protection, dismissed employees known to live within the near range of the pestilence. in the minds of the sufferers from these measures and of their friends, the "clarion" was an enemy to the public. but it was read with avid impatience, for wayne, working on the principle that "it is news and not evil that stirs men," contrived to find some new sensational development for every issue. do what the rival papers might, the "clarion" had and held the windward course. representative business, that great mogul of worthington, was, of course, outraged by the publication. hal surtaine was an ill bird who had fouled his own nest. the wires had carried the epidemic news to every paper in the country, and worthington was proclaimed "unclean" to the ears of all. the old home week committee on arrangements held a hasty meeting to decide whether the celebration should be abandoned or postponed, but could come to no conclusion. denunciation of the "clarion" for its course was the sole point upon which all the speakers agreed. also there was considerable incidental criticism of its editor, as an ingrate, for publishing the article on milly neal's death which reflected so severely upon dr. surtaine. as the paper had been bought with dr. surtaine's hard cash, the least hal could have done, in decency, was to refrain from "roasting" the source of the money. such was the general opinion. the representative business intellect of worthington failed to consider that the article had been confined rigidly to a statement of facts, and that any moral or ethical inference must be purely a derivative of those facts as interpreted by the reader. several of those present at the meeting declared vehemently that they would never again either advertise in or read the "clarion." there was even talk of a boycott. one member was so incautious as to condole with dr. surtaine upon his son's disloyalty. the old quack's regard fell upon his tactless comforter, dull and heavy as lead. "my son is my son," said he; "and what's between us is our own business. now, as to old home week, it'll be time enough to give up when we're licked." and, adroit opportunist that he was, he urged upon the meeting that they support the health bureau as the best hope of clearing up the situation. amongst the panic-stricken, meanwhile, moved and worked the volunteer forces of hygiene, led by the reverend norman hale. weakened and unfit though he was, he could not be kept from the battle-ground, notwithstanding that dr. merritt, fearing for his life, had threatened him with kidnaping and imprisonment in the hospital. at hale's right hand were esmé elliot and kathleen pierce. there had been one scene at greenvale approaching violence on dr. elliot's part and defiance on that of his niece when her guardian had flatly forbidden the continuance of her slum work. it had ended when the girl, creeping up under the guns of his angry eyes, had dropped her head on his shoulder, and said in unsteady tones:-- "i--i'm not a very happy esmé, uncle guardy. if i don't have something to do--something real--i'll--i'll c-c-cry and get my pretty nose all red." "quit it!" cried the gruff doctor desperately. "what d'ye mean by acting that way! go on. do as you like. but if merritt lets anything happen to you--" "nothing will happen, guardy. i'll be careful," promised the girl. "well, i don't know whatever's come over you, lately," retorted her uncle, troubled. "neither do i," said esmé. she went forth and enlisted kathleen pierce, whose energetic and restless mind was ensnared at once by what she regarded as the romantic possibilities of the work, and the two gathered unto themselves half a dozen of the young males of the species, who readily volunteered, partly for love and loyalty to the chieftainesses of their clan, partly out of the blithe and adventurous spirit of youth, and of them formed an automobile corps, for scouting, messenger service, and emergency transportation, as auxiliary to hale and merritt; an enterprise which subsequently did yeoman work and taught several of the gilded youth something about the responsibilities of citizenship which they would never have learned in any other school. tip o'farrell was another invaluable aide. he had one brief encounter, on enlistment, with the health officer. "you ought to be in jail," said dr. merritt. "what fer?" demanded o'farrell. "smuggling out bodies without a permit." "ferget it," advised the politician. "i tried my way, an' it wasn't good enough. now i'll try yours. you can't afford to jug me." "why can't i?" "i'm too much use to you." "so far you've been just the other thing." "ain't i tellin' you i'm through with that game? on the level! doc, these poor boobs down here _know_ me. they'll do as i tell 'em. gimme a chance." so o'farrell, making his chance, did his work faithfully and well through the dismal weeks to follow. it takes all kinds of soldiers to fight an epidemic. those two sturdy volunteers, miss elliot and miss pierce, were driving slowly along the fringe of the rookeries,--yes, slowly, notwithstanding that kathleen pierce was acting as her own chauffeur,--having just delivered a consignment of emergency nurses from a neighboring city to dr. merritt, when the car slowed down. "did you see that?" inquired miss pierce, indicating, with a jerk of her head, the general topography off to starboard. "see what?" inquired her companion. "i didn't notice anything except a hokey-pokey seller, adding his mite to the infant mortality of the district." "esmé, you talk like nothing human lately!" accused her friend. "you're a--a--regular health leaflet! i meant that man going into the corner tenement. i believe it was hal surtaine." "was it?" "and you needn't say, 'was it?' in that lofty, superior tone, like an angel with a new halo, either," pursued her aggrieved friend. "you know it was. what do you suppose he's doing down here?" "the epidemic is the 'clarion's special news. he spends quite a little time in this district, i believe." "oh, you believe! then you've seen him lately?" "yes." miss pierce stared rigidly in front of her and made a detour of magnificent distance to avoid a push-cart which wasn't in her way anyhow. "esmé," she said. "yes?" "did you give me away to him?" "no. he didn't give me an opportunity." "oh!" there was more silence. then, "esmé, i was pretty rotten about that, wasn't i?" "why, kathie, i think you ought to have written to him." "i meant to write and own up, no matter if i did tell you i wouldn't. but i kept putting it off. esmé, did you notice how thin and worn he looks?" the other winced. "he's had a great deal to worry him." "well, he hasn't got our lawsuit to worry him any more. that's off." "off?" a light flashed into esmé's face. "your father has dropped it?" "yes. he had to. i told him the accident was my fault, and if i was put on the stand i'd say so. i'm not so popular with pop as i might be, just now. but, esmé, i _didn't_ mean to run away and leave her in the gutter. i got rattled, and brother was crying and i lost my head." "that will save the 'clarion,'" said esmé, with a deep breath. kathleen looked at her curiously, and then made a singular remark. "yes; that's what i did it for." "but what interest have you in saving the 'clarion'?" demanded esmé, bewildered. "the failure of the 'clarion' would be a disaster to the city," observed miss pierce in copy-book style. "kathie! you should make two jabs in the air with your forefinger when you quote. otherwise you're a plagiarist. let me see." esmé pondered. "hugh merritt," she decided. kathleen kept her eyes steady ahead, but a flood of color rose in her face. "i had an awful fight over it with him before--before i gave in," she said. "are you going to marry hugh?" demanded esmé bluntly. the color deepened until even the velvety eyes seemed tinged with it. "i don't know. _he_ isn't exactly popular with pop, either." esmé reached over and gave her friend a surreptitious little hug, which might have cost a crossing pedestrian his life if he hadn't been a brisk dodger. "hugh merritt is a _man_," said she in a low voice: "he's brave and he's straight and he's fine. and oh, kathie, dearest, if a man of that kind loves you, don't you ever, ever let anything come between you." "hello!" said kathleen in surprise. "that don't sound much like the great american man-eating pumess of yore. there's been a big change in you since you sidetracked will douglas, esmé. did you really care? no, of course, you didn't," she answered herself. "he's a nice chap, but he isn't particularly brave or fine, i guess." a light broke in upon her: "esmé! is it, after all--" "no, no, no, no, no!" cried the victim of this highly feminine deduction, in panic. "it isn't any one." "no, of course it isn't, dear. i didn't mean to tease you. hello! what have we here?" the car stopped with a jar on a side street, some distance from the quarantined section. seated on the curb a woman was wailing over the stiffened form of a young child. the boy's teeth were clenched and his face darkly suffused. "convulsions," said esmé. the two girls were out of the car simultaneously. the agonized mother, an italian, was deaf to esmé's persuasions that the child be turned over to them. "what shall we do?" she asked, turning to kathleen in dismay. "i think he's dying, and i can't make the woman listen." something of her father's stern decisiveness of character was in kathleen pierce. "don't be a fool!" she said briskly to the mother, and she plucked the child away from her. "start the car, esmé." the woman began to shriek. a crowd gathered. o'farrell providentially appeared from around a corner. "grab her, you," she directed o'farrell. the politician hesitated. "what's the game?" he began. then he caught sight of esmé. "oh, it's you, miss elliot. sure. hi! can it!" he shouted, fending off the distracted mother. "they'll take the kid to the hospital. see? you go along quiet, now." speeding beyond all laws, but under protection of their red cross, they all but ran down dr. merritt and stopped to take him in. he confirmed esmé's diagnosis. "it'll be touch and go whether we save him," said he. esmé carried the stricken child into the hospital ward. the two volunteers waited outside for word. in an hour it came. the boy would probably live, thanks to their promptitude. "but you ought not to be picking up chance infants around the district," he protested. "it isn't safe." "oh, we belong to the st. bernard tribe," retorted miss pierce. "we take 'em as we find 'em. hugh, come and lunch with us." the grayish young man looked at her wistfully. "haven't time," he said. "no: i didn't suppose you'd step aside from the thorny path, even to eat," she retorted; and esmé, hearing the new tone under the flippant words, knew that all was well with the girl, and envied her with a great and gentle envy. chapter xxxiv vox populi these were the days when hal surtaine worked with a sense of wild freedom from all personal bonds. he had definitely broken with his father. he had challenged every interest in worthington from which there was anything to expect commercially. he had peremptorily banished esmé elliot from his heart and his hopes, though she still forced entrance to his thoughts and would not be denied, there, the precarious rights of an undesired guest. he was now simply and solely a journalist with a mind single to his purpose, to go down fighting the best fight there was in him. defeat, he believed, was practically certain. he would make it a defeat of which no man need be ashamed. the handling of the epidemic news, hal left to his colleagues, devoting his own pen to a vigorous defense of the "clarion's" position and assertion of its policy, in the editorial columns. concealment and suppression, he pointed out, had been the chief factor in the disastrous spread of the contagion. early recognition of the danger and a frank fighting policy would have saved most of the sacrificed lives. the blame lay, not with those who had disclosed the peril, but with those who had fostered it by secrecy; probing deeper into it, with those who had blocked such reform of housing and sanitation as would have checked a filth disease like typhus. in time this would be indicated more specifically. tenements which netted twelve per cent to their owners and bred plagues, the "clarion" observed editorially, were good private but poor public investments. whereupon a number of highly regarded christian citizens began to refer to the editor as an anarchist. the "clarion" principle of ascertaining "the facts behind the news" had led naturally to an inquiry into ownership of the rookeries. wayne had this specifically in charge and reported sensational results from the first. "it'll be a corking follow-up feature," he said. "later we can hitch it up to the housing reform bill." "make a fifth page full spread of it for monday." "with pictures of the owners," suggested wayne. "why not this way? make a triple lay-out for each one. first, a picture of the tenement with the number of deaths and cases underneath. then the half-tone of the owner. and, beyond, the picture of the house he lives in. that'll give contrast." "good!" said wayne. "fine and yellow." by sunday, four days after the opening story, all the material for the second big spread was ready except for one complication. some involution of trusteeship in the case of two freeholds in sadler's shacks, at the heart of the rookeries, had delayed access to the records. these two were number and number sperry street, the latter dubbed "the pest-egg" by the "clarion," as being the tenement in which the pestilence was supposed to have originated. these two last clues, wayne was sure, would be run down before evening. already the net of publicity had dragged in, among other owners of the dangerous property, a high city official, an important merchant, a lady much given to blatant platform philanthropies, and the reverend dr. wales's fashionable church. it was, indeed, a noble company of which the "clarion" proposed to make martyrs on the morrow. one man quite unconnected with any twelve per cent ownership, however, had sworn within his ravaged soul that there should be no morrow's "clarion." max veltman, four days previously, had crawled home to his apartment after a visit to the drug store where he had purchased certain acids. with these he worked cunningly and with complete absorption in his pursuit, neither stirring out of his own place nor communicating with any fellow being. consequently he knew nothing of the sensation which had convulsed worthington, nor of the "clarion's" change of policy. to his inflamed mind the surtaine organ was a noxious thing, and harrington surtaine the guilty partner in the profits of milly's death who had rejected the one chance to make amends. carrying a carefully wrapped bundle, he went forth into the streets on sunday evening, and wandered into the rookeries district. a red-necked man, standing on a barrel, was making a speech to a big crowd gathered at one of the corners. dimly-heard, the word "clarion" came to veltman's ears. "what's he saying?" he asked a neighbor. "he's roastin' the ---- ---- 'clarion,'" replied the man. "we ought to go up there an' tear the buildin' down." to veltman it seemed quite natural that popular rage should be directed toward the object of his hatred. he sat down weakly upon the curb and waited to see what would happen. another chance auditor of that speech did not wait. mcguire ellis stayed just long enough to scent danger, and hurried back to the office. "trouble brewing down in the rookeries," he told hal. "more than usual?" "different from the usual. there's a mob considering paying us a visit." "the new press!" exclaimed hal. "just what i was thinking. a rock or a bullet in its pretty little insides would cost money." "we'd better notify police headquarters." "i have. they gave me the laugh. told me it was a pipe-dream. they're sore on us because of our attack on the department for dodging saloon law enforcement." "i don't like this, mac," said hal. "what a fool i was to put the press in the most exposed place." "fortify it." "with what?" "the rolls." print-paper comes from the pulp-mills in huge cylinders, seven feet long by four in diameter. the highest-powered small arm could not send a bullet through the close-wrapped fabric. ellis's plan offered perfect protection if there was enough material to build the fortification. the entire pressroom force was at once set to work, and in half an hour the delicate and costly mechanism was protected behind an impenetrable barrier which shut it off from view except at the south end. the supply of rolls had fallen a little short. "let 'em smash the window if they like," said ellis. "plate-glass insurance covers that. i wish we had something for that corner." "with a couple of revolvers we could guard it from these windows," said hal. "but where are we to get revolvers on a sunday night?" "leave that to me," said ellis, and went out. hal, standing at the open second-story window, surveyed the strategic possibilities of the situation. his outer office jutting out into a narrow l overlooked, from a broad window, the empty space of the street. from the front he could just see the press, behind its plate-glass. this was set back some ten feet from the sidewalk line proper, and marking the outer boundary stood a row of iron posts of old and dubious origin, formerly connected by chains. hal had a wish that they were still so joined. they would have served, at least, as a hypothetical guard-line. the flagged and slightly depressed space between these and the front of the building, while actually of private ownership, had long been regarded as part of the thoroughfare. overlooking it from the north end, opposite hal's office, was another window, in the reference room. any kind of gunnery from those vantage-spots would guard the press. but would the mere threat of firing suffice? that is what hal wished to know. he had no desire to pump bullets into a close-packed crowd. on the other hand, he did not propose to let any mob ruin his property without a fight. his military reverie was interrupted by the entrance of bim currier, followed by dr. elliot. "why the fortification?" asked the latter. "we've heard rumors of a mob attack." "so've i. that's why i'm here. want any help?" "why, you're very kind," began hal dubiously; "but--" "rope off that space," cut in the brisk doctor, seizing, with a practiced eye, upon the natural advantage of the sentinel posts. "got any rope?" "yes. there's some in the pressroom. it isn't very strong." "no matter. moral effect. mobs always stop to think, at a line. i know. i've fought 'em before." "this is very good of you, to come--" "not a bit of it. i noticed what the 'clarion' did to its medical advertisers. i like your nerve. and i like a fight, in a good cause. have 'em paint up some signs to put along the ropes. 'danger.'--'keep out.'--'trespassers enter here at their peril'; and that sort of thing." "i'll do it," said hal, going to the telephone to give the orders. while he was thus engaged, mcguire ellis entered. "hello!" the physician greeted him. "what have you got there? revolvers?" "count 'em; two," answered ellis. "gimme one," said the visitor, helping himself to a long-barreled . . "here! that's for hal surtaine," protested ellis. "not by a jug-ful! he's too hot-headed. besides, can he afford to be in it if there _should_ be any serious trouble? think of the paper!" "you're right there," agreed ellis, struck by the keen sense of this view. "if they could lay a killing at his door, even in self-defense--" "pree-cisely! whereas, i don't intend to shoot unless i have to, and probably not then." they explained the wisdom of this procedure to hal, who reluctantly admitted it, agreeing to leave the weapons in the hands of dr. elliot and mcguire ellis. "put ellis here in this window. i'll hold the fort yonder." he pointed across the space to the reference room in the opposite l. "nine times out of ten a mob don't really--" he stopped abruptly, his face stiffening with surprise, and some other emotion, which hal for the moment failed to interpret. following the direction of his glance, the two other men turned. dr. surtaine, suave and smiling, was advancing across the floor. "ellis, how are you? good-evening, dr. elliot. ah! pistols?" "yes. have one?" invited ellis smoothly. "i brought one with me." he tugged at his pocket, whence emerged a cheap and shiny weapon. hal shuddered, recognizing it. it was the revolver which milly neal had carried. "so you've heard?" asked ellis. "ten minutes ago. i haven't any idea it will amount to much, but i thought i ought to be here in case of danger." dr. elliot grunted. ellis, suggesting that they take a look at the other defense, tactfully led him away, leaving father and son together. they had not seen each other since the emergency health committee meeting. something of the quack's glossy jauntiness faded out of his bearing as he turned to hal. "boy-ee," he began diffidently, "there's been a pretty bad mistake." "there's been worse than that," said hal sadly. "about milly neal. i thought--i thought it was you that got her into trouble." "why? for god's sake, why?" "don't be too hard on me," pleaded the other. "i'd heard about the road-house. and then, what she said to you. it all fitted in. hale put me right. boy-ee, i can sleep again, now that i know it wasn't you." the implication caught at hal's throat. "why, dad," he said lamely, "if you'd only come to me and asked--" "somehow i couldn't. i was waiting for you to tell me." he slid his big hand over hal's shoulder, and clutched him in a sudden, jerky squeeze, his face averted. "now, that's off our minds," he said, in a loud and hearty voice. "we can--" "wait a minute. father, you saw the story in the 'clarion,'--the story of milly's death?" "yes, i saw that." "well?" "i suppose you did what you thought was right, boy-ee." "i did what i had to do. i hated it." "i'm glad to know that much, anyway." "but i'd do it again, exactly the same." the doctor turned troubled eyes on his son. "hasn't there been enough judging of each other between you and me, boy-ee?" he asked sorrowfully. in wretched uncertainty how to meet this appeal, hal hesitated. he was saved from decision by the return of mcguire ellis. "no movement yet from the enemy's camp," he reported. "i just had a telephone from hale's club." "perhaps they won't come, after all," surmised hal. "there's pretty hot talk going. somebody's been helping along by serving free drinks." "now who could that be, i wonder?" "maybe some of our tenement-owning politician friends who aren't keen about having to-morrow's 'clarion' appear." "we ought to have a reporter down there, mac." "denton's there. well, as there's nothing doing, i'll tackle a little work." and seating himself at his desk beside the broad window ellis proceeded to annihilate some telegraph copy, fresh off the wire. with the big tenement story spread, the morrow's paper would be straitened for space. excusing himself to his father, hal stepped into his private office--and recoiled in uttermost amazement. there, standing in the further doorway, lovely, palpitant, with the color flushing in her cheeks and the breath fluttering in her throat, stood esmé elliot. "oh!" she gasped, stretching out her hands to him. "i've tried so to get you by 'phone. there's a mob coming--" "yes, i know," said hal gently. he led her to a chair. "we're ready for them." "are you? i'm so glad. i was afraid you wouldn't know in time." "how did you find out?" "i've been working with mr. hale down in the district. i heard rumors of it. then i listened to what the people said, and i hurried here in my car to warn you. they're drunk, and mean trouble." "that was good of you! i appreciate it." "no. it was a debt. i owed it to the 'clarion.' you've been--splendid about the typhus." "worthington doesn't look at it that way," returned hal, with a rather grim smile. "when they understand, they will." "perhaps. but, see here, you can't stay. there may be danger. it's awfully good of you to come. but you must get away." she looked at him sidelong. in her coming she had been the new esmé, the esmé who was norman hale's most unselfish and unsparing worker, the esmé who thought for others, all womanly. but, now that the strain had relaxed, she reverted, just a little, to her other self. it was, for the moment, the great american pumess who spoke:-- "won't you even say you're glad to see me?" "glad!" the echo leaped to his lips and the fire to his eyes as the old unconquered longing and passion surged over him. "i don't think i've known what gladness is since that night at your house." her eyes faltered away from his. "i don't think i quite understand," she said weakly; then, with a change to quick resolution:-- "there is something i must tell you. you have a right to know it. it's about the paper. will you come to see me to-morrow?" "yes. but go now. no! wait!" from without sounded a dull murmur pierced through with an occasional whoop, jubilant rather than threatening. "too late," said hal quietly. "they're coming." "i'm not afraid." "but i am--for you. stay in this room. if they should break into the building, go up those stairs and get to the roof. they won't come there." he went into the outer room, closing the door behind him. from both directions and down a side street as well the dwellers in the slums straggled into the open space in front of the "clarion" office. to hal they seemed casual, purposeless; rather prankish, too, like a lot of urchins out on a lark. several bore improvised signs, uncomplimentary to the "clarion." they seemed surprised when they encountered the rope barrier with its warning placards. there were mutterings and queries. "no serious harm in them," opined dr. elliot, to whom hal had gone to see whether he wanted anything. "just mischief. a few rocks maybe, and then they'll go home. look at old mac." opposite them, at his brilliantly lighted window desk, sat mcguire ellis, in full view of the crowd below, conscientiously blue-penciling telegraph copy. "hey, mac!" yelled an acquaintance in the street. "come down and have a drink." the associate editor lifted his head. "don't be young," he retorted. "go home and sleep it off." and reverted to his task. "what are we doin' here, anyway?" roared some thirster for information. nobody answered. but, thus recalled to a purpose, the mob pressed against the ropes. "ladies _and_ gentlemen!" a great, rounded voice boomed out above them, drawing every eye to the farthermost window where stood dr. surtaine, his chest swelling with ready oratory. "hooray!" yelled the crowd. "good old doc!"--"he pays the freight."--"speech!" "say, doc," bawled a waggish soul, "i gotta corn, marchin' up here. will certina cure it?" and another burst into the final lines of a song then popular; in which he was joined by several of his fellows: "father, he drinks seltzer. redoes, like hell! (_crescendo_.) he drinks cer-tee-nah!" "ladies _and_ gentlemen," boomed the wily charlatan. "unaccustomed as i am to _extempore_ speaking, i cannot let pass this opportunity to welcome you. we appreciate this testimonial of your regard for the 'clarion.' we appreciate, also, that it is a warm night and a thirsty one. therefore, i suggest that we all adjourn back to the old twelfth ward, where, if the authorities will kindly look the other way, i shall be delighted to provide liquid refreshments for one and all in which to drink to the health and prosperity of an enlightened free press." the crowd rose to him with laughter. "good old sport!"--"mine's certina."--"come down and make good."--"free booze, free speech, free press!"--"you're on, doc! you're on." "he's turned the trick," growled dr. elliot to hal. "he's a smooth one!" indeed, the crowd wavered, with that peculiar swaying which presages a general movement. at the south end there was a particularly dense gathering, and there some minor struggle seemed to be in progress. cries rose: "let him through."--"what's he want?" "it's max veltman," said hal, catching sight of a wild, strained face. "what is he up to?" the former "clarion" man squirmed through the front rank and crawled slowly under the ropes. above the murmur of confused tones, a voice of terror shrilled out: "he's got a bomb." the mass surged back from the spot. veltman, moving forward upon the unprotected south end of the press, was fumbling at his pocket. "i'll fix your free and enlightened press," he screamed. dr. elliot turned on hal with an imperative question. "is it true, do you think? will he do it? quick!" "crazy," said hal. "god forgive me!" prayed the ex-navy man as his arm whipped up. there were two quick reports. at the second, veltman stopped, half turned, threw his arms widely outward, and vanished in a blinding glare, accompanied by a gigantic _snap!_ as if a mountain of rock had been riven in twain. to hal it seemed that the universe had disintegrated in that concussion. blackness surrounded him. he was on the floor, half crouching, and, to his surprise, unhurt. groping his way to the window he leaned out above an appalling silence. it endured only a moment. then rose the terrible clamor of a mob in panic-stricken flight, above an insistent undertone of groans, sobs, and prayers. "i had to kill him," muttered dr. elliot's shaking voice at hal's ear. "there was just the one chance before he could throw his bomb." every light in the building had gone out. guiding himself by the light of matches, hal hurried across to his den. he heard esmé's voice before he could make her out, standing near the door. "is any one hurt?" hal breathed a great sigh. "you're all right, then! we don't know how bad it is." "an explosion?" "veltman threw a bomb. he's killed." "boy-ee!" called dr. surtaine. "here, dad. you're safe?" "yes." "thank god! careful with that match! the place is strewn with papers." men from below came hurrying in with candles, which are part of every newspaper's emergency equipment. they reported no serious injuries to the staff or the equipment. although the plate-glass window had been shattered into a million fragments and the inner fortification toppled over, the precious press had miraculously escaped injury. but in a strewn circle, outside, lay rent corpses, and the wounded pitifully striving to crawl from that shambles. with the steadiness which comes to nerves racked to the point of collapse, hal made the rounds of the building. two men in the pressroom were slightly hurt. their fellows would look after them. wayne, with his men, was already in the street, combining professional duty with first aid. the scattered and stricken mob had begun to sift back, only a subdued and curious crowd now. then came the ambulances and the belated police, systematizing the work. quarter of an hour had passed when dr. surtaine, esmé elliot, her uncle--much surprised at finding her there--and hal stood in the editorial office, hardly able yet to get their bearings. "i shall give myself up to the authorities," decided dr. elliot. he was deadly pale, but of unshaken nerve. "why?" cried hal. "it was no fault of yours." "rules of the game. well, young man, you have a paper to get out for to-morrow, though the heavens fall. good-night." hal gripped at his hand. "i don't know how to thank you--" he began. "don't try, then," was the gruff retort. "where's mac?" he turned to mcguire ellis's desk to bid that sturdy toiler good-night. there, dimly seen through the flickering candlelight, the undisputed short-distance slumber champion of the world sat, his head on his arms, in his familiar and favorite attitude of snatching a few moments' respite from a laborious existence. "will you _look_ at _that!_" cried the physician in utmost amazement. at the sight a wild surge of mirth overwhelmed hal's hair-trigger nerves. he began to laugh, with strange, quick catchings of the breath: to laugh tumultuously, rackingly, unendurably. "stop it!" shouted dr. elliot, and smote him a sledge-blow between the shoulders. for the moment the hysteria was jarred out of hal. he gasped, gurgled, and took a step toward his assistant. "hey, mac! wake up! you've spilled your ink." [illustration: "don't go near him. don't look"] before he could speak or move further, esmé elliot's arms were about him. her face was close to his. he could feel the strong pressure of her breast against him as she forced him back. "no, no!" she was pleading, in a swift half-whisper. "don't go near him. don't look. _please_ don't. come away." he set her aside. a candlelight flared high. from ellis's desk trickled a little stream. dr. elliot was already bending over the slackened form. "so it wasn't ink," said hal slowly. "is he dead, dr. elliot?" "no," snapped the other. "esmé, bandages! quick! your petticoat! that'll do. get another candle. dr. surtaine, help me lift him. there! surtaine, bring water. _do you hear?_ hurry!" when hal returned, uncle and niece were working with silent deftness over ellis, who lay on the floor. the wounded man opened his eyes upon his employer's agonized face. "did he get the press?" he gasped. "keep quiet," ordered the doctor. "don't speak." "did he get the press?" insisted ellis obstinately. "mac! mac!" half sobbed hal, bending over him. "i thought you were dead." and his tears fell on the blood-streaked face. "don't be young," growled ellis faintly. "did--he--get--the--press?" "no." the wounded man's eyes closed. "all right," he murmured. up to the time that the ambulance surgeons came to carry ellis away, dr. elliot was too busy with him even to be questioned. only after the still burden had passed through the door did he turn to hal. "a piece of metal carried away half the back of his neck," he said. "and we let him sit there, bleeding his life away!" "is there any chance?" demanded hal. "i doubt if they'll get him to the hospital alive." "the best man in worthington!" said hal passionately. "oh!" he shook his clenched fists at the outer darkness. "i'll make somebody pay for this." esmé's hand fell upon his arm. "do you want me to stay?" she asked. "no. you must go home. it's been a terrible thing for you." "i'll go to the hospital," she said, "and i'll 'phone you as soon as there is any news." "better come home with me, hal," said his father gently. the younger man turned with an involuntary motion toward the desk, still wet with his friend's blood. "i'll stay on the job," he said. understanding, the father nodded his sympathy. "yes; i guess that would have been mac's way," said he. work pressing upon the editor from all sides came as a boon. the paper had to be made over for the catastrophe which, momentarily, overshadowed the typhus epidemic in importance. in hasty consultation, it was decided that the "special" on the ownership of the infected tenements should be set aside for a day, to make space. hal had to make his own statement, not alone for the "clarion," but for the other newspapers, whose representatives came seeking news and also--what both surprised and touched him--bearing messages of sympathy and congratulation, and offers of any help which they could extend from men to pressroom accommodations. not until nearly two o'clock in the morning did hal find time to draw breath over an early proof, which stated the casualties as seven killed outright, including veltman who was literally torn to pieces, and twenty-two seriously wounded. from his reading hal was called to the 'phone. esmé's voice came to him with a note of hope and happiness. "oh, hal, they say there's a chance! even a good chance! they've operated, and it isn't as bad as it looked at first. i'm so glad for you." "thank you," said hal huskily. "and--bless you! you've been an angel to-night." there was a pause: then, "you'll come to see me--when you can?" "to-morrow," said he. "no--to-day. i forgot." they both laughed uncertainly, and bade each other good-night. hal stayed through until the last proof. in the hallway a heavy figure lifted itself from a chair in a corner as he came out. "dad!" exclaimed hal. "i thought i'd wait," said the charlatan wistfully. no other word was necessary. "i'll be glad to be home again," said hal. "you can lend me some pajamas?" "they're laid out on your bed. every night." the two men passed down the stairs, arm in arm. at the door they paused. through the building ran a low tremor, waxing to a steady thrill. the presses were throwing out to the world once again their irrevocable message of fact and fate. chapter xxxv tempered metal monday's newspapers startled hal surtaine. despite the sympathetic attitude expressed after the riot by the other newspaper men, he had not counted upon the unanimous vigor with which the local press took up the cudgels for the "clarion." that potent and profound guild-fellowship of newspaperdom, which, when once aroused, overrides all individual rivalry and jealousy, had never before come into the young editor's experience. to his fellow editors the issue was quite clear. here was an attack, not upon one newspaper alone, but upon the principle of journalistic independence. little as the "banner," the "press," the "telegram," and their like had practiced independence of thought or writing, they could both admire and uphold it in another. their support was as genuine as it was generous. the police department, and, indeed, the whole city administration of worthington, came in for scathing and universal denunciation, in that they had failed to protect the "clarion" against the mob's advance. the evening papers got out special bulletins on mcguire ellis. none too hopeful they were, for the fighting journalist, after a brief rally, had sunk into a condition where life was the merest flicker. always a picturesque and well-liked personality, ellis now became a species of popular hero. sympathy centralized on him, and through him attached temporarily to the "clarion" itself, which he now typified in the public imagination. his condition, indeed, was just so much sentimental capital to the paper, as the honorable e.m. pierce savagely put it to william douglas. nevertheless, the two called at the hospital to make polite inquiries, as did scores of their fellow leading citizens. ellis, stricken down, was serving his employer well. not that hal knew this, nor, had he known it, would have cared. sick at heart, he waited about the hospital reception room for such meager hopes as the surgeons could give him, until an urgent summons compelled him to go to the office. wayne had telephoned for him half a dozen times, finally leaving a message that he must see him on a point in the tenement-ownership story, to be run on the morrow. wayne, at the moment of hal's arrival, was outside the rail talking to a visitor. on the copy-book beside his desk was stuck an illustration proof, inverted. idly hal turned it, and stood facing his final and worst ordeal of principle. the half-tone picture, lovely, suave, alluring, smiled up into his eyes from above its caption:-- "_miss esmé elliot, society belle and owner of no. sadler's shacks, known as the pest-egg."_ "you've seen it," said wayne's voice at his elbow. "yes." "well; it was that i wanted to ask you about." "ask it," said hal, dry-lipped. "i knew you were a--a friend of miss elliot's. we can kill it out yet. it--it isn't absolutely necessary to the story," he added, pityingly. he turned and looked away from a face that had grown swiftly old under his eyes. in hal's heart there was a choking rush of memories: the conquering loveliness of esmé; her sweet and loyal womanliness and comradeship of the night before; the half-promise in her tones as she had bid him come to her; the warm pressure of her arms fending him from the sight of his friend's blood; and, far back, her voice saying so confidently, "i'd trust you," in answer to her own supposititious test as to what he would do if a news issue came up, involving her happiness. blotting these out came another picture, a swathed head, quiet upon a pillow. in that moment hal knew that he was forever done with suppressions and evasions. nevertheless, he intended to be as fair to esmé as he would have been to any other person under attack. "you're sure of the facts?" he asked wayne. "certain." "how long has she owned it?" "oh, years. it's one of those complicated trusteeships." hope sprang up in hal's soul. "perhaps she doesn't know about it." "isn't she morally bound to know? we've assumed moral responsibility in the other trusteeships. of course, if you want to make a difference--" wayne, again wholly the journalist, jealous for the standards of his craft, awaited his chief's decision. "no. have you sent a man to see her?" "yes. she's away." "away? impossible!" "that's what they said at the house. the reporter got the notion that there was something queer about her going. scared out, perhaps." hal thought of the proud, frank eyes, and dismissed that hypothesis. whatever esmé's responsibility, he did not believe that she would shirk the onus of it. "dr. elliot?" he enquired. "refused all information and told the reporter to go to the devil." hal sighed. "run the story," he said. "and the picture?" "and the picture." going out he left directions with the telephone girl to try to get miss elliot and tell her that it would be impossible for him to call that day. "she will understand when she sees the paper in the morning," he thought. "or think she understands," he amended ruefully. the telephone girl did not get miss elliot, for good and sufficient reasons, but succeeded in extracting a promise from the maiden cousin at greenvale that the message would be transmitted. through the day and far into the night hal worked unsparingly, finding time somehow to visit or call up the hospital every hour. at midnight they told him that ellis was barely holding his own. hal put the "clarion" to bed that night, before going to the surtaine mansion, hopeless of sleep, yet, nevertheless, so worn out that he sank into instant slumber as soon as he had drawn the sheets over him. on his way to the office in the morning, he ran full upon dr. elliot. for a moment hal thought that the ex-officer meant to strike him with the cane which he raised. it sank. "you miserable hound!" said dr. elliot. hal stood, silent. "what have you to say for yourself?" "nothing." "my niece came to your office to save your rag of a sheet. i shot down a poor crazy devil in your defense. and this is how you repay us." hal faced him, steadfast, wretched, determined upon only one thing: to endure whatever he might say or do. "do you know who's really responsible for that tenement? answer me!" "no." "i! i! i!" shouted the infuriated man. "you? the records show--" "damn the records, sir! the property was trusteed years ago. i should have looked after it, but i never even thought of its being what it is. and my niece didn't know till this morning that she owned it." "why didn't you say so to our reporter, then?" cried hal eagerly. "let us print a statement from you, from her--" "in your sheet? if you so much as publish her name again--by heavens, i wish it were the old days, i'd call you out and kill you." "dr. elliot," said hal quietly, "did you think i wanted to print that about esmé?" "wanted to? of course you wanted to. you didn't have to, did you?" "yes." "what compelled you?" demanded the other. "you won't understand, but i'll tell you. the 'clarion' compelled me. it was news." "news! to blackguard a young girl, ignorant of the very thing you've held her up to shame for! the power of the press! a power to smirch the names of decent people. and do you know where my girl is now, on this day when your sheet is smearing her name all over the town?" demanded the physician, his voice shaking with wrath and grief. "do you know that--you who know everybody's business?" chill fear took hold upon hal. "no," he said. "in quarantine for typhus. here! keep off me!" for hal, stricken with his first experience of that black, descending mist which is just short of unconsciousness, had clutched at the other's shoulder to steady himself. "where?" he gasped. "i won't tell you," retorted the doctor viciously. "you might make another article out of that, of the kind you enjoy so much." but this was too ghastly a joke. hal straightened, and lifted his head to an eye-level with his denouncer. "enjoy!" he said, in a low tone. "you may guess how much when i tell you that i've loved esmé with every drop of my blood since the first time i ever spoke with her." the doctor's grim regard softened a little. "if i tell you, you won't publish it? or give it away? or try to communicate with her? i won't have her pestered." "my word of honor." "she's at the typhus hospital." "and she's got typhus?" groaned hal. "no. who said she had it? she's been exposed to it." hardly was the last word out of his mouth when he was alone. hal had made a dash for a taxi. "health bureau," he cried. by good fortune he found dr. merritt in. "you've got esmé elliot at the typhus hospital," he said breathlessly. "yes. in the isolation ward." "why?" "she's been exposed. she carried a child, in convulsions, into the hospital. the child developed typhus late saturday night; must have been infected at the time. as soon as i knew, i sent for her, and she came like the brave girl she is, yesterday morning." "will she get the fever?" "god forbid! every precaution has been taken." "merritt, that's an awful place for a girl like miss elliot. get her out." "don't ask me! i've got to treat all exposed cases alike." "but, merritt," pleaded hal, "in this case an exception can't injure any one. she can be completely quarantined at home. you told wayne you owed the 'clarion' and me a big debt. i wouldn't ask it if it were anything else; but--" "would you do it yourself?" said the young health officer steadily. "have you done it in your paper?" "but this may be her life," argued the advocate desperately. "think! if it were your sister, or--or the woman you cared for." dr. merritt's fine mouth quivered and set. "kathleen pierce is quarantined with esmé," he said quietly. the pair looked each other through the eyes into the soul and knew one another for men. "you're right, merritt," said hal. "i'm sorry i asked." "i'll keep you posted," said the official, as his visitor turned away. meantime, esmé had volunteered as an emergency nurse, and been gladly accepted. in the intervals of her new duties she had received from her distracted cousin, who had been calling up every half-hour to find out whether she "had it yet," hal's message that he would not be able to see her that day, and, not having seen the "clarion," was at a loss to understand it. chance, by all the truly romantic, is supposed to be a sort of matrimonial agency, concerned chiefly in bringing lovers together. in the rougher realm of actuality it operates quite as often, perhaps, to keep them apart. certainly it was no friend to esmé elliot on this day. for when later she learned from her guardian of his attack upon hal (though he took the liberty of editing out the _finale_ of the encounter as he related it), she tried five separate times to reach hal by 'phone, and each time chance, the frustrator, saw to it that hal was engaged. the inference, to esmé's perturbed heart, was obvious; he did not wish to speak to her. and to a woman of her spirit there was but one course. she would dismiss him from her mind. which she did, every night, conscientiously, for many weary days. chapter xxxvi the victory nation-wide sped the news, branding worthington as a pest-ridden city. every newspaper in the country had a conspicuous dispatch about it. the bulletin of the united states public health service, as in duty bound, gave official and statistical currency to the town's misfortune. other cities in the state threatened a quarantine against worthington. commercial travelers and buyers postponed their local visits. the hotel registers thinned out notably. business drooped. for all of which the "clarion" was vehemently blamed by those most concerned. conversely, the paper should have received part credit for the extremely vigorous campaign which the health authorities, under dr. merritt, set on foot at once. using the "clarion" exposure as a lever, the health officer pried open the council-guarded city tills for an initial appropriation of ten thousand dollars, got a hasty ordinance passed penalizing, not the diagnosing of typhus, but failure to diagnose and report it,--not a man from the surtaine army of suppression had the temerity to oppose the measure,--organized a medical inspection and detection corps, threw a contagion-proof quarantine about every infected building, hunted down and isolated the fugitives from the danger-points who had scattered at the first alarm, inspired the county medical society to an enthusiastic support, bullied the police into a state of reasonable efficiency, and with a combined volunteer and regular force faced the epidemic in military form. not least conspicuous among the volunteers were miss esmé elliot and miss kathleen pierce, who had been released from quarantine quite as early as the law allowed, because of the need for them at the front. "we could never have done our job without you," said dr. merritt to hal, meeting him by chance one morning ten days after the publication of the "spread." "if the city is saved from a regular pestilence, it'll be the clarion's doing." "that doesn't seem to be the opinion of the business men of the place," said hal, with a rather dreary smile. he had just been going over with the lugubrious shearson a batch of advertising cancellations. "oh, don't look for any credit from this town," retorted the health officer. "i'm practically ostracized, already, for my share in it." "but are you beating it out?" "god knows," answered the other. "i thought we'd traced all the foci of infection. but two new localities broke out to-day. that's the way an epidemic goes." and that is the way the worthington typhus went for more than a month. throughout that month the "clarion" was carrying on an anti-epidemic campaign of its own, with the slogan "don't give up old home week." wise strategy this, in a double sense. it rallied public effort for victory by a definite date, for the committee on arrangements, despite the arguments of the weak-kneed among its number, and largely by virtue of the militant optimism of its chairman, had decided to go on with the centennial celebration if the city could show a clean bill of health by august , thus giving six weeks' leeway. furthermore, it put the "clarion" in the position of champion of the city's commercial interests and daily bade defiance to those who declared the paper an enemy and a traitor to business. in editorials, in interviews, in educational articles on hygiene and sanitation, in a course of free lectures covering the whole city and financed by the paper itself, the "clarion" carried on the fight with unflagging zeal. slowly it began to win back general confidence and much of the popularity which it had lost. one of its reporters in the course of his work contracted the fever and barely pulled through alive, thereby lending a flavor of possible martyrdom to the cause. mcguire ellis's desperate fight for life also added to the romantic element which is so potent an asset with the sentimental american public. business, however, still sulked. the defiance to its principles was too flagrant to be passed over. if the "clarion" pulled through, the press would lose respect for the best interests and the vested privileges of commercial worthington. indeed, others of the papers, since the "clarion's" declaration of independence, had exhibited a deplorable tendency to disregard hints hitherto having the authority of absolutism over them. in withholding advertising patronage from the surtaine daily, the business men were not only seeking reprisals, but also following a sound business principle. for according to information sedulously spread abroad, it was doubtful whether the "clarion" would long survive. elias m. pierce's boast that he would put it out of business gained literal interpretation, as he had intended that it should. contrary to his accustomed habit of reticence, he had sought occasion to inform his friends that he expected verdicts against the libeler of his daughter which would throw the concern into bankruptcy, and, perhaps, its proprietor into jail. no advertiser cares to put money into a publication which may fail next week. hence, though the circulation of the "clarion" went up pretty steadily, the advertising patronage did not keep pace. hal found himself hard put to it, at times, to cling to his dogged hopes. but it was worth while fighting it out to the last dollar. so much he was assured of by the messages of praise and support which began to come in to him, not from "representative citizens," but from the earnest, thoughtful, and often obscure toilers and thinkers of the city: clergymen, physicians, laboring-men, working-women, sociological workers--his peers. then, too, there was the profound satisfaction of promised victory over the pest. for at the end of six weeks the battle was practically won; by what heroisms, at the cost of what sacrifices, through what disappointments, reversals, and set-backs, against the subtleties of what underground opposition of political influence and twelve per cent finance, is not to be set down here. the government publications tell, in their brief and pregnant records, this story of one of the most complete and brilliant victories in the history of american hygiene. my concern is with the story, not of the typhus epidemic, but of a man who fought for and surrendered and finally retrieved his own manhood and the honor of the paper which was his honor. his share, no small one, in the wiping-out of the pestilence was, to him, but part of the war for which he had enlisted. but though the newspapers, with one joyous voice, were able to announce early in august, on the authority of the federal reports, "no new case in a week," the success of old home week still swayed in the balance. outside newspapers, which had not forgotten the scandal of the smallpox suppression years before, hinted that the record might not be as clear as it appeared. the president of the united states, they pointed out, who was to be the guest of honor and the chief feature of the celebration, would not be justified in going to a city over which any suspicion of pestilence still hovered. in fact, the success or failure of the event practically hung upon the chief executive's action. if, now, he decided to withdraw his acceptance, on whatever ground, the country would impute it to a justified caution, and would maintain against the city that intangible moral quarantine which is so disastrous to its victim. throughout, hal surtaine in his editorial columns had vigorously maintained that the president would come. it was mostly "bluff." he had nothing but hope to build on. two more "clean" weeks passed. at the close of the second, hal stopped one day at the hospital to see mcguire ellis, who was finally convalescent and was to be discharged on the following week. at the door of ellis's room he met dr. elliot. somewhat embarrassed, he stepped aside. the physician stopped. "er--surtaine," he said hesitantly. "well?" "i've had time to think things over. and i've had some talks with mac. i--i guess i was wrong." "you were right enough from your point of view." "think so?" said the other, surprised. "yes. and i know i was right, from mine." "humph!" there was an uncomfortable pause. then: "i called names. i apologize." "that's all right, then," returned hal heartily. "woof!" exhaled the physician. "that's off my chest. now, i've got an item for you." "for the 'clarion'?" "yep. the president's coming." "coming? to old home week?" "to old home week." "an item! great cæsar! a spread! a splurge!! a blurb!!! where did you get it?" "from washington. just been there." "tell me all of it." "know redding? he and i saw some tough service together in the old m.h.s. that's the united states public health service now. redding's the head of it; surgeon-general. first-class man, every way. so i went to see him and told him we had to have the president, and why. he saw it in a minute. knew all about the 'clarion's fight, too. he went to the white house and explained the whole business. the president said that a clean bill of health from the service was good enough for him, and he'd come, sure. here's his letter to the surgeon-general. it goes out for publication to-morrow. there's a line in it speaking of the 'clarion's good work." "great cæsar!" said hal again, rather weakly. "does that square accounts between us?" "more! a hundred times more! that's the biggest indorsement any paper in this town ever had. old home week's safe. did you tell mac?" "yes. he's up there cursing now because they won't let him go to the office to plan out the article." to the "clarion," the presidential encomium was a tremendous boom professionally. financially, however, it was of no immediate avail. it did not bring local advertising, and advertising was what the paper sorely needed. still, it did call attention to the paper from outside. a few good contracts for "foreign" advertising, a department which had fallen off to almost nothing when hal discarded all medical "copy," came in. with these, and a reasonable increase in local support which could be counted upon, now that commercial bitterness against the paper was somewhat mollified, hal reckoned that he could pull through--if it were not for the pierce suits. there was the crux of the situation. nothing was being done about them. they had been postponed more than once, on motion of pierce's counsel. now they hung over hal's head in a suspense fast becoming unbearable. at length he decided that, in fairness to his staff, he should warn them of the situation. he chose, for the explanation, one of the talk-it-over breakfasts, the first one which mcguire ellis, released temporarily from the hospital for the occasion, had attended since his wound. he sat at hal's right, still pale and thin, but with his look of bulldog obstinacy undiminished; enhanced, rather, by the fact that one ear had been sharpened to a canine pointedness by the missile which had so narrowly grazed his life. ellis had been goaded to a pitch of high exasperation by the solicitude and attentions of his fellows. it was his emphatically expressed opinion that the whole gathering lay under a blight of superlative youthfulness. in his mind he exempted hal, over whose silence and distraction he was secretly worried. the cause was explained when the chairman rose to close the meeting. "there is something i have to say," he said. "i've put it off longer than i should. i may have to give up the 'clarion.' it depends upon the outcome of the libel suits brought by e.m. pierce. if, as we fear, miss cleary, the nurse who was run over, testifies for the prosecution, we can't win. then it's only a question of the size of the damages. a big verdict would mean the ruin of the paper, i'm telling you this so that you may have time to look for new jobs." there was a long silence. then a melancholy, musing voice said: "gee! that's tough! just as the paper pulled off the home week stunt, too." "how much of a verdict would bust us?" asked another. "twenty-five thousand dollars," said hal, "together with lawyers' fees. i couldn't go on." "say, i know that old hen of a nurse," said one of the sporting writers, with entire seriousness. "wonder if it'd do any good to marry her?" a roar went up from the table at this, somewhat relieving the tension of the atmosphere. shearson, the advertising manager, lolling deep in his chair, spoke up diffidently, as soon as he could be heard: "i ain't rich. but i've put a little wad aside. i could chip in three thou' if that'd help." "i've got five hundred that isn't doing a stitch of work," declared wainwright. "some of my relations have wads of money," suggested young denton. "i wouldn't wonder if--" "no, no, no!" cried hal, in a shaken voice. "i know how well you fellows mean it. but--" "as a loan," said wainwright hopefully. "the paper's good enough security." "_not_ good enough," replied hal firmly. "i can't take it, boys. you--you're a mighty good lot, to offer. now, about looking for other places--" "all those that want to quit the 'clarion,' stand up," shouted mcguire ellis. not a man moved. "unanimous," observed the convalescent. "i thought nobody'd rise to that. if anybody had," he added, "i'd have punched him in the eye." the gathering adjourned in gloom. "all this only makes it harder, mac," said hal to his right-hand man afterward. "they can't afford to stick till we sink." "if a sailor can do it, i guess a newspaper man can," retorted the other resentfully. "i wish i could poison pierce." at dinner that night hal found his father distrait. since the younger man's return, the old relations had been resumed, though there were still, of necessity, difficult restraints and reservations in their talk. the "clarion," however, had ceased to be one of the tabooed subjects. since the publication of the president's letter and the saving of old home week, dr. surtaine had become an avowed clarionite. also he kept in personal touch with the office. this evening, however, it was with an obvious effort that he asked how affairs were going. hal answered listlessly that matters were going well enough. "no, they aren't, boy-ee. i heard about your talk to-day." "did you? i'm sorry. i don't want to worry you." "boy-ee, let me back you." "i can't, dad." "because of that old agreement?" "partly." "call it a loan, then. i can't stand by and see the paper licked by pierce. fifty thousand won't touch me. and it'll save you." "please, dad, i can't do it." "is it because it's certina money?" hal turned miserable eyes on his father. "hadn't we better keep away from that?" "i don't get you at all on that," cried the charlatan. "why, it's business. it's legal. if i didn't sell 'em the stuff, somebody else would. why shouldn't i take the money, when it's there?" "there's no use in my trying to argue it with you, dad. we're miles apart." "that's just it," sighed the older man. "oh, well! you couldn't help my paying the damages if pierce wins," he suggested hopefully. "yes. i could even do that." "what do you want me to do, boy-ee?" cried his father, in desperation. "give up a business worth half a million a year, net?" "i'm not asking anything, sir. only let me do the best i can, in the way that looks right to me. i've got to go back to the office now. good-night, dad." the arch-quack looked after his son's retreating figure, and his big, animal-like eyes were very tender. "i don't know," he said to himself uncertainly,--"i don't know but what he's worth it." chapter xxxvii mcguire ellis wakes up on implication of the highest authority we have it that the leopard cannot change his spots. the great american pumess is a feline of another stripe. stress of experience and emotion has been known to modify sensibly her predatory characteristics. in the very beautiful specimen of the genus which, from time to time, we have had occasion to study in these pages, there had taken place, in a few short months, an alteration so considerable as to be almost revolutionary. many factors had contributed to the result. no woman of inherent fineness can live close to human suffering, as esmé had lived in her slum work, without losing something of that centripetal self-concern which is the blemish of the present-day american girl. constant association with such men as hugh merritt and norman hale, men who saw in her not a beautiful and worshipful maiden, but a useful agency in the work which made up their lives, gave her a new angle from which to consider herself. then, too, her brief engagement to will douglas had sobered her. for douglas, whatever his lack of independence and manliness in his professional relations, had endured the jilting with quiet dignity. but he had suffered sharply, for he had been genuinely in love with esmé. she felt his pain the more in that there was the same tooth gnawing at her own heart, though she would not acknowledge it to herself. and this taught her humility and consideration. the pumess was not become a saint, by any means. she still walked, a lovely peril to every susceptible male heart. but she no longer thirsted with unquenchable ardor for conquests. meek though a reformed pumess may be, there are limits to meekness. when miss eleanor stanley maxwell elliot woke up to find herself pilloried as an enemy to society, in the very paper which she had tried to save, she experienced mingled emotions shot through with fiery streaks of wrath. presently these simmered down to a residue of angry amazement and curiosity. if you have been accustomed all your life to regard yourself as an empress of absolute dominance over slavish masculinity, and are suddenly subjected to a violent slap across the face from the hand of the most highly favored slave, some allowance is due you of outraged sensibilities. chiefly, however esmé wondered why. why, in large capitals, and with an intensely ascendant inflection. her first impulse had been to telephone hal a withering message. more deliberate thought suggested the wisdom of making sure of her ground, first. the result was a shock. from her still infuriated guardian she had learned that, technically, she was the owner, with full moral responsibility for the "pest-egg." the information came like a dash of extremely cold water, which no pumess, reformed or otherwise, likes. miss elliot sat her down to a thoughtful consideration of the "clarion." she found she was in good company. several other bright and shining lights of the local firmament, social, financial, and commercial, shared the photographic notoriety. slowly it was borne in upon her open mind that she had not been singled out for reprehension; that she was simply a part of the news, as hal regarded news--no, as the "clarion" regarded news. that hal would deliberately have let this happen, she declined to believe. unconsciously she clung to her belief in the natural inviolability of her privilege. it must have been a mistake. hal would tell her so when he saw her. yet if that were so, why had he sent word, the day after, that he couldn't keep his appointment? would he come at all, now? doubt upon this point was ended when dr. elliot, admitted on the strength of his profession to the typhus ward, and still exhibiting mottlings of wrath on his square face, had repeated his somewhat censored account of his encounter with "that puppy." esmé haughtily advised her dear uncle guardy that the "puppy" was her friend. uncle guardy acidulously counseled his beloved esmé not to be every species of a mildly qualified idiot at one and the same time. esmé elevated her nose in the air and marched out of the room to telephone hal surtaine forthwith. what she intended to telephone him (very distantly, of course) was that her uncle had no authority to speak for her, that she was quite capable of speaking for herself, and that she was ready to hear any explanation tending to mitigate his crime--not in those words precisely, but in a tone perfectly indicative of her meaning. furthermore, that the matter on which she had wished to speak to him was a business matter, and that she would expect him to keep the broken appointment later. none of which was ever transmitted. fate, playing the rôle of miching mallecho, prevented once again. hal was out. in the course of time, esmé's quarantine (a little accelerated, though not at any risk of public safety) was lifted and she returned to the world. the battle of hygiene _vs_. infection was now at its height. esmé threw herself into the work, heart and soul. for weeks she did not set eyes on hal surtaine, except as they might pass on the street. twice she narrowly missed him at the hospital where she found time to make an occasional visit to ellis. a quick and lively friendship had sprung up between the spoiled beauty and the old soldier of the print-columns, and from him, as soon as he was convalescent, she learned something of the deeper meanings of the "clarion" fight and of the higher standards which had cost its owner so dear. "i suppose," he said, "the hardest thing he ever had to do in his life was to print your picture." "did he _have_ to print it?" "didn't he? it was news." "and that's your god, isn't it, mr. mac?" said his visitor, smiling. "it's only a small name for truth. good men have died for that." "or killed others for their ideal of it." "miss esmé," said the invalid, "hal surtaine has had to face two tests. he had to show up his own father in his paper." "yes. i read it. but i've only begun to understand it since our talks." "and he had to print that about you. wayne told me he almost killed the story himself to save hal. 'i couldn't bear to look at the boy's face when he told me to run it,' wayne said. and he's no sentimentalist. newspapermen generally ain't." "_aren't_ you?" said esmé, with a catch in her breath. "i should think you were, pretty much, at the 'clarion' office." from that day she knew that she must talk it out with hal. yet at every thought of that encounter, her maidenhood shrank, affrighted, with a sweet and tremulous fear. inevitable as was the end, it might have been long postponed had it not been for a word that ellis let drop the day when he left the hospital. mrs. festus willard, out of friendship for hal, had insisted that the convalescent should come to her house until his strength was quite returned, instead of returning to his small and stuffy hotel quarters, and esmé had come in her car to transfer him. it was the day after the talk-it-over breakfast at which hal had announced the prospective fall of the "clarion." "i'll be glad to get back to the office," said ellis to esmé. "they certainly need me." "you aren't fit yet," protested the girl. "fitter than the boss. he's worrying himself sick." "isn't everything all right?" "all wrong! it's this cussed pierce libel case that's taking the heart out of him." "oh!" cried esmé, on a note of utter dismay. "why didn't you tell me, mr. mac?" "tell you? what do you know about it?" "lots! everything." she fell into silent thoughtfulness. "i supposed that you had heard from mr. pierce, or his lawyer, at the office. i _must_ see hal--mr. surtaine--now. does he still come to see you?" "everyday." "send word to him to be at the willards' at two to-morrow. and--and, please, mr. mac, don't tell him why." "now, what kind of a little game is this?" began ellis, teasingly. "am i an amateur cupid, or what's my cue?" he looked into the girl's face and saw tears in the great brown eyes. "hello!" he said with a change of voice. "what's wrong, esmé? i'm sorry." "oh, _i'm_ wrong!" she cried. "i ought to have spoken long ago. no, no! i'm all right now!" she smiled gloriously through her tears. "here we are. you'll be sure that he's there?" "fear not, but lean on dollinger and he will fetch you through"-- quoted the other in oratorical assurance, and turned to mrs. willard's greeting. at one-thirty on the following day, mr. mcguire ellis was where he shouldn't have been, asleep in a curtained alcove window-seat of the big willard library. at one minute past two he was where he should have been still less; that is, in the same place and condition. now mr. ellis is not only the readiest hair-trigger sleeper known to history, but he is also one of the most profound and persistent. entrances and exits disturb him not, nor does the human voice penetrate to the region of his dreams. to everything short of earthquake, explosion, or physical contact, his slumber is immune. therefore he took no note when miss esmé elliot came in, nor when, a moment later, mr. harrington surtaine arrived, unannounced. nor, since he was thoroughly shut in by the draperies, was either of them aware of his presence. esmé rose slowly to her feet as hal entered. she had planned a leading-up to her subject, but at sight of him she was startled out of any greeting, even. "oh, how thin you look, and tired!" she exclaimed. "strenuous days, these," he answered. "i didn't expect to see you here. where's ellis?" "upstairs. don't go. i want to speak to you. sit down there." at her direction hal drew up a chair. she took the corner of the lounge near by and regarded him silently from under puckered brows. "is it about ellis?" said hal, alarmed at her hesitation. "no. it is about mr. pierce. there won't be any libel suit." "what!" "no." she shook her head in reassurance of his evident incredulity. "you've nothing to worry about, there." "how can you know?" "from kathie." "did her father tell her?" "she told her father. there's a dreadful quarrel." "i don't understand at all." "kathie absolutely refuses to testify for her father. she says that the accident was her own fault, and if there's a trial she will tell the truth." before she had finished, hal was on his feet. her heart smote her as she saw the gray worry pass from his face and his shoulders square as from the relief of a burden lifted, "has it lain so heavy on your mind?" she asked pitifully. "if you knew!" he walked half the length of the long room, then turned abruptly. "you did that," he said. "you persuaded her." "no. i didn't, indeed." the eager light faded in his face. "of course not. why should you after--do you mind telling me how it happened?" "it isn't my secret. but--but she has come to care very much for some one, and it is his influence." "wonderful!" he laughed boyishly. "i want to go out and run around and howl. would you mind joining me in the college yell? does mac know?" "nobody knows but you." "that's why pierce kept postponing. and i, living under the shadow of this! how can i thank you!" "don't thank me," she said with an effort. "i--i've known it for weeks. i meant to tell you long ago, but i thought you'd have learned it before now--and--and it was made hard for me." "was that what you had to tell me about the paper, when you asked me to come to see you?" she nodded. "but how could i come?" he burst out. "i suppose there's no use--i must go and tell mac about this." "wait," she said. he stopped, gazing at her doubtfully. "i'm tearing down the tenement at number ." "tearing it down?" "as a confession that--that you were right. but i didn't know i owned it. truly i didn't. you'll believe that, won't you?" "of course," he cried eagerly. "i did know it, but too late." "if you'd known in time would you have--" "left that out of the paper?" he finished, all the life gone from his voice. "no, esmé. i couldn't have done that. but i could have said in the paper that you didn't know." "i thought so," she said very quietly. he misinterpreted this. "i can't lie to you, esmé," he said with a sad sincerity. "i've lived with lies too long. i can't do it, not for any hope of happiness. do i seem false and disloyal to you? sometimes i do to myself. i can't help it. all a man can do is to follow his own light. or a woman either, i suppose. and your light and mine are worlds apart." again, with a stab of memory, he saw that desperate smile on her lips. then she spoke with the clear courage of her new-found womanliness. "there is no light for me where you are not." he took a swift step toward her. and at the call, sweetly and straightly, she came to meet his arms and lips. "poor boy!" she said, a few minutes later, pushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "i've let you carry that burden when a word from me would have lifted it." "has there ever been such a thing as unhappiness in the world, sweetheart?" he said. "i can't remember it. so i don't believe it." "i'm afraid i've cost you more than i can ever repay you for," she said. "hal, tell me i've been a little beast!--oh, no! that's no way to tell it. aren't you sorry, sir, that you ever saw this room?" "finest example of interior architecture i know of. exact replica of the plumb center of paradise." "it's where all your troubles began. you first met me here in this very room." "oh, no! my troubles began from the minute i set eyes on you, that day at the station." "don't contradict me." she laid an admonitory finger on his lips, then, catching at his hand, gently drew him with her. "right in that very window-seat there--" she whisked the hangings aside, and brushed mcguire ellis's nose in so doing. "hoong!" snorted mcguire ellis. "oh!" cried esmé. "were you there all the time? we--i--didn't know--have you been asleep?" "i have been just that," replied the dormant one, yawning. "i hope we haven't disturbed--" began esmé in the same breath with hal's awkward "sorry we waked you up, mac." "don't be--" ellis checked his familiar growl, looked with growing suspicion from esmé's flushed loveliness to hal's self conscious confusion, leaped to his feet, gathered the pair into a sudden, violent, impartial embrace, and roared out:-- "go ahead! _be_ young! you can only be it once in a lifetime." xxxviii the convert old home week passed in a burst of glory and profit. true to its troublous type, the "clarion" had interfered with the profit, in two brief, lively, and effective campaigns. it had published a roster of hotels which, after agreeing not to raise rates for the week, had reverted to the old, tried and true principle of "all the traffic can bear," with comparative tables, thereby causing great distress of mind and pocket among the piratical. backed by the consumers' league, it had again taken up the cudgels for the store employees, demanding that they receive pay for overtime during the celebration and winning a partial victory. no little rancor was, of course, stirred up among the advertisers. the usual threats were made. but the business interests of worthington had begun to learn that threatening the "clarion" was a futile procedure, while advertisers were coming to a realization of the fact that they couldn't afford to stay out of so strong a medium, even at increased rates. the raise in the advertising schedule had been partly esmé elliot's doing. as a condition of her engagement to hal, she demanded a resumption of the old partnership. entered into lightly, it soon became of serious moment, for the girl had a natural gift for affairs. when she learned that on the basis of circulation the "clarion" would be justified in increasing its advertising card by forty per cent, but dared not do so because of the narrow margin upon which it was working, she insisted upon the measure, supporting her argument with a considerable sum of money of her own. hal revolted at this, but she pleaded so sweetly that he finally consented to regard it as a reserve fund. it was never called for. the turn of the tide had come for the paper. it lost few old advertisers and put on new ones. it was a success. no one was more delighted than dr. surtaine. forgetting his own prophecies of disaster he exalted hal to the skies as a chip of the old block, an inheritor of his own genius for business. "knew all along he had the stuff in him," he would declare buoyantly. "look at the 'clarion' now! most independent, you-be-damned sheet in the country. and what about the chaps that were going to put it out of business? eating out of its hand!" of esmé the old quack was quite as proud as of hal. to him she embodied and typified, in its extreme form, those things which all his money could not buy. that she disliked the certina business and made no secret of the fact did not in the least interfere with a genuine liking between herself and its proprietor. dr. surtaine could not discuss certina with hal: there were too many wounds still open between them. but with esmé he could, and often did. her attitude struck him as nicely philosophic and impersonal, if a bit disdainful. and in these days he had to talk to some one, for he was swollen with a great and glorious purpose. he announced it one resplendent fall day, having gone out to greenvale with that particular object in view, at an hour when he was sure that hal would be at the office. "esmé, i'm going to make you a wedding present of certina," he said. "never take it, doctor," she replied, smiling up at him in friendly recognition of what had come to be a subject of stock joke between them. "i'm serious. i'm going to make you a wedding present of the certina business. i guess there aren't many brides get a gift of half a million a year. too bad i can't give it out to the newspapers, but it wouldn't do." "what on earth do you mean?" cried the astonished girl. "i couldn't take it. hal wouldn't let me." "i'm going to give it up, for you. you think it ain't genteel and high-toned, don't you?" "i think it isn't honest." "not discussing business principles, to-day," retorted the doctor good-humoredly. "it's a question of taste now. you're ashamed of the proprietary medicine game, aren't you, my dear?" esmé laughed. embarrassment with dr. surtaine was impossible. he was too childlike. "a little," she confessed. "you'd be glad if i quit it." "of course i would. i suppose you can afford it." as if responding to the touch of a concealed spring, the surtaine chest protruded. "you find me something i can't afford, and i'll buy it!" he declared. "but this won't even cost me anything in the long run. esmé, did i ever tell you my creed?" "'certina cures,'" suggested the girl mischievously. "that's for business. i mean for everyday life. my creed is to let providence take care of folks in general while i look after me and mine." "it's practical, at least, if not altruistic." "me, and mine," repeated the charlatan. "do you get that 'and mine'? that means the employees of the certina factory. now, if i quit making certina, what about them? shall i turn them out on the street?" "i hadn't thought of that," admitted the girl blankly. "business can be altruistic as well as practical, you see," he observed. "well, i've worked out a scheme to take care of that. been working on it for months. certina is going to die painlessly. and i'm going to preach its funeral oration at the factory on monday. will you come, and make hal come, too?" in vain did esmé employ her most winning arts of persuasion to get more from the wily charlatan. he enjoyed being teased, but he was obdurate. accordingly she promised for herself and hal. but hal was not as easily persuaded. he shrank from the thought of ever again setting foot in the certina premises. only esmé's most artful pleading that he should not so sorely disappoint his father finally won him over. at the certina "shop," on the appointed day, the fiancés were ushered in with unaccustomed formality. they found gathered in the magnificent executive offices all the heads of departments of the vast concern, a quiet, expectant crowd. there were no outsiders other than hal and esmé. dr. surtaine, glossy, grave, a figure to fill the eye roundly, sat at his glass-topped table facing his audience. above him hung old lame-boy, eternally hobbling amidst his fervid implications. waving the newcomers to seats directly in front of him, the presiding genius lifted a benign hand for silence. "my friends," he said, in his unctuous, rolling voice, "i have an important announcement to make. the certina business is finished." there was a silence of stunned surprise as the speaker paused to enjoy his effect. "certina," he pursued, "has been the great triumph of my career. i might almost say it has been my career. but it has not been my life, my friends. the whole is greater than the part: the creator is greater than the thing he creates. they say, 'surtaine of certina.' it should be, 'certina of surtaine.' there's more to come of surtaine." his voice dropped to the old, pleading, confidential tone of the itinerant; as if he were beguiling them now to accept the philosophy which he was to set forth. "what is life, my dear friends? life is a paper-chase. we rush from one thing to another, little daisy happiness just one jump ahead of us and old man death grabbing at our coat-tails. well, before he catches hold of mine,"--the splendid bulk and vitality of the man gave refutation to the hint of pathos in the voice,--"i want to run my race out so that my children and my children's children can point to me and say, 'one crowded hour of glorious life is worth a cycle of cathay.'" with a superb gesture he indicated hal and esmé, who, he observed with gratification, seemed quite overcome with emotion. "that is why, my friends, i am withdrawing certina, and turning to fresh fields; if i may say so, fields of more genteel endeavor. certina has made millions. it could still make millions. i could sell out for millions to-day. but, in the words of the sweet singer, i come to bury it, not to praise it. certina has done its grand work. the day of medicine is almost over. interfering laws are being passed. the public is getting suspicious of drugs. whether this is just or unjust is not the question which i am considering. i've always wanted my business to be high-class. you can't run a high-class business when the public is on to you. "don't think, any of you, that i'm going to retire and leave you in the lurch. no. i'm looking ahead, for you as well as for me. what's the newest thing in science? foods! specific foods, to build up the system. that's the big thing of the future here in america. we're a tired nation, a nerve-wracked nation, a brain-fagged nation. suppose a man could say to the public, 'get as tired as you like. work to your limit. play to your limit. go the pace. when you're worn out, come to us and we'll repair the waste for a few dollars. we've got a food--no drugs, no medicines--that builds up brain and nerve as good as new. the greatest authorities in the world agree on it.' is there any limit to the business that food could do? "well, i've got it! and i've got the backing for it. mr. belford couch will tell you of our testimonials. tell 'em the whole thing, bel: we're all one family here." "i've been huntin' in europe," said certina charley, rising, in accents of pardonable pride: "and i've got the hottest bunch of signed stuff ever. you all know how hard it is to get any medical testimonials here. they're all afraid, except a few down-and-outers. well, there's none of that in europe. they'll stand for any kind of advertising, so long as it's published only in the united states--provided they get their price. and it ain't such an awful price either. _i got the emperor's own physician for one thousand five hundred dollars cash_. and a line of court doctors and swell university professors anywhere from one thousand dollars way down to one hundred. it's the biggest testimonial stunt ever pulled." "and every mother's son of 'em," put in dr. surtaine, "staking a high-toned scientific reputation that the one sure, unfailing, reliable upbuilder for brain-workers, nervous folks, tired-out, or broken-down folks of any kind at all is"--here dr. surtaine paused, looked about his entranced audience, and delivered himself of his climax in a voice of thunder: "cerebread!" the word passed from mouth to mouth, in accents of experimentation, admiration, and acceptance. "cere, from cerebellum, the brain, and bread the universal food. i doped it out myself, and as soon as i hit on it i shipped belford couch straight to europe to get the backing. i wouldn't take a million for that name, to-day. "see what you can do with a proposition of that sort! it hasn't got any drugs in it, so we won't have to label it under the law. it ain't medical; so the most particular newspaper and magazines won't kick on the advertising. yet, with the copy i'm getting up on it, we can put it over to cure more troubles than certina ever thought of curing. only we won't use the word 'cure,' of course. all we have to do is to ram it into the public that all its troubles are nervous and brain troubles. 'cerebread' restores the brain and rebuilds the nerves, and there you are, as good as new. is that some plan? or isn't it!" there was a ripple of applausive comment. "what's in it?" inquired lauder, the factory superintendent. "millions in it, my boy," cried the other jubilantly. "we'll be manufacturing by new year's." "that's the point. _what'll_ we be manufacturing?" "by crikey! that reminds me. haven't settled that yet. might as well do it right now," said the presiding genius of the place with olympian decision. "dr. de vito, what's the newest wrinkle in brain-food?" "brain-food?" hesitated the little physician. "something new?" "yes, yes!" cried the charlatan impatiently. "what's the fad now? it used to be phosphorus." "ye-es. phosphorus, maybe. maybe some kind of hypophosphite, eh?" "sounds all right. could you get up a preparation of it that looks tasty and tastes good?" "sure. easy." "fine! i'll send you down the advertising copy, so you'll have that to go by. and now, gentlemen, we're the cerebread factory from now on. keep all your help; we'll need 'em. go on with certina till we're sold out; but no more advertising on it. and, all of you, from now on, think, dream, and _live_ cerebread. meeting's adjourned." the staff filed out, chattering excitedly. "he'll put it over."--"you can't beat the chief."--"is'n't he a wonder!"--"cerebread; it's a great name to advertise."--"no come-back to it, either. nobody can kick on a _food_."--"it's a sure-enough classy proposition, with those swell european names to it!"--"wish he'd let us in on the stock." success was in the air. it centered in and beamed from the happy eyes of the reformed enthusiast, as, crossing over the room with hands extended to esmé and hal, he cried in a burst of generous emotion: "it was you two that converted me." the end newspaper reporting and correspondence a manual for reporters, correspondents, and students of newspaper writing by grant milnor hyde, m.a. instructor in journalism in the university of wisconsin. new york and london d. appleton and company copyright, , by d. appleton and company printed in the united states of america to my mother introduction the purpose of this book is to instruct the prospective newspaper reporter in the way to write those stories which his future paper will call upon him to write, and to help the young cub reporter and the struggling correspondent past the perils of the copyreader's pencil by telling them how to write clean copy that requires a minimum of editing. it is not concerned with the _why_ of the newspaper business--the editor may attend to that--but with the _how_ of the reporter's work. and an ability to write is believed to be the reporter's chief asset. there is no space in this book to dilate upon newspaper organization, the work of the business office, the writing of advertisements, the principles of editorial writing, or the how and why of newspaper policy and practice, as it is. these things do not concern the reporter during the first few months of his work, and he will learn them from experience when he needs them. until then, his usefulness depends solely upon his ability to get news and to write it. there are two phases of the work which every reporter must learn: how to get the news and how to write it. the first he can pick up easily by actual newspaper experience--if nature has endowed him with "a nose for news." the writing of the news he can learn only by hard practice--a year's hard practice on some papers--and it is generally conceded that practice in writing news stories can be secured at home or in the classroom as effectively as practice in writing short stories, plays, business letters, or any other special form of composition. newspaper experience may aid the reporter in learning how to write his stories, but a newspaper apprenticeship is not absolutely necessary. however, whether he is studying the trade of newspaper writing in his home, in a classroom, or in the city room of a daily paper, he needs positive instruction in the english composition of the newspaper office--rather than haphazard criticism and a deluge of "don'ts." hence this book is concerned primarily with the writing of the news. successful newspaper reporting requires both an ability to write good english and an ability to write good english in the conventional newspaper form. and there is a conventional form for every kind of newspaper story. many editors of the present day are trying to break away from the conventional form and to evolve a looser and more natural method of writing news stories. the results are often bizarre and sometimes very effective. certainly originality in expression adds much to the interest of newspaper stories, and many a good piece of news is ruined by a bald, dry recital of facts. just as the good reporter is always one who can give his yarns a distinctive flavor, great newspaper stories are seldom written under the restriction of rules. but no young reporter can hope to attain success through originality and defiance of rules until he has first mastered the fundamental principles of newspaper writing. he can never expect to write "the story of the year" until he has learned to handle everyday news without burying the gist of his stories--any more than an artist can hope to paint a living portrait until he has learned, with the aid of rules, to draw the face of a plaster block-head. hence the emphasis upon form and system in this book. and, whatever the form may be, the embodiment must be clear, concise, grammatical english; that is the excuse for the many axioms of simple english grammar that are introduced side by side with the study of the newspaper form. the author offers this book as the result of personal newspaper experience and of his work as instructor in classes in newspaper writing at the university of wisconsin. every item that is offered is the result of an attempt to correct the mistakes that have appeared most often in the papers of students who are trying to do newspaper writing in the classroom. the seemingly disproportionate emphasis upon certain branches of the subject and the constant repetition of certain simple principles are to be excused by the purpose of the book--to be a text-book in the course of study worked out in this school of journalism. the use of the fire story as typical of all newspaper stories and as a model for all newspaper writing is characteristic of this method of instruction. four chapters are devoted to the explanation of a single principle which any reader could grasp in a moment, because experience has shown that an equivalent of four chapters of study and practice is required to teach the student the application of this principle and to fix it in his mind so thoroughly that he will not forget it in his later work of writing more complicated stories. it is felt that the beginner needs and must have the detailed explanation, the constant reiteration and some definite rules to guide him in his practice. hence the emphasis upon the conventional form. since, in the application of the newspaper principle of beginning with the gist of the story, the structure of the lead is of greater importance than the rest of the story, this book devotes the greater part of its discussion to the lead. the suggestions for practice are attached in an attempt to give the young newspaper man some _positive_ instruction. most reporters are instructed by a system of "don'ts," growled out by busy editors; most correspondents receive no instruction at all--a positive suggestion now and then cannot but help them both. practice is necessary in the study of any form of writing; these suggestions for practice embody the method of practice used in this school of journalism. the examples are taken from representative papers of the entire country to show the student how the stories are actually written in newspaper offices. madison, wisconsin, june , . contents chapter page i. gathering the news ii. news values iii. newspaper terms iv. the news story form v. the simple fire story vi. the feature fire story vii. faults in news stories viii. other news stories ix. follow-up and rewrite stories x. reports of speeches xi. interviews xii. court reporting xiii. social news and obituaries xiv. sporting news xv. human interest stories xvi. dramatic reporting xvii. style book appendix i--suggestions for study appendix ii--news stories to be corrected index newspaper reporting and correspondence i gathering the news unlike almost any other profession, that of a newspaper reporter combines two very different activities--the gathering of news and the writing of news. part of the work must be done in the office and part of it outside on the street. at his desk in the office a reporter is engaged in the literary, or pseudo-literary, occupation of writing news stories; outside on the street he is a detective gathering news and hunting for elusive facts to be combined later into stories. although the two activities are closely related, each requires a different sort of ability and a different training. in a newspaper office the two activities are rarely separated, but a beginner must learn each duty independent of the other. this book will not attempt to deal with both; it will confine itself mainly to one phase, the pseudo-literary activity of writing news stories. however, introductory to the discussion of the writing of newspaper stories, we may glance at the other side of the newspaper writer's work--the gathering of the news. where the newspaper gets its news and how it gets its news can be learned only by experience, for it differs in different cities and with different papers. but an outline of the background of news-gathering may assist us in writing the news after it is gathered and ready for us to write. = . reporter vs. correspondent.=--there are two capacities in which one may write news stories for a paper. he may work on the staff as a regular reporter or he may supply news from a distance as a correspondent. in the one case he works under the personal supervision of a city editor and spends his entire time at the regular occupation of gathering and writing news. as a correspondent he works in a distant city, under the indirect supervision of the city, telegraph, or state editor, and sends in only the occasional stories that seem to be of interest to his paper. in either case the same rules apply to his news gathering and to his news writing. and in either case the length of his employment depends upon his ability to turn in clean copy in the form in which his paper wishes to print the news. both the reporter and the correspondent must write their stories in the same form and must look at news and the sources of news from almost the same point of view. whatever is said of the reporter applies equally to the correspondent. = . expected and unexpected news.=--the daily news may be divided into two classes from the newspaper's point of view: expected and unexpected news. expected news includes all stories of which the paper has a previous knowledge. into this class fall all meetings, speeches, sermons, elections, athletic contests, social events, and daily happenings that do not come unexpectedly. they are the events that are announced beforehand and tipped off to the paper in time for the editor to send out a reporter to cover them personally. these events are of course recorded in the office, and each day the editor has a certain number of them, a certain amount of news that he is sure of. each day he looks over his book to note the events that are to take place during that day and sends out his reporters to cover them. the other class includes the stories that break unexpectedly. accidents, deaths, fires, storms, and other unexpected happenings come without warning and the reporting of them cannot be arranged for in advance. these are the stories that the paper is most anxious to get and the things for which the whole staff always has its eyes and ears open. seldom are they heard of in time for the paper to have them covered personally, and the reporting of such stories becomes a separate sort of work--the gathering and sorting of the facts that can be obtained only from chance witnesses. = . news sources.=--there are certain sources from which the paper gets most of its tips of expected events and its knowledge of unexpected events. these every editor knows about. the courts, the public records, the public offices, the churches, and the schools furnish a great many of the tips of expected news. the police stations, the fire stations, the hospitals, and the morgues furnish most of the tips of unexpected news. whenever an event is going to happen, or whenever an unexpected occurrence does happen, a notice of it is to be found in some one of these sources. such a notice or a casual word from any one is called a "tip" and indicates the possibility of securing a story. the securing of the story is another matter. a would-be reporter may get good practice from studying the stories in the daily papers and trying to discover or imagine from what source the original news tip came. he will soon find that certain classes of stories always come from certain sources and that there is a perceptible amount of routine evident in the accounts of the most unexpected occurrences. = . runs and assignments.=--between the news tip and the finished copy for the compositor there is a vast amount of news gathering, which falls to the lot of the reporter. this is handled by a system of runs and special assignments. a reporter usually has his own run, or beat, on which he gathers news. his run may cover a certain number of police stations or the city hall or any group of regular news sources. each day he must visit the various sources of news on his beat and gather the tips and whatever facts about the stories behind the tips that he can. the tips that he secures furnish him with clues to the stories, and it is his business to get the facts behind all of the tips on his beat and to write them up, unless a tip opens up a story that is too big for him to handle alone without neglecting his beat. assignments are used to cover the stories that do not come in through the regular sources, and to handle the big stories that are unearthed on the regular beats. the editor turns over to the reporter the tip that he has received and instructs him to go out and get the facts. a paper's best reporters are used almost entirely on assignments, and when they go out after a story they practically become detectives. they follow every clue that the tip suggests and every clue that is opened up as they progress; they hunt down the facts until they are reasonably sure that they have secured the whole story. the result may not be worth writing, or it may be worth a place on the front page, but the reporter must get to the bottom of it. whether on a beat or on an assignment every reporter must have his ears open for a tip of some unexpected story and must secure the facts or inform the editor at once. it is in this way that a paper gets a scoop, or beat, on its rivals by printing a story before the other papers have heard of it. = . interviews for facts.=--to cover an assignment and secure the facts of a story is not at all easy. if the reporter could be a personal witness of the happening which he is to report, the task would be simpler. but, outside the case of expected events, he rarely hears of the occurrence until after it is past and the excitement has subsided. then he must find the persons who witnessed the occurrence or who know the facts, and get the story from them. perhaps he has to see a dozen people to get the information he wants. getting facts from people in this way is called interviewing--interviewing for facts, as distinguished from formal interviewing for the purpose of securing a statement or an opinion that is to be printed with the name of the man who utters it. although a dozen interviews may be necessary for a single story, not one of them is mentioned in the story, for they are of no importance except in the facts that they supply. for example, suppose a reporter is sent out to get the story of a fire that has started an hour or two before he goes on duty. all that his editor gives him is the tip from the fire department, or from some other source, of a fire at such-and-such an address. when he arrives at the scene there is nothing left but smoldering ruins with perhaps an engine throwing a stream on the smoking débris and a few by-standers still loitering about. he can see with his own eyes what kind of building has burned, and how completely it has been destroyed. a by-stander may be able to tell him who occupied the building or what it was used for, but he must hunt for some one else who can give him the exact facts that his paper wants. perhaps he can find the tenant and learn from him what his loss has been. the tenant can give him the name of the owner and may be able to tell him something about the origin of the fire. he must find the owner to get the value of the building and the amount of insurance carried. perhaps he cannot find any of these people and must ask the fire chief or some one else to give him what facts and estimates he can. if the fire is at all serious he must find out who was killed or injured and get their names and addresses and the nature of their injury or the manner of their death. perhaps he can talk to some of the people who had narrow escapes, or interview the friends or relatives of the dead. everywhere he turns new clues open up, and he must follow each one of them in turn until he is sure that he has all the facts. = . point of view.=--the task would be easy if every one could tell the reporter just the facts that his paper wants. but in the confusion every one is excited and fairly bubbling over with rumors and guesses which may later turn out to be false. each person who is interested in the incident sees and tells it only from his own point of view. obviously the reporter's paper does not want the facts from many different points of view, nor even from the point of view of the fire department, of the owner, or of the woman who was rescued from the third floor. the paper wants the story from a single point of view--the point of view of an uninterested spectator. consequently the reporter must get the facts through interviews with a dozen different people, discount possible exaggeration and falsity due to excitement, make allowances for the different points of view, harmonize conflicting statements, and sift from the mass what seems to him to be the truth. then he must write the story from the uninterested point of view of the public, which wants to hear the exact facts of the fire told in an unprejudiced way. never does the story mention any of the interviews behind it except when the reporter is afraid of some statement and wants to put the responsibility upon the person who gave it to him. and so the finished story that we read in the next morning's paper is the composite story of the fire chief, the owner, the tenant, the man who discovered the fire, the widow who was driven from her little flat, the little girl who was carried down a ladder through the smoke, the man who lost everything he had in the world, and the cynic who watched the flames from behind the fireline--all massed together and sifted and retold in an impersonal way from the point of view of a by-stander who has been everywhere through the flames and has kept his brain free from the terror and excitement of it all. the same is true of every story that is printed in a newspaper. every story must be secured in the same way--whether it is the account of a business transaction, a bank robbery, a political scandal, a murder, a reception, or a railroad wreck. seldom is it possible to find any one person who knows all the facts just as the newspaper wants them, and many a story that is worth but a stickful in the first edition is the result of two hours' running about town, half a dozen telephone calls, and a dozen interviews. that is the way the news is gathered, and that is the part of the reporter's work that he must learn by experience. but after all the gathering is finished and he has the facts, the writing of the story remains. if the reporter knows how to write the facts when he has them, his troubles are cut in half, for nowadays a reporter who writes well is considered a more valuable asset than one who cannot write and simply has a nose for news. = . news-gathering agencies.=--this account of news gathering is of course told from the point of view of the reporter. naturally it assumes a different aspect in the editor's eyes. much of the day's news does not have to be gathered at all. a steady stream of news flows in ready for use from the great news-gathering agencies, the associated press, the united press, the city press, etc., and from correspondents. many stories are merely summaries of speeches, bulletins, announcements, pamphlets and other printed matter that comes to the editorial office, and many stories come already written. almost everybody is looking for publicity in these days and the editor does not always have to hunt the news with an army of ferrets. coöperation in news gathering has simplified the whole matter. but it all has to be written and edited. that is why great reporters are no longer praised for their cleverness in worming their way to elusive facts, but for their ability to write a good story. that is why we no longer hear so much about beats and scoops but more about clean copy and "literary masterpieces." = . how the correspondent works.=--the correspondent gathers news very much as the reporter does, but he does it without the help of a city editor. he must be his own director and keep his own book of tips, for he has no one to make out his assignments beforehand. he has to watch for what news he can get by himself and send it to his paper of his own accord, except occasionally when his paper instructs him to cover a particularly large story. but he gets his tips and runs down his facts just as a reporter does. just as much alertness and just as much ability to write are required of him. the correspondent's work is made more difficult by what is called news values. distance affects the importance of the facts that he secures and the length of the stories he writes. he must weigh every event for its interest to readers a hundred or a thousand miles away. what may be of immense importance in his community may have no interest at all for readers outside that community. he must see everything with the eyes of a stranger, and this must influence his whole work of news gathering and news writing. this matter will be taken up at greater length in the next chapter. = . correspondent's relation to his paper.=--the relations of a correspondent to the paper or news association to which he is sending news can best be learned by experience. every paper has different rules for its correspondents and different directions in regard to the sort of news it wants. the rules regarding the mailing of copy and the sending of stories or queries by telegraph are usually sent out in printed form by each individual paper to its correspondents. but while gathering news and writing stories for a distant paper, a correspondent must always regard himself as a reporter and write his stories in the form in which they are to appear in print if he wishes to remain correspondent for any length of time. the following rules are taken from the "instructions to correspondents" sent out on a printed card to the correspondents of the st. louis _star_: query by wire on all stories you consider are worth telegraphing, unless you are absolutely certain _the star_ wants you to send the story without query, or in case of a big story breaking suddenly near edition time. if you have not time to query, get a reply and send such matter as might be ordered before the next edition time; send the story in the shortest possible number of words necessary to tell it, asking if additional matter is desired. write your queries so they can be understood. never send a "blind" query. if john smith, a confirmed bachelor, whose age is years, elopes with and marries the daughter of the woman who jilted him when he was a youth, say so in as few words as possible, but be sure to convey the dramatic news worth of the story in your query. do not say, "bachelor elopes with girl, daughter of woman he knew a long time ago." in itself the story which this query tells might be worth printing, but it would not be half so good a story as the elopement of john smith, , bachelor, woman hater, with the daughter of his old sweetheart. when a good story breaks close to edition time and the circumstances justify it, use the long-distance telephone, but first be reasonably certain _the star_ will not get the story from another source. write your stories briefly. _the star_ desires to remunerate its correspondents according to the worth of a story and not for so many words. one good story of words with the right "punch" in the introduction is worth a dozen strung over as many dozen pages of copy paper with the real story in the last paragraph of each. tell your story in simple, every-day conversational words: quit when you have finished. relegate the details. unless it is a case of identification in a murder mystery, or some similar big story, no one cares about the color of the man's hair. get the principal facts in the first paragraph--stop soon after. send as much of your stuff as possible by mail, especially if you have the story in the late afternoon and are near enough to st. louis to reach _the star_ by o'clock the next morning. if necessary, send the letter special delivery. don't stop working on a good story when you have all the facts; if there are photographs to be obtained, get the photographs, especially if the principals in the story are persons of standing, and more especially if they are women. correspondents will appreciably increase their worth to _the star_ and enhance their earning capacity by observing these rules. ii news values before any one can hope to write for a newspaper he must know something about news values--something about the essence of interest that makes one story worth a column and cuts down another, of equal importance from other points of view, to a stickful. he must recognize the relative value of facts so that he can distinguish the significant part of his story and feature it accordingly. the question is a delicate one and yet a very reasonable and logical one. the ideal of a newspaper, according to present-day ethics, is to print news. the daily press is no longer a golden treasury of contemporary literature, not even, perhaps, an exponent of political principles. its primary purpose is to report contemporary history--to keep us informed concerning the events that are taking place each day in the world about us. to this idea is added another. a newspaper must be interesting. in these days of many newspapers few readers are satisfied with merely being informed; they want to be informed in a way that interests them. to this demand every one connected with a newspaper office tries to cater. it is the defense of the sensational yellow journals and it is the reason for everything in the daily press. there is so much to read that people will not read things that do not interest them, and the paper that succeeds is the paper that interests the greatest number of readers. circulation cannot be built up by printing uninteresting stuff that the majority of readers are not interested in, and circulation is necessary to success. this desire to interest readers is behind the whole question of news values. news is primarily the account of the latest events, but, more than that, it is the account of the latest events that interest readers who are not connected with these events. further than that, it is the account of the latest events that interest the greatest number of readers. susie brown may have sprained her ankle. the fact is absorbingly interesting to susie; it is even rather interesting to her family and friends, even to her enemies. if she is well known in the little town in which she lives her accident may be interesting enough to the townspeople for the local weekly to print a complete account of it. however, the event is interesting only to people who know susie, and after all they do not comprise a very large number. hence her accident has no news value outside the local weekly. on the other hand, had susie sprained her ankle in some very peculiar manner, the accident might be of interest to people who do not know susie. suppose that she had tripped on her gown as she was ascending the steps of the altar to be married. such an accident would be very unusual, almost unheard of. people in general are interested in unusual things, and many, many readers would be interested in reading about susie's unusual accident although they did not know susie or even the town in which she lives. such a story would be the report of a late event that would interest many people; hence it would have a certain amount of news value. of course, the reader loses sight of susie in reading of her accident--it might as well have been mary jones--but that is because susie has no news value in herself. that is another matter. = . classes of readers.=--realizing that his story must be of interest to the greatest number of people, the reporter must remember the sort of people for whom he is writing. that complicates the whole matter. if he were writing for a single class of readers he could easily give them the news that would interest them. but he is not; he is writing for many classes of people, for all classes of people. and he must interest them all. he is writing for the business man in his office, for the wife in the home, for the ignorant, for the highly educated, for the rich and the poor, for the old and the young, for doctors, lawyers, bankers, laborers, ministers, and women. all of them buy his paper to hear the latest news told in a way that interests them, and he has to cater to each and to all of them. if he were simply writing for business men he would give them many columns of financial news, but that would not interest tired laborers. an extended account of the doings of a presbyterian convention would not attract the great class of men with sporting inclinations, and a story of a very pretty exhibition of scientific boxing would not appeal to the wife at home. they all buy the paper, and they all want to be interested, and the paper must, therefore, print stories that interest at least the majority of them. that is the question of news values. the news must be the account of the latest events that interest the greatest number of readers of all classes. this search for the universally-interesting news is the reason behind the sensational papers. although the interests of any individual differ in almost every aspect from the interests of his neighbor, there is one sort of news that interests them both, that interests every human being. that is the news that appeals to the emotions, to the heart. it is the news that deals with human life--human nature--human interest news the papers call it. in it every human being is interested. however trivial may be the event, if it can be described in a way that will make the reader feel the point of view of the human beings who suffered or struggled or died or who were made happy in the event, every other human being will read it with interest. human sympathy makes one want to feel joy and pain from the standpoint of others. naturally that sort of news is always read; naturally the paper that devotes itself to such news is always read and is always successful as far as circulation and profits go. the papers that have that ideal of news behind them and forsake every other ideal for it are called sensational papers. whether they are good or not is another question. with this idea of what news values means and the idea that news is worth while only when it interests the largest number of people of all classes, we may try to look for the things that make news interesting to the greatest number of people of all classes. the reporter must know not only what news is, but what makes it news. he must be able to see the things in a story that will interest the greatest number of people of all classes. these are many and intricate. = . timeliness.=--in the first place, news must be new. a story must have timeliness. our readers want to know what happened to-day, for yesterday and last week are past and gone. they want to be up to the minute in their information on current events. therefore a story that is worth printing to-day will not be worth printing to-morrow or, at most, on the day after to-morrow. events must be chronicled just as soon as they happen. furthermore, the story itself must show that it is new. it must tell the reader at once that the event which it is chronicling happened to-day or last night--at least since the last edition of the paper. that is why the reporter must never fail to put the time in the introduction of his story. editors grow gray-headed trying to keep up with the swift passing of events, and they are always very careful to tell their readers that the events which they are chronicling are the latest events. that is the reason why every editor hates the word "yesterday" and tries to get "to-day" or "this morning" into the lead of every story. hence, to the newspaper, everything that happened since midnight last night is labeled "this morning," and everything that happened since six o'clock yesterday afternoon is labeled "last night." anything before that hour must be labeled "yesterday," but it goes in as "late yesterday afternoon," if it possibly can. hence the first principle of news values is timeliness--news is news only because it just happened and can be spoken of as one of the events of "to-day" or of "late yesterday." = . distance.=--distance is another factor in news values. in spite of fast trains and electric telegraphs human beings are clannish and local in their interests. they are interested mainly in things and persons that they know, and news from outside their ken must be of unusual significance to attract them. they like to read about things that they have seen and persons that they know, because they are slow to exert their imaginations enough to appreciate things that they do not know personally. hence every newspaper is primarily local, even though it is a metropolitan daily, and news from a distance plays a very subordinate part. it has been said that new york papers cannot see beyond the alleghanies; it is equally true that most papers cannot see more than a hundred miles from the printing office, except in the case of national news. any newspaper's range of news sources goes out from the editorial room in concentric circles. purely personal news must come from within the range of the paper's general circulation, because people do not care to read purely personal news about persons whom they do not know. other news is limited ordinarily to the region with which the paper's readers are personally acquainted--the state, perhaps--because subscribers unconsciously wish to hear about places with which they are personally acquainted. any news that comes from outside this larger circle must be nation-wide or very unusual in its interest. a story that may be worth a column in el paso, texas, would not be worth printing in new york because el paso is hardly more than a name to most new york newspaper readers. in the same way, the biggest stories in new york are not worth anything in texas, because texas readers are not personally interested in new york--they cannot say, "yes, i know that building; i walked down that street the other day; oh, you can't tell me anything about the subway." news is primarily local, and the first thing a correspondent must learn is how to distinguish the stories that are purely local in their interest from those that would be worth printing a hundred miles away in a paper read by people who do not know the places or persons involved in the story. colonel smith may be a very big frog in the little puddle of smith's corners, and his doings may be big news to the weeklies all over his county, but he has to do something very unusual before his name is worth a line in a paper two counties away. he is nothing but a name to people who do not know him or know of him, and therefore they are not interested in him. every correspondent must watch for the stories that have something more than a local interest, some element of news in them that will carry them over the obstacle of distance and make them interesting to any reader. it would be impossible to analyze news values to the extent of telling every conceivable element of interest that will overcome the obstacle of distance. yet there are certain elements that always make a newspaper story interesting to any one. = . loss of life.=--one of these is the loss of human life. for some strange reason every human being is interested in the thought of death. just as soon as a story mentions death it is worth printing, and if it has a number of deaths to tell about it is worth printing anywhere. any fire, any railroad wreck, or any other disaster in which a number of persons are killed or injured makes a story that is worth sending anywhere. there seems to be a joy for the reader in the mere number of fatalities. a story that can begin with "ten people were killed," or "seven men met their death," attracts a reader's interest at once. as a very natural result, and justly, too, newspapers have been broadly accused of exaggeration for the sake of a large number. but at present many papers are inclined to underestimate rather than overestimate, perhaps to avoid this accusation. in a number of instances in the past year, among them the shirtwaist factory fire in new york, the first figures were smaller than the official count printed later. that does not mean, however, that newspapers do not want stories involving loss of life. any story which involves a large number of fatalities will carry a long distance, if for no other reason. = . big names.=--another element of news values is the interest in prominent people. the mere mention of a man or a woman who is known widely attracts attention. although colonel smith of smith's corners has to do something very unusual to get his name in any paper outside his county, the slightest thing that president taft does is printed in every paper in the country. it is simply because of our interest in the man himself. some names give a story news value because the names are widely known politically or financially, some names because they are simply notorious. but any name that is recognized at once, for any reason, gives a story news value. = . property loss.=--akin to man's love for any account that involves large loss of human life, is his love of any story that tells about a huge loss of property. the mere figures seem to have a charm; any story that can begin with awesome figures, like "two million dollars," "one hundred automobiles," "ten city blocks," has news value. hence any story that involves a large loss that can be expressed in figures has the power to carry a great distance. = . unusualness.=--it is safe to say that newspaper readers are interested in anything unusual. it does not matter whether it is a thing, a person, an action, a misfortune; so long as it is strange and out of the range of ordinary lives, it is interesting. many, if not most, newspaper stories have nothing but the element of strangeness in them to give them news value, but if they are sufficiently strange and unusual they may be copied all over the country. an unusual origin or an unusual rescue will give an unimportant fire great news value. and so with every other kind of story. = . human interest.=--along with the element of the strange and unusual, goes the human interest element. any story that will make us laugh or make us cry has news value. hundreds of magazines are issued monthly with nothing in them but fictitious stories that are intended to arouse our emotions, and newspapers are beginning to realize that they can interest their readers in the same way. no life is so prosaic that it is not full of incidents that make one laugh or cry, and when these stories can be told in a way that will make any reader feel the same emotions, they have news value that will carry them a long distance. obviously their success depends very largely upon the way they are told. = . personal appeal.=--another element that may give a story news value is that of personal appeal or application to the reader's own daily life. men are primarily egoistic and selfish and nothing interests them more than things that affect them personally. they can read complacently and without interest of the misfortunes and joys of others, but just as soon as anything affects their own daily lives, even a little, they want to hear about it. perhaps the price of butter has gone up a few cents or the gas company has reduced its rates from eighty cents to seventy-seven. every reader is interested at once, for the news affects his own daily life. sometimes this personal appeal is due merely to the reader's familiarity with the persons or places mentioned in the story; sometimes it is due to the story's application to his business life, his social or religious activities, or to any phase of his daily existence. that is the reason why political news interests every one, for we all feel that the management of the government has an influence on our own lives. the story of any political maneuver--especially if it is one that may be looked upon as bad or good--carries farther than any other story. show that your story tells of something that has even the slightest effect on the lives of a large number of people and it needs no other element to give it news value. = . local reasons.=--these factors and many others give news stories a news value that will carry them a long distance and make them interesting in communities far from their source. many local reasons may enhance the value of a story for local papers. a paper's policy or some campaign that it is waging may give an otherwise unimportant event a tremendous significance. if an unimportant person is slightly injured while leaving a trolley car the story is hardly worth a line of type. but if such an item should come to a newspaper while it is carrying on a campaign against the local street railway company, the story would probably be written and printed in great detail. any slight occurrence that may be in line with a paper's political beliefs would receive an amount of space far out of proportion with its ordinary news worth. news value is a very changeable and indefinite thing, and there are countless reasons why any given story should be of interest to a large number of readers. and the possibility of interesting a large number of readers is the basis of news value. = . the feature.=--in connection with the study of news values the question of feature is important. in editorial offices one is constantly hearing the word "feature," and reporters are constantly admonished to "play up the feature" of their stories. feature is the word that editors use to signify the essence of news value. every story that is printed is printed because of some fact in it that makes it interesting--gives it news value. the element in the story that makes it interesting and worth printing is the feature. the feature may be some prominent name, a large list of fatalities, a significant amount of property destroyed, or merely the unusualness of the incident. this feature is the element that makes the story news; therefore it is used to attract attention to the story. every newspaper story displays like a placard in its headlines the reason why it was printed--the element in it that makes it interesting. "playing up the feature" is simply the act of bringing this feature to the front so that it will attract attention to the story. just how this is done we shall see later. but when, as a reporter, you are looking for a feature to play up in your lead, remember that the feature to be played up is the thing in the story that gives the story news value. and few stories have more than one claim to news value, more than one feature. iii newspaper terms the newspaper vernacular that is used in the editorial and press rooms of any daily paper is a curious mixture of literary abbreviations and technical printing terms. it is the result of the strange mingling of the literary trade of writing with the mechanical trade of setting type. for that reason a green reporter has difficulty in understanding the instructions that he receives until he has been in the office long enough to learn the office slang. it would be impossible to list all of the expressions that might be heard in one day, but a knowledge of the commonest words will enable a reporter to get the drift of his editor's instructions. when a young man secures a position as reporter for a newspaper he begins as a _cub reporter_ and is usually said to be on the _staff_ of his paper. his sphere of activity is confined to the _editorial_ room, where the news is written; his relations with the _business office_, where advertising, circulation, and other business matters are handled, consists of the weekly duty of drawing his pay. his chief enemies are in the _printing office_ where his literary efforts are _set up_ in type and printed. his superiors are called _editors_ and exist in varying numbers, depending upon the size of his paper. the man who directs the reporters is usually called the _city editor_, or perhaps the _day_ or _night city editor_; above him there are managing editors and other persons in authority with whom the cub is not concerned; and the favored mortals who enjoy a room by themselves and write nothing but editorials are called editors or _editorial writers_. there may also be a _telegraph_ editor, a _sporting_ editor, a _sunday_ editor, and many other editors; or if the paper is small and poor all of these editors may be condensed into one very busy man. on a city daily of average size there are _desk men_, or _copyreaders_, who work under editorial direction but feel superior to the reporter because they correct his literary efforts. the reporter's work consists of gathering and writing news. in the office this is called _covering_ and writing _stories_. he is ordinarily put on a _beat_, or _run_; this is simply a daily route or round of news sources which he follows as regularly as a policeman walks his beat. the reporter's work on a special story outside his beat is called an _assignment_. any hint that he may receive concerning a bit of news is called a _tip_. any bit of news that he secures to the exclusion of his paper's rivals is called a _beat_, or a _scoop_. everything that is written for the paper, whether it be a two-line personal item or a two-column report, is called a _story_, or a _yarn_, and from the time the story is written until it appears in the printed paper it is called _copy_. if the story is well written and needs few corrections it is called _clean copy_. after the story is written it is turned over to the copyreader to be _edited_. the copyreader corrects it and writes the headlines or _heads_; then he sends it to the composing room to be set in type by the _compositor_. the story itself is usually set up on a linotype machine and the heads are set up by hand. for the sake of keeping the two parts of the copy together the reporter or the copyreader ordinarily gives the story a name, such as "fire no. "; the bit of lead on which the name is printed is called a _slug_ and the story is said to be _slugged_. if at any time in its journey from the reporter's pencil to the printed page, the editor decides not to print the story, he _kills_ it; otherwise he _runs_ it, or allows it to go into the paper. when the story is in type, an impression, or _proof_, is taken of it, and this proof, still called copy, comes back to the copyreader or the proofreader for the correction of typographical errors. the gathering together of all of the day's stories into the form of the final printed page is called _making up_ the paper; this is usually done by some one of the editors. in like manner, the finished aspect of the paper is called the _make-up_. some stories are said to be _big stories_ because of unusual news value. when any news comes unexpectedly it is said to _break_; and when any story comes in beforehand and must be held over, it is said to be _released_ on the day on which it may be printed. the first paragraph of any story is called the _lead_ (pronounced "leed"); the word _lead_ is also used to designate several introductory paragraphs that are tacked on at the beginning of a long story, which may be of the nature of a _running story_ (as the running story of a football game), or may be made up of several parts, written by one or more reporters. in general, that part of a story which presents the gist or summary of the entire story at the beginning is called the _lead_. the most interesting thing in the story, the part that gives it news value, is called the _feature_, and _playing up the feature_ consists in telling the most interesting thing in the first line of the lead or in the headline. an entire story is said to be _played up_ if it is given a prominent place in the paper. a _feature story_ is either a story that is thus played up or a story that is written for some other reason than news value, such as human interest. when a story is rewritten to give a new interest to old facts it is called a _rewrite story_; when it is rewritten to include new facts or developments, it is called a _follow-up_, _second-day_, or _follow story_. because of the close relation between the editorial room and the printing office many printing terms are commonly heard about the editorial room. all copy is measured by the _column_ and by the _stickful_. a column is usually a little less than , words and a stickful is the amount of type that can be set in a compositor's _stick_, the metal frame used in setting type by hand--about two inches or words. a bit of copy that is set up with a border or a row of stars about it is said to be _boxed_. whenever copy is set with extra space between the lines it is said to be _leaded_ (pronounced "leded")--the name is taken from the piece of lead that is placed between the lines of type. the reporter must gradually learn the names of the various kinds of type and the various proofreader's signs that are used to indicate the way in which the type is to be set, for the whole work of writing the news is governed and limited by the mechanical possibilities of the printing office. the commonest signs used by the proofreader or the copyreader, together with instructions for preparing copy, are given in the style book at the end of this volume. (a complete list of proofreader's signs can be found in the back of any large dictionary.) _style_ is a word which editors use to cover a multitude of rules, arbitrary or otherwise, concerning capitalization, punctuation, abbreviation, etc. a paper that uses many capital letters is said to follow an _up_ style, and a paper that uses small letters instead of capitals whenever there is a choice is said to follow a _down_ style. every newspaper has its own style and usually prints its rules in a style book; the style book given in this volume has been compiled from many representative newspaper style books. it sets forth an average style and the beginner is advised to follow it closely in his practice writing--for, as editors say, "uniformity is better than a strict following of style." iv the news story form when we come to the writing of the news we find that there are many sorts of stories that must be written. in the newspaper office they are called simply stories without distinction. for the purpose of study they may be classified to some extent, but this classification must not be taken as hard and fast. the commonest kind of story is the simple news story. practically all newspaper reports are news stories, but as distinguished from other kinds of reports the simple news story is the report of some late event or occurrence. it is usually concerned with unexpected news, and is the commonest kind of story in any newspaper. it is to be distinguished from reports of speeches, interview stories, court reports, social news, dramatic news, sporting news, human-interest stories, and all the rest. the distinction is largely one of form and does not exist to any great extent in a newspaper office where all stories are simply "stories." the simple news story is probably the most variable part of a newspaper. given the same facts, each individual reporter will write the story in his individual way and each editor will change it to suit his individual taste. no two newspapers have exactly the same ideal form of news story and no newspaper is able to live up to its individual ideal in each story. but there are general tendencies. certain things are true of all news stories; whether the story be the baldest recital of facts or the most sensational featuring of an imaginary thrill in a commonplace happening, certain characteristics are always present. and these characteristics can always be traced to one cause--the effort to catch and hold the reader's interest. when a busy american glances over his newspaper while he sips his breakfast coffee or while he clings to a strap on the way to his office, he reads only the stories that catch his interest--and he reads down the column in any one story only so long as his interest is maintained. hence the ideal news story is one which will catch the reader's attention by its beginning and hold his interest to the very end. this is the principle of all newspaper writing. the interest depends, in a large measure, on the way the facts are presented. true, certain facts are in themselves more interesting to a casual reader than others, but just as truly other less interesting facts may be made as interesting through the reporter's skill. the most interesting of stories may lose its interest if poorly presented, and facts of the most commonplace nature may be made attractive enough to hold the reader to the last word. the aim of every reporter and of every editor is to make every story so attractive and interesting that the most casual reader cannot resist reading it. in the old days news stories were written in the logical order of events just like any other narrative, but constant change has brought about a new form, as different and individual as any other form of expression. unlike any other imaginable piece of writing, the news story discloses its most interesting facts first. it does not lead the reader up to a startling bit of news by a tantalizing suspense in an effort to build up a surprise for him; it tells its most thrilling content first and trusts to his interest to lead him on through the details that should logically precede the real news. therefore every editor admonishes his reporters "to give the gist of the news first and the details later." there are other reasons for this peculiar reversal of the logical order of narrative. few readers have time to read the whole of every story, and yet they want to get the news--in the shortest possible time. therefore the newspaper very kindly tells the important part of each story at the beginning. then if the reader cares to hear the details he can read the rest of the story; but he gets the news, anyway. again, if the exigencies of making up the stories into a paper of mechanically limited space require that a story be cut down, the editor may slash off a paragraph or two at the end without depriving the story of its interest. imagine the difficulty of cutting down a story that is told in its logical order! if the real news of the story were in the last paragraph it would go in the slashing, and what would be left? whereas, if the gist of the story comes first the editor may run any number of paragraphs or even the first paragraph alone and still have a complete story. the arrangement of news stories in american newspapers is thus a very natural one, resulting from the exigencies of the business. just how to fit every story to this arrangement is a difficult task. however, there are certain rules that the reporter may apply to each story, and these are very simple. in the first place, almost every story has a feature--there is some one thing in it that is out of the ordinary, something that gives it interest and news value beyond the interest in the incident behind it. no two stories have the same interesting features; if they had, only one of them would be worth printing and that would be the first. this extraordinary feature the reporter must see at once. if a building burns he must see quickly what incident in the occurrence will be of interest to readers who are reading of many fires every day. if john smith falls off a street car the reporter must discover some interesting fact in connection with mr. smith's misfortune that will be new and attractive to readers who do not know john and are bored with accounts of other smiths' accidents. the accident itself may be interesting, but the part of the accident that is out of the ordinary--the thing that gives the accident news value--is the feature of the story, and the reporter must tell it first. thoroughly determined to tell the most interesting part, the gist, of his story in the first paragraph, the reporter must remember that there are certain other things about the incident that the reader wants to know just as quickly. there are certain questions which arise in the reader's mind when the occurrence is suggested, and these questions must be answered as quickly as they are asked. the questions usually take the form of _when?_ _where?_ _what?_ _who?_ _how?_ _why?_ if a man falls off the street car we are eager to know at once who he was, although we probably do not know him, anyway; where it happened; when it happened; how he fell; and why he fell. if there is a fire we immediately ask what burned; where it was; when it burned; how it burned; and what caused it to burn. and the reporter must answer these questions with the same breath that tells us that a man fell off the car or that there was any fire at all. the effort to answer these questions at once has led to the peculiar form of introduction characteristic of every newspaper story. newspaper people call it the lead. it is really nothing but the statement of the briefest possible answers to all these questions in one sentence or one short paragraph. it tells the whole story in its baldest aspects and aims to satisfy the reader who wants only the gist of the story and does not care for the details. when all his questions have been answered in one breath he is ready to read the details one at a time, but he won't be satisfied if he must read all about how the fire was discovered before he is told what building burned, when it burned, etc. for example: | fire of unknown origin caused the | |practical destruction of the famous old | |"crow's nest," at tenth and cedar | |streets, perhaps the best known and | |oldest landmark in the second ward, | |yesterday afternoon.--_milwaukee free | |press._ | this is the lead of an ordinary news story--a newspaper report of a fire. the lead begins with "fire" because the story has no unusual feature--no element in it that is more interesting than the fact that there was a fire. the reporter considers "fire" the most important part of his story and begins with it. as soon as we read the word "fire" we ask, "when?"--"where?"--"what?"--"why?"--"how?" the reporter answers us in the same sentence with his announcement, "yesterday afternoon"--"at tenth and cedar streets"--"the famous old 'crow's nest,' perhaps the best known and oldest landmark in the second ward"--"unknown origin." _how_ is not worth answering, in this case, beyond the statement that the destruction was practically complete. thus the reporter has told us his bit of news and answered our most obvious questions about it at the very beginning of his story--in one sentence. according to newspaper rules this is a good lead. the order of the answers will be considered later. for the present we are concerned only with the facts that the lead must contain. v the simple fire story the simplest news story is the story which has no feature--which has no fact in it more important than the incident which it reports--e.g., the fire at the end of the last chapter. if we recall the various elements of news value we note that any incident may be given greater news value by the presence of some unusual or interesting feature--a great loss of life, an unusual time, a strikingly large loss of property, or simply a well-known name. such a story is called a story with a feature, because its interest depends not so much on the incident itself as upon the unusual feature within the incident. on the other hand, many news stories do not have features. many stories are worth printing simply because of the incident which they report, without any unusual feature within them. for example, a building may burn with no loss of life, no great loss of property, and no striking occurrence in connection with the burning. such a fire is worth reporting, but there is no fact in the story more interesting than the fact that there was a fire; the story has no feature. the leads of these two kinds of stories are different. when a story has a feature it is customary to play up that feature in the first line of the lead. if the story has no feature, is simply the record of a commonplace event, the lead merely announces the incident and answers the reader's questions about it. the commonest of featureless stories is the simple fire story in which nothing out of the ordinary happens, no one is killed, no striking rescues take place, and no tremendous amount of property is destroyed. this may be taken as typical of all featureless stories. the reporter, in writing a report of such a fire, merely answers in the lead the questions _when_, _where_, _what_, _why_, and perhaps _how_, that the reader asks concerning the fire. the most striking part of the story is that there was a fire; hence the story begins with "fire." for example: | fire today wrecked the top of the | |six-story warehouse at to | |washington street, used by the united | |states army as a medical supply | |store-room for the department of the | |east. capt. edwin wolf, who is in charge | |of the warehouse, says the loss on tents, | |blankets, cots, and other bedding stored | |on the floors of the building was | |large.--_new york mail._ | as one reads down through the rest of the story he finds nothing more striking than the fact that there was a fire. therefore there is no particular feature. no one was killed; no one was injured; the loss was not extraordinary for a new york fire--nothing in the story is of greater interest than the mere fact that there was a fire. hence the story begins with the word "fire." notice that it does not begin "a fire" or "the fire"--for the simple reason that the word _fire_ does not need an article before it. the editor will also tell you that it is not considered good to begin a story with an article, for the beginning is the most important part of a story and it is foolish to waste that advantageous place on unimportant words. the first word tells the reader that there has been a fire. he immediately asks where?--what burned?--when?--how much was lost? and the reporter proceeds to answer his questions in their order of importance. the reporter who wrote this story apparently thought that the time was of greatest importance and slipped it in at once--"today." he might just as well have left the time until the end of the sentence because it is not of very great interest. he considers the question "_where_" of next importance, and answers with "the top of the six-story warehouse at to washington street." the question "what?" he answers with a clause, "used by the united states army as a medical supply store-room for the department of the east." he does not try to answer the question "_why_?" because, as the rest of the story tells us, no one knew exactly what caused the fire. and as for the "_how_?" there is nothing extraordinary in the way that it burned beyond the fact that it burned. thus, in one sentence, he has answered all four questions about the fire, except a little query concerning the amount of the loss. that he considers worth a separate sentence of details. this is not a perfect lead. many editors would consider it faulty, but it illustrates one way of writing the lead of a featureless fire story. obviously there are faults; for instance, the time is given an undue amount of emphasis and the cause is omitted. suppose that we construct another lead from the same story--a lead which would be more in accordance with the logic of newspaper writing. we shall begin with the word "fire," but after it we shall slip in a little mention of the cause since to the reader not directly acquainted with the property that point is always of the greatest importance. then we shall tell where the fire was and after that what was burned. and last of all we shall give the time since that is of least importance to the average reader. this would be the result: | fire of unknown origin wrecked the top | |of the six-story warehouse at - | |washington street, used by the united | |states army as a medical supply | |store-room for the department of the | |east, destroying a large number of tents, | |blankets, cots, and other bedding, today. | we might as well have put the _what_ before the _where_ or altered the lead in any other way. but we would always begin with the word "fire" and answer all the questions that the reader might ask--in one short simple sentence. this constitutes our lead. we have told the casual reader what he wants to know about the fire. we give him more details about the fire if he wants to read them, but after we have stated the case clearly in the lead we no longer reckon his time so carefully and allow ourselves some latitude in the telling. after the lead we begin the story from the beginning and tell it in its logical order from start to finish, always bearing in mind that the editor may chop off a paragraph or two at the end. hence the second paragraph of the story as it appeared in _the mail_ begins: | john smith, a man employed in the | |stock-room on the sixth floor, saw smoke | |rolling out of one corner and notified | |other employees in the building, while | |patrolman hogan turned in an alarm. | we are back at the beginning now and telling things as they came. the next paragraph of the story tells us how they fought the fire, and the third tells us how they finally brought it under control. the last paragraph of the story reads: | there are three such warehouses in the | |country, one at st. louis, another at san | |francisco, but the one in this city is by | |far the largest. in it are kept supplies | |for the departments of the east, gulf, | |cuba, porto rico, and the philippines. | the editor of _the mail_ had plenty of space that day and saw fit to run this last paragraph, but we should not have lost much had he chopped it off. perhaps the reporter's copy contained still another paragraph telling about captain wolf, but that did not pass the editorial pencil. even more of the story might have been slashed without depriving us of much of the interesting news. judging from the above story a newspaper account is divided into two separate and independent parts: the lead and the detailed account. the lead is written for the casual reader and contains all the necessary facts about the fire; it may stand alone and constitute a story in itself. the detailed account is written for the reader who wants to hear more about the incident, and is written in the logical order of events--with an eye to the danger of the editor's pencil threatening the last paragraphs. in other words, the reporter tells his story briefly in one paragraph and then goes back and tells it all over again in a more detailed way. if the story is of sufficient importance the second telling may not be sufficient and he may go back a third time to the beginning and tell it again with still greater detail--but that is another matter. for the present we shall consider only the lead and the first detailed account. there are certain other points to be noticed in the report of a featureless fire. under no condition should it begin with the time. why? because, unless the time is of extreme interest, no one cares particularly when the fire occurred. and if the time is of great interest--as, for instance, if a church should burn while the congregation is in it--then the time becomes a feature to be played up and the story is no longer a featureless story. we are now considering stories in which nothing is of greater interest than the mere fact that there was a fire. the same is true of the location. who cares what street the fire was on until he knows more about the fire? if the location were of such significant importance as to be played up, the story would no longer be a featureless story. the paragraphing is also important. since the lead is in itself a separate part of the story it should always be paragraphed separately. do not let the beginning of the detailed account lap over into the lead, and do not introduce into the first paragraph any facts which are not absolutely a part of the lead--that is, facts that are absolutely essential to a general knowledge of the fire. when once you begin to tell the story in detail tell it logically and paragraph it logically. do not tell us that john smith discovered the fire and that the loss is $ in the same paragraph. take up each point separately and treat it fully before you leave it--then begin a new paragraph for the next item. * * * * * to take a hypothetical case, suppose that misfortune visits the home of john h. jones, who lives at liberty street. a defective flue sets his house on fire and it burns to the ground. by inquiry we find that the house is worth about $ , and is fully insured. there is nothing particularly striking about the story. we are sorry for mr. jones, but many houses worth $ , are set on fire by poor chimneys and many more houses burn down. no one was hurt, no one was killed; the most striking part of it all is that there was a fire. we would begin with the word "fire." perhaps our readers would be most interested in the cause of the fire and we shall tell them that first. then we shall tell them what burned, when it burned, and where it stood. there is nothing else that a casual reader would want to know and the lead would read: | fire starting in a defective chimney | |destroyed the residence of john h. jones, | | liberty street, at midnight last | |night, causing a loss of $ , , covered | |by insurance. | our casual reader is satisfied. for the reader who wishes to know more about the fire we add a paragraph or two of detail. first, we may tell him who discovered the fire; then how the jones family managed to escape; and after that how the fire was extinguished, and we might slip in a paragraph explaining just what trouble in the chimney made a fire possible. the editor may chop off any number of paragraphs or cut the story down to the lead, and yet our readers will get the facts and know just exactly what was the reason for the fire bell and the red sky at midnight last night. vi the feature fire story a fire story without a feature begins with "fire" because there is nothing in the story more interesting than the fact that there has been a fire. such was the case in the burning of john jones's house in the last chapter. but just as soon as any part of the story becomes more interesting than the fact that there was a fire, the story is no longer featureless--it is a fire story with a feature, or, for the purposes of our study, _a feature fire story_. this feature may be related to the story in one of two ways. in the first place, the answer to some one of the reader's questions may be the feature--e.g., the answer to _when_, _where_, _what_, _how_, _why_, _who_. on the other hand, the feature may be in some unexpected attendant circumstance that the reader would not think of; for instance, loss of life, an interesting rescue, or something of that sort. such a distinction is entirely arbitrary and would not be considered in a newspaper office, but it will make the matter simpler for the purposes of study. a. features in answers to reader's customary questions (_when_, _where_, _what_, _how_, _why_, _who_). suppose that john jones's house did not burn in the usual way--suppose that there is some striking incident in the story that makes it different from other fire stories. the story has a feature. perhaps the answer to some one of the reader's customary questions is more interesting than the answers to the others--so much more interesting that it supersedes even the fact that there was a fire. then it would be foolish to begin with the mere word "fire" when we have something more interesting to tell. the fire takes a second place and we begin with the interesting fact that supersedes it. for the present we shall consider that this interesting fact is the answer to one of the questions that the reader always asks; for instance, why the house burned or when it burned. = . why.=--perhaps mr. jones's house was set on fire in a very unusual way. there was a little party in session at the jones's and some one decided to take a flash-light picture. the flash-light set fire to a lace curtain and before any one could stop it the house was afire. few fires begin in that way, and our readers would be very interested in hearing about it. the story has a feature in the answer to the reader's _why?_ and so we would begin our lead in this way: | a flashlight setting fire to a lace | |curtain started a fire which destroyed | |the residence of john h. jones, | |liberty street, at o'clock last night | |and caused a loss of $ , . | in this way the feature is played up at the beginning of the sentence, and yet the rest of the reader's questions are answered in the same sentence and he knows a great deal about the fire. or, leaving mr. jones to his fate, we may give another example of an unusual cause taken from a newspaper. this was a big fire, and yet the unusual cause was of greater interest than the fire itself or the amount of property destroyed: | a tiny "joss stick," the lighted end of| |which was no larger than a pinhead, is | |thought to have been responsible for a | |fire that destroyed the white city | |amusement park at broad ripple last | |night. the loss to the amusement company | |is $ , .--_indianapolis news._ | = . where.=--to return to mr. jones, there may have been some other incident in the burning of his house aside from the cause that was of exceptional interest. let us say that his house stood in a part of the town where a fire was to be feared. perhaps it stood within twenty feet of the new first congregational church. the burning of jones's house would then be insignificant in comparison to the danger to the costly edifice beside it, and our readers would be more interested in an item concerning their church. the answer to _where?_ is more interesting than the fire itself. hence we would bury, so to speak, mr. jones's misfortune behind the greater danger, and the story would read: | fire endangered the new first | |congregational church on liberty street, | |erected at a cost of $ , , when the | |home of j. h. jones, in the rear of the | |church, was destroyed at midnight last | |night. | or: | the first congregational church, | |recently built at a cost of $ , , was| |seriously threatened by a fire which | |destroyed the residence of john h. jones,| | liberty street, within twenty feet of | |the church, at midnight last night. | turning again to the daily papers, we can find many fire stories in which the location of the burned structure is important enough to take the first line of the lead. here is one: | the plaza hotel had a few uncomfortable| |moments last night when flames from a | |building adjoining at west fifty-ninth| |street were shooting up as high as the | |tenth story of the hotel and the fire | |apparatus which responded to the delayed | |alarm was looking for the blaze several | |blocks away.--_new york sun._ | = . when.=--sometimes the time of the fire is very interesting. john h. jones's house may have caught fire from a very insignificant thing and its location may have been unimportant, but the fire may have come at an unusual time. perhaps mr. jones's daughter was being married at a quiet home wedding in her father's house and in the midst of the ceremony the roof of the house burst into flames. the unusual time would be interesting; the answer to _when?_ would be the feature. we might write the lead thus: | during the wedding of miss mary jones | |at the home of her father, john h. jones,| | liberty street, last night, the house | |suddenly burst into flames and the bridal| |party was compelled to flee into the | |street. | or: | fire interrupted the wedding of miss | |mary jones at her father's home, | |liberty street, last night, when the | |house caught fire from a defective | |chimney during the ceremony. | the daily papers furnish many illustrations of fires at unusual times--here is one: |when the snowstorm was at its height | |early this morning, a three-story brick | |building at nos. - third avenue, | |brooklyn, caught fire, and the flames | |spread rapidly to an adjoining tenement, | |sending a small crowd of shivering | |tenants into the icy street.--_new york | |post._ | = . what.=--(_a_) _the burned building._--many fire stories have their feature in the answer to the reader's _what?_ not infrequently the building itself is of great importance. naturally "the residence of john h. jones" would not make a good beginning, if john jones is not well known, because people would be more interested in reading about a mere fire than in reading about the residence of john h. jones, whom they do not know. for it must be remembered that it is the first line that catches the reader's eye and the interest or lack of interest in the first line determines whether or not the story is to be read. now, suppose that a building that is very well known burns--the city hall, the albany state house, the herald square theater--the mere mention of the building will attract the reader's attention. therefore the reporter begins with the answer to _what?_ the name of the building, as in the following cases: | glens falls, n. y., aug. .--the | |kaatskill house, for many years a popular| |lake george resort, was completely | |destroyed by fire this forenoon.--_new | |york times._ | | the first m. e. church of chelsea, | |familiarly known as the cary avenue | |church, was damaged last night to the | |amount of $ , by fire.--_boston | |herald._ | (_b_) _the amount of property destroyed._--the answer to _what burned?_ is not necessarily a building, for the building itself may not be worth featuring. the contents of the building may be more interesting, especially if the amount of property destroyed can be put in striking terms, such as $ , , worth of property, or two thousand chickens, or fifty-three automobiles, or , gallons of whisky. these figures printed at the beginning of the first paragraph catch the reader's eye, thus: | five automobiles, valued at $ , , and| |property amounting to $ , were | |destroyed last evening when fire broke in| |the repair shop of the g. w. browne motor| |company, - wisconsin street, near | |the north-western station.--_milwaukee | |sentinel._ | = . how.=--very rarely the manner in which a fire burns is quite unique and deserves featuring. it is inconceivable that john jones's house could burn in any very unusual way--"with many explosions," "with a glare of flames that aroused the whole city," "with vast clouds of oily smoke"--but some fires do burn in some such a way and are interesting only for the way they burned. the following story begins with the answer to _how?_ although the manner might be described more explicitly: | stubborn fires have been fought in the | |past, but one of the hardest blazes to | |conquer that the local department ever | |contended with gutted the plant of n. | |drucker & co., manufacturers of trunks | |and valises, at the northwest corner of | |ninth and broadway, last | |night.--_cincinnati commercial tribune._ | = . who.=--just as it would be foolish to begin with "the residence of john jones," since the building is not well known, it would not be advisable to begin with john jones's name, no matter what part he played. john jones is not well known and so to the newspaper he is just a man and is treated impersonally regardless of what he does or what happens to him. our interest in him is entirely impersonal, and all we want to know about him is what he has done or what has happened to him. therefore few reporters would begin a story with john jones's name. however, let some man who is well known do or suffer the slightest thing and his name immediately lends interest to the story--and therefore commands first place in the introduction. if john d. rockefeller should even witness a fire, or if president taft should be in the slightest way connected with a fire, the mere fire story would shrink into significance behind the name. and so, very often it is advisable to begin a fire story with a name, if the name is of sufficient prominence. it is not necessary that the well-known man's property be destroyed or even endangered for his name to have the first place in the first sentence of the lead; if the well-known man has anything whatever to do with the fire his name should be featured because to the average reader the interest in his name overshadows any interest in the fire. in this example, the name overshadows a striking loss of property and the story begins with the answer to _who?_ | new york, nov. .--while clendenin j. | |ryan, son of thomas f. ryan, the traction| |magnate, and a band of volunteer fire | |fighters--many of them | |millionaires--fought a blaze which | |started in the garage of young ryan's | |country estate near suffern, n. y., early| |in the morning, three valuable | |automobiles, seven thoroughbred horses | |and several outbuildings were totally | |destroyed.--_milwaukee sentinel._ | it will be seen that in each of the above feature fire stories some incident in the fire, or connected with the fire, overshadows the mere fact that there was a fire and makes it advisable to begin the story of the fire with the fact or incident of unusual interest. furthermore, in each of these stories the unusual feature in the story is a direct answer to one of the reader's questions--_when?_ _where?_ _how?_ _what?_ _why?_ _who?_ in other words, the reporter in answering these questions, as he must in the lead of every story, finds the answer to one question so much more interesting than the answer to any of the other questions that he puts it first. in every fire story, however, the feature is not so easily discovered. b. features in unexpected attendant circumstances there are other things in the day's fire stories, besides the answers to the reader's questions, that may overshadow the rest of the story and deserve to be featured. very often there are unexpected attendant circumstances occurring simultaneously with the fire or resulting from the fire to command our interest. perhaps a number of people are killed or injured; then we want to know about them first, and the reporter neglects to answer our questions for the moment while he tells us the startling attendant circumstances that we had not expected. even so, while giving first place to the feature, he does not forget our questions but answers them in the same sentence. hence the introduction of a fire story with significant attendant circumstances begins with the startling fact resulting from the fire and then goes on to answer the reader's questions--in the same sentence. this is not so difficult as it may sound. suppose that when john jones's house burns there is a stiff breeze blowing and the chances are that all the other houses in the block will go with it. all of his neighbors become frightened and work with feverish haste to move their household goods out into the street. in the end the fire department succeeds in confining the fire to mr. jones's house and his neighbors promptly carry their chattels back indoors thanking the god of good luck. now the mere fact that john jones's house burned down is rather insignificant beside the fact that a dozen families were driven from their homes by the fire. therefore the reporter would begin thus: | twelve families were driven from their | |homes by a fire which destroyed the | |residence of john h. jones, liberty | |street, at o'clock last night. the | |fire was at length kept from spreading | |and the neighboring residences were | |reoccupied. | or to take an incident from the daily press in which the neighbors were not so fortunate; although they might have entirely lost their homes: | twenty-two families in the six-story | |tenement at orchard street were | |routed out of the house twice early today| |by fires which caused a great deal of | |smoke, but little real damage.--_new york| |mail._ | = . death.=--(a) _number of dead._--the most usual attendant circumstances that will come to our notice is death in the fire. let us say that mr. jones's three children were alone in the house and burned to death. their death would be of more interest to us than the burning of their father's house--and our story would necessarily begin in this way: | three children were burned to death in | |a fire which destroyed the home of their | |father, john h. jones, liberty street,| |last night. | so common is death in connection with fire that almost every day's paper contains one or more stories beginning "ten persons were cremated----" or "four firemen were killed----" and in every case the loss of human life is considered of greater importance than any other incident in the story, and the number of dead always takes precedence over many another startling feature. here are a few examples: | johnstown, pa., jan. .--seven men | |were cremated in a fire that burned to | |the ground three double houses near | |berlin, somerset county, early this | |morning.--_new york sun._ | | three children of mr. and mrs. bernard | |lindberg, nineteenth avenue south, | |were cremated in a fire which destroyed | |their home shortly after o'clock | |yesterday. the children had been left | |alone in the house, shut up in their | |bedroom, etc.--_st. paul pioneer press._ | | one fireman was killed, another fireman| |and a woman were injured and eight people| |escaped death by a narrow margin saturday| |night in a fire which destroyed the, | |etc.--_milwaukee sentinel._ | | new york, march .--one hundred and | |forty-one persons are dead as a result | |of the fire which on saturday afternoon | |swept the three upper floors of the | |factory loft building at the northwest | |corner of washington place and greene | |street. more than three-quarters of this | |number are women and girls, who were | |employed in the triangle shirt waist | |factory, where the fire | |originated.--_boston transcript._ | (b) _list of dead._--when the number of dead or injured reaches any very significant figure it is customary to make a table of dead and injured. this table is usually set into the story close after the lead, but very often the list is put in a "box" and slipped in above the story. in writing the story, however, the reporter disregards the table and begins his lead as if there were no table: e.g., "twelve firemen were killed and fourteen injured in a fire----" the list usually gives the name, address (or some other identification), and the nature of the injury, thus: | =injured firemen:= | | | |capt. frank makal, engine co. no. , | |cut by glass. | | | |acting captain w. e. brown, fire boat | |no. , cut by glass. | | | |peter ryan, no. , flying | |glass.--_milwaukee free press._ | or: | =the dead:= | | | |mrs. charles smith, w. gorham | |street. | | | |john johnson, chatham street. | | | | =the injured:= | | | |thomas green, grand street; face | |cut by flying glass. | | | |james brown, orchard avenue; | |internal injuries; may die. | (c) _manner of death._--a number of fatalities at the beginning always attracts attention. not infrequently the manner or the cause, especially in the case of a single death, is worth the first place in the lead--not as "one man killed----" but as "crushed beneath a falling wall, a man was killed." if a man burns to death in a very unusual way, or for an unusual reason, we are more interested in the way he was burned, or the reason that he burned, than in the mere fact that he was burned to death. the first line then tells us how or why he was burned. thus: | to save his money, which he hoped would| |some day raise him from the rank of a | |laborer to that of a prosperous merchant,| |hing lee, a chinese laundryman, ran back | |into his burning laundry at nicollet| |avenue today, after he was once safe from| |the flames, and was so badly burned that | |physicians say he cannot | |live.--_minneapolis journal._ | = . injuries.=--very often no one is killed in a fire but some one is injured. for example, five firemen are overcome by ammonia fumes or two men are seriously injured by a falling wall. this then becomes the feature. injuries to human beings, if serious or in any considerable number, take precedence over other features, just as loss of human life does. here is an example from the press in which all the injuries are gathered together at the beginning: | six firemen and two laborers were | |overcome by smoke, while three other | |firemen received minor injuries by flying| |glass in a fire which broke out yesterday| |morning at : o'clock in the | |wellauer-hoffman building, at, | |etc.--_milwaukee free press._ | = . rescues.=--(a) _number of people rescued._--when people are rescued from great danger in a fire their escape makes a very good feature. if many of them are rescued or escape very narrowly, the mere number of people saved deserves the first place, as: | more than men and women were saved | |from death today in a fire at - | |grand street by toboganning from the roof| |of the burning structure on a board chute| |to the roof of an adjoining five-story | |building.--_new york mail._ | (b) _manner of rescue._--but more often the manner of their escape interests us most. if a man slides down a rope for four stories to escape death by fire we are more interested in how he saved himself than in the fact that he didn't burn, and so we tell how he escaped, in the first line. in the same way, if unusual means are used to save one or more persons, the means of rescue is usually worth featuring. for example: | overcoats used as life nets saved the | |lives of a dozen women and children in a | |fire of incendiary origin in the | |three-story frame tenement house at | |havemeyer avenue, brooklyn, to-day, | |etc.--_new york mail._ | = . property threatened.=--death and injury are the commonest unexpected circumstances in fire stories, but they are not the only ones that may be worth featuring. there is an inconceivable number of things that may happen at a fire and overshadow all interest in the fire itself. a good feature may be found in the property that is threatened. often the fire in itself is insignificant, but because of a high wind or other circumstances it threatens to spread to neighboring buildings or to devastate a large area. in such a case the amount of property threatened or endangered deserves a place in the very first line, especially if it exceeds the amount of property actually destroyed and if it can be put in a striking way; _i. e._, the entire waterfront district, or twenty-five dwelling houses, or $ , , worth of property. when contrasted with the small amount of damage actually done, the amount that is threatened becomes more important. thus: | fire that for a time threatened | |$ , , worth of property destroyed | |$ , worth of lumber owned by the | |milwaukee lumber company, clinton | |street, yesterday.... | | | |the territory between mitchell street | |and the kinnickinnic river and reed | |street, to the lake, containing | |manufactories, dwellings and stores, was | |menaced.--_milwaukee news._ | = . fire fighting.=--not unusually a serious fire results from the fact that it was not checked for some reason or other during its earlier stages. perhaps the whole thing might have been avoided, or, on the contrary, a big fire may be extinguished with unexpected ease or unusual skill. in rare cases this matter of very efficient or very inefficient fire fighting is of sufficient importance to take the first place in the lead. for example: | almost total lack of water pressure is | |blamed for the big loss in a fire started| |by a firebug to-day in the five-story | |factory building of lamchick brothers, | |manufacturing company, - south | |second street, williamsburg.--_new york | |mail._ | | | | rotten hose, which burst as fast as it | |was put in use, imperiled the lives of | |more than a score of firemen to-day at a | |blaze which swept the three-story frame | |flat house at third avenue and | |sixty-seventh street, brooklyn, from | |cellar to roof, etc.--_new york mail._ | = . crowd.=--not uncommonly in the city a tremendous crowd gathers to watch a fire and blocks traffic for hours. in the absence of other significant incidents--death, great loss, etc.--the reporter may begin his story with an account of the crowd present or the blockade of traffic. such a beginning should always be used only as a last resort when a fire has no other interesting phase, for crowds always gather at fires and only a very serious blocking of traffic is worth reporting. thus: | fully , persons were attracted to | |the scene of the fire in the portion of | |the plant of the greenwald packing | |company, claremont stock yards, which was| |discovered at : yesterday | |afternoon.--_baltimore american._ | | | | twenty-five thousand people jammed | |broadway between bleecker and bond | |streets yesterday noon and had the | |excitement of watching girls escape | |from a twelve-story loft building which | |was afire.--_new york sun._ | = . miscellaneous.=--there is an infinite number of things that may happen at a fire and overshadow the mere fire interest. these are the things that make one fire different from another, and whenever they are of sufficient importance they become the feature to be played up in the first line of the introduction. it would be impossible to enumerate all the unexpected things that might happen during a fire. it is this element of unexpected possibilities that makes the reporting of fires interesting, and an alert reporter is ever on the lookout for a new and unusual development in the fire to be used as the feature of his story. here are the leads of a few fire stories clipped from the daily newspapers: | with her home on fire and the smoke | |swirling around her head, mrs. b. b. | |blank, a well-known leader of the | |social set of roland park, bravely | |stood by her telephone and called upon | |the roland park fire company for aid | |shortly after o'clock this | |morning.--_baltimore star._ | | | | four charming young women attired in | |masculine apparel were the unexpected | |and embarrassed hosts of four companies | |of fire department "laddies" last night, | |when fire broke out, etc.--_milwaukee | |free press._ | | | | for the first time since its | |installation the high-pressure water | |power system was relied upon solely last | |night to fight a broadway fire, and | |chief croker said that he was well | |satisfied with its work. the fire began | |on the third floor of the six-story, | |etc.--_new york times._ | c. fire stories with more than one feature it would appear from the foregoing examples that almost every fire story has a feature. and so it usually has. the great majority of fires that are worth reporting at all have some unusual incident connected with them that overshadows the mere fire itself. sometimes the features are not of great significance, but it is only as a last resort that a reporter begins his story with "fire"--only when the most ordinary of fires is to be covered. unusual features are so common in connection with fires that very often a single fire has more than one unusual feature. perhaps the cause of the fire is exceptionally striking and at the same time the amount of property destroyed is of great news value in itself. or the time and some unexpected attendant circumstance are both worth the first place. in that case the reporter has to choose between the two features and begin with the one that seems to him to be the more striking. the other feature or features may often be arranged in the order of importance immediately after the most striking fact at the beginning, provided that this does not make the lead unduly complicated. for instance, a cold storage warehouse burns and four firemen are overcome by the fumes from the ammonia pipes. next door is a hospital and the flames frighten the patients almost into a panic. either one of these incidents is worth the first line of the story. but which one is of the greater importance? naturally the element of danger to human life must be considered first and the actual disabling of four firemen is of greater significance than a possible panic in the hospital. following that line of logic our story would begin: | four firemen were overcome by ammonia | |fumes and a panic in the st. charles | |hospital was narrowly averted, as a | |result of a fire which destroyed the cold| |storage warehouse of, etc. | such a lead would not be too complicated for practical purposes. but suppose that around the corner from the cold storage warehouse is a livery in which fifty horses are stabled. the flames frighten the horses and they break loose and stampede in the streets. the story now has three features of striking interest. it would be possible to combine them all in the lead and to begin in this way: | four firemen were overcome by ammonia | |fumes, a panic was narrowly averted in | |the st. charles hospital, and fifty | |frightened horses stampeded in the | |streets as a result of a fire, etc. | but see how far from the beginning the fire, the actual cause of it all, is placed. the fire is buried behind a mass of details and the reader is confused. the lead is not a happy one. the only thing to do is to break up the mass of details and put part of them immediately after the lead. the arrangement is a matter that must be left to the judgment of the reporter. this, however, is an extreme case because the various features are so disconnected and separate. the reporter would have little trouble if the several features were more alike. for instance, if one of the walls of the building had fallen and killed three firemen the case would have been simpler. the death of these men so far overshadows the other unusual incidents that it drives them out of the lead altogether. for we do not care about horses and frightened patients when men are crushed beneath falling walls. all that we are concerned with in our lead now is the dead and injured--with a feature like this we can trust our readers to go into the story far enough to pick up the other interesting features; we would begin in this way: | three firemen were killed by falling | |walls and four others were overcome by | |ammonia fumes in a fire which destroyed | |the cold storage, etc. | the combination of dead and injured makes a good beginning, and it is always advisable to begin with such an enumeration whenever it is possible. where the features are not so significant as death and injuries the matter of arranging more than one striking detail at the beginning of the lead becomes a greater problem. it must be left to one's own judgment and common sense. the lead must not be too long or complicated, and one must hesitate before burying the really important facts of the story behind several lines of more or less unusual details. just as soon as the lead becomes at all confusing take out the details and put them into the story later. vii faults in news stories before we go on to the consideration of other kinds of news stories it will be well to consider in greater detail the facts we have learned from writing up fires. our fire stories should have taught us a number of things about the form of the news story. let us sum them up. =paragraph length.=--we have seen that newspaper writing has a characteristic style of its own. in the first place notice the length of a newspaper paragraph. count the number of words in an average paragraph and compare it with the number of words in a literary paragraph. we find that the newspaper paragraph is much shorter. there is a reason for this. imagine a -word literary paragraph set up in a newspaper. there are about seven words to the line in a newspaper column and one hundred and fifty words would make something over twenty lines. try to picture a newspaper made up of twenty-line paragraphs; it would be extremely difficult to read. we glance over a newspaper hastily and our haste requires many breaks to help us in gathering the facts. hence the paragraphs must be short; the very narrowness of the newspaper column causes them to be shortened. the average lead, you will find, contains less than fifty words and the paragraphs following it are not much longer. =sentence length.=--notice sentence lengths as compared with literary sentences. you will find that newspaper sentences usually fall into two classes: the sentences in the lead and the sentences in the body of the story. the first sentence is usually rather long--thirty to sixty words. but the sentences in the body of the story are much shorter than most literary sentences. why is this? it results from exactly the same thing that makes the newspaper paragraphs short--the need of many breaks. thus, after we finish a lead, we must fall into short sentences. they need not be choppy sentences, but they must be simple and easy to read. the lead and the body of the story our study of the fire story has shown that newspaper stories always have two separate and distinct parts: the lead and the body of the story. in writing the story a reporter must consider each part separately, although the reader does not distinguish between the two parts. before writing a word the reporter must decide exactly what facts and details he is to put in the lead and exactly what fact he is going to play up in the first line, taking care to begin with the most interesting part of the story. after the lead is finished he writes the main body of the story in accordance with the rules of ordinary english composition. each part must be separate and independent of the other. =the lead.=--the lead itself is always paragraphed separately. usually it consists of a single sentence, although it is much better to break it into two than to make the sentence too long and complicated. as we have said before, the lead must not only tell the most interesting fact or incident in the story, but it must answer the natural questions that the reader immediately asks about this matter; i.e., when, where, what, why, who, and how. these questions must be answered briefly and concisely in their order of importance, and the most unusual answer or the most striking part of the story must precede all the rest. beyond the answers to these questions there is no space for details in the lead. every word must have a purpose and a necessary purpose or it must be cut out and relegated to the body of the story. no space should be given to explanations of minor importance. state the content of the news story as completely, accurately, and concisely as possible so that the reader may know just what happened, when it happened, where, to whom, and perhaps how and why it happened. then begin a new paragraph and start the body of the story. many editors require that the lead consist of one long sentence and yet it must be grammatical. many reporters forget all about english grammar in their attempt to crowd everything they know into one sentence. but mere quantity does not make the lead good; it must be grammatical and easy to read. the verb must have a grammatical subject and, if it is an _active_ verb, it must have a grammatical predicate. clauses and modifiers must be attached in a way that cannot be overlooked. dangling participles and absolute constructions should be shunned. all of the modifying clauses must be gathered together either before or after the principal clause. everything must be compact and logical. many papers disregard this matter, as will be seen in some of the extracts quoted in this book, but the best papers do not. every lead should be so constructed that it may stand alone and be self-sufficient. never should a reporter trust to headlines to enlighten his readers upon the meaning of the lead--the exact reverse of this must be true. the story is written first and the headlines are written from the facts contained in the lead--and usually by another man. in writing the lead disregard the existence of headlines, for many readers do not read them at all. this is but an amplification of the old rule of composition that any piece of writing should be independent of its title. the title may be lost, but the essay must be clear without it. there are many ways of beginning a lead in order to embody the feature in the first line. at first glance the operation of putting the emphasis of a sentence at the beginning, rather than at the end, may seem difficult, but with a clear idea of the rules of dependence in english grammar a reporter may transpose any clause to the beginning and thus play up the content of the clause. for instance, in this lead, | fire, starting in a moving picture | |theatre, third avenue, drove the | |tenants of the building out into the icy | |street while the snowstorm was at its | |height shortly before o'clock last | |night. | the striking feature of the story is buried--we do not get the unusual picture of a little group of people shivering in the street during a blinding snowstorm while they watch their homes burn. a simple transposition of the _while_-clause puts the feature in the first line. thus: | while the snowstorm was at its height | |shortly before o'clock last night, | |fire, starting in a moving picture | |theatre, third avenue, drove the | |tenants of the building out into the icy | |street. | the lead is not perfect now; it might be greatly improved, but it is better than before. a few of the possible beginnings for a lead are: . _noun._--the simplest beginning of a lead is of course the use of a noun as subject of the principal verb. for example, "fire destroyed the residence of----" or "a flashlight setting fire to a lace curtain started a fire----" or "the plaza hotel had a few uncomfortable moments last night----" etc. the subject of the verb may of course have its modifiers--adjectives and phrases--but it should not be separated too widely from its verb. one point is to be noted in the use of a simple noun at the beginning; an article should not precede the noun if it can be avoided, for the very simple reason that an article is not worth the important space that it takes at the beginning of the lead. in the case of fire no article is necessary. in other cases it is usually possible to put in an adjective or some other word that will take the article's place. however, never begin a story like this: "supreme court of the united states decided----" or "young man in evening dress was arrested last night----" or "house of john smith was destroyed yesterday----". obviously something is lacking and, if no other word will supply the lack, use the article, _the_ or _a_. when the _noun_-beginning is used the reporter must never forget that two or more nouns, however different, if subject of the same verb, require a plural verb. the verb may be active or passive, whichever is more convenient, but rarely is the object of an active verb put first--simply because english cannot bear this transposition of subject and predicate. . _infinitive._--other parts of speech aside from nouns may be subjects of verbs and so other parts of speech as subjects of the principal verb of the lead may be placed at the beginning of the lead. an infinitive with its object and modifier may occupy the first line as subject of the main verb; e.g.: | to rescue his own son during the | |burning of his own house was a part of | |yesterday's work for fireman michael | |casey, who, etc. | here the infinitive "to rescue" and its object are the subject of the verb "was," and the construction is perfectly grammatical. unfortunately the english language has another infinitive which very much resembles a present participle--the infinitive ending in _-ing_; e.g., _rescuing_. without an article this part of speech must, of course, be used only as an adjective, but with an article it becomes an infinitive, to be treated as a noun; e.g., _the rescuing of_. it would be perfectly grammatical to begin the above lead in this way: "the rescuing of his own son ... was the work, etc." but it would be ungrammatical to begin it thus: "rescuing his own son was the work, etc." for in the second case the word "rescuing," if used with an object, is not an infinitive but a participle, and must be used only as an adjective, thus: "rescuing his own son, fireman casey performed his duty, etc.," or "in rescuing his own son, fireman casey performed his duty." the two uses should never be confused. . _clause._--another expression that may be used as subject of the lead's principal verb is a clause--usually a _that_-clause. for instance, "that the entire wholesale district was not destroyed by fire last night is due to, etc." here the _that_-clause is subject of the verb is and the expression is entirely grammatical as well as very useful as a beginning. . _prepositional phrase._--when the feature of a story is an action rather than a thing, a noun can hardly be used to express it. very often this lead may be handled by means of a prepositional phrase at the beginning. for example, one of the stories in the last chapter begins: "with her home on fire and with smoke swirling around her head, mrs. john, etc." in this case the prepositional phrase modifies the subject and should not be far from it. another variation of this is the prepositional phrase of time, modifying the verb; e.g., "during the wedding of miss mary jones, last night, the house suddenly caught fire, etc." this beginning is effective if it is not overworked, but the reader should never be held back from the real facts of the story by a string of complicated phrases, intended to build up suspense. . _participial phrase._--very much like the prepositional phrase beginning is the participial beginning. "sliding down an eighty-foot extension ladder with a woman in his arms, fireman john casey rescued, etc." it must be borne in mind that the participial phrase must modify a noun and there should be no doubt in the reader's mind as to the noun that it modifies. it would of course be absurd to say "sliding down an eighty-foot extension ladder, fire seriously burned john casey----," but such things are often said. never should this participial phrase be used as the subject of a verb, as "returning home and finding her house in ashes was the unusual experience of mrs. james, etc." the phrase must always modify a noun just like an adjective. . _temporal clause._--a feature may often be brought to the beginning of the lead by a simple transposition of clauses. should the time be important a subordinate _when_ or _while_ clause may precede the principal clause of the sentence; i.e., "when the snowstorm was at its height early this morning, a three-story brick building burned, etc.," or "while , people watched from the street below, girls escaped from the burning building at, etc." . _causal clause._--should the cause of an action or an occurrence be attractive enough for the first line, a _for_ or a _because_ clause may begin the lead. "because a tinsmith upset a pot of molten solder on the roof of pier no. , two steamers were burned, etc." * * * * * this does not exhaust the list of possible beginnings. there are a dozen possible constructions for the beginning of any story; these are merely the commonest ones. anything unusual or of doubtful grammar should be avoided because of the many possible alternatives that present themselves. and in every lead correct grammar should be considered above all else. if a lead is ungrammatical no clever arrangement of details can make it effective or other than ludicrous. for instance, this lead, taken from a newspaper, illustrates an unfortunate attempt to crowd too many details into a short lead: | bitten by a rattlesnake, myrtle olson's| |leg was slashed with a table knife, | |washed the wound with kerosene, then | |covered the incision with salt by her | |mother. myrtle still lives. | another paper tried to arrange it more happily, thus: | bitten by a rattlesnake, myrtle olson's| |mother slashed her daughter's leg with a | |table knife, washed the wound with | |kerosene, then covered the incision with | |salt. myrtle still lives. | there is evidently something wrong in this. it would be a good exercise to try to express the idea grammatically. * * * * * before we go on to the consideration of the body of this story a few _don'ts_ in regard to writing leads may be in order. don't begin a lead with a person's name unless the person is well known. we are always interested in anything unusual that a man may do or anything unusual that he may suffer, but unless we know the man we are not at all interested in his name. suppose that a man performs some thrilling act or suffers some unusual misfortune in a city of , people. probably not more than one hundred people know him, and of that number only one or two will read the story. then why begin with his name when his action is of greater interest to all but a few of our readers? and yet every reader wants to know whether the victim is one of his friends. therefore the man's name must be mentioned in the lead, although it should not come at the beginning. on the other hand, if the man is prominent in the nation or the community and well known to all our readers, his name adds interest to the story and we begin with the name. there is a growing tendency among american newspapers to begin all of their stories with a name. the tendency appears to be the result of an attempt to break away from the conventional lead and to begin in a more natural way--also an easier way. but the name beginning is after all illogical, and any reporter is safe in following the logical course in the matter. if the name is not important begin with something that is important. don't waste the main verb of the sentence on a minor action while expressing the principal action in a subordinate clause. this is a violation of emphasis. for example, "fatally burned by an explosion in his laundry, hing lee was taken to the hospital." naturally he would be taken to the hospital, but why put the emphasis of the whole sentence on that point? don't resort to the expression "was the unusual experience of----" "was the fate of----" or any like them. every word in the lead must count, and here are five words that say nothing at all. use their place to tell what the unusual experience was. for instance, don't say "to stand in a driving snowstorm and watch their homes burn to the ground was the unusual experience of two families, living at, etc."; say instead, "standing in a driving snowstorm two families watched their homes burn to the ground." the latter says the same thing more effectively in less space. the use of this expression--"was the unusual experience of"--is always the mark of a green reporter. don't overwork the expression "fire broke out." all fires "break out," but usually we are more interested in the result of the fire than in its "breaking out." try to use some expression that will give more definite information. don't be wordy. editors are always calling for shorter and more concise leads. if you can say a thing in two words don't use half a dozen. for example, "four members of the local fire department were rendered unconscious by the deadly fumes from bursting ammonia pipes." this takes three times as much space as "four firemen were overcome by ammonia fumes," and it does not express the idea any more effectively. don't introduce minor details into the lead. if the reader wants the details he may read the rest of the story. take the following lead as an example: | rushing back into his burning laundry, | |a one-story brick building, to rescue | |from the flames his savings, amounting to| |$ , with which he hoped to raise | |himself from the rank of laborer to that | |of a prosperous merchant, and which was | |hidden under the mattress of his bed in | |the back room of the laundry, hing lee, a| |chinaman, who lives at nicollett | |avenue and has been in this country but | |three months, was overcome by smoke and | |so seriously burned that he had to be | |removed to the st. mary hospital and may | |not live, when his establishment was | |destroyed by a fire which, starting from | |the explosion of the tank of the gasolene| |stove on which he was cooking his dinner,| |gutted his laundry, entailing a loss of | |$ , , shortly before noon to-day. | it is entirely grammatical, but if the reader succeeds in wading through it there is nothing left to tell about the fire. why not begin the story in this way and leave something for the rest of the story? | because he rushed back into his burning| |laundry to rescue his savings, hing lee, | |a chinese laundryman, nicollett | |avenue, was seriously burned to-day. | don't waste the first line of the lead on meaningless generalities. get down to the facts at once. for instance, "the presence of mind and bravery of fireman david mullen saved mrs. daniel looker from being burned to death in her flat, etc." we are willing to grant his bravery and presence of mind, but we want to know at once what he did: "by sliding down an eighty-foot extension ladder through flames and smoke with an unconscious woman in his arms, fireman david mullen rescued mrs. daniel, etc." equally useless is the beginning, "a daring rescue of an unconscious woman from the fourth story of a blazing flat building was made by fireman david mullen to-day, etc." tell what the daring rescue was and let the reader manufacture a fitting eulogy. don't exaggerate the facts to make a feature. when a few persons are frightened don't turn it into a dreadful panic. every little fire is not a holocaust and the burning of a small barn does not endanger the entire city, unless your imagination is strong enough to guess what might have happened had there been a high wind and no fire engines. a narrow escape from death does not always excuse the beginning, "scores killed and injured would have been the result, _if_----" all beginnings of this kind give a false impression and do not tell the truth. if a story has no striking feature be satisfied to tell the truth about it without trying to make a world-wide disaster out of it for the sake of a place on the front page. exaggeration for a feature is one of the bad elements of sensational journalism. for example, seven lives were lost in this fire, but this is the way the story was written, for the sake of a three-column scare-head: | that sleeping babes and more | |who were kneeling in prayer in st. | |malachi's home, a roman catholic | |institution for the care of orphans at | |rockaway park, are alive to-day is due to| |the coolness of the nuns in charge and | |the children's remembrance of their | |teacher's fire drills. | the suspense is built up in such a way that at the end of the lead we do not know what happened and read on with breathless interest to find that there was a small fire at the home and seven children were burned. =the body of the story.=--"a good beginning is half done," according to the proverb. in writing a news story a good beginning is more than half done--two-thirds at least. the lead is the beginning, and when that has been written we are ready to go on to the body of the story with a clear conscience. our lead has told the reader the main facts of the case and the most unusual feature. if he reads further he is looking for details. in giving him these we return to the ordinary rules of narration. we start at the very beginning of the story and tell it logically and in detail to the end. we tell it as if no lead preceded it and repeat in greater detail the incidents briefly outlined in the lead. never should the body of the story depend upon the lead for clearness. if the feature of the story is a rescue and you have briefly described the rescue in the lead, ignore the lead and describe the rescue all over again in the body of the story in its proper place. the number of details that are to be introduced into the story is limited only by the space that the story seems to be worth. but no point should be mentioned in the story unless space permits of its being made clear. the ordinary rules of english composition apply to the writing of the body of the story. the copy must be paragraphed, cut up into paragraphs that are rather shorter than ordinary literary paragraphs, since the narrowness of the newspaper column makes the paragraph seem longer. heterogeneous details must not be piled together in the same paragraph, but the facts must be grouped and handled logically. no paragraph should be noticeably longer than the others, and it is decidedly bad to paragraph one sentence alone simply because it does not seem to go in with any other sentence. if the fact is important expand it into a paragraph by the introduction of further details; if it is unimportant either cut it out of the story altogether or attach it to the paragraph to which it seems most logically to belong. one fact, already stated, must be borne in mind as the body of the story progresses. the report should be built up in such a way that the editor can slash off a paragraph or two at the end without injuring the story--without sacrificing any important facts. to do this the reporter should bring the important parts of the story as near the beginning as the logical order will permit. the interest of a perfect news story is like an inverted cone. the interest is abundant at the beginning and gradually dwindles out until there is nothing more to say when the end is reached. just how far the dwindling should be carried depends upon the amount of space that the story seems to be worth in the paper. this may seem difficult. it may be hard to see how a story can be told in its logical order while at the same time the most interesting facts are placed at the beginning, even if they logically belong near the end. for example, we may take the story of an unusual robbery. a well-dressed man goes into a grocery store to get some butter and tries to rob the grocer. in the ensuing scuffle the would-be robber escapes. a young woman who happens to be passing sees the end of the fight and pursues the robber down the street until he runs into a saloon. she calls a policeman who is standing on the corner and the officer rushes into the saloon, up three flights of stairs and finds the robber on the roof behind a chimney. the officer shouts to another policeman, and together they arrest the robber. now, what is the most interesting thing in the story? probably the pursuit--a young woman chasing a robber down the street. our lead might be written in this way: | after being chased down sixth street by| |a young woman, a robber, who had | |attempted to rob the grocery store of | |charles young, sixth street, was | |arrested on the roof of a saloon at | |sixth street, at o'clock last night. | the lead might be arranged in a different way, but these are the facts that it would contain. before we consider the arrangement of the body of the story it may be well to go back to the interviews by which we secured the story. in getting the facts we would probably talk to young, the groceryman, and to the saloonkeeper into whose establishment the robber fled. we could probably interview the policeman who made the arrest, but let us suppose that the young woman could not be found. the groceryman would tell us about the attempted robbery and the escape, with the girl in pursuit. the saloonkeeper would tell us how the man fled into his saloon and ran up the stairs to the roof; then how two policemen came and made the arrest. the policeman could tell us how a young woman ran up to him and told him that a robber had fled into the saloon; then he would describe the arrest. none of these stories is told just as we want the newspaper story--each one tells us only a part of the story. if the finished story were written by a green reporter it would probably tell the story in the order in which it was obtained. that is if the reporter saw the policeman first, then the saloonkeeper, and lastly the groceryman; his story would tell in the first paragraph what the policeman said, in the second paragraph what the saloonkeeper said, and in the last paragraph what the grocer said. at least that is the way in which green reporters in the classroom attempted to write the story. but, obviously, that is not the logical way to tell the story. the finished account should be written in the order in which it happened: i.e., first the robbery, then the pursuit, and lastly the arrest. this would be the ideal way to tell the story--according to the rules of english composition--if we could be sure that the entire story would be printed. but if it were written in this way and the editor decided to slash off the last paragraph, what would go? obviously the arrest would not be printed; and the arrest was quite interesting. we must find some way to bring the arrest nearer to the beginning. this may be done by selecting the most interesting parts of the story--by picking out the high spots, as it were. in this story the high spots are the attempted robbery, the pursuit, and the arrest. the details that fill in between are interesting, but not so interesting as these high spots. hence these high spots of interest must be pushed forward toward the beginning. after the lead the story would begin at the beginning and tell the affair briefly by high spots in their proper order. it might be something like this: | as charles young was closing his | |grocery last evening a young man came in | |and asked for a pound of butter. young | |turned to get it and his customer struck | |him over the head with a chair. the | |grocer grappled with his assailant and | |they fell through the front door. in the | |scramble, the robber broke away and ran | |down sixth street. a young woman who was | |passing screamed and ran after him until | |he disappeared into a saloon. | | | |the young woman called policeman smith, | |who was standing nearby on grand avenue, | |and the latter found the would-be robber | |on the roof of the saloon. after a | |struggle, smith arrested the man, with | |the aid of another policeman. | the above account tells us briefly the most interesting parts of the story. a copyreader might not find it perfect, for the assault is allotted too much space and the pursuit too little, but it tells the story in its baldest aspect. this, with the lead, could be run alone. however, perhaps the story is worth more space; at any rate, many interesting details have been omitted. if so, go back to the most interesting part of the story--the assault, perhaps, or the pursuit--and tell it with more details. then retell some other part with more details. if your readers are interested enough to read beyond the first three paragraphs they want details and will not be so particular about the order--for they already know how the story is going to end. this is one way of meeting the requirements of logical order and dwindling interest. this is a particularly hard story to arrange in the conventional way since we must have the whole story to be interested in any single part--it has too many striking incidents in it. on the other hand, a story which contains only one striking incident is much easier to handle. suppose that we are reporting a fire which is interesting only for its cause or for a daring rescue in it. our lead would suggest this interesting element and the first part of our story would be devoted entirely to the cause or to the rescue, as the case might be. but it is better to sketch briefly, immediately after or very close to the lead, the entire story, for our readers want to know how it ends before they can be interested in any particular part. if we sketch the whole story and show them that there is only one important thing in the story, they will be satisfied to read about the one striking incident without wondering if there is not something more interesting further on. if we leave the conclusion of the story to the end of our copy the editor may cut it off and leave our story dangling in midair. every story must be treated in its own way, according to its own incidents and difficulties; no two stories are alike in substance or treatment. in every one our aim must be to keep to the logical order and at the same time to put the most interesting parts of the story near the beginning. the construction of the body of a story may be illustrated more clearly by a fatal fire story--since fire stories are more uniform, and hence easier to write than other news stories. let us suppose that the story is as follows: at four o'clock in the afternoon a fire started from some unknown cause in the basement of a four-story brick building at - sixth street, occupied by the incandescent light company. before the fire company arrived the flames had spread up through the building and into an adjoining three-story brick building at sixth street, occupied by isaac schmidt's second-hand store and home on the first and second floors and by mrs. sarah jones's boarding house on the third. the schmidts were away and mrs. jones's lodgers escaped via the fire escapes. her cook, hilda schultz, was overcome by smoke and had to be carried out by jack sweeney, a lodger. mrs. jones fell from the fire escape and was badly bruised. meanwhile the firemen were at work on the roof of the burning four-story building. blinded by the smoke, one of them, john macbane, stepped through a skylight and fell to the fourth floor. his comrades tried to rescue him by lowering fireman henry bond into the smoke by the heels; they were unsuccessful and bond broke his arm in the attempt. the fire was confined to the lower floors of the two buildings and extinguished. in searching for macbane, the firemen found him suffocated on the fourth floor where he had fallen. the feature of the story is evidently the one death and the three injuries. our lead might be written as follows: | one fireman was suffocated and three | |other persons were injured in a fire in | |the incandescent light company's plant, | | - sixth street, and an adjoining | |three-story building, late yesterday | |afternoon. | this lead would suggest to the reader many interesting details to come in the body of the story, and evidently the details are not all of equal importance. the story could be told in its logical order, but, since the death is more interesting than the origin of the fire and the injuries are more significant than how the fire spread, it is obvious that it would not be best to tell the story in the order in which it is told above. disregarding the lead, we must cover the following details in the body of our story: description of buildings and occupants. origin of fire. discovery of fire. spread of flames. injury of mrs. jones. rescue of hilda schultz. death of macbane. injury of bond. fire extinguished. this is the order in which things occurred at the fire. however, in our lead, we have drawn attention to our story by announcing that it concerns a fire in which a man was killed; the death therefore should have first place in the body of the story. hence, in the second paragraph immediately after the lead, we must tell how macbane fell through the skylight and was suffocated. along with his death we may as well tell how bond broke his arm trying to rescue macbane. our lead has also announced two other injuries and, hence, they must be included next--that is, our third paragraph must be devoted to the injury of mrs. jones and the rescue of the unconscious hilda. but as yet our details are hanging in the air because we have not said anything about the buildings or the fire itself. in the next paragraph it would be well to describe the buildings and their occupants and to give a very brief account of the course of the fire--perhaps in this way: | flames were first discovered in the | |basement of the incandescent building and| |before the fire department arrived had | |spread through the lower floors and into | |the adjoining three-story building. the | |absence of elevator shafts and air-shafts| |enabled the firemen to extinguish the | |blaze before it reached the upper floors.| this tells the main course of the fire, but there are some interesting details to add: first, the origin of the fire; next, the discovery; then more about how the fire spread; and lastly, how the fire was extinguished. our story by paragraphs would read as follows: st paragraph--the lead. d paragraph--death of macbane and injury of bond. d paragraph--mrs. jones's injury and hilda's rescue. th paragraph--buildings, occupants, brief course of fire. th paragraph--detailed account of origin of the fire. th paragraph--how the fire was discovered. th paragraph--more about the spread and course of the fire. th paragraph--how the fire was extinguished. th paragraph--loss, insurance, extent of damage. thus, while telling the story almost in its logical order, we have picked out the high spots of interest and crowded them to the beginning. our readers will get the facts just about as fast as they wish to read them and in the order in which they wish them. our story may be run in nine paragraphs or even more; or the editor may slash off anything after the fourth paragraph without taking away any of the essential facts of the fire. this method of telling would fulfill all the requirements of an ideal news story. a similar outline of the facts that any story must present will often help a reporter to tell his story as it should be told. after listing the details he may number them in their order of importance and check them off as he has told them. * * * * * this idea of throwing the emphasis and interest to the beginning applies to the individual paragraphs and sentences of the story, as well. each paragraph must begin strongly and display its most interesting content in the first line. the emphatic part of each sentence should be the beginning. a glance at any newspaper column shows why this is necessary. the body of a news story is the place for the reporter's skill and style. he is given all the liberties of ordinary narration and should make the most of every word. his individual style comes into play here. if the interest can be increased by a bit of dialogue the reporter may put it in. if the facts can be presented more effectively by means of direct quotation, the words of any one whom the reporter has interviewed may be of interest. however, these things must not be overworked because every trick of writing loses its effectiveness when it is overworked. dialogue used only to give facts which might be told more clearly in simple direct form should seldom be used. dialogue in a news story is used only to color the story and not to reproduce the interviews by which the facts were obtained. in gathering the facts of a story it is sometimes necessary to interview a number of people, but these interviews should not be quoted in the resulting story. many a green reporter tries to give his story character by telling what the policeman on the corner, the janitor, and a small boy in the street told him about the incident. he succeeds only in dragging out the length of his story and confusing the reader. after all, the purpose of a newspaper is to give facts--and the clearer and the more direct the method the better will be the result. in striving for clearness and interest a reporter must remember that one of his greatest assets is concreteness of expression. of all forms of composition newspaper writing possesses probably the greatest opportunity for definiteness. facts and events are its one concern; theories and abstractions are beyond its range. hence the more definite and concrete its presentation of facts, the better will be its effect. the reporter should never generalize or present his statements hazily and uncertainly--a fact is a fact and must be presented as such. he must try to avoid such expressions as "several," "many," "a few"--it is usually possible to give the exact number. he must continually ask himself "how many?" "what kind?" "exactly when?" "exactly what?" expressions like "about a dozen," "about thirty years old," "about a week ago," "about a block away," are never so effective as the exact facts and figures. definite concrete details make a news story real and vivid. the real reporter of news is the one who can see a thing clearly and with every detail and present it as clearly and distinctly. viii other news stories the fire story is obviously not the only news story that is printed in a daily newspaper, but a study of its form gives us a working knowledge of the writing of other news stories. the fire story is probably the commonest news story, and it is by far the easiest story to handle, for its form has become somewhat standardized. we know just exactly what our readers want to know about each fire, and within certain limits all fires, as well as the reports of them, are very much alike. there is seldom more than one fact or incident that makes one fire different from another and that fact we always seize as the feature of our report. however, the fire story has been taken only as typical of other news stories. now we are ready to study the others, using the fire story as our model in writing the others. there is a vast number of other stories that we must be able to write, and they lack the convenient uniformity that fires have. not only does every story have a different feature, but it is concerned with a different kind of happening. one assignment may call for the report of an explosion, another the report of a business transaction, and another a murder. in each one we have to get the facts and choose the most striking fact as our feature. never can we resort to the simple beginning "fire destroyed," but we must find a different beginning for each assignment. just as in the fire story, the lead of any news story is the most important part. it must begin with the most striking part of the event and answer the reader's _where?_ _when?_ _how?_ _why?_ and _who?_ concerning it. all the rules that apply to the fire lead apply to the lead of any story. it would be impossible to classify all the news stories that a newspaper must print. the very zest of reporting comes from the changing variety of the work; no two assignments are ever exactly alike--if they were only one would be worth printing. newspapers themselves make no attempt to classify the ordinary run of news or to work out a systematic division of labor; a reporter may be called upon to cover a fire, a political meeting, a murder, a business story, all in the same day. each one is simply a story and must be covered in the same way that all the rest are covered--by many interviews for facts. for our study it may be well to divide news stories into a few large groups. the groups overlap and are not entirely distinct, but the stories in each group have some one thing in common that may aid us in learning how to write them. at most, the list is only a very incomplete summary of the more important kinds of news stories and is intended to be merely a suggestive way of supplying the student with necessary practice. = . accidents.=--accident stories may be anything from a sprained ankle to a disastrous railroad wreck, but they all depend upon one element for their interest. they are all printed because people in general are interested in the injuries and deaths of other people--physical calamity is the common ground in all these stories. the number of possible accidents is infinite, but there are some common types that recur most often. among these are: railroad, trolley, railroad crossing accidents; runaways; electrocutions; explosions; collapse of buildings; marine disasters; cave-in accidents; elevator, automobile, aviation accidents. the feature of any accident story is always, of course, the thing that made the story worth printing, and that is usually the human life element. the feature of an accident story is almost always the number of dead and injured. most reports of railroad wrecks begin with "ten persons were killed and seventeen were injured in a wreck, etc." the same is true of any accident story; if more than one person is killed it is usually safe to begin with the number of fatalities. in this connection it may be noted that the death of railroad employees seldom makes a story worth printing; they may be included in the total number, but if no passengers are killed, fatalities among trainmen seldom give a story any news value. accident stories of course have many other possible features; newspapers report many accidents in which no one is killed. in that case some other element gives the story news value and that element must be played up as the feature. perhaps it is the manner in which the accident happened or the manner in which a person was killed or injured, as in an automobile accident. the cause of the accident may be the most interesting part of the story: train-wreckers or a broken rail in a railroad wreck, or the cause of an explosion. very often an accident is reported simply because some well-known person was connected with it in some way; the name then becomes the feature and comes into the first line. a story may be worth printing simply because of the unusual manner of rescue; such a feature is often played up in stories of marine accidents, cave-ins, etc. not infrequently some of the unusual attendant circumstances give a story news value: e.g., a policeman dragged from his horse and run over by an automobile while he is trying to stop a runaway. here are some accident stories from the newspapers: fatalities: | six men were killed and a dozen | |seriously injured early to-day by an | |outbound panhandle passenger train | |crashing into the rear end of a chicago, | |milwaukee and st. paul stock train at | |twelfth and rockwell streets.--_chicago | |record-herald._ | manner: | run down by her own automobile, which | |she was cranking, at first and g streets,| |northwest, dr. alma c. arnold, a | |chiropractic physician, fifteenth | |street, northwest, was forced against the| |wheel of a passing wagon and seriously | |injured this morning.--_washington | |times._ | cause: | over-balanced by a granite stone | |weighing four tons, the entire cornice | |over the west portico of the new west | |wing of the capitol fell to the ground | |this afternoon, carrying with it daniel | |logan, foreman for the woodbury granite | |company.--_madison democrat._ | attendant circumstances: | with a blast that shook the entire city| |and was believed by many to be an | |earthquake, three boilers in the new | |engine house of the pabst brewery on | |tenth street, between chestnut street and| |cold spring avenue, exploded at about | |o'clock this morning.--_milwaukee free | |press._ | = . robberies.=--another large class of news stories is concerned with robberies of various kinds. unfortunately for the reporter, very few robberies are alike; beyond the common ground of the interest in the amount stolen and the cleverness of the robber's work, there is seldom any one thing that may be looked for as the feature of a robbery story. the reporter must decide what in the story makes it worth printing. robbery stories may include anything from petty thievery to bank defaulting. some of the possibilities are horse and automobile stealing, burglary, hold-ups, train and street-car robbery, embezzlement, fraud, kidnapping, safe-cracking, shop and bank robbery. it is well for the reporter who has to cover a story of this class to acquaint himself with the distinctions that characterize the various kinds of robbery and the various names applied to the people who commit this sort of crime: e.g., robber, thief, bandit, burglar, hold-up man, thug, embezzler, defaulter, safe-cracker, pick-pocket. in general the chief interest in robbery stories is in the result of the work--the amount taken--usually accompanied by a term to designate the sort of robbery. just how the crime was committed is often the feature, as in a train robbery or a clever case of fraud. if the victim or victims are at all well known their names may become the most interesting thing in the story--or even the name of a well-known criminal or band of robbers. in some stories, especially if another paper has already covered the story, the pursuit or capture of the criminals is often interesting; the stories of bank robberies often begin in this way. other attendant circumstances, such as the number of persons who witnessed the crime, may be the feature. in hold-ups, burglaries, and crimes of that sort, the death or wounding of the victim is often played up. sometimes the reason for the crime, as in a kidnapping case, is of great significance. in the case of a robbery of a bank or any other institution which depends upon credit for its business, the story usually begins with, or at least mentions near the beginning, the present condition of the robbed institution. it is safe to say that in no case is the name of the criminal, the manner of his arrest (if it is not unusual), the police station to which he was taken, or the charge preferred against him worth a place in the lead. some robbery stories from the daily press: amount taken: | furs worth $ , were stolen in the | |early hours of yesterday morning within a| |stone's throw of madison square. | |apparently a gang in which there was a | |woman expert in choosing only the best | |furs carried off the costly skins, | |etc.--_new york world._ | manner of hold-up: | seized by thugs in broad daylight as he| |was crossing the railroad tracks at the | |foot of first avenue east, fred butzer, a| |stonemason of butler, minn., was thrown | |to the ground, a gag placed in his mouth,| |his pockets were rifled of $ .--_duluth | |news-tribune._ | unusual sort of pickpocket: | a young man in evening dress, who was | |going down into the subway station at | |times square with the theater crowd that | |filled the entrance just outside of the | |hotel knickerbocker early last night, | |paused, knocked a woman under the chin | |and took away her silver chatelaine purse| |containing $ as deftly as he might have| |flicked the ash off his cigarette. then | |he disappeared.--_new york times._ | unusual thieves: | two girl thieves not more than twelve | |years old and small in stature for their | |age have been operating with great | |success in the different stores in the | |neighborhood of amsterdam avenue and | |seventy-ninth street. five or six thefts,| |etc.--_new york telegram._ | pursuit and capture: | after a chase along forty-second street| |and up the steps of the hotel manhattan, | |a woman, who said she was sadie brown, | |thirty-three years old, of no. west | |forty-sixth street, was arrested early | |today on suspicion of having picked the | |pocket of a man at, etc.--_new york | |telegram._ | present conditions of robbed bank (second paragraph of an embezzlement story): | banking commissioner watkins this | |afternoon declared that he found the bank| |perfectly sound, that all commercial | |paper was found intact, that none of the | |accounts have been juggled and that no | |erasures of any kind were | |discovered.--_philadelphia inquirer._ | unusual sort of burglar: | wearing a salvation army uniform, a | |burglar was caught early yesterday in the| |home of walter katte, a vice-president of| |the new york central railroad, at | |irvington-on-the-hudson.--_new york | |world._ | = . murder.=--the reports of crimes of this sort can hardly be classified, for there are so many things that may be worth featuring in any murder case. the story itself is usually of such importance that the mere fact that a murder has been committed gives it news value even if there is nothing unusual in the crime--just as in the case of a featureless fire story that begins with "fire." the handling of a crime depends upon the character and circumstances; the reporter must weigh the facts in each case for himself. however, we usually find a feature in the number of persons murdered, the manner in which the crime was committed, the name of the victim, if he or she is well known, the reason for the deed, or in some of the many attendant circumstances, such as arrest, pursuit, etc. one rule must always be followed in the reporting of a murder story: the reporter must confine himself to the necessary facts and omit as many of the gruesome details as possible. he must tell it in a cold, hard-hearted way without elaboration, for the story in itself is gruesome enough. just as soon as a murder story begins to expand upon shocking details it becomes the worst sort of a yellow story. examples of murder stories from the newspapers: manner: | after crushing in the head of his | |superior officer with an axe, james | |layton, boatswain of the liverpool | |sailing ship colony, refused to submit to| |arrest, and, still waving the bloody | |weapon, committed suicide by jumping into| |the sea.--_new york mail._ | motive: | in revenge for a beating he received | |the day before, gaetona ambrifi yesterday| |shot and instantly killed frank | |ricciliano, a sub-section foreman on the | |pennsylvania railroad, while they were | |working on the roadbed near peddle | |street, newark.--_new york sun._ | prominent name: | mayor william j. gaynor of new york | |city was shot and seriously, perhaps | |fatally, wounded on board the steamer | |kaiser wilhelm der grosse at : as he | |was sailing for europe. | resulting pursuit: | the police of brooklyn have another | |murder mystery to unravel through the | |finding early today of the body of peter | |barilla on lincoln road, near nostrand | |avenue, flatbush. there were two bullet | |wounds in the body and four stab wounds | |in the back.--_brooklyn eagle._ | attendant circumstances: | a hundred or more persons who were | |about to take trains witnessed the | |shooting to death of a jersey city | |business man in the pennsylvania railroad| |station there this afternoon.--_new york | |mail._ | = . suicide.=--what is true of murder stories is also true of suicide. each individual case has an unusual feature of its own. we ordinarily find a good beginning in the manner of the suicide, the name of the person who has killed himself if he is well known, the reason for the act, or some one of the attendant circumstances--often the manner of resuscitation if the crime is unsuccessful. for some unexplained reason many papers do not print accounts of ordinary suicides, except when the individual is prominent. at any rate the story must be told without gruesome details and as briefly as possible. examples from the press: name: | william l. murray of rockview avenue, | |north plainfield, paying teller of the | |empire trust company of new york, | |committed suicide at scotch plains early | |this afternoon by shooting himself in the| |head. no reason is assigned for the | |act.--_new york sun._ | motive: | driven insane by continued brooding | |over ill health, miss ada emerson, a | |former teacher in the beloit city | |schools, killed herself in a crowded | |interurban car saturday afternoon by | |slashing her throat with a | |razor.--_beloit free press._ | here the manner is the feature, but it is not played up in the first line because it is too horrible. = . big stories.=--the big stories of catastrophes are usually handled on a large scale--played up, as the newspaper men say. the story in itself is of sufficient importance to make it unnecessary to play up any single feature of the story. however, the reporter, in looking for a good beginning, often finds it in the most startling fact in the story. if he is reporting a riot he usually begins with the number of killed or injured, the amount of property destroyed, the character of the riot, or the cause, as in this example: | in an effort to bring about the | |reinstatement of one of their number who | |had been discharged for non-unionism, a | |hundred or more journeymen bakers wrecked| |the bakeshop of pincus jacobs, at no. | | lexington avenue, early this | |morning.--_new york evening post._ | in the case of a storm the human life element is of greatest importance, then the damage to property, and last, the peculiar circumstances. for example: | cleveland, dec. .--fifty-nine lives | |were the cost of a storm which passed | |over lake erie wednesday night and | |thursday, and more than $ , , worth | |of vessel property was destroyed.--_new | |york evening post._ | if the story is concerned with a flood the human-life element is first, then the damage, the cause, the freaks of the flood, or the present situation. for example: | parkersburg, w. va., march .--three | |persons are known to have perished in a | |flood which swept down upon the city on | |friday when two water reservoirs on | |prospect hill burst without warning. | |forty houses were destroyed and many | |persons are missing. the property damage | |will be nearly $ , . | = . police court news.=--the ordinary run of police court news is in a class by itself. usually the only news value in the story depends upon some unusual incident or circumstance that attracts the attention of the reporter. this is of course the source of many of the stories of crime, mentioned before, but many stories turn up at the police courts which are not concerned with crime, although in some cases they are concerned with criminals. in this field of reporting there are many opportunities for the human-interest story which will be taken up in a later chapter. when the incident is reported in an ordinary news story the feature is usually in some attendant circumstance and the story might well be classed with one of the above groups. here are two examples from the daily press: | because he did not have sufficient | |money to buy flowers for his sweetheart, | |henry trupke, aged years, forged a | |check for $ . on a grocer, j. | |sieberlich, third street, and after a| |week's chase was caught last night as he | |got off a wisconsin central | |train.--_milwaukee sentinel._ | | but a few hours before receiving a | |sentence of two years in the house of | |correction for stealing furs from the | |store of lohse bros., wisconsin | |street, john garner, self-confessed | |thief, was married to rose strean, one | |of the witnesses in the case, which was | |tried yesterday in the municipal | |court.--_milwaukee free press._ | = . reports of meetings, conferences, decisions, etc.=--this group includes all reports of meetings, or conferences, of bodies of any sort, political or otherwise, reports of judicial or legislative hearings or decisions, or announcements of resolutions passed. such as: | washington, jan. .--acquisition of | |the telegraph lines by the government and| |their operation as a part of the postal | |system is the latest idea of postmaster | |general hitchcock. announcement was made | |today that a resolution to this effect | |will be offered to congress at the | |present session.--_wisconsin state | |journal._ | there is always one thing in these stories that gives them news value--the purpose or result of the conference, hearing, or announcement. this purpose or result, of course, must be played up. the one point that the reporter should remember is that a well-written lead begins with the result or purpose of the meeting or announcement rather than with the name of the meeting or the name of the body that makes the announcement. never begin a story thus: "at a meeting of the press club held in the auditorium last night it was resolved that----" transpose the sentence and begin with a statement of what was resolved. in the following story the order is wrong: | the supreme court of the united states,| |through the opinion delivered by justice | |vandevanter, today declared | |constitutional the employers' liability | |law of . | the import of the decision is buried; it should be written thus: | the employers' liability law of | |was today declared constitutional by the | |supreme court of the united states. | |justice vandevanter delivered the opinion| |of the court, made in four cases. | in these stories, as in all other news stories, the lead must begin with the fact or statement that gives the story news value. burying this fact or statement behind two or three lines of explanation spoils the effectiveness of the lead. a student of journalism may gain very good practice in the writing of news stories by looking over the leads that appear in the daily papers and transposing those leads which bury their news behind explanations. the first line of type in a lead is like a shop's show window and it must not be used for the display of packing cases. = . stories on other printed matter.=--a large part of a newspaper's space, especially in smaller cities, is devoted to stories based on printed bulletins, announcements, city directories, legislative bills, and published reports of various kinds. sometimes a news story is written upon a pamphlet that was issued for advertising purposes--because there is some news in it. in all of these stories the reporter must look through the pamphlet to find something of news value or something that has a significant relation to other news. smaller papers often print stories on the new city directory; the increase or decrease in population is treated as news and a very interesting story may be written on a comparison of the names in the directory. in university towns the appearance of a new university catalog or bulletin of any sort is the occasion for a story which points out the new features or compares the new bulletin with a previous one. reporters and correspondents in political centers, like state capitals, get out stories on committee and legislative reports and on new bills that are proposed or passed by the legislature. the writing of these stories is very much like the reporting of a speech, which will be discussed later. the newest or most interesting feature in the report or bill is played up in the lead as the feature of the story, followed by the source of the story, the printed bulletin upon which the story is based; thus: | a new plan for placing the control of | |all water power in the state in the hands| |of the legislature was proposed in the | |minority report of senators j. b. smith | |and l. c. blake, of the special | |legislative committee on drainage, issued| |today. | these eight classes of news stories do not include all the news stories that a newspaper prints, but they are in a way typical of all the others that are not mentioned. it will be noted from these that all news stories, just like the fire story, are usually written in about the same way. each one has a lead which begins with the feature of the story--i.e., the fact or incident in the story which gives it news value and makes it of interest--and concludes by answering the reader's questions, when, where, who, how, why, concerning the feature. each story begins again after the lead, and in one or more paragraphs explains, describes, or narrates the incident in detail and in logical order. this body of the story which follows the lead, while following in general the logical order, is so written that its most interesting facts are near the beginning and its interest dwindles away toward the end. this is to enable the editor in making up his paper, to take away from the end of any story, as we have seen before, a paragraph or more without spoiling the story's continuity or depriving it of any of its essential facts. the form of the conventional fire story may be used as a model in the writing of any news story. in writing the body of a story to explain, describe, or narrate the incident mentioned in the lead, every effort should be directed toward clearness. this is particularly true of stories which are in the main narrations of action. the number of facts that may be included must depend upon the length of the story; if all of the facts cannot be included without overburdening the story, cut out some of the details of lesser importance, but treat those that are included in a clear readable way. short sentences are always much better in newspaper writing than long involved sentences. pronouns should always be used in such a way that there can be no doubt in regard to their antecedents. if a relative clause or participial expression sounds awkward make a separate sentence of it. in other words, be simple, concise, and clear--that is better in a newspaper than much fine writing. ix follow-up and rewrite stories the terms "rewrite story" and "follow-up, or follow, story," are names which newspaper men apply to the rehashed or revised versions of other news stories. a large newspaper office employs one or more rewrite men who spend their entire time rewriting stories. to be sure, a part of their work consists of rewriting, or simply recasting, poorly written copy prepared by the reporters. but the major part of their work, the part that interests us, involves something more than that. it involves the rejuvenation of stories that have been printed in a previous edition or in another paper, with the purpose of bringing the news up to the present moment. news ages very rapidly. what may be news for one edition is no longer news when another edition goes to press an hour later. a feature that may be worth playing up in a morning paper would not have the same news value in an evening paper of the same day. the news grows stale so quickly because new things are continually happening and new developments are continually changing the aspect of previous stories. if a story has been run through two or three editions and new developments have changed it, the story is turned over to a rewrite man for consequent alteration. a story in a morning paper is no longer news for an evening paper of the same date, but a clever rewrite man, with or without new developments added to the story, can recast it so that it will appear to contain more recent news than the original story. the story of an arrest in a morning paper begins with the particulars of the arrest; but when the evening paper's rewrite man has rearranged it for his paper it has become the story of the trial or the police court hearing which followed the arrest. perhaps the evening paper sends a man to get the later developments in the case, but every rewrite man knows the steps that always follow an arrest and he can rewrite the original story without additional information. his account of the later developments is called either a rewrite or a follow-up story, depending upon the method employed. the same fundamental idea of rejuvenating the former story governs the preparation of both the rewrite and the follow-up story, but while the rewrite story contains no additional news, the follow-up presents later facts in addition to the old news. = . the rewrite story.=--the rewrite story is primarily a rehashing of a previous news story without additional facts. it attempts to give a new twist to old facts in order to bring them nearer to the present time. without the aid of later facts the rewrite man can only select a new feature and revise the old facts. for example, suppose that a $ , grain elevator burns during the night. the fire would make a big story in a city of moderate size and the papers next morning would treat it at length. if no one were killed or injured the story would probably begin with a simple announcement of the fire in a lead of this kind: | fire destroyed the grain elevator of | |the h. p. jones produce company, first | |and water streets, and $ , worth of | |wheat at o'clock this morning. the | |total loss is estimated at $ , . | then the reporter would describe the fire at length, including all obtainable facts. by afternoon almost every one in the city has read the story--and yet the afternoon papers must print something about the big fire. if no new facts can be obtained the previous story must be rehashed and presented with a new feature that will make it appear to be a later story. it is useless to begin the evening story with a mere announcement of the fire, for that is no longer news, and the rewrite man must find a new beginning to attract the attention of his readers. perhaps in looking over the morning story, he finds that the fire was the result of spontaneous combustion in the grain stored in the elevator. in the morning story this fact was rather insignificant in the face of the huge loss, and most readers passed over it hastily. the rewrite man, however, who has no later facts at his command, may seize it as a new feature. instead of beginning his story with the fact of the fire, which is already known, he begins with the cause, which appears to be later news. his lead may be as follows: | spontaneous combustion in the wheat | |bins of the h. p. jones produce company's| |elevator, first and water streets, | |started the fire which destroyed the | |entire structure with a loss of $ , | |this morning. | or if the rewrite man is not so fortunate as to discover a new feature as good as this, he may have to resort to beginning with a picture of the present results of the fire--thus: | smouldering ruins and a tangled mass of| |steel beams are all that remain of the h.| |p. jones produce company's $ , | |grain elevator, first and water streets, | |which was destroyed by fire this morning.| it will be noticed that, while these new rewrite leads begin with a new feature, each new lead contains all the facts presented in the previous lead and is told with an eye to the man who has not read the earlier account. after the lead the rewrite man retells the whole story for the benefit of readers who did not see the morning papers and rearranges the facts so that they appear new to those who read the previous stories. facts which the other papers buried he unearths and displays; details which appear to be later developments he crowds to the beginning. the whole story is sorted and rewritten in a new order and with a new emphasis. the result is a rewrite story which appears to be later, although it contains no new facts at all. it is seldom, of course, that such a rewrite story is used for local news, for very rarely is it impossible for a later paper to discover new facts. but in the case of news from the outside world, from other cities, the simple method of rehashing old facts must often be resorted to. if the story is based upon a single dispatch announcing an earthquake in hawaii or a shipwreck in mid-ocean, many rewrite stories must be printed on the same facts before another message brings later news and additional details. an example of this is the treatment of the first few stories of the wreck of the white star liner _titanic_. the story was a big one, but the first dispatches were very meager and many rehashings of these few facts had to be printed before later and more definite news could be obtained. the simple rewriting of an old story ordinarily involves a condensation of the facts. if a morning paper printed two thousand words on the grain elevator fire above, an afternoon paper of the same day would hardly treat the story at such length. for the story is no longer big news. if a story has run through the first editions of a morning paper it would be cut down, as well as rehashed, in the later editions of the same paper. the story of the fire loses its initial burst of interest after the first printing, and only the essential facts and the facts that can be rejuvenated can be reprinted. the , -word version in the morning paper may be worth only five hundred words or less four hours later. = . the follow-up story.=--if new facts are added to a story between editions the new version is no longer a simple rewrite story. it becomes a follow-up story, for it follows up the subsequent developments in the previous story and corresponds to the second or succeeding installments of a serial novel in which each installment begins with a synopsis of previous chapters. for example, if, in the grain elevator fire story, the body of a watchman were found in the ruins after the morning papers have gone to press, the story would immediately have a different news value for the evening papers. the story of the big fire is old, but the discovery of the body is new. hence the rewrite man would begin with the later development--perhaps thus: | the body of a watchman was found this | |afternoon in the ruins of the h. p. jones| |produce elevator, which burned to the | |ground this morning with a loss of | |$ , . | the new story, while retelling the principal facts in the previous account, would give prominence to the latest news, the discovery of the body. as an example from a newspaper, let us take the follow-up of a murder mystery. the first stories on this murder simply said that a grocer had been found dead in the cellar of his store and murder had been suggested. the follow-up on the next day (printed here) deals with a new development--has a new feature--and carries the story one step further in the attempt to unravel the mystery: | developments yesterday in the story of | |the killing of james white, the park | |street grocer, tended to support the | |contention of coroner donalds and the | |police that white was not murdered, but | |died by his own hand. | = . analysis.=--so far we have treated the rewrite story and the follow-up story separately, but for the purposes of analysis and study they may be treated together, because the same fundamental idea governs both. dissection of the follow-up story will also show us what the rewrite story is made of. from the above clippings it will be seen that the lead of the follow-up story is very much like that of any news story. the lead has its feature in the first line and answers the reader's questions concerning that feature. it is simply a new story written on an old subject which has been given a new feature to make it appear new. furthermore, it will be noticed that the lead of the follow-up story is complete in itself, without the original story that preceded it. although the whole idea of the follow story is based on the supposition that all readers have read every edition of the paper and are therefore acquainted with the original story, yet for the benefit of those readers who have not read the previous story, the follow-up must be complete and clear in itself. new facts are introduced into the follow story, but its lead tells the main facts of the original story so that no reader will be at loss to understand what it is all about--in other words, it gives a synopsis of previous chapters. in many follow-up stories the new developments are supplemented by an entire retelling of the original story. this is especially true when one paper is rewriting a story which broke too late for its preceding edition and was covered by a rival paper. at any rate, every follow-up story, like every other news story, must be so constructed as to stand by itself without previous explanation. | of the bodies of victims of the | |triangle waist company's fire on | |saturday, that had been taken to the | |morgue up to noon yesterday when it was | |decided that all the dead had been | |recovered, all but had been identified| |today. | this is a follow-up of a story two days before. every reader of the paper probably knew everything that had been printed previously about the fire, and yet this lead very carefully recalls the fire to the reader's mind. later in the story the principal facts of the original story are retold as if they were new and unknown. it is interesting to see what in any given newspaper story can be followed up for a later story. the would-be reporter may get good practice in writing follow-up stories from the mere attempt to study out the next step in any given new story. with this next step as his feature he may try to write a follow-up story without additional information, and then compare it with other follow-up stories. for every news story contains within it clues to what may be expected to follow. when any serious fire occurs certain additional facts may always be expected to follow. the finding of more dead, the unravelling of a mysterious origin, the re-statement of the loss, and the present condition of the injured are some of the possibilities that a rewrite man considers when he tries to prepare a follow-up story on a fire. the washington place fire in new york on march , , furnished admirable material for the study of the rewriting of fire stories. the fire occurred on saturday afternoon too late for anything but the sunday editions. the original story as it appeared in the sunday papers and the monday issues, of papers which had no sunday editions, began like this: | one hundred and forty-one persons are | |dead as a result of a fire which on | |saturday afternoon swept the three upper | |floors of the factory loft building at | |the northwest corner of washington place | |and greene street. more than | |three-quarters of this number are women | |and girls, who were employed in the | |triangle shirt waist factory, where the | |fire originated.--_boston transcript, | |monday._ | the monday stories on the fire followed up various phases as shown in the following. each one while indicating that the story was a follow-up retold the principal incidents in the fire. | the death list in the washington place | |and greene street fire was swelled today | |to , a majority of the victims being | |young girls.--_monday morning--second | |story._ | | at dawn today it was estimated that | | , persons had visited the temporary | |morgue on the covered pier at the foot of| |east twenty-sixth street, set aside to | |receive the bodies of those who perished | |in the washington place fire on saturday | |afternoon.--_monday morning--second | |story._ | | the horror of the fire in the ten-story| |loft building at washington place and | |greene street late saturday afternoon, | |with its heavy toll of human lives, grows| |blacker each succeeding hour.--_monday | |afternoon._ | | of the bodies in the morgue as a | |result of the triangle shirt waist | |factory fire, all but fifty had been | |identified this morning.--_monday | |afternoon._ | on tuesday other lines opened up for the rewrite man: | sifting down the great mass of | |testimony at their disposal, city and | |county officials hoped today to draw | |closer to the source of responsibility | |for saturday's factory fire horror in | |which persons lost their lives. | |investigations started | |yesterday.--_tuesday afternoon._ | | with all but twenty-eight of the | |victims of the triangle shirt waist | |factory horror identified, district | |attorney whitman continues steadily | |compiling evidence. funerals for scores | |of victims are being held today, while | |the relief fund, etc.--_tuesday | |afternoon._ | | borough president mcaneny of manhattan,| |the district attorney's staff, the fire | |marshal, the coroner and the state labor | |department are bending every energy | |toward fixing the blame for the loss of | |the lives in the, etc.--_tuesday | |afternoon._ | | union labor, horrified by the full | |realization that the waste of human life | |in the triangle waist factory fire might | |have been saved had existing laws been | |enforced, today arranged for a monster | |demonstration of protest, etc.--_tuesday | |afternoon._ | and so the stories ran for many days until newspaper readers had lost all interest in the fire. most of the stories were simply retellings of the original story with a new bit of information in the lead. people were ravenous for more details about the fire and the follow stories supplied them until they were satisfied. rarely is a fire worth so many retellings. a serious accident is often followed up in one or more editions. if many people are killed or injured, the revised list of dead or the present condition of the injured always furnishes material for a follow-up. sometimes the fixing of the blame, as in a railroad accident, or other resulting features are used as the basis of the rewriting. in the case of a robbery the commonest material for a follow-up story is the resulting pursuit or capture. very often a final report of the loss, the present condition of a robbed bank or public institution, or perhaps the regaining of the booty, makes a feature for a new story. but usually the follow-up is concerned with the pursuit, capture, or trial. this is especially true if the original story has been told by an earlier paper and another later paper wishes to print a more up-to-date story on the robbery, such as: | minocqua, wis., oct. .--it now begins| |to look as if the bandits who robbed the | |state bank of minocqua early tuesday | |morning would make their escape with the | |booty. (this is followed by a re-telling | |of the entire story of the robbery and an| |account of the pursuit.) | the most usual follow-up of a murder story is interested in the pursuit, capture, or trial of the perpetrator of the deed. for example: | following the discovery of the body of | |pietro barilla, an italian, of woodhaven,| |long island, who was stabbed to death by | |four men, presumably black hand members, | |in lincoln road, near flatbush, early | |yesterday morning, the police arrested | |three men yesterday. | very often the present condition of the victim of an attempted murder calls for a new story. the stories following the attempted murder of mayor gaynor of new york are good examples of the latter. if a mystery surrounds the crime a possible solution is grounds for a new story. the stories which might follow the unraveling of the mystery surrounding the fictitious death of the grocer, mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, would be second-day murder stories. the original story, let us say, was something like this: | james white, a groceryman, was found | |dying yesterday with a bullet wound in | |his abdomen, in the cellar of his grocery| |store at park street. | the next story on the murder would be concerned with the unraveling of the mystery, thus: | the preliminary inquiry yesterday by | |coroner john f. donalds, into the | |mysterious death of james white, the park| |street grocer, resulted in the conclusion| |that white was murdered. | and so the stories might run on day after day following the solution of the case like the succeeding chapters of a continued novel, and each one gives the synopsis of the preceding chapters in its lead, as every good follow-up story should do. suicide stories seldom offer material for follow-up stories unless there is some mystery surrounding the case. sometimes the present condition of a resuscitated victim of attempted suicide or the disposition of the estate of a suicide offers material for rewriting. serious storms and floods are usually followed up for several days. readers are always interested in the present condition of the devastated region. very often the list of dead and injured is revised from day to day, and any attempt to lend aid to the unfortunate victims is always a reason for a later story. any meetings, conferences, trials, conventions, or the like must be followed up day by day with succeeding stories. each story is complete in itself, but each one adds one more chapter to the report of the meeting. this method of following a continued proceeding calls for a series of follow-up stories; examples of the stories that follow a continued legal trial will be given later under court reporting. * * * * * many other illustrations might be given of follow-up stories that appear daily in the newspapers. in the last analysis, the follow-up or the rewrite story is nothing more than an ordinary news story, and as such must be written in the same way. it begins with a lead which plays up a feature and answers the reader's questions about the subject; the body of the story runs along like the body of any news story. but it is different in being a later chapter of a previous account; while complete in itself, it must not only indicate the previous story, but must tell its most important facts for readers who may have missed the previous story. it is simply a news story which is tied to a previous story by a string of cause and effect. = . following up related subjects.=--in this connection it may be well to mention another kind of follow-up story that is usually written in connection with big news events. it is written to develop and follow up side lines of interest growing out of the main story. in its most usual form it is a statistical summary of events similar to the great event of the day--such as similar fires, similar railroad wrecks, etc., in the past. any big story attracts so much attention among newspaper readers that the facts at hand are usually not sufficient to supply the public's demand for information on the subject. to satisfy these demands editors develop lines of interest growing out of the main event. they interview people concerning the event and concerning similar events; they describe similar events that have taken place in the past; they summarize and compare similar events in the past--in short, they follow up every line of interest opened up by the big story and write stories on the result. these stories are of the nature of follow-up stories in that they grow out of, and develop, the main story in its greatest extent. for example, the wreck of the ocean liner _titanic_ called for innumerable side stories because the public's interest demanded more facts than the newspapers had at hand to supply. hence, the papers wrote up similar shipwrecks in the past, gathered together summaries of the world's greatest shipwrecks, interviewed people who had been in any way connected with shipwrecks or with any phase of this shipwreck, described glaciers and icebergs, estimated the depth of the ocean where the _titanic_ sank, described the white star liner and other liners, pictured real or imaginary shipwrecks, and developed every other related subject. the real news in all this mass of material was very meager, but the related stories satisfied the greedy public and helped newspaper readers to understand and to picture the real significance of the meager news. in the same way a disastrous fire, like the burning of the iroquois theater, calls for innumerable outgrowing stories. even when the event reported in the main news story is not sufficiently important to call for related stories, it is often accompanied by a list (usually put in a box at the head of the story) of other similar events and their results. these follow-up stories of related subjects are, in form, very much like feature stories, although they usually conform to the follow-up idea of mentioning in their leads the main news event to which they are related. x reports of speeches every profession has its disagreeable tasks; journalism has perhaps more disagreeable tasks than any other profession. all of a reporter's work is not concerned with running down thrilling stories and writing them up in a whirl of breathless interest. our readers demand other kinds of news, and it is the reporter's task to satisfy them faithfully. there is probably no phase of the work that is quite so irksome as the reporting of speeches, lectures, sermons, etc., and there is probably no phase of the work about which most reporters have fewer definite rules or ideas. read the reports of the same speech in two different papers and note the difference. they seldom contain the same things and more seldom do they tell what the speaker said, in the way and the spirit in which he said it. it is irksome work and difficult work to condense an hour's talk into three stickfuls, and few reporters know exactly how to go about it. the report of a speech or a sermon or a lecture may come to a newspaper office in one of two ways. a copy of it may be sent to the paper or the reporter may have to go to hear the address and take notes on it. very often the speaker kindly sends a printed or typewritten copy of his speech to the editor a few days in advance with the permission to release it--or print it--on a certain date, after the speech has been delivered in public. if the speech is to be printed in full, the task is a mere matter of editing and does not trouble the reporter. very few speeches receive so much space. the others must be condensed and put in shape for printing. after all, the usual way to get a speech is to go to the public delivery of the speech and bring back a report of it. at first sight this is a difficult task and green reporters come back with a very poor resumé. however, a word or two of advice from the editor or some bitter experience eases the way. some advice may be given here to prepare the would-be reporter beforehand. some reporters who know shorthand prefer to make a stenographic report of the entire speech and rearrange and condense it in the office. this method is advisable only in the case of speeches of the greatest importance; it is too laborious for ordinary purposes, since the account includes at most only a part of the speech. the best way, doubtless, to get a speech is to take notes on it. and yet this must be done properly or there is a danger of misinterpretation of statements or of undue emphasis upon any single part of the speech. the report of a speech should be as well balanced and logical as the speech itself, differing from the original only in length and the omission of details. the speech report must be accurate and truthful or the speaker may appear at the office in a day or two with blood in his eye. a few rules may be suggested as an aid to accuracy and truthfulness. in the first place, do not try to get all the speech; do not try to get more than a small part of it--the important part. there are two ways of doing this. if the speech is well arranged and orderly it is easy to tell when the speaker has finished one sub-division and is beginning another. each division and subdivision will naturally contain a topic sentence. watch for the topic sentences and get them down with the briefest necessary explanation to make them clear. political speeches or impromptu talks are, on the other hand, not always so logically arranged. sometimes it is possible to get the topic sentences, but more often it is not. then watch for the interesting or striking statements. you will be aided in this by the audience about you. whenever the speaker says anything unusually striking or of more than ordinary interest the audience will show it by signs of assent or dissent. watch for these signs, even for applause--and take down the statement that was the cause. if the statement interested the original audience it will interest your readers. naturally, mere oratorical trivialities must not be mistaken for striking statements. when you get back to the office to write up the report of the speech you will feel the need of direct quotations--in fact, the length of your report will be determined by the number of direct quotations that you have to use in it--as well as by editorial dictum. it would be entirely wrong to quote any expressions of your own because they are somewhat like the speaker's statements, and it is impossible to quote anything less than a complete sentence in the report of a speech. hence you will need complete sentences taken down verbatim in the exact words of the speaker. make it a point to get complete sentences as you listen to the speech. whenever a striking statement or an interesting part of the speech seems worth putting in your story get it down completely. you will find yourself writing most of the time because, while you are writing down one important sentence, the speaker will be uttering several more in explanation and may say something else of interest before you have finished writing down his first statement. strict attention, a quick pencil, and a good memory are needed for this kind of work, but the reporting of speeches will lose its terrors after you have had a very small amount of practice. just as any news story begins with a lead and plays up its most striking fact in the first line, the report of a speech usually begins with the speaker's most striking or most important statement. as you are listening to his words watch for something striking for the lead--something that will catch the reader's eye and interest him. but you must exercise great care in selecting the statement for the lead. theoretically and practically it must be something in strict accordance with the entire content of the speech and, if possible, it should be the one statement that sums up the whole speech in the most concise way. somewhere in the discourse, at the beginning, at the end, or in some emphatic place, the speaker will usually sum up his complete ideas on the subject in a striking, concise way. watch for this summary and get it down for the lead. however, there may be times when this summary, though concise, will be of little interest to the average reader and you will be forced to use some other striking statement. then it is perfectly permissible to take any striking statement in the speech and use it for the lead, provided that the statement is directly connected with the rest of the discourse. but be fair to the speaker. do not play up some chance remark as illustrative of the entire utterance; don't bring in an aside as the most interesting thing in his speech. if a preacher forgets himself to the extent of expressing a chance political opinion, it would obviously be unfair to him for you to play up that remark as the summary of his sermon. your readers would get a false impression and the preacher would be angry. if he considers the chance remark of real importance in his sermon he will back it up with other statements that will give you an excuse for using it. in brief, watch for the most interesting and most striking statement in the entire speech, and in selecting this statement be fair and just and try to avoid giving a false impression of the speaker or of the speech. if you follow this rule you will never be in any danger of getting your paper into difficulties. another rule in reporting lectures, speeches, etc., applies to the writing of all newspaper stories. write your report at once while the speech is still fresh in your mind. your report must preserve the logic and continuity of the speech--it must be a fair resumé. your notes will be at best mere jottings of chance sentences here and there. do not allow them to get cold and lose their continuity. write the report at once. * * * * * the writing of the report of a speech, lecture, or sermon is the same whether it is taken from a printed or stenographic copy of the discourse or from notes. it is perhaps easier to write from your notes because you have the important parts of the speech picked out, ready for use, by the aid of the rest of the audience. before you can resumé a printed copy of the speech you must go through it and pick out the important sentences which you wish to quote and decide upon the most striking statement for the lead. there is no definite rule that can be followed in this except to take the topic sentences whenever they are stated with sufficient clearness. when you have decided on the statements that you wish to quote you have really reduced the speech to a form practically identical with the notes taken from verbal utterance, and the writing in either case is the same. the lead of the report is very much like the lead of any other news story--for the report of a speech is really a news story. as soon as the speech is mentioned, the reader unconsciously asks a number of questions about it and the reporter must answer them in the first sentence. as in any other news story the questions are: _what?_ _who?_ _where?_ _when?_ and perhaps _how?_ and _why?_ reduced to the case of the speech report, they amount to what did he say, who said it, where did he say it, when, and perhaps how and why did he say it. you may answer the _what_ by giving the subject of the discourse or by giving a striking statement in it. in every report the answer to some one of the questions is of greater interest and must be placed in the first line. if the speaker is of more than ordinary prominence his name makes a good beginning. if an ordinary person makes a speech at some meeting of prominence the _when_ or _where_ takes precedence over his name. but in most cases the reporter will find that none of these things is of sufficient importance for the beginning. most public utterances that he will be called upon to report will be made by ordinary men in ordinary places and at ordinary times, and the most interesting part of the story will be what was said. sometimes it suffices to give the title of the speech, but more often a striking statement from the speech makes the best beginning. however, although the speaker, the time, the place, etc., are overshadowed in importance by the subject or content of what the speaker says, they must be included in the same sentence with the title or striking statement. that is, in short, we catch the reader's interest with a striking statement from the speech and then delay the rest of the report while we tell who said it, when, where, etc. the necessity of this is obvious. in accordance with the foregoing there are several possible ways in which to begin the lead of the report of any speech. it would be wrong to say that any one is more common or better than the others; the choice of the beginning must rest with the reporter. and yet there are various things to be noted in connection with each of these beginnings. = . direct quotation beginning.--sentence.=--the quotation that is to have the first line must of course be the most striking or the most interesting statement in the speech. if it consists of a single sentence--and it cannot be less than a sentence--the report may begin thus: | "participation in government is not | |only the privilege, but the right, of | |every american citizen and should be | |considered a duty," said the rev. | |frederick w. hamilton, president of tufts| |college, who spoke on "the political | |duties of the american citizen" at the | |monthly men's neighborhood meeting in the| |roxbury neighborhood house last | |night.--_boston herald._ | here the reporter has given us a sentence that is practically a summary of the speech, has told us who said it, when and where, and has completed the paragraph with the title of the speech. sometimes the title of the speech is not of great importance and its place in the lead may be given to a little summary as in the following: | "the modern man isn't afraid of hell," | |was the concise explanation which w. | |lathrop meaker gave in franklin union | |hall yesterday afternoon and evening of | |the fact that the churches are losing | |their grip on the average man.--_new york| |sun._ | a question which embodies the content of a speech may often be quoted at the beginning; thus: | "will the baptist church continue to | |maintain an attitude of timidity when | |john d. rockefeller of standard oil is | |mentioned?" asked the rev. r. a. bateman,| |from east jaffrey, n. h., of the | |ministers assembled in ford hall last | |evening at the new england baptist | |conference.--_boston herald._ | the opening quotation may sometimes be made an excuse for a brief description of the speaker or his gestures as in the following. this is good at times but it may easily be overworked or become "yellow" in tone. | "there is no fire escape," remarked | |gypsy smith, the famous english | |evangelist, yesterday before the | |fashionable audience of the fifth avenue | |baptist church. he held aloft a bible as | |he made this declaration during an | |eloquent sermon on the possibility of | |losing faith and wandering from the | |narrow way.--_new york world._ | = . direct quotation beginning.--paragraph.=--you notice that in each of the foregoing the quoted sentence is incorporated grammatically into the first sentence of the lead. it is followed by a comma and the words "said mr. ----," "was the statement of ----," "declared mr. ----," etc. this construction is possible only when the quoted sentence is short and simple. when it is long or complex, it is well to paragraph it separately and to put the explanations in a separate paragraph, thus: | "if the united states had possessed in | | a single dirigible balloon, even of | |the size of the one now at fort myer, | |virginia, which cost less than $ , , | |the american army and navy would not have| |long remained in doubt of the presence of| |cervera's fleet in santiago harbor." | | | |this statement was made today by major | |g. o. squier, assistant chief signal | |officer of the army, in an address on | |aëronautics delivered before the american| |society of mechanical engineers at | |west thirty-ninth street.--_new york | | mail._ | this same construction must _always_ be used when the statement quoted in the lead consists of more than one sentence, as in the following: | "the climate of wisconsin is as good | |for recovery from tuberculosis as that of| |any state in the union. it is not the | |climate, but the out-of-doors air that | |works the cure." | | | |so said harvey dee brown in his | |tuberculosis crusade lecture in kilbourn | |park last night.--_milwaukee free press._| it is to be noted that the statement quoted in the lead is never split into two parts, separated by explanation. the quotation is always gathered together at the beginning and followed by the explanation. = . indirect quotation beginning.=--this method is best adapted to the playing up of a brief resumé of the content of the speech. it is sometimes called the "_that_-clause beginning" because it always begins with a _that_-clause which is the subject of the principal verb of the sentence--"was the statement of," "was the declaration of," etc. the _that_-clause may contain a resumé of the entire speech or only the most striking statement in it. here is one of the latter: | that the cruise of the battleship fleet| |around the world has taught the citizens | |of the united states that a powerful | |fleet is needed in the pacific was the | |statement of rear admiral r. c. hollyday,| |chief of the bureau of yards and docks of| |the navy, at a luncheon given to him by | |the board of trustees of the chamber of | |commerce at the fairmont hotel | |yesterday.--_san francisco examiner._ | it is not always necessary to use the phrase "was the statement of." a variation from it is often very good: | that it is the urgent mission of the | |white people of america, through their | |churches and sunday-schools, to educate | |the american negro morally and | |religiously, was the sentiment of the | |twelfth session of the international | |sunday-school convention last night, | |voiced with special power and eloquence | |by dr. booker t. washington, the chief | |speaker of the evening.--_louisville | |courier-journal._ | | that the irish race has a great destiny| |to fulfill, one greater than it has | |achieved in its glorious past, was the | |prophecy of prof. charles johnston of | |dublin university in his lecture at the | |city library sunday | |afternoon.--_wisconsin state journal._ | it is perfectly good usage to begin such a lead with two _that_-clauses or even with three. the two clauses in this case are of course treated as a singular subject and take a singular verb. it is usually best not to have more than three clauses at the beginning and even three must be handled with great care. three clauses at the beginning, if at all long, bury the speaker's name too deeply and may become too complicated. unless the clauses are very closely related in idea, it is usually better not to use more than two. naturally when more than one _that_-clause is used in the lead, all of the clauses must be gathered together at the beginning; never should one precede and one follow the principal verb. here is an example of good usage: | new york, feb. .--that america is | |entering upon a new era of civic and | |business rectitude and that this is due | |to the awakening of the moral conscience | |of the whole people was the prophecy made| |here tonight by governor joseph w. folk | |of missouri.--_chicago record-herald._ | = . summary beginning.=--this is a less formal way of treating the indirect quotation beginning. it is simply a different grammatical construction. whereas in the _that_-clause beginning the principal verb of the sentence is outside the summary (e. g., "that ... was the statement of"), in the summary beginning the principal verb of the sentence is the verb of the summary and the speaker is brought in by means of a modifying phrase; thus: | minneapolis, oct. .--both the free | |trader and the stand-patter are back | |numbers, according to senator albert j. | |beveridge of indiana, who delivered a | |tariff speech here tonight.--_milwaukee | |free press._ | | federal control of the capitalization | |of railroads is the solution of the | |railroad problem suggested by e. l. | |phillipp, the well-known milwaukee | |railroad expert, in the course of a | |speech at the third annual banquet of, | |etc.--_milwaukee free press._ | the summary beginning may be handled in many different ways and allows perhaps more grammatical liberty than any other beginning. the summary may even be given a sentence by itself as in the following. this kind of treatment may easily be overdone and should be handled with great caution: | if you have acute mania, it is the | |proper thing to take the music cure. miss| |jessie a. fowler says so, and she knows. | |miss fowler discussed "music | |hygienically" before the "rainy daisies" | |at the hotel astor yesterday and | |prescribed musical treatment for various | |brands of mania.--_new york world._ | = . keynote beginning.=--very closely related to the summary beginning is the keynote beginning, in which the subject of the main verb is an indirect presentation of the content of the speech. whereas the summary beginning displays its resumé in a complete sentence, the keynote beginning puts the content of the speech in a single noun and its modifiers. thus: | the ideal state university was the | |theme of a speech delivered by, etc. | | the mission of the newspaper to tell | |the truth, to stand for high ideals, and | |to strive to have those ideals adopted by| |the public was the keynote of an address | |delivered by, etc. | = . participial beginning.=--this is less common than the other kinds of indirect quotation beginnings but it is often very effective. the summary of the speech or the most striking statement is put into a participial phrase at the beginning and is made to modify the subject of the sentence (the speaker). it must of course be remembered that such a participial phrase can be used only to modify a noun, as an adjective modifies a noun, and can never be made the subject of a verb. here is an example of good use of this beginning: | upholding the right of public criticism| |of the courts on the theory that there | |can be no impropriety in investigating | |any act of a public official, judge | |kennesaw m. landis last night addressed | |the students of marquette college of law | |and many members of the milwaukee | |bar.--_milwaukee free press._ | just as it is perfectly possible to begin an indirect quotation lead with two _that_-clauses instead of one, it is also possible to use two participial phrases in the participial beginning; as: | pleading for justice and human | |affection in dealing with the delinquent | |child, and urging the vital need of | |legislation which shall enforce parental | |responsibility, mrs. nellie duncan made | |an address yesterday which stirred the | |sympathies of an attentive audience in | |the first presbyterian church.--_san | |francisco examiner._ | although the participial phrase usually gives the summary of the speech, not infrequently the participial construction is used to play up the name of the speech or some other fact and the summary comes after the principal verb of the lead; thus: | paying tribute to the memory of | |president william mckinley last night at | |the metropolitan temple, where exercises | |were held to dedicate the mckinley | |memorial organ, judge taft told in detail| |of his commission to the philippine | |service and his subsequent intimate | |connection with the president.--_new york| |tribune._ | = . title beginning.=--there are two reasons for beginning the report of a public utterance with the speaker's subject or title. the title itself may be so broad that it makes a good summary of the speech, or it may be so striking in itself that it attracts interest at once. in the following examples the title is really a summary of the speech: | new york, dec. .--"the compensation | |of employes for injuries received while | |at work" was taken by j. d. beck, | |commissioner of labor of wisconsin, as | |the theme of his address before the | |national civic federation here | |today.--_milwaukee free press._ | | "the emmanuel movement" was the subject| |of an address by rabbi stephen s. wise of| |the free synagogue yesterday | |morning.--_new york evening post._ | in the following stories the reporter began with the title evidently because it was so strikingly unusual and also because it was the title of a strikingly unusual speech by an unusual man. this kind of title beginning is always very effective: | "booze, or get on the water wagon," was| |the subject on which rev. billy sunday, | |the baseball evangelist, addressed an | |audience of over , persons at the | |midland chautauqua yesterday afternoon. | |for two hours sunday fired volley after | |volley at the liquor traffic.--_des | |moines capital._ | | "if christ came to milwaukee" was the | |subject of the rev. paul b. jenkin's | |sunday night in immanuel presbyterian | |church.--_milwaukee sentinel._ | = . speaker beginning.=--it is obvious that this is the easiest beginning that may be used in the report of a speech. but just as obviously it is the beginning that should be least used. just as in writing news stories a green reporter always attempts to begin every lead with the name of some person involved, in reporting a public discourse he has a strong desire to put the name of the speaker before what the speaker said. but the same tests may be applied to both cases. are our readers more interested in what a man does than in the man himself; do our readers go to hear a given speaker because they wish to hear what he has to say or because they wish to hear _him_? whenever the public is so interested in a man that it does not care what he says, then you may feel safe in beginning the report of what he says with his name. this test may be altered, especially in smaller cities, by previous interest in the speech; if the speech has been expected and looked forward to with interest, then, no matter if the speaker is the president himself, his name is not as good news as what he has to say. even if the lead does begin with the speaker's name, the reporter usually tries to bring a summary of the speech or the most striking statement into the first sentence after the name. for example: | speaker joseph g. cannon placed himself| |on record last night in favor of a | |revision of the tariff in accordance with| |the promise of the republican party | |platform and declared that so far as his | |vote was concerned he would see to it | |that the announced policy of revision | |would be written in the national laws as | |soon as possible. the words of the | |speaker came at a luncheon given to six | |rear admirals of the united states navy | |by alexander h. revell of chicago in the | |union league club, at which the need of | |more battleships and increased efficiency| |of the fighting forces of the republic | |were the principal themes of discussion. | this example was chosen because, while it is written in accordance with the rules of the speaker beginning, it is obviously too long and complicated--over words. it would be better to gather it together and condense it as in the following: | chief forester gifford pinchot opened | |the second day's session of the national | |conservation congress yesterday by an | |address in which he expressed his entire | |satisfaction and his confidence in the | |attitude of president taft toward | |conservating the national | |resources.--_milwaukee sentinel._ | | st. paul, minn., feb. .--booker t. | |washington of tuskegee, ala., in an | |address at the people's church tonight | |predicted that within two years the | |liquor traffic would be driven out of all| |the southern states but two.--_milwaukee | |sentinel._ | there are obviously other beginnings that cannot be classed under any of the above heads. some of them, much like the "freak" leads that may be seen in many newspapers of the present day, may be called free beginnings for want of a better name. these free beginnings are quite effective when properly handled but the novice must use them with fear and trembling. they may be witty or they may be sarcastic, but they are usually dangerous. the difference in the eight beginnings discussed above is mainly one of grammatical construction; the same fundamental ideas govern them all. their purpose is always to play up a striking statement or a summary of the speech report and to give at the very outset the necessary explanation concerning the speech. the body of the report the body of the report of a speech is not so distinct from the lead as the body of an ordinary news story. in the news story it is safe to assume that many readers will not go beyond the lead, but in the report of a speech this is not so true. it is less possible to give the main facts in the lead of a speech report and the rest of the story is more necessary. hence it must be written with as great care as the lead. the body of the report should consist of direct quotation in so far as possible. the reader is interested in what the speaker said and it is impossible to make a summary in indirect discourse as convincing as the actual quotation of his words. be sure that the quotations are the speaker's exact words or very nearly his exact words, so that he cannot accuse you of misquoting him. the spirit of his words must be in the quotation, anyway. in these quotations nothing less than a complete sentence should be quoted. do not patch together sentences of indirect and direct quotation, like the following--he said that some of us are prone to let things be as they are, "because the philanthropic rich help in our times of trouble and in sickness." such quotation is worse than no direct quotation at all. of course, this does not mean that one cannot add "said the speaker" to a direct quotation, but it means that "said the speaker" can be added only to quotations that are complete sentences. furthermore whenever it is necessary to bring in "said the speaker," or similar expressions, they should be added at the end of the quoted sentence--the least emphatic part of a newspaper sentence. obviously a condensed report of a speech can only quote sentences here and there throughout the speech--the high spots of interest, as we called them before. these must not be quoted promiscuously and disconnectedly. the original speech had a logical order and set forth a logical train of thought. these should be followed as far as possible in the report. bring in the quotations in their true order and fill the gaps between them with indirect discourse to knit them together and to give the report the coherence of the original speech. but do not carry this indirect explanation to the extent of making your copy a report of the speech in indirect discourse with occasional bits of direct quotation to illustrate. remember that, after all, the direct quotation is the truly effective part of the speech. whenever a paragraph contains both direct and indirect quotation, the direct quotation should always precede the indirect. but it is much better to paragraph the two kinds of quotation separately, making each paragraph entirely of direct, or entirely of indirect, quotation. if a paragraph must contain both, begin it with the direct so that as the reader glances down the column he will see a quotation mark at the beginnings of most, if not all, of the paragraphs. by the same sign, when your notes are lacking in direct quotations, bring in as many of the quotations as possible at the beginning of the report and let the indirect summary occupy the end where it may be cut off by the editor if he does not wish to run it. here is a good illustration of a part of the body of a good speech report--it is the second paragraph of one of the stories quoted under the "speaker" beginning above: | "i can not account for the moral | |revolution that is sweeping over the | |south," he continued. "the sentiment | |against whisky is deeper than the mere | |desire to get it away from the black man.| |that same sentiment is found in counties | |that contain no negro population. people | |who say that the law will not be enforced| |have not been in the south.--b. t. | |washington's speech, _milwaukee | |sentinel._ | you will notice that although the above paragraph is composed entirely of direct quotation it has no quotation mark at the end. this is, of course, in accordance with the old rule of rhetoric which says that in a continuous quotation each paragraph shall begin with a quotation mark but only the last shall be closed by a quotation mark. to illustrate the errors that may be made in reporting speeches we might write the above paragraph as follows: | mr. washington continued by saying that| |he could not account for the revolution | |that is sweeping over the south. "the | |sentiment against whisky is deeper than | |the mere desire to get it away from the | |black man." he says that "the same | |sentiment is found in counties that | |contain no negro population." people who | |say that the law will not be enforced | |"have not been in the south," according | |to booker t. washington. | the clumsiness of this mingling of direct and indirect quotation is very clear, as is the weakness of beginning with an explanation that is really subordinate. much more could be said about the reporting of speeches. very few things will make a man so angry as the misquoting of his words. therefore, whatever other faults your report of a speech may have, let it be accurate and truthful. xi interviews if you compare any interview story with any speech report in any representative newspaper, you will readily see how a discussion of interviews easily becomes an explanation of the differences between interview stories and speech-reports; that is, how the report of an interview differs from the report of a public utterance of a more formal kind. there are few differences in the written reports. each usually begins with a summary or a striking statement and consists largely of direct quotation. were it not for the line or two of explanation at the end of the introduction, it would be practically impossible to tell the one from the other, to tell which of the reports sets forth statements made in a public discourse and which gives statements made in a more private way to a reporter. the difference lies behind the report, in the way the reporter obtained the statements and quotations. and the whole difference depends upon the attitude of the man who made the statements--whether his words were a conscious or an unconscious public utterance. when a man speaks from a platform he utters every sentence and every word with an idea of possible quotation--he is not only willing to be quoted but he wants to be quoted. but when he speaks privately to a reporter he usually dreads quotation. of course, he expects that you will print a few of his remarks but he is constantly hoping that you will not remember and print them all. he speaks more guardedly, too, since he is not sure of the interpretation that may be given to his words. hence it is a very different matter to report what a man says in public and to get statements for the press from him in private. any one can report a speech but great skill is required to get a good interview--especially if the victim is unwilling to talk. the first matter that a reporter has to consider is the means of retaining the statements until he is able to write his story. it is a simple matter to get quotations from a speech because it is possible to sit anywhere in the audience and write down the speaker's words in a notebook as they are uttered. but the notebook must be left behind when you try to interview. when a man is not used to being interviewed nothing will make him reticent so quickly as the appearance of a notebook and pencil; he realizes that his words are to appear in print just as he utters them and he immediately becomes frightened. ordinarily so long as he feels that what he says is going into the confidential ear of the reporter--and out of the other ear just as quickly--he is willing to talk more freely and openly and to say exactly what he thinks. this, of course, does not apply to prominent men who are used to being interviewed and prefer to have their remarks taken down verbatim. such an interview, however, is little more than a call to secure a statement for publication. it might be well to settle the notebook question here and now when it assumes the greatest importance. the stage has hardened us to seeing a reporter slinking around the outskirts of every bit of excitement writing excitedly and hurriedly in a large leather notebook. so hardened are we to the sight that some new reporters buy a notebook just as soon as they get a place on a newspaper staff. but real reporters on real newspapers do not use notebooks. a few sheets of folded copy paper hidden carefully in an inside pocket ready for names and addresses and perhaps figures are all that most of them carry. many people dread publicity and the appearance of a notebook frightens them into silence more quickly than the actual appearance of a representative of the press. this is true in the reporting of any bit of news, in the covering of any story--and it is ordinarily true in interviewing for statements that are to be quoted. of course, an exception to this must be made in the case of some prominent men who prefer to issue signed written statements when they are interviewed. the impossibility of using a notebook or writing down a man's words in an interview seriously complicates the task of interviewing. some reporters train themselves until they are able to remember their victim's words long enough to get outside and write them down. others are satisfied with getting the ideas and the spirit of what is said together with the man's manner of talking. a few characteristic mannerisms thrown in with a true report of his ideas will make any speaker believe that you have quoted him exactly. whichever method is pursued, the reporter must always be fair and try to tell the readers of the paper the man's true ideas. the exigencies of the case give the reporter greater liberty than in quoting from a speech but he must not abuse his liberty. the success of an interview depends very largely upon the way in which a reporter approaches the man whom he wishes to interview. it is never well to trust to the inspiration of the moment to start the conversation. the reporter must know exactly what he wishes to have the man say before he approaches him and must already have framed his questions so as to draw out the answers that he wishes. people are never interviewed except for a purpose and that purpose should suggest the reporter's first question. no matter how willing the man is to tell what he thinks he will seldom begin talking until the reporter asks him a definite question to help him in putting his thoughts into words. all of this should be considered beforehand. the reporter should have outlined a definite campaign and have a series of questions which he wishes to ask. if he has written the questions out beforehand, the task becomes an easier one--he merely fills in the answers on his list later and has the interview in better form than if he had tried to trust entirely to his memory. to be sure, the questions may open up unexpected lines of thought and he may get more than he went for, but he must have his questions ready for use as soon as each new line is exhausted. a skilled reporter frames the interview himself and keeps the result entirely in his own hands through the campaign that he has outlined beforehand. unless he knows exactly what he wants to get, a wary victim may lead him off upon unimportant facts and in the end tell him nothing that his paper has sent him to get. a reporter must keep the reins of an interview in his own possession. a good reporter takes great care in his manner of addressing a man whom he is to interview. a well-known newspaper follows the rule of asking its reporters never to do what a gentleman would not do. a reporter who is trying to interview must always be a gentleman and must not ask questions that a gentleman would not ask. if the victim is a prominent man of great personality it is not hard to follow this rule--in fact, it is impossible to get the interview by any other method of approach. but when one is trying to interview a person of humbler station, the case is different. it is very easy then to fall into a habit of demanding information and turning the interview into an inquisition. but the reporter who keeps his attitude as a gentleman gets more real facts even when his victim is of the most humble social status. therefore, never approach your victim as if he were a witness and you a cross-questioning lawyer. do not say: "see here, you know more about it than that," and thus try to force unwilling information from him. go at him in a more round-about way and lead him to give you the facts unwittingly perhaps. a young reporter often feels an impulse to become too personal with the man whom he is interviewing. he must always remember that he is not there for a friendly chat but as a representative of a newspaper, sent to get concise facts or opinions. this attitude must be maintained even with the humblest persons. any desire to sympathize, criticize, or advise must be checked at the very start. the point of view must always be kept. * * * * * although the main difference between writing interview stories and reporting speeches lies in the very act of getting the quotations and words of the speaker, there are certain aspects in which the writing of an interview story is different. the actual form of the two stories is almost identical and yet there is a tone in the interview story that is lacking in the report of a speech. this may be called the personal tone. the very name of the speaker obviously plays a much larger part in the interview story than in the speech report. we may be more interested in what a man says in a public discourse than we are in the man, but when we interview a man we want his opinions not for themselves so much as because they are his opinions. an interview with the president on the tariff is not necessarily interesting in the new ideas that it brings out, for we have many other ways of knowing the president's opinions on the tariff question; but the interview is worth printing because every one is interested in reading anything that the president says, although he may have read the same thing many times before. a man is seldom interviewed unless he is of some prominence--that is why he is interviewed, and so in the resulting story his name plays a very important part. in fact, his name is usually the feature of the story; most interview stories begin directly with the name of the man whose statements are quoted. although a man may be interviewed simply because of his prominence and popularity, there is usually another reason for the interview. we are interested not only in hearing him say something but we wish to hear him say something on a certain topic. the interview thus has a timeliness, a reason for existence. since this timeliness is the reason for printing a certain man's statements, the reporter's account must indicate that timeliness near the beginning. that is, the first sentence of an interview story must not only tell who was interviewed and the gist of what he said, but it must tell why he said it. the interview must be connected with the rest of the day's news. this comes out very definitely in the custom which many newspapers have of printing the opinions of many prominent men in connection with any important event. perhaps it is because we wish to know their opinions on the subject or perhaps it is simply because we are glad to have a chance to hear them talk--at any rate many editors make any great event an excuse for a series of interviews. this is illustrated by the opinions of the various labor leaders that were printed with the story of the recent confession of the mcnamara brothers. in such a case, the reporter must make the reason for the interview his starting point in the report and must indicate very plainly why the man was interviewed. this idea of timeliness is very often carried to the extent of making the interview merely a denial or an assertion from the mouth of a well-known man. there may be an upheaval in wall street. immediately the papers print an interview in which some prominent financier denies or asserts that he is at the bottom of the upheaval. naturally the report of the interview begins with the very words of the denial or the assertion. very often a man when interviewed refuses to say anything on the subject. the fact that he has nothing to say does not mean that the interview is not worth reporting. in fact, that refusal to speak may be the most effective thing that he could say. the reporter begins by telling that his man had nothing to say on the subject and ends by telling what he should have said or what his refusal to speak probably means,--if the paper is not too scrupulous in such matters. at any rate, the denial or assertion or refusal to speak becomes the starting point of the report and furnishes the excuse for the interview story. the expanded remarks that follow the lead are of course important but they are not so important as the primary expression of opinion that the reporter went for. the personal element in interviewing may be carried to an extreme extent. the man who is interviewed may so far overshadow the importance of what he says that the report of the interview becomes almost a sketch of the man himself. that is, the report is filled with human interest. the quotations are interspersed with action and description. we are told how the man acted when he said each individual thing. his appearance, attitude, expression, and surroundings become as important as his words and are brought into the report as vividly as possible. such an interview may become almost large enough to be used as a special feature story for the sunday edition, but when the human interest is limited to a comparatively subordinate position the report still keeps its character as an interview news story. such a thing may be illustrated from the daily press: | "i would rather have four battleships | |and need only two than to have two and | |need four." | | | | seated in the cool library of colonel | |a. k. mcclure's summer home at | |wallingford, rear admiral winfield scott | |schley, retired, thus expressed himself | |yesterday on the need of a larger and | |greater navy. | after all has been said about interviewing, the one thing that a reporter must remember is that an interview story is at best rather dry and everything that he can do to increase the interest will improve the interview. but all of this must be done with absolute fairness to the speaker and great truthfulness in the quotation of his ideas and opinions. * * * * * to come to the technical form of the interview story, we find that there are very nearly as many possible beginnings as in the case of the report of a speech. the interview story must begin with a lead that tells who was interviewed, when, and where, what he said (in a quotation or an indirect summary), and why he was interviewed. this is like the lead of a speech report in every particular except in the timeliness--the occasion for a speech is seldom mentioned in the lead, but a reporter usually tells at once why he interviewed the man whose words he quotes. = . speaker beginning.=--the very purpose behind interviewing makes the so-called speaker beginning most common. it is almost an invariable rule that the report of an interview must begin with the man's name unless what he says is of greater importance than his name--which is seldom. the simplest form of the speaker beginning is the one in which the speaker's name is followed directly by a summary of what he said, as: | dr. david starr jordan, president of | |leland stanford junior university, said | |yesterday at the holland house that in | |the development of american universities | |educators must separate the lower two | |classes from the upper two, the present | |freshman and sophomore classes to be | |absorbed by small colleges or | |supplemental high schools, making the | |junior year the first in the university | |training. he said the universities should | |receive only men, not boys.--_new york | |tribune._ | another kind of speaker beginning may devote most of the lead to the explanation of the reason for the interview, giving the briefest possible summary of what was said: thus: | director lang of the department of | |public safety is going to place a ban on | |the playing of tennis on sunday. he | |doesn't know just yet how he is going to | |accomplish this, but yesterday he | |declared that he would find some law | |applicable to the case.--_pittsburgh | |gazette-times._ | one step further brings us to the entire exclusion of the result of the interview from the lead. in this case the reason for the interview occupies the entire lead and we must read part of the second paragraph to find what the man said; thus: | charles f. washburn, richmond hill's | |wizard of finance, promises to appear at | |his broker's office in newark, n. j., | |this morning with a fresh bank roll, | |accumulated since the close of the market| |on saturday. | | | | (the second paragraph tells what it is | |all about and the third quotes his | |words.)--_new york world._ | it is to be noted that in each of the above leads the speaker's name is always accompanied by a word or two telling who he is and why he was interviewed. furthermore the reporter himself has no more place in the lead than if he were reporting a speech--his existence and the part he played in getting the interview are strictly ignored. = . summary beginning.=--there are two common ways of beginning an interview story with a summary. first, the lead may begin with a _that_-clause which embodies the gist of the interview; this is like the _that_-clause beginning of the report of a speech; thus: | that the apparent apathy among the | |voters of the country is merely | |contentment with the present | |administration of affairs by the | |republican party is the contention of | |ex-senator john m. thurston of nebraska. | |mr. thurston was at republican national | |headquarters today, etc.--_new york | |evening post._ | secondly the summary beginning is used in the case of an interview that is a denial or an assertion by the man interviewed. the lead begins with a clause or a participial phrase embodying the substance of the interview, and the name of the speaker is made the subject of a verb of denying or asserting; thus: | declaring that his office is run as | |economically as possible, sheriff h. e. | |franke denied on sunday that he had | |expended more than $ for auto hire to | |collect $ , . of alleged taxes. | | | | (the second paragraph begins with a | |direct quotation.)--_milwaukee sentinel._| | although he had sharply criticised | |roosevelt's special message condemning | |some of the uses to which the possessors | |of large fortunes are putting their | |wealth, president jacob gould schurman, | |cornell university, declined to discuss | |roosevelt or his policies in milwaukee | |yesterday. he said that he was not | |talking politics. | | | | (the rest of the report is a quotation | |of his views on college | |athletics.)--_milwaukee free press._ | = . quotation beginning.=--many reports of interviews begin with a direct quotation. the logic of this is that the expression of opinion is, in some cases, of more interest than the name of the man who expressed the opinion. sometimes the name of the speaker is not considered worth mentioning and in that case a direct quotation is the only advisable beginning; thus: | "with the prices of food for hogs and | |cattle going up, it is natural that the | |food--beef and pork--for us humans should| |keep pace." | | | | this was the logic of an east-side | |butcher who discussed the probable rise | |in the prices of meat.--_milwaukee free | |press._ | sometimes a short quotation is used at the beginning of the lead very much as a title is used in a speech report; thus: | new york, june .--"a business | |proposition which should have been put in| |effect nearly twenty years ago," was john| |wanamaker's comment today on the adoption| |of -cent letter postage between the | |united states and great britain and | |ireland.--_milwaukee free press._ | if the quotation at the beginning consists of only one sentence the name of the speaker may be run into the same paragraph; thus: | "judge mcpherson's recent decision | |declaring missouri's -cent fare | |confiscatory is an indication that vested| |interests are entitled to some protection| |and that legislatures must not go too far| |in regulating them," said sir thomas | |shaughnessy, president of the canadian | |pacific road, on sunday.--_milwaukee | |sentinel._ | however if the quotation at the beginning contains more than one sentence it is best to paragraph the quotation separately and leave the name of the speaker until the second paragraph; thus: | "the american federation of labor will | |enter the national campaign by seeking to| |place labor candidates on the tickets of | |the old parties. an independent labor | |party is eventually contemplated. but | |there is not time to get results in that | |way in the next national campaign." | | | | so said h. c. raasch, national | |president of the tile-layers, upon his | |return yesterday, etc.--_milwaukee free | |press._ | = . human interest beginning.=--this is a designation devised to cover a multitude of beginnings. a human interest interview may begin with a quotation, a summary, a name, or an action. the aim is necessarily toward unconventionality and the form of the lead is left to the originality of the reporter. a few examples may illustrate what is meant by the human interest beginning: | "there goes another string. drat those | |strings!" only joseph caluder didn't say | |"drat." | | | | "say, do you know that i have spent | |pretty nearly $ , for strings for that| |violin? well, it's a fact. listen." | |etc.--_milwaukee sentinel._ | | fire marshal james horan never bought a| |firecracker, but for many years he has | |celebrated independence day in the thick | |of fires. he never owned a gun or | |revolver. his last prayer before trying | |to snatch a little needed sleep friday | |night will be of the twofold form, | |etc.--_chicago post._ | after what has been said about the body of a speech report, there is little more to be said about the body of an interview story. the same rules apply in both cases. the body of the report should contain as much direct quotation as possible. however nothing less than a sentence should be quoted--that is, every quotation should be a complete sentence, with indirect explanation. whenever "said the speaker" or "mr. brown continued" or any similar expression is worked into the direct quotation it should always be placed at the end of the sentence; never begin a quotation in this way:--mr. jones continued, "furthermore i would say, etc." in the same way, when a paragraph contains both direct and indirect quotation, the direct quotation should be placed at the beginning. whenever it is possible, construct solid paragraphs of quotation, and solid paragraphs of summary. the report as a whole must have coherence and a logical sequence; for this a limited amount of indirect quotation may be used to fill in the gaps in the logic of the direct quotation. according to the usage of the best newspapers of to-day the reporter must never be brought into the report of an interview. his existence must never be mentioned although every reader knows that some reporter secured the interview. in the old days reporters delighted in bringing themselves into their stories as "representatives of the press" or "a reporter for the dispatch," but that practice has gone the way of the reporter's leather-bound notebook. the interview may be told satisfactorily without a mention of the reporter; hence newspaper usage has put a ban on his appearance in his story. group interviews we have said that a man is seldom interviewed without a reason; there is always a timeliness in interviewing. any unusual event of broad importance becomes an excuse for the editor to print the opinion of some prominent man on some phase of the event. sometimes the event is of such importance that the editor wishes to print the opinions of several men on the subject; or more than one prominent man may be involved in the affair and the public may wish to hear the opinions of every one involved. in such a case when several men are interviewed in regard to the same event it is considered rather useless and ineffective to print their interviews separately and the several interview stories are gathered together into one story and arranged in such a way that they may be compared. there are several ways of doing this. if the case or event is very well known, a lead or summary of the several interviews is considered unnecessary and the words of the various men are grouped together under a single headline. this may be illustrated by the interviews that were printed after the confessions of the mcnamara brothers of los angeles in the recent dynamiting case. the _wisconsin state journal_ may be taken as representative. this paper printed the statements of twelve prominent men interested in the case in a three-column box under a long head; thus: | =leaders discuss the case= | | | | samuel gompers, president american | |federation of labor--i am astounded; i am | |astounded; my credulity has been imposed | |upon. it is a bolt out of a clear sky. | | | | * * * * * | | | | john t. smith, president missouri | |federation of labor--i can not believe it. | |but if the mcnamaras blew up the times | |building they should be fully punished. | | | | * * * * * | | | | gen. harrison grey otis, publisher of | |the times--the result may be and ought to | |be, etc. | if the case had not been of such broad interest a lead embodying a summary of the interviews might have preceded the individual statements. it might have been done in this way: | great surprise has been expressed by | |the prominent labor leaders of the | |country at the confession of the | |mcnamara brothers in los angeles | |yesterday. that organized labor had no | |connection with the work of these men and | |that they should be fully punished is the | |consensus of opinion. | | | | samuel gompers, president american | |federation of labor--i am astounded; i am | |astounded; my credulity has been imposed | |upon. it is a bolt out of a clear sky. | | | | john t. smith, president missouri | |federation of labor--i can not believe it. | |etc. | in such a story as the above, the statements are usually printed without quotation marks; each paragraph begins with a man's name, followed by a dash and what he said. the grouping together of several interviews is often done less formally. the whole thing may be written as a running story, and sometimes the names of the persons interviewed are omitted; thus: | proprietors of the big flower shops, | |the places from which blossoms are | |delivered in highly polished and ornate | |wagons, drawn by horses that might win | |blue ribbons, and where, in the proper | |season, a single rose costs three | |dollars, do not approve of the comments | |made by a dealer who recently failed. | |among these sayings was one to the effect | |that young millionaires spend a thousand | |dollars a week on flowers for chorus | |girls who earn twelve dollars a week, and | |who sometimes take the flowers back to | |the shop to exchange them for money to | |buy food and clothes. | | | | "that's all nonsense," said one dealer. | |(this paragraph is devoted to his opinion | |on the matter.) | | | | "we have enough trouble in this | |business," said another dealer, "without | |having this silly talk given to the | |public." (this paragraph gives this | |dealer's opinion)--_new york evening | |post._ | (each paragraph is devoted to a single interview.) the same paragraph may be done with more local color as in the following: | chinatown feels deeply its bereavement | |in the deaths of the empress dowager and | |the emperor of china. chinatown mourns, | |but it does so in such an unobtrusive | |oriental way that the casual visitor on | |sympathy bent may feel that his words of | |condolence would be misplaced. | | | | a reporter from this paper was assigned | |yesterday to go up to chinatown and in as | |delicate a way as possible to gather some | |of the sentiments of appreciation of the | |merits of kuang-hsu and his lamented aunt, | |tzu-hsi. he was told that he might write a | |little about the picturesque though | |nevertheless sincere expressions of | |mourning that he might observe in pell | |and mott streets. | | | | mr. jaw gum, senior partner in the firm | |of jaw gum & co., importers of cigars, | |cigarettes, dead duck's eggs and chinese | |delicatessen, of pell street, was at | |home. mr. gum was approached. | | | | "we would like to learn a little about | |the arrangements that are being made by | |the chinese to indicate their sorrow at | |the deaths of their beloved rulers." | | | | "what number?" queried mr. gum. the | |question was repeated. | | | | "p'licyman, he know," remarked mr. gum | |sagely. | | | | (so on for a column with interviews and | |statements from several of mr. gum's | |neighbors.)--_new york sun._ | but this is very much like a human interest story--the reporter takes part in it--and we shall discuss that later. xii court reporting probably few classes of news stories present such a lack of uniformity and such a variety of treatments as the reports of court news. legal stories belong to one of the few sorts of stories that do not tend to become systematized. but there is a reason for almost everything in a newspaper and there is also a reason for the freedom that reporters are allowed in reporting testimony. the reason in this case is probably in the fact that very rarely do two court stories possess the same sort of interest or the same news value. we have seen that reports of speeches are printed in the daily press because our readers are interested in the content of the speech or in the man who uttered it. in the same way, our readers are interested in interviews because of the man who was interviewed, because of their content, or because of their bearing on some current event. on the other hand there is an infinite number of reasons why a court story is worth printing or why it may not be worth a line. sometimes the interest is in the persons involved; sometimes in the significance of the decision. people may also be interested in a case because of its political or legal significance or merely because of the sensational testimony that is given. and again a very trivial case may be worth a large amount of space in the daily paper just because of its human interest--because of the pathos or humor that the reporter can bring into it. thus the resulting reports are hard to classify. each one depends on a different factor for its interest and each must be written in a different way so that its individual interest may be most effective. however there are general tendencies in the reporting of court news. the news itself is comparatively easy to get. in a large city every court is watched every day by a representative of the press, either a reporter for an individual paper or for a city news gathering association. in some cities where there is no independent news gathering agency papers sometimes club together to keep one reporter at each court. the man who is on duty must watch all day long for cases that are of interest for one reason or another. even with all this safeguarding sometimes an important case slips by the papers; often the reporter on duty considers of little interest a case that is worth columns when some paper digs into it. every reporter however who is trying to do court reporting should learn the ordinary routine of legal proceedings; for example, the place and purpose of the pleas, the direct and cross examination of witnesses, and other legal business. as we shall see when we begin to write court reports, it is necessary to exercise every possible trick to put interest into the story. in the actual court room all that relieves the dreary monotony of legal proceedings is an occasional bit of interesting testimony. and when the reporter tries to report a case he sometimes finds that interesting testimony is all that will lighten up the dull monotony of his story. therefore while he is listening to a case he tries to get down verbatim a large number of the interesting questions and answers. or if he is unable to be present he tries to get hold of the court stenographer's record to copy out bits of testimony for his account. beyond this recording of testimony there is really little difficulty in court reporting except the difficulty of separating the interesting from the great mass of uninteresting matter. as to the actual writing of the report of a legal trial, the one thing that the reporter must remember is that a case is seldom reported for the public's interest in the case itself. there is usually some other reason why the editor wants a half a column of it. that reason is the thing that the reporter must watch for and when he finds it he must make it the feature of his report to be embodied in the first line of the lead. when we try to play up the most interesting feature of a court report we find that we must fall back upon the same beginnings that we used in reporting speeches and interviews. there are several possible ways of beginning such a story, depending upon the phase of the case or its testimony that is of greatest importance. = . name beginning.=--the proper name beginning is very common. it is always used when any one of prominence is involved in the story or when the name, although unknown, can be made interesting in itself--as in a human interest story. the name is usually made the subject of the verb testified, as in this lead: | a. f. law, secretary of the temple iron | |company, a subsidiary company of the | |reading coal and iron company, called | |before the government investigation of | |the alleged combination of coal carrying | |roads, testified today in the federal | |building that four roads had contributed | |$ , to make up the deficit of the | |temple company during three years of coal | |strikes.--_new york sun._ | the name of a well-known company often makes a good beginning: | the standard oil company sent a | |sweeping broadside into the government's | |case yesterday at the hearing in the suit | |seeking to dissolve the standard oil | |company of new jersey under the sherman | |anti-trust law, when witnesses began to | |tell of the character of a number of men | |the government had placed upon the | |witness stand.--_new york times._ | the name of the judge himself may be used in the first line: | judge mulqueen of general sessions | |explained today why he had sentenced two | |prisoners to "go home and serve time with | |the families." this punishment was | |imposed yesterday when both men pleaded | |drunkenness as their excuse for trivial | |offenses.--_new york evening post._ | = . continued case beginning.=--many court reports begin with the name of the case when the case has been running for some time and is well known. each individual story on such a case is just a continuation of a sort of serial story that has been running for some time and in the lead each day the reporter tries to summarize the progress that has been made in the case during the day's hearing. however each story, like a follow-up story, is written in such a way that a knowledge of previous stories is not necessary to a clear understanding: | the hearing yesterday in the | |government's suit to dissolve the | |standard oil company ended with a | |dramatic incident. mr. kellogg sought to | |show that the standard compelled a widow, | |mrs. jones, of mobile, ala., to sell out | |her little oil business at a ruinous | |sacrifice.--_new york world._ | in some cases this sort of a lead begins with the mere mention of the continuing of the trial: | at the opening of the defence today in | |the sugar trials before judge martin of | |the united states circuit court, james f. | |bendernagal took the witness chair in his | |own behalf, etc.--_new york evening | |post._ | = . summary beginning.=--the lead of a court report often begins with a brief summary of the result of the trial or of the day's hearing: | what the government has characterized | |as "unfair competition and | |discrimination" on the part of the | |standard oil company continued to be the | |subject of the investigation of that | |corporation today before franklin ferris | |of st. louis, referee, in the custom | |house.--_new york evening post._ | the summary may be presented in as formal a way as the _that_-clause beginning which we used in reports of speeches: | that the adams' express company's | |business in new england in yielded a | |profit representing per cent. on the | |investment, including real estate and, | |excepting real estate, a net income of | |more than per cent., came out in the | |course of the hearing before the | |interstate commerce commission, | |etc.--_new york evening post._ | = . direct quotation beginning.=--a direct quotation of some striking statement made by the judge, by a lawyer, by a witness, or by any one connected with the trial may be used at the beginning of the lead. here is a lead beginning with a quotation from the title of a case: | "captain dick and captain lewis, | |indians, for and on behalf of the yokayo | |tribe of indians, vs. f. c. albertson, t. | |j. weldon, as administrator of the estate | |of charley, indian, deceased, minnehaha, | |ollagoola, hiawatha, wanahana, | |pocahontas, etc." | | | | so runs the title of as unusual a case | |as jurists, etc.--_san francisco | |examiner._ | = . human interest beginning.=--the human interest beginning is a more or less free beginning which may be used in the reporting of rather insignificant cases which are of value only for the human interest in them. the beginning is capable of almost any treatment so long as it brings out the humor, beauty, or pathos of the situation. sometimes the story begins with a rather striking summary of the unusual things that came out in the testimony, as in this case: | how suddenly and how radically a woman | |can exercise her inalienable prerogative | |and change her mind is shown in the | |testamentary disposition made of her | |estate by mrs. jennie l. ramsay. she made | |a will on july last, at o'clock in | |the afternoon, leaving her property to | |her husband, and at o'clock in the | |evening of the same day she made another | |will in which she took the property away | |from her husband.--_new york times._ | here is an interesting illustration of the use of a trivial incident as the basis for a humorous lead: | bang, an english setter dog, accused of | |biting -year-old sophie kahn, made an | |excellent witness in the city court today | |when his owner, hirman l. phelps, a real | |estate dealer of the bronx, appeared as | |defendant in a damage suit brought by the | |girl for $ , .--_new york evening | |post._ | the lead of a report of legal proceedings is very much like the lead of a report of a speech or an interview. it always begins with the most interesting fact in the case and briefly summarizes the result of the trial or the day's hearing. it is to be noted that the lead of such a story always includes a designation of the court in which the hearing was held and usually the name of the judge and of the case. after the lead is finished a court report usually turns into a running story of the evidence as it was presented. this may be condensed into a paragraph, giving the reader merely the point of the day's hearing, or it may be expanded into several columns following the testimony more or less closely. in form, it is very much like the summary paragraphs in the body of a speech report. the result is usually more or less dry and reporters often resort to a means, similar to dialogue in fiction, to lighten it up. some of the more important testimony is given verbatim interspersed with indirect summaries of the longer or less important speeches. its presentation usually follows the ordinary rules of dialogue. here is an extract from such a story: | after describing himself as a breeder | |of horses, gideon said that he was a | |member of the metropolitan turf | |association, the bookmakers' | |organization, but had never been engaged | |in bookmaking. he did not know where | |"eddie" burke, "tim" sullivan (not the | |politician), or any of the other missing | |"bookies" could be found. | | | | "you are a member of the executive | |committee of the metropolitan turf | |association?" asked isidor j. kresel, | |assistant counsel of the committee. | | | | "yes." | | | | "now, what did your committee do in | | , when the anti-race track legislation| |was pending?" | | | | "i don't know." | | | | * * * * * | | | | "how much did you pay in ?" | | | | "two hundred and fifty dollars." | | | | "to whom?" | | | | "mr. sullivan." | | | | "what for?" | | | | "death assessments." | | | | gideon said that the little he knew of | |the doings of the "mets" was from | |conversation with the bookies. etc., | |etc.--_new york evening post._ | sometimes this direct testimony is given, not in the dialogue form, but as questions and answers. thus: | in reply to other questions, | |bendernagel said he ordered the office | |supplies, looked after the insurance on | |the sugar, and was responsible for the | |fuel, some tons of coal a day. | | | | question.--how much money was paid | |through your office in the course of a | |year? answer.--four million dollars. | | | | q.--so yours was a busy office? | | a.--exceedingly so. | | | | q.--how long were the raw sugar clerks | |in your office? a.--about twenty years. | |etc., etc.--_new york evening post._ | some papers would arrange these questions and answers differently, paragraphing each speech separately as in dialogue: | question.--did you regulate their | |duties in any way? | | | | answer.--no. | | | | q.--were you connected with the docks? | | | | a.--no; that was a separate department. | |it had its own forces, and they worked | |under mr. spitzer. he had entire charge. | |etc., etc. | the court records take cognizance only of the actual words uttered in the testimony, but a newspaper reporter never fails to record any action or movement that indicates something beyond the words. very often action is brought in merely for its human interest; thus: | "how long has it been since you have | |had a maid?" asked mr. shearn sadly. | | | | "not for some time," she said. "away | |back in , i think." | | | | "what did it cost you for two rooms and | |bath at the hotel belmont, where you lived| |last year?" | | | | "about $ a week altogether. the rooms| |cost $ a day." | | | | there were tears in her eyes when she | |explained that she could no longer afford | |to keep up her own automobile. etc., etc. | |--_milwaukee free press._ | this sort of dialogue is dangerous and may easily be overworked, but it is very often extremely effective. one word like "sadly," above, may convey more meaning than many lines of explanation. * * * * * these quotations are usually interspersed with paragraphs which summarize the unimportant intervening testimony. the running story attempts to follow the progress of the hearing in greater or less detail, depending upon the space given to the story, just as a speech report attempts to follow a public discourse. dry and unimportant facts are briefly summarized, interesting parts of the testimony are quoted in full. the running story is usually written while the hearing is in session or taken from a stenographic report of the hearing. after the running story has been completed, the reporter prepares a lead for the beginning to summarize the results or to play up the most significant part of the story. if the running story is short a lead of one paragraph is sufficient, but if it is long, the lead may be expanded into several paragraphs. xiii social news and obituaries the study of newspaper treatment of social news is a broad one. every newspaper has its own system of handling social news and the general tendencies that are to be noted deal rather with the facts that are printed than with the manner of treatment. every newspaper gives practically the same facts about a wedding but each individual newspaper has a method of its own of writing up those facts. one thing that is always true of social news reporting is that the amount of space given to social items varies inversely with the importance of the newspaper and the size of the city in which it is printed. a little country weekly or semi-weekly in a small town does not hesitate to run two columns or more on sadie smith's wedding. the report runs into minute details and anecdotes that all of the "weekly's" readers know before the paper arrives. but the editor prints everything he can find or invent simply because all of his readers are more or less personally connected with the affair and are anxious to see their names in print and to read about themselves. the liberty that such an editor gives himself is of course impossible in a larger paper. on the other hand, a daily in a city of average size would reduce such a story to a stickful and a metropolitan daily would run only a one-line announcement in the "list of marriages," unless the story was especially interesting. the same thing applies to all social stories. some metropolitan newspapers do not run social news at all. all of this is true because social news is governed by the same principles that regulate all news values. unless a society event has some feature that is interesting impersonally--that is, of interest to readers who do not know the principals of the event--it is of value only as a larger or smaller number of the paper's readers are personally connected with the event. hence in a small town where every one knows every one else, society news is of great value. in a large city a very small proportion of the readers are connected with the social items that the paper has to print and are therefore not interested in them--accordingly the newspaper either cuts them down to a minimum of space or does not run them at all. therefore in our study society news falls into two classes: social items that are of interest only in themselves to persons connected with the events; and big society stories or unusual social events that are of interest to readers who are not acquainted with the principals. = . weddings.=--the wedding story reduced to its lowest terms in a metropolitan paper consists of a one-line announcement in the list of "marriages" or "marriage licenses"; thus: | smith-jones--feb. , katherine jones | |to charles c. smith.--_new york times._ | if the paper runs a few columns of social news and the persons concerned in the wedding are of any importance socially, the wedding may be given a stickful. such an account would confine itself entirely to names and facts and would be characterized by very decided simplicity and brevity. usually nothing more would be given than the names and address of the bride's parents, the bride's first name, the groom's name, the place, and the name of the minister who officiated. occasionally the name of the best man and a few other details are added, but never does the story become personal. it is interesting only to those who know or know of the persons concerned. for example: | smith-jones | | | |the marriage of miss katherine m. jones, | |elder daughter of mr. and mrs. randolph | |jones, ninth street, and charles c. | |smith was celebrated at o'clock | |yesterday afternoon at the first methodist| |church, grand avenue. rev. william | |brown, rector of the church, performed the| |ceremony. | it will be noted that in the above story the name of the bride is written out in full, "miss katherine m. jones." many newspapers, however, would simply give her first name, thus: "katherine, elder daughter of mr. and mrs. randolph jones." if the above wedding were of greater importance more details might be given. these would include the attendants, descriptions of the gowns of the bride and her attendants, the guests from out of town, music, decorations, the reception, and perhaps some of the presents. sometimes the wedding trip and an announcement of when and where the couple will be at home are added. the above story might run on into detail something like this: | miss jones, who was given in marriage | |by her father, wore a white satin gown | |trimmed with venetian point lace, and her | |point lace veil, a family heirloom, was | |caught with orange blossoms. she carried | |a bouquet of white sweet peas and lilies | |of the valley. miss dorothy jones, a | |sister of the bride, who was maid of | |honor, wore a gown of green chiffon over | |satin, with lingerie hat, and carried | |sweet peas. douglas jackson was the best | |man and the ushers were dr. john b. | |smith, samuel smith, gordon hunt, rodney | |dexter, norris kenny, and arthur | |johnston. a reception followed the | |ceremony at the home of the bride's | |parents. | this is probably as long a story as any average paper would run on any wedding, unless the wedding had some striking feature that would make the story of interest to readers who did not know the principals. note in the foregoing story the simplicity and impersonal tone. there is a wealth of facts but there is no coloring. this tone should characterize every society story. a list of out-of-town guests might have been added, but as often that would be omitted. in some cases the last sentence might be followed by an announcement like this: | the bride and bridegroom have gone on a | |wedding tour of the west; after april | |they will be at home at kimbark | |avenue. | in this connection the young reporter should note the distinctions in meaning of the various words used in a wedding story. for instance, he should consult the dictionary for the exact use of the verbs "to marry" and "to wed"--he should know who "is married," who "is married to," and who "is given in marriage," etc. he should also know the difference between a "marriage" and a "wedding." = . wedding announcements.=--wedding announcements are run in the social columns of many papers. these items contain practically the same facts that we find in the story written after the wedding, except, of course, that the reporter cannot dilate on decorations, and must stick to facts. these facts usually consist of the names of the couple, the names of the bride's parents, and the time and the place of the wedding. additionally the reporter may give the minister's name, the names of the maid of honor and of the best man, the reception or breakfast to follow, and where the couple will be at home. | the wedding of miss gladys jones and | |richard smith will take place on | |wednesday evening in all angels' church. | |the bride is a daughter of mrs. charles | |jones, who will give a bridal supper and | |reception afterward at her home. | there are of course many other ways to begin the announcement. "miss mary e. macguire, daughter of, etc."; "invitations have been issued for the wedding of miss, etc."; "one of the weddings on for tuesday is that of miss, etc."; "cards are out for the wedding on saturday of miss, etc."; and many others. in each case the bride's name has the place of importance. = . announcements of engagements.=--announcements of engagements are usually even briefer than wedding announcements. the item consists merely of one sentence in which the young lady's mother or parents make the announcement with the name of the prospective groom. | mrs. russell d. jones of ninth | |street announces the engagement of her | |daughter, natalie, to john macbaine | |smith. | the item may also begin "mr. and mrs. x. x. so-and-so announce, etc.," or simply "announcement is made of the engagement of miss stella blank, daughter of, etc." = . receptions and other entertainments.=--if a paper is to keep up in society news, it must report many social entertainments. however, such events are treated by large dailies as simply, briefly, and impersonally as possible. such a story, like the report of a wedding, consists merely of certain usual facts. the name of the host or hostess, the place, the time, and the special entertainments are of course always included. sometimes the occasion for the event, the guests of honor, and a description of the decorations are added,--also the names of those who assisted the hostess. | mrs. james harris jones gave a | |reception yesterday at her home, | |fifth street, for her daughter, miss | |dorothy jones. in the receiving line were | |miss marjorie smith, miss, etc. * * the | |reception was followed by an informal | |dance. | if the event is held especially for débutantes, the fact is noted at the very start. "a number of débutantes assisted in receiving at a tea given by, etc."; "the débutantes of the winter were out in force, etc." such a story is usually followed by a list of guests, a list of out-of-town guests, a list of subscribers, or something of the sort. ordinarily the list is not tabulated but is run in solid, thus: | the guests were: miss kathleen smith, | |miss georgia brown, etc. | very often the names are grouped together, thus: | the guests were: the misses kathleen | |smith, georgia brown; mesdames robert r. | |green, john r. jones; and the messrs. | |george hamilton, francis bragg, etc. | the number of variations in such stories is limited only by the ingenuity of the people who are giving such entertainments. but in each case the reporter learns to give the same facts in much the same order. and he gives them in an uncolored, impersonal way that makes the items interesting only to those who are directly connected with them. the story may vary from a single sentence to half a column, but it always begins in the same way and elaborates only the same details. before trying to write up social entertainments, a reporter should always be sure of the use of the various words he employs--"chaperon," "patroness," etc. for instance, can we say that "mr. and mrs. smith acted as chaperons"? = . social announcements.=--social announcements of any kind are usually, like the wedding and engagement announcements, confined to a single sentence. they tell only the name of the host and hostess, the name of the guest of honor or the occasion for the event, the time, and the place. thus: | mrs. charles p. jones will give a dance| |this evening at her home, nineteenth | |street, to introduce her sister, miss | |elsie holt. | a study of the foregoing sections on society stories shows how definitely a reporter is restricted in the facts that he may include in his social items--how conventional social stories have become. this very restraint in the matter of facts makes it the more necessary for a reporter to exercise his originality in the diction of social items. he must guard against the use of certain set expressions, like "officiating," "performed the ceremony," and "solemnized." while restricted in the facts that he may give, he must try to present the same old facts in new and interesting ways--he may even resort to a moderate use of "fine writing," if he does not become florid or frivolous. = . unusual social stories.=--just as soon as any of these stories contains a feature that is of interest to the general public in an impersonal way it leaves the general class of social news and becomes a news story to be written with the usual lead. even the presence of a very prominent name will make a news story out of a social item. for instance, the wedding of miss ethel barrymore was written by many papers as a news story. on the other hand, an unusual marriage, an unusual elopement, or anything unusual and interesting in a wedding gives occasion for a news story. here is one: | because their -year-old daughter, | |sarah, married a man other than the one | |they had chosen, who is wealthy, mr. and | |mrs. markovits of cedar street have | |gone into deep mourning, draped their | |home in crepe and announced to their | |friends that sarah is | |dead.--_philadelphia ledger._ | or the story may be handled in a more humorous way, thus: | there is really no objection to him, | |and she is quite a nice young woman, but | |to be married so young, and to go on a | |wedding journey with $ in their | |purses--but wallace jones, student of the| |western university, and ruth smith, | |student in the mckinley high school, | |decided it was too long a time to wait, | |and a nice old pastor gentleman in st. | |joe has made them one.--_milwaukee free | |press._ | = . obituaries.=--like many other classes of newspaper stories, the obituary has developed a conventional form which is followed more or less rigidly by all the papers of the land. every obituary follows the same order and tells the same sort of facts about its subject. it begins with a brief account of the deceased man's death, runs on through a very condensed account of the professional side of his life and ends with the announcement of his funeral or a list of his surviving relatives. the lead is concerned only with his death, answering the usual questions about _where_, _how_, and _why_, and is written to stand alone if necessary. it ordinarily begins with the man's full name, because of course the name is the most important thing in the story, and then tells who he was and where he lived. this is followed, perhaps in the same sentence, by the time of his death, the cause, and perhaps the circumstances. thus: | cambridge, mass., nov. .--dr. john h.| |blank, professor of greek at harvard | |since and dean of the graduate | |school since , died at his home in | |quincy street today from heart trouble. | |professor blank was an authority on | |classical subjects.--_new york tribune._ | this, as you see, might stand alone and be complete in itself. many obituaries, however, add another paragraph after the lead in which the circumstances of the death are discussed in greater detail. here is the second paragraph of another obituary: | at : tonight mr. blank was walking | |with his wife on the veranda of the | |delmonte hotel, when he suddenly gasped | |as if in great pain and fell to the | |floor. he was carried inside, but was | |dead before the physicians reached his | |bedside. apoplexy is said to have been | |the cause. | next comes the account of the deceased man's life. it is told very briefly and impersonally and concerns itself chiefly with the events of his business or professional activities. it is but a catalogue of his achievements and the dates of those achievements. these facts are usually obtained from the file of biographies--called the morgue--which most newspapers keep. the account first tells when and where he was born and perhaps who his parents were. next his education is briefly discussed. then the chief events of his professional or business life. the date of his marriage and the maiden name of his wife are included somewhere in or at the end of this account. usually a list of the organizations of which the man was a member and a list of the books which he had written are attached to this account. one of the foregoing obituaries continues as follows: | he was born in urumiah, persia, on | |february , , being the son of the | |rev. austin h. blank, a missionary. he | |was graduated from dartmouth in , and| |that college awarded him the degrees of | |a. m. in and ll.d. in . from | | to he studied at leipzig | |university. he was assistant professor of| |ancient languages at the ohio | |agricultural and mechanical college from | | to , associate professor of | |greek at dartmouth from to , | |and dean of the collegiate board and | |professor of classical philology at johns| |hopkins in and . in and | | he served as professor in the | |american school of classical studies in | |athens. | | | | (then follows a list of the | |organizations of which he was a member | |and the periodicals with which he was | |connected.) | | | | he married miss mary blank, daughter of| |the president of blank college, in , | |and she survives him. | |--_new york tribune._ | the obituary usually ends with a list of surviving relatives--especially children and very often the funeral arrangements are included. this is the last paragraph of another obituary: | his first wife, mary v. blank, died in | | . three years later he married mrs. | |sarah a. blank, of hightstown, n. j., who| |with four daughters, survives him. the | |funeral will be held tomorrow at : | |o'clock. the burial will be in the family| |plot in greenwood cemetery. | this is the standard form of the obituary which is followed by most daily newspapers in fair-sized cities. the form is characterized by an extreme conciseness and brevity and an absolutely impersonal tone. very rightly, an obituary is handled with a sense of the sanctified character of its subject it offers no opportunity for fine writing or human interest; it simply gives the facts as briefly and impersonally as possible. xiv sporting news division of labor on the larger american newspapers has made the reporting of athletic and sporting events into a separate department under a separate editor. the pink or green sporting sheets of the big papers have become separate little newspapers in themselves handled by a sporting editor and his staff and entirely devoted to athletic news, except when padded out with left-over stories from other pages. although on smaller papers any reporter may be called upon to cover an athletic event, in the cities such news is handled entirely by experts who are thoroughly acquainted with all phases of the athletic sports about which they write. the stories on the pink sheet enjoy the greatest unconventionality of form to be seen anywhere in the paper except on the editorial page. and yet, because athletic reporters are usually men taken from regular reporting and because the same ideas and necessities of news values govern the sporting pages, athletic stories follow, in general, the usual news story form. one may expect to find under the head of sports almost any news that is any way connected with college, amateur, or professional athletics. the stories include accounts of baseball and football games, rowing, horse racing, track meets, boxing, and many other forms of sport, as well as any discussions or movements growing out of these sports. many of the stories are only a few lines in length while others may cover a column or more. but in general each one has a lead which answers the questions _when?_ _where?_ _how?_ _who?_ and _why?_ and runs along much like an ordinary news story. for, after all, even athletic stories are written to attract and to hold the reader's interest whether or not he is directly interested in the sport under discussion. any reporter who is called upon to cover an athletic event is safe in writing his story in the usual news story form. as it would be impossible to discuss all the various stories that come under the head of athletic news, the reporting of college football games will be taken as typical of the others. the rules that are suggested for the reporting of football games may be applied to baseball games, track meets, and other sporting events. the same principles govern all of them and the stories usually summarize results in about the same way. football stories may be divided into three general classes: the brief summary story of a stickful or a trifle more; the usual football story of a half column or less; and the long story that may be run through a column or more, depending upon the importance of the game. all three of these stories are alike in the general facts which they contain; they differ only in the number of minor details which they include in the elaboration of these general facts. each one tells in the first sentence what teams were competing, the final score, when and where the game was played, and perhaps some striking feature of the game--the weather, the conditions of the field, the star players, or a sensational score. after that, with more or less expansion, each of the stories gives the essential things that the reader wants to know about the game. these consist usually of the way in which the scoring was done, a comparison of the playing of the teams, a list of the star players, the weather conditions, and the crowd. if the writing of the story includes a discussion of each of these points in more or less detail, the game will be covered in all of its essential phases. the three kinds of stories differ, from one another, not in the facts that they include, but in the length at which they expand upon these facts. one rule should be noted in the writing of all these stories or of any athletic story--avoid superlatives. to a green reporter almost every game seems to be "the most spectacular," "the most thrilling," "the hardest fought," "the most closely matched," but a broad experience is necessary to defend the use of any superlative about the game. = . the brief summary story.=--this is the little story of a stickful or less, which merely announces the result of some distant or unimportant game. taken in its shortest form it gives only the names of the teams, the score, the time and place of the game, and perhaps a word or two of general characterization. as it is allowed to expand in length it takes up as briefly as possible the following facts in the order in which they are given: the scoring, the comparison of play, the star players or plays. it is a mere announcement of the result of the game and no more, for that is all the reader wants. the line-ups and other tables are usually omitted, and nothing is included that goes beyond this narrow purpose. here are a few examples: | iowa city, ia., nov. .--sensational | |end runs by mcginnis and curry near the | |end of the final quarter of play gave | |iowa a -to- victory over northwestern | |here this afternoon. | | | | fort atkinson high school defeated | |madison high today in the final moments | |of play when a punt by davy, fullback | |for madison, was blocked and the ball | |recovered behind the line, giving fort | |atkinson the game, to . | | indianapolis, june .--indianapolis | |started its at-home series today by | |defeating kansas city, to . robertson | |was in fine form, striking out five men, | |permitting no one to walk and allowing | |only six hits. score: (tables.) | | lafayette, ind., june .--with the | |score - points, athletes | |representing the university of california| |won the twelfth annual meet of the | |western intercollegiate athletic | |conference association today. | | | |missouri was second with - points, | |illinois third with , chicago fourth | |with and wisconsin fifth with - . | = . the usual football story.=--the usual report of a game is a story of a half column or less which is longer than the brief summary story and not so detailed as the long football story. this is the story that a correspondent would usually send to his paper. it is like them both in the facts that it includes and differs only in length and in manner of treatment. this story is usually divided into two parts: the introduction and the running account. the introduction, or lead, is very much like the brief summary story; in fact, the entire brief summary story might be used as the introduction of a story of this type. the second part, the running account, corresponds to the running account of the game as it will be taken up with the long football story. the introduction of the usual athletic story always contains certain facts. the first sentence, corresponding to the lead of a news story, always gives the names of the teams, the score, the time, the place, and the most striking feature of the game. after this the plays that resulted in scores are described and the star plays or players are enumerated. usually a comparison of the two teams, as to weight, speed, and playing, follows, and the opinion of the captain or of some coach may be included. the rest of the introduction may be devoted to the picturesque side of the game: the crowd, the cheering, the celebration, etc. all of this must be told briefly in words or less. the introduction is simply the brief summary story slightly expanded. here is a fair example (the paragraph containing the scoring has been omitted): | purdue triumphed over indiana today, | |to , recording the first victory for the| |boilermakers over the crimson in five | |years. | | | | (omitted paragraph on scoring belongs | |here.) | | | | purdue played a great game at all | |times oliphant, right half-back on the | |boilermaker eleven, played remarkably | |well and was the hardest man for the | |locals to handle. baugh, miller, winston | |and capt. tavey also starred for coach | |hoit's men. | | | | | the lafayette rooters, , strong, | |rushed on the field at the close of the | |struggle and carried their players off | |the field. | this is ordinarily followed by a brief running account of the game. it does not attempt to follow every play or to trace the course of the ball throughout the entire game, as a complete running account would do. it is usually made from the detailed running account by a process of elimination so that nothing but the "high spots" of the game is left. such an account may run from to words in length. at the end tables are usually printed to give the line-up and the tabulated results of the game, but these may sometimes be omitted. the following is an extract from a condensed running account: | again the cadets fought their way to | |the -yard line, runs by rose and | |patterson helping materially, but again | |wayland held. the half ended after | |wayland had kicked out of danger. | | | | in the second half st. john's outplayed| |wayland throughout. the cadets by a | |succession of line plunges took the ball | |within striking distance several times, | |only to be held for downs or lose it on a| |fumble. | | | | patterson electrified the crowd just | |before the third quarter ended by twice | |dodging through for -yard runs, placing| |the ball on the -yard line, where the | |cadets were held for downs. | = . long football story.=--the third class of football story is the long detailed account. this is all that is left of the elaborate write-ups of the season's big games that were printed a few years ago and may be seen occasionally now. ten or twenty years ago it was not unusual for an editor to run several pages, profusely illustrated, on a big eastern football game. the story was written up from every possible aspect--athletic, social, picturesque, etc. every play was described in detail and sometimes a graphic diagram of the play was inserted. each phase was handled by a different reporter and the whole thing was given a prominence in the paper out of all proportion with its real importance. such a treatment of athletic news has now been very largely discarded. the outgrowth of this elaborate treatment is the common one- or two-column account in the pink or green sporting pages. all of the various aspects of the big game are still to be seen, condensed to the smallest amount of space; and this brief account of the different aspects of the game is arranged as an introduction of a half column or less to head the running account of the game. this is the sort of story that is used to report the yale-harvard games and the more important middle western games. its form has become very definitely settled and a correspondent can almost write his story of the big game by rule. the first part of the story, called the introduction, consists of five or six general paragraphs. the material in this introduction is arranged, paragraph by paragraph, in the order of its importance. following this is a running account of the game which may occupy a column or more, depending upon the importance of the contest. at the end is a table showing the line-up and a summary of the results. the introduction of the big football or baseball story usually follows a very definite order. there are certain things which it must always contain: the result of the game; how the scoring was done; a characterization of the playing; the stars; the condition of the weather and the field; the crowd; etc. the reader always wishes to know these things about the game even if he does not care to read the running account. it is equally evident that the scoring is of greater interest than the crowd, and that a comparison of the teams is more important than the cheering. and so a reporter may almost follow a stereotyped outline in writing his account. a possible outline would be something like this: first paragraph.--the names of the teams, the score, when and where the game was played, and perhaps some striking feature of the game. the weather may have been a significant factor, or the condition of the field; the crowd may have been exceptionally large or small, enthusiastic or uninterested; or the game may have decided a championship; some star may have been unusually prominent, or the scoring may have been done in an extraordinary way. any of these factors, if of sufficient significance, would be played up in the first line just as the feature of an ordinary news story is played up. this paragraph corresponds to the lead of a news story and is so written. for example: | playing ankle-deep in mud before a | |wildly enthusiastic gathering of football| |rooters, the gridiron warriors of siwash | |college defeated the tigers this | |afternoon on siwash athletic field by the| |score of to . | second paragraph.--here the reporter usually tells how the scoring was done, what players made the scores, and how. third paragraph.--the next thing of importance is a comparison of the two teams. the reader wants to know how they compared in weight, speed, and skill, and how each one rose to the fight. a general characterization of the playing or a criticism may not be out of place here. fourth paragraph.--now we are ready to tell about the individual players. our readers want to know who the stars were and how they starred. fifth paragraph.--this brings us down near the tag end of the introduction. very often this paragraph is devoted to the opinions of the captains and coaches on the game. their statements, if significant, may be boxed and run anywhere in the report. sixth paragraph.--the picturesque and social side of the game comes in here. the size of the crowd, the enthusiasm, the celebration between halves or before or after the game, are usually told. this material may be of enough importance to occupy several paragraphs, but the reporter must always remember that he is writing a sporting account and not a picturesque description of a social event. seventh paragraph.--this paragraph usually begins the running account of the game. * * * n-th paragraph.--this space at the end of the entire report is given to the line-ups and tabulated results of the game. this arrangement may of course be varied, and any of the foregoing factors of the game may be of sufficient importance to be placed earlier in the story. never, however, should the various factors be mixed together heterogeneously and written in a confused mass. each element must be taken up separately and occupy a paragraph by itself. the running account of the game, which follows the introduction, requires little rhetorical skill. each play is described in its proper place and order and should be so clear that a reader could make a diagram of the game from it. it must also be accurate in names and distances as well as in plays. probably every individual sporting correspondent has a different way of distinguishing the players and the plays and of writing his running account. it is not an easy matter to watch a game from the press stand far up in the bleachers and be able to tell who has the ball in each play and how many yards were gained or lost. familiarity with the teams and the individual players makes the task easier but few reporters are so favored by circumstances. they must get the names from the cheering or from other reporters about them unless they have some method of their own. there is one method that may be followed with some success. before the game the reporter equips himself with a table of the players showing them in their respective places as the two teams line up. it is usually impossible to tell who has the ball during any single play because the eye cannot follow the rapid passing, but it is always possible to tell who has the ball when it is downed. at the end of each play as the players line up, the reporter keeps his eye on the man who had the ball when it was downed and watches to see the position he takes in the new line-up. then a glance at the table will tell him the man's name. the running account is written as simply and briefly as possible. it follows each play, telling what play was made, who had the ball, and what the result was. it keeps a record of all the time taken out, the changes in players, the injuries, etc. a typical running account reads something like this: | siwash advanced the ball two yards by a| |line plunge. kelley carried the ball | |around left end for five yards to the | |tigers' -yard line. the tigers gained | |the ball on a fumble after a fake punt | |and lined up on their own -yard line. | |time called. score at end of first half, | | to . | at the end of the running account are tables, usually set in smaller type, giving the line-up of the two teams and the tabulated results of the game. some papers arrange the tables as follows: |siwash: tigers: | | | |smith...........left end.......jones | | | |brown.........left tackle......green-wood| | | |mccarthy.......left guard......connor | | | |hall (capt.).....centre........jacobs | | | |etc. | other papers use this system which brings the opposing players together: |siwash: tigers: | | | |l. e........smith : williams.......r. e. | | | |l. t........brown : jackson........r. t. | | | |l. g.....mccarthy : cook (capt.)...r. g. | | | |c....(capt.) hall : jacobs............c. | | | |etc. | the tabulated results at the end may be something like this: |score by periods: | | | |tigers.................... -- | | | |siwash.................... -- | | | |touchdown--brown. goal from touchdown-- | |o'brien. umpire--enslley, purdue. | |referee--holt, lehigh. field | |judge--hackensaa, chicago. head | |linesman--seymour, delaware. time of | |periods--fifteen minutes. | dispatches and stories on baseball games and track meets are usually accompanied by tables of results, similar to the above but arranged in a slightly different way. the form may be learned from any reputable sporting sheet. xv human interest stories in our study of newspaper writing up to this point we have been entirely concerned with forms, rules, and formulas; every kind of story which we have studied has had a definite form which we have been charged to follow. we have been commanded always to put the gist of the story in the first sentence and to answer the reader's customary questions in the same breath. now we have come to a class of newspaper stories in which we are given absolute freedom from conventional formulas. in fact, the human interest story is different from other newspaper stories largely because of its lack of forms and rules. it does not begin with the gist of its news--perhaps because it rarely has any real news--and it answers no customary questions in the first paragraph; its method is the natural order of narrative. the human interest story stands alone as the only literary attempt in the entire newspaper and, as such, a discussion of it can hardly tell more than what it is, without any great attempt to tell how to write it. for our purposes, the distinguishing marks of the human interest story are its lack of real news value and of conventional form, and its appeal to human emotions. the human interest story has grown out of a number of causes. up to a very recent time newspapers have been content with printing news in its barest possible form--facts and nothing but facts. their appeal has been only to the brain. but gradually editors have come to realize that, if many monthly magazines can exist on a diet of fiction that appeals only to the emotions, a newspaper may well make use of some of the material for true stories of emotion that comes to its office. they have realized that newsiness is not the only essential, that a story does not always have to possess true news value to be worth printing--it may be interesting because it appeals to the reader's sympathy or simply because it entertains him. hence they began to print stories that had little value as news but, however trivial their subject, were so well written that they presented the humor and pathos of everyday life in a very entertaining way. the sensational newspapers took advantage of the opportunity but they shocked their readers in that they tried to appeal to the emotions through the kind of facts that they printed, rather than through the presentation of the facts. they did not see that the effectiveness of the emotional appeal depends upon the way in which a human interest story is written, rather than upon the story itself. therefore they shocked their readers with extremely pathetic facts presented in the usual newspaper way, while the journals which stood for high literary excellence were able to handle trivial human interest material very effectively. now all the newspapers of the land have learned the form and are printing effective human interest stories every day. another reason behind the growth of the human interest story is the curse of cynicism which newspaper work imprints upon so many of its followers. every editor knows that no ordinary reporter can work a police court or hospital run day after day for any length of time without losing his sensibilities and becoming hardened to the sterner facts in human life. misfortune and bitterness become so common to him that he no longer looks upon them as misfortune and misery, but just as news. gradually his stories lose all sympathy and kindliness and he writes of suffering men as of so many wooden ten-pins. when he has reached this attitude of cynicism, his usefulness to his paper is almost gone, for a reporter must always see and write the news from the reader's sympathetic point of view. to keep their reporters' sensibilities awake editors have tried various expedients which have been more or less successful. one of these is the "up-lift run" for cub reporters--a round of philanthropic news sources to teach them the business of reporting before they become cynical. another is the human interest story. if a reporter knows that his paper is always ready and glad to print human interest stories full of kindliness and human sympathy, he is ever on the watch for human interest subjects and consequently forces himself to see things in a sympathetic way. thus he unconsciously wards off cynicism. the search for human interest material is a modification of the "sob squad" work of the sensational papers, on more delicate lines. a human interest story is primarily an attempt to portray human feeling--to talk about men as men and not as names or things. it is an attempt to look upon life with sympathetic human eyes and to put living people into the reports of the day's news. if a man falls and breaks his neck, a bald recital of the facts deals with him only as an animal or an inanimate name. the fact is interesting as one item in the list of human misfortunes, but no more. and yet there are many people to whom this man's accident is more than an interesting incident--it is a very serious matter, perhaps a calamity. to his family he was everything in the world; more than a mere means of support, he was a living human being whom they loved. the bald report of his death does not consider them; it does not consider the man's own previous existence. but if we could get into the hearts of his wife and his mother and his children, we could feel something of the real significance of the accident. this is what the human interest story tries to do. it does not necessarily strive for any effect, pathetic or otherwise, but tries simply to treat the victim of the misfortune as a human being. the reporter endeavors to see what in the story made people cry and then tries to reproduce it. in the same way in another minor occurrence, he attempts to reproduce the side of an incident that made people laugh. either incident may or may not have had news value in its baldest aspect, but the sympathetic treatment makes the resulting human interest story worth printing. there are various kinds of human interest stories. the common ground in them all is usually their lack of any intrinsic news value. many a successful human interest story has been printed although it contained no one of the elements of news values that were outlined earlier in this book. in fact, one of the uses of the human interest story is to utilize newspaper by-products that have no news value in themselves. hence the human interest story has no news feature to be played up and, since it does not contain any real news, it does not have to answer any customary questions. in form it is much like a short story of fiction, since it depends on style and the ordinary rules of narration. the absence of a lead, more than any other characteristic, distinguishes the human interest story from the news story, in form. we have worked hard to learn to play up the gist of the news in our news stories; now we come to a story which makes no attempt to play up its news--in fact, it may leave its most interesting content until the end and spring it as a surprise in the last line. to be sure, most human interest stories have and indicate a timeliness. the story may have no news value but it is always concerned with a recent event and usually tells at the outset when the event occurred. almost without exception, the examples quoted in this chapter show their timeliness by telling in the first sentence when the event occurred. so much for the outward form of the human interest story. = . pathetic story.=--one of the many kinds of human interest stories is the pathetic story. although it does not openly strive for pathos, it is pathetic in that it tells the story of a human misfortune, simply and clearly, with all the details that made the incident sad. it is the story that attempts to put the reader into the very reality of the pain and sorrow of every human life. sometimes it makes him cry, sometimes it makes him shudder, and sometimes it disgusts him, but it always shows him misfortune as it really is. it looks down behind the outward actions and words into the hearts of its actors and shows us motives and feelings rather than facts. but just as soon as any attempt at pathos becomes evident, the story loses its effectiveness. its only means are clear perception and absolute truthfulness. here is an example of a pathetic human interest story taken from a daily paper: | rissa sachs' child mind yesterday | |evolved a tragic answer to the question, | |"what shall be done with the children of | |divorced parents?" | | | | she took her life. | | | | rissa was years old. the divorce | |decree that robbed her of a home was less | |than a week old. it was granted to her | |mother, mrs. mellisa sachs, by judge | |brentano last saturday. | | | | when the divorce case was called for | |trial rissa found that she would be | |compelled to testify. reluctantly she | |corroborated her mother's story that her | |father, benjamin sachs, had struck mrs. | |sachs. it was largely due to this | |testimony that the decree was granted and | |the custody of the child awarded to mrs. | |sachs. | | | | then the troubles of the girl began in | |real earnest. she loved her mother dearly. | |but her father, who had been a companion | |to her as well as a parent, was equally | |dear to her. | | | | both parents pleaded with her. mrs. | |sachs told rissa she could not live | |without her. the father told the girl, in | |a conversation in a downtown hotel several | |days ago, that he would disown her unless | |she went to live with him. | | | | every hour increased the perplexities of | |the situation for the child. she could not | |decide to give up either of her parents | |for fear of offending the other. so she | |sacrificed her own life and gave up both. | | | | thursday evening, on returning from | |school to the sachs home at racine | |avenue, rissa talked long and earnestly | |with her mother. then she retired to her | |room, turned on the gas and, clothed, lay | |down upon her bed to await death and | |relief from troubles that have driven | |older heads to despair. | | | | at the inquest yesterday afternoon the | |grief-stricken mother told the story of | |her daughter's difficulties. she said that | |rissa had declared she could not live if | |compelled to give up either of her | |parents, but added that she never had | |believed it.--_chicago record-herald._ | this is a pathetic human interest story in that it attempts to give the human significance of an incident which in itself would have little news value. perhaps, in the matter of words, there is a slight straining for pathos. the form, it will be noted, is decidedly different from that of a news story on the same incident and, although the timeliness is given in the first line, there is no attempt to present the gist of the story in a formal lead. the source of the news is indicated in the last paragraph. = . humorous story.=--another kind of human interest story is the humorous story. its humor, like the pathos of a pathetic story, does not come from an attempt to be funny, but from the truthful presentation of a humorous incident, from the incongruity and ludicrousness of the incident itself. the writer tries to see what elements in a given incident made him laugh and then portrays them so clearly and truthfully that his readers cannot help laughing with him. the subject may be the most trivial thing in the world, not worth a line as a news story, and yet it may be told in such a way that it is worth a half-column write-up that will stand out as the gem of the whole edition. but after all the effectiveness depends upon the humor in the original subject and the truthfulness of the telling. the following humorous human interest story, which occupied a place on the front page, was built up out of an incident almost devoid of news value: | one of johnnie wilt's original ideas | |for entertaining his twin sister | |charlotte is to build a big bonfire on | |the floor of their playroom. | | | | johnnie, who is years old, carried his | |plan into execution at the wilt home, | |lake view avenue, for the first time | |yesterday afternoon, with results that | |made a lasting impression upon his mind | |and the finishings of the interior of the | |house. | | | | the thing was suggested to him by a | |bonfire he saw a man build in the street. | |charlotte hadn't seen the other fire. for | |some reason charlotte's feminine mind | |refused to understand just what the fire | |was like. | | | | consequently nothing remained for | |johnnie to do but build a fire of his own. | |he piled all of the newspapers and | |playthings that could be found in the | |middle of the room and then applied a | |match. | | | | when the flames leaped to the ceiling, | |however, and a cloud of smoke filled the | |room, johnnie began to doubt the wisdom of | |the move. while charlotte ran to tell a | |maid he retreated to that haven of | |youthful fugitives--the space beneath a | |couch. | | | | the frightened maid summoned the fire | |engines and the fire was soon | |extinguished. but mrs. wilt discovered | |that johnnie had disappeared. she | |telephoned to charles t. wilt, president | |of the trunk company that bears his name, | |and half hysterically told of the fire and | |the disappearance of johnnie. | | | | just then there was a scrambling sound | |from beneath the couch. johnnie, looking | |as serious as a -year-old face can look, | |walked out. | | | | mrs. wilt seized him and, to an | |accompaniment of "i-won't-do-it-agains," | |crushed him to her bosom. last reports | |from the wilt home were that johnnie had | |not yet been punished for his | |deed.--_chicago record-herald._ | the student will notice how all the facts of the story and the answers to the reader's questions are worked in here and there, how the content of a news story lead is scattered throughout the entire account. = . writing the human interest story.=--it is one thing to be able to distinguish material for a human interest story and another to be able to write the story. the whole effectiveness of the story, as we have seen, depends upon the way it is written. many a poorly written, ungrammatical news story is printed simply because it contains facts that are of interest, regardless of the way in which they are presented. but never is a poorly written human interest story printed; simply because the facts in it have little interest themselves and the story's usefulness depends entirely upon the presentation of the facts. hence, the human interest story, more than any other newspaper story, must be well written. and yet there are no rules to assist in the writing of such a story. in fact, its very nature depends upon originality and newness in form and treatment. in the first place, we cannot fall back upon the conventional lead for a beginning, because a lead would be out of place. as we have said before, the human interest story does not begin with a lead for the reason that it has no striking news content to present in the lead. in many cases the whole story depends upon cleverly arranged suspense; if the content is given in a lead at the beginning suspense is of course impossible. the human interest story has no more need of a lead than does a short story--in some ways a human interest story is very much like a short story--and a short story that gives its climax in the first paragraph would hardly be written or read. but, just like the short story, a human interest story must begin in an attractive way. in the study of short story writing almost half of the study is devoted to learning how to begin the story, on the theory that the reader is some sort of a fugitive animal that must be lassoed by an attractive and interesting beginning. the theory is of course a true one and it holds good in the case of human interest stories. but no rules can be laid down to govern the beginning of human interest or short stories. each story must begin in its own way--and each must begin in a different way. some writers of short stories begin with dialogue, others with a clean-cut witticism, others with attractive explanation or description, others with a clever apology. the list is endless. this endless list is ready for the reporter who is trying to write human interest stories. but the choosing must be his own. he must select the beginning that seems best adapted to his story. as an inspiration to reporters who are trying to write human interest stories, a few beginnings clipped from daily papers are given here. some are good and some are bad; the goodness or badness in each case depends upon individual taste. they can hardly be classified in more than a general way for originality is opposed to all classifications. they are merely suggestions. a striking quotation or a bit of apt dialogue is commonly used to attract attention to a story. here are some examples: | "burglars," whispered mrs. vermilye to | |herself and she took another furtive peek | |out of the windows of her rooms on the | |sixth floor of the, etc. | | "speaking of peanuts," observed the man | |with the red whiskers, "they ain't the | |only thing in the world what is small." | |etc. | | "ales, wines, liquors and cigars!" you | |see this sign in the windows of every | |corner life-saving station. but what | |would you say if you saw it blazing over | |the entrance to the colony club, that | |rendezvous for the little and big sisters | |of the rich at madison avenue and | |thirtieth street? etc. | +------------------------------------------+ |wanted--bright educated lady as secretary | |to business man touring northwest states | |and alaska: give reference, ability; age, | |description. address e- , care bee. | | | | ( )- x. | +------------------------------------------+ | the above innocent appearing want ad in | |_the bee_, although alluring in its | |prospects to a young woman desiring a | |summer vacation, is the principal factor | |in the arrest of one m. w. williams, etc. | a well-written first sentence in a human interest story often purports to tell the whole story, like a news story lead, and really tells only enough to make you want to read further. here are a few examples: | his son's suspicions and a can opener | |convinced andrew sherrer last saturday | |that he had been fleeced out of $ by | |two clever manipulators of an ancient | |"get-something-for-nothing" swindle. so | |strong was the victim's confidence, etc. | | there's a stubborn, unlaid ghost, a | |gnome, a goblin, a swart fairy at the | |least, who has settled down for the | |winter in a perfectly respectable cellar | |over in brooklyn and whiles away the | |dismal hours of the night by chopping | |spectral cordwood with a phantom axe. | |instead of going to board with mrs. | |pepper or another medium and being of | |some use in the world and having a | |pleasant, dim-lighted cabinet all its | |own, this unhappy ghost--or ghostess--is | |pestering marciana rose of bergen | |street, who owns the cellar and the house | |over it--over both the ghost and the | |cellar. etc. | | the gowk who calls up rector today | |will get a splinter in his finger if he | |scratches his head. nothing doing with | | rector. from early morn till dewy | |eve mr. fish, mr. c. horse, mr. bass, mr. | |skate and other inmates of the aquarium | |will be inaccessible by 'phone. etc. | | under all the saffron banners and the | |sprawling dragons clawing at red suns | |over the roofs of chinatown yesterday | |there was a tension of unrest and of | |speculation. it all had to do with the | |luncheon to be given to his imperial | |highness prince tsai tao and the members | |of his staff at the tuxedo restaurant, | |doyers street, at noon to-morrow. etc. | | man and wife, sitting side by side as | |pupils, was the interesting spectacle | |which provided the feature of the | |elementary night school opening last | |night. etc. | | two young germans of berlin, neither | |quite years of age, had a perfectly | |uncorking time aboard the white star | |liner majestic, in yesterday. they were | |favorites with the smoke-room stewards. | |they learned later that man is born unto | |trouble as the corks fly upward. etc. | | it was a long black overcoat with a | |velvet collar, big cuffed sleeves, and | |broad of shoulder, and looked decidedly | |warm and comfy. it stood in one of the | |large display windows of ----, and | |covered the deficiencies of a waxy dummy, | |who stared in a surprised sort of manner | |out into the street and appeared to be | |looking at nothing. etc. | | the bellboys put him up to it and then | |marcus caused a lot of trouble. marcus is | |a parrot who has been spending the winter | |in one of the large broadway hotels. etc. | | lame, old, but uncomplaining, | |remembering only his joy when a visitor | |came to him, and forgetting to be bitter | |because of the wrongs done him, meeting | |his rescuer with a wag of the tail meant | |to be joyful, a st. bernard dog set an | |example, etc. | some human interest stories begin, and effectively, too, with a direct personal appeal to the reader; thus: | if you've never seen anybody laugh with | |his hands, you should have eased yourself | |up against a railing at the barnum and | |bailey circus in madison square garden | |yesterday afternoon and watched a band of | | deaf mute youngsters, all bedecked in | |their bestest, signalling all over the | |garden. etc. | | if you've ever sat in the enemy's camp | |when the blue eleven lunged its last yard | |for a touchdown and had your hair ruffled | |by the roar that swept across the | |gridiron, you can guess how , yale | |men yelled at the waldorf last night for | |bill taft of ' . etc. | a question is often used at the beginning of a human interest story: | a near-suicide or an accident. which? | |keeper bean is somewhat puzzled to say | |which, but it is quite certain it will | |not be tried again. at least, keeper bean | |does not think it will. | | | | but, it was a sad, sad sunday for the | |little white-faced monkey. for hours he | |lay as dead, etc. | many of these stories, animal or otherwise, begin with a name: | long tom, a brahma rooster that had | |been the "bad inmate" of jacob meister's | |farm at west meyersville, n. j., for | |three years, paid the penalty of his | |crimes christmas morning when he was | |beheaded after his owner had condemned | |him to death. bad in life, he was good in | |a potpie that day, etc. | the beginning of a human interest story is always the most important part; just like a news story, it must attract attention with its first line. in the same way, a good beginning is something more than half done. but here the similarity between the two ends. the news story, after the lead is written, may slump in technique so that the end is almost devoid of interest; the human interest story, on the other hand, must keep up its standard of excellence to the very last sentence and the last line must have as much snap as the first. it is never in danger of losing its last paragraph and so it may be more rounded and complete; it must follow a definite plan to the very end and then stop. in this it is like the short story, although it seldom has a plot. there are no rules to help us in writing any part of the human interest story. each attempt has a different purpose and must be done in a different way. yet the reporter must know before he begins just exactly how he is going to work out the whole story. he must plan it as carefully as a short story. a few minutes of careful thought before he begins to write are better than much reworking and alteration after the thing is done. this applies to all newspaper writing. much of the effectiveness of the human interest story depends upon the reporter's style. when we try to write human interest stories we are no longer interested in facts, as much as in words. our readers are not following us to be informed, but to be entertained. and we can please them only by our style and the fineness of our perception. although we have been told to write news stories in the common every-day words of conversation, we are not so limited in the human interest story. the elegance of our style depends very largely upon the size of our vocabulary, and elegance is not out of place in this kind of story. although we have been told to use dialogue sparingly in news stories, our human interest story may be composed entirely of dialogue. in fact, we are hampered by no restrictions except the restrictions of english grammar and literary composition. although we have sought simplicity of expression before, we may now strive for subtlety and for effect; we may write suggestively and even obscurely. we are dealing with the only part of the newspaper that makes any effort toward literary excellence and only our originality and cleverness can guide us. it is hardly necessary to repeat that one cannot write human interest stories in a cynical tone. they are a reaction against cynicism. they require one to feel keenly, as a human being, and to write sympathetically, as a human being. the reporter must see behind the facts and get the personal side of the matter--and feel it. then he must tell the story just as he sees and feels it. absolute truthfulness in the telling is as necessary as keen perception in the seeing. humor must be sought through the simple, truthful presentation of an incongruous or humorous idea or situation; pathos must be sought by the truthful presentation of a pathetic picture. just as soon as the reporter tries to be funny or to be pathetic he fails, for the reader is not looking to the reporter for fun or pathos--but to the story that the reporter is telling. that is, the story must be written objectively; the writer must forget himself in his attempt to impress the story upon his reader's mind. if the story itself is fundamentally humorous or sad and the story is clearly and truthfully told with all the details that make it humorous or sad, it cannot help being effective. the best way to learn how to write human interest stories is to study human interest stories. most papers print them nowadays--they can easily be distinguished by their lack of news value, and of a lead--and the finest example is just as likely to crop out in a little weekly as in a metropolitan daily. = . the animal story.=--the examples printed earlier in this chapter are specimens of the truest type of human interest story because they deal with human beings. they derive their joy or sorrow from things that happen to men and women. but all the sketches that are classed as human interest stories are not so carefully confined to the limits of the title. from the original human interest story the type has grown until it includes many other things--almost any piece of copy that has no intrinsic news value. every possible subject that may suit itself to a pathetic or humorous treatment and thus be interesting, although it has no news value, is roughly classed as a human interest story. one of these outgrowths of the true human interest sketch is the animal story. in the large cities, the "zoo" and the parks have become a fruitful source of "news." anything interesting that may happen to the monkeys, or the elephant, the sparrows or the squirrels in the parks, horses or dogs in the street, is used as the excuse for a human interest story. sometimes the purpose is pathos and sometimes it is humor, but, whatever it may be, if it is clever and interesting it gets its place in the paper, a place entirely out of proportion to its true news value. the results sometimes verge very close upon nature faking, but after all they are only the result of the "up-lift" idea of looking at all life in a more sympathetic way. several of the beginnings quoted earlier in this chapter belong to animal stories and the following is a complete one: | smithy kain was only a mongrel, | |horsemen will say, but in his equine | |heart there coursed the blood of | |thoroughbreds. | | | | smithy kain was killed yesterday | |afternoon, shot through the head, while | |thousands of wisconsin fair patrons looked | |on in shuddering sympathy. | | | | it was a tragedy of the track. | | | | owners, trainers and drivers always are | |quick to declare that no greater courage | |is known than that possessed and | |demonstrated by race horses in hard-fought | |battles on the turf, and the truth of this | |was never more strikingly brought home | |than in the death of smithy kain | |yesterday. | | | | with a left hind foot snapped at the | |fetlock, smithy kain raced around the | |track, his valiant spirit and unfaltering | |gameness keeping him up until he had | |completed the course in unwavering pursuit | |of the flying horses in front. every jump | |meant intense agony, but he would not | |quit. not until near the finish did his | |strength give out, and not until then was | |the pitiable truth discovered. men used to | |exhibitions of gameness in tests that try | |the soul looked on in mute admiration as | |smithy kain shivered and stumbled from the | |pain that rapidly sapped his life. women | |cried openly. | | | | two shots from the pistol of a park | |policeman ended the life and sufferings of | |the horse that was only a mongrel, but | |who, in his equine way, was a thoroughbred | |of thoroughbreds. | | | | smithy kain gave to his master the best | |that his animal mind and soul possessed. | |no better memorial can be written even of | |man himself. | = . the special feature story.=--one step beyond the animal story is the special feature story. this kind of story is classed with the human interest story because it has no news value and because its only purpose is to entertain or to inform in a general way; and yet it rarely contains any human interest. there is no space in this book for a complete discussion of the special feature story--an entire volume might be devoted to the subject--but this form of story is often seen in the news columns of the daily papers and deserves a mention here. ordinarily the special feature story is not written by reporters, although there is no reason why reporters should not use in this way many of the facts that come to them. the story usually comes from outside the newspaper office, from a contributor, from a syndicate, or from some other daily, weekly, or monthly publication; however a word or two here may suggest to the reporter the possibility of adding to his usefulness by writing such stories for his paper. the special feature story may be almost anything. the name is used to designate timely magazine articles, timely write-ups for the sunday edition, and timely squibs for the columns of the daily papers. the last use is the one that interests us and it interests us because it is very closely related to the human interest story. the editors usually call it a feature story because it is worth printing in spite of the fact that it has no news value. in this and in its timeliness it is like the human interest story. but it is not written for humor or pathos; its purpose is to entertain the reader. its method is largely expository and its style may be anything; it may explain or it may simply comment in a witty way. the utilizing of otherwise useless by-products of the news is its purpose--in this it is very much like the animal story. subjects for feature stories may come from anywhere and may be almost anything. a very common kind of feature story is the weather story that many newspapers print every day. the weather is taken as the excuse for two or three stickfuls of print which explain and comment upon weather conditions, past, present and future. growing out of this, there is the season story which deals with any subject that the season may suggest: the closing of coney island, the spring styles in men's hats, the first fur overcoat, commencement presents, easter eggs--anything in season. further removed from the human interest story is the timely write-up which has no other purpose than to explain, in a more or less serious or sensible way, any interesting subject that comes to hand. the story purports not only to entertain but to inform as well. it has no news value and yet it is usually timely. here are a few subjects selected at random from the daily papers: "he'll pay no tax on cake," explaining in a humorous way the customs methods that held up the importation of an italian christmas cake; "clearing house for brains," a description of the new employment bureau of the princeton club of new york; "ideal man picked by the barnard girl," a humorous resumé of some barnard college class statistics; "winning a varsity letter," telling what a varsity letter stands for, how it is won, and what the customs of the various colleges in regard to letters are; "jerry moore raises a record corn crop," telling how a fifteen-year-old boy won prizes with a little patch of corn. these are just a few suggestions to open up to the reporter the vast field for special feature articles. to be sure, many of them are submitted by outsiders, but there is no reason why a reporter should not write these stories as well as human interest stories for his paper, since he is in the best position to get the material. whenever a special feature story becomes too large for the daily edition there is always a possibility of selling it to the sunday section or to a monthly magazine. the writing of special feature stories is directly in line with the reporter's work, because the ordinary method of gathering facts for a feature article and arranging them in an interesting, newsy way follows closely the method by which a reporter covers and writes a news story. hence almost without exception the most successful magazine feature writers are, or have been, newspaper reporters. xvi dramatic reporting dramatic reporting is one of the most misused of the newspaper reporter's activities. to many reporters, as well as to their editors, it is just an easy way of getting free admission to the theater in return for a half column of copy. hence it is treated in an unjustly trivial way; the reports of theatrical productions are printed most often as space fillers or as a small advertisement in return for free tickets. but after all the work is an important one and should be done only by skillful and expert hands. dramatic reporting is included in this book, not because it is thought possible to give the subject an adequate treatment, but because theatrical reporting is a branch of the newspaper trade that may fall to the hands of the youngest reporter. in mere justice to the stage the reporter who writes up a play should know something about the real significance of what he is doing. it is much easier to tell the beginner what not to do than to tell him exactly what to do. the faults in dramatic reporting are far more evident than the virtues; and yet there are some positive things that may be said on the subject. the first important question in the whole matter is "who does dramatic reporting?" one would like to answer, "skilled critics of broad knowledge and experience." but unfortunately almost anybody does it--any one about the office who is willing to give up his evening to go to the theater. to be sure, many metropolitan papers employ skilled critics to write their dramatic copy and run the theatrical news over the critic's name. some editors of smaller papers have the decency to do the work themselves. but in most cases the work is given to an ordinary reporter--and not infrequently to the greenest reporter on the staff. worse than that, the work is seldom given to the same reporter continuously, but is passed around among all the members of the staff. even a green cub may learn by experience how to report plays, but if the work falls to him only once a month his training is very meager. it would seem in these days of much discussion of the theater that editors would realize the power which they have over the stage through their favorable or unfavorable criticism. but they do not, perhaps because they know little about the stage, and the appeal must be made to their reporters. every reporter, except upon the largest papers, has the opportunity sooner or later to give his opinion on a play. in anticipation of that opportunity these few words of advice are offered. the first requisite in dramatic criticism is a background of knowledge of the drama and the stage. to children, and to some grown people, too, the stage is a little dream world of absolute realities. their imaginations turn the picture that is placed before them into real, throbbing life. they do not see the unreality of the art, the suggestive effects, the flimsy delusions; to them the play is real life, the stage is a real drawing room or a real wood, and they cannot conceive of the actors existing outside their parts. but the critic must look deeper; he must understand the machinery that produces the effects and he must weigh the success of the effects. he must get behind the play and see the actors outside the cast and the stage without its scenery; the dramatic art must be to him a highly technical profession. for this reason, he must know something about dramatic technique; he must have some background of knowledge. he must study the theater from every point of view, from an orchestra seat, from behind the scenes, from a peekhole in the playwright's study, and from the pages of stage history. all the tricks and effects must be evident to him. the only thing that will teach him this is constant, intelligent theater-going. he must be familiar with all of the plays of the season and with all of the prominent plays of all seasons. a child cannot criticize the first play that he sees because he has nothing with which to compare it. in the same way a reporter cannot justly judge any kind of play until he has seen another of the same kind with which to compare it. hence he must know many plays and must know something about the history of the theater. dramatic criticism is relative and the critic must have a basis for his comparison. this background of knowledge may seem a difficult thing to acquire. it is; and it can best be acquired by watching many plays with an eye for the technique of the art. the critic may judge a play from its effect upon him, but his judgment will be superficial. he must try to see what the playwright is trying to do, how well he succeeds, what tricks he employs. he must judge the work of the stage carpenter and of the costumer. he must try to realize what problem the leading lady has to face and how well she solves it. the same carefulness of judgment must be given to each member of the cast. only when the critic is able to see past the footlights and to understand the technique of the art, can he judge intelligently. and as his judgment can be at best only relative, he must have a background of many plays and much stage knowledge upon which to base his estimate of any one production. the ideal criticism, based upon this background of knowledge, would be absolutely fair and unprejudiced. but unfortunately this ideal cannot always be followed. much dramatic criticism is colored by the policy of the paper that prints it. very few critics are so fortunate as to be able to say exactly what they think about a play; they must say what the editor wants them to say. some theatrical copy, especially write-ups of vaudeville shows, is paid for and must contain nothing but praise. sometimes it is necessary to praise the poorest production simply because the paper is receiving so much a column for the praise. in many other cases, when the copy is not paid for, the editor often considers it only fair to give the production a little puff in return for the free press tickets. and so a large share of any reporter's dramatic criticism is reduced to selecting things that he can praise. yet, one cannot praise in a way that is too evident; he cannot simply say "the play was good; the staging was good; the acting was good; in fact, everything was good." he must praise more cleverly and give his copy the appearance of honest criticism. perhaps the principle is wrong, but nevertheless it exists and happy is the dramatic critic whose paper allows him to say exactly what he thinks. however, whether one may say what he thinks or must say what his editor wants him to say, he must have as his background a thorough knowledge of the stage upon which he may base a comparison or a contrast and with which he may make intelligent statements. the following illustrates what may be done with a paid report of a mediocre vaudeville show in which every act must be praised--the report was written on monday of a week's run and is intended to induce people to see the show: | this week's bill at ---- vaudeville | |theatre is dashed onto the boards by a | |very exciting act, "the flying martins," | |whose thrilling tricks put the audience | |in a proper state of mind for the | |sparkling and laughable program that | |follows--a state of mind that keeps its | |high pitch without a break or let-down to | |the very end of dr. herman's | |side-splitting electrical pranks. this | |man, who has truly "tamed electricity," | |does many remarkable things with his big | |coils and high voltage currents and plays | |many extremely funny tricks upon his row | |of "unsuspecting-handsome" young | |volunteers. | | | | the musical little playlet, "the barn | |dance," is very jokingly carried off by | |its jack-of-all-trades, "zeke," the | |constable, and its pretty little ensemble | |song, "i'll build a nest for you." many a | |young husband can get pointers on "home | |rule" from "baseballitis;" it is a mighty | |good presentation of the "my hero" theme | |in actual life. hilda hawthorne gives us | |some high-class ventriloquism with a good | |puppet song that is truly wonderful. | |there's a lot of good music, very good | |music in the sketch executed by "the | |three vagrants," as well as a lot of fun; | |one can hardly realize what an amount of | |melody an old accordion contains. audrey | |pringle and george whiting have a hit | |that is sparkling with quick changes from | |irish love songs to bull frog croaking | |with italian variations. | for the purpose of a more complete study of the subject, however, we shall consider only dramatic criticism that is not restricted by editorial dictum or by the requirements of paid-space. that is, we shall imagine that we can praise or condemn or say anything we please concerning the dramatic production which we are to report. when we look at the subject in this way there are some positive things that may be said about theatrical reporting, but there are many more negative rules, that may be reduced to mere "don'ts." the same principles hold good in dramatic criticism that is hampered by policy, but to a less degree. in the first place, the one thing that a dramatic reporter must have when he begins to write his copy after the performance is some positive idea about the play, some definite criticism, upon which to base his whole report. it is impossible to write a coherent report from chance jottings and to confine the report to saying "this was good; that was bad, the other was mediocre." the critic must have a positive central idea upon which to hang his criticism. this central idea plays the same part in his report as the feature in a news story--it is the feature of his report which he brings into the first sentence, to which he attaches every item, and with which he ends his report. to secure this idea, the reporter must watch the play closely with the purpose of crystallizing his judgment in a single conception, thought, or impression. sometimes this impression comes as an inspiration, sometimes it is the result of hard thought during or after the play. it may be concerned with the theme of the play, the playwright's work, the lines, the staging, the effects, the tricks, the acting as a whole, the acting of single persons, the music, the dancing, the costumes--anything connected with the production--but the idea must be big enough to carry the entire report and to be the gist of what the critic has to say about the play. it must be his complete, concise opinion of the performance. when, as the critic watches the play, some idea comes to him for his report he should jot it down. as the play progresses he should develop this idea and watch for details that carry it out. there is no reason to be ashamed of taking notes in the theater and the notes will prove very useful at the office afterward. perhaps after the play is over the critic finds that his jottings contain another idea that is of greater importance than the first; then he may incorporate the second into the first or discard the first altogether. even after one has crystallized his judgment into a concise opinion he must elaborate and illustrate it and the program of the play is always of value in enabling one to refer definitely to the individual actors, characters, and other persons, by name. but, however complete the final judgment and the notes may be, it is always well to write the report immediately. when one leaves the theater his mind is teeming with things to say about the play, thousands of them, but after a night's sleep it is doubtful if a single full-grown idea will remain and the jottings will be absolutely lifeless and unsuggestive. this is the positive instruction that may be given to young dramatic critics. it is so important and is unknown to so many young theatrical reporters, that it may be well to sum it up again. a dramatic criticism must be coherent; it must be unified. it must be the embodiment of a single idea about the play and every detail in the report must be attached to that idea. it is not sufficient to state the idea in a clever way; it must be expanded and elaborated with examples and reasons and must show careful thought. it is well to outline the report before it is written and to arrange a logical sequence of thought so that the result may be well-rounded and coherent. the following is an example of a dramatic criticism in which this course is followed. it neither praises nor condemns but it points out gently wherein the play is strong or weak--and every sentence is attached to one central idea: | a polite little play. | | | | never raise your voice, my dear gerald. | |that is the only thing left to | |distinguish us from the lower classes. | |_lord wynlea in "the best people"._ | | the new comedy at the lyric theatre is | |written in accordance with lord wynlea's | |dictum quoted above. it is mannerly, well | |poised, ingratiating and deft. as a minor | |effort in the high comedy style it is | |welcome, because it affords a respite | |from the "plays with a punch" and the | |prevalent boisterous specimens of the | |work of yeomen who go at the art of | |dramatic writing with main strength. | | | | "the best people" is by frederick | |lonsdale and frank curzen, who manifestly | |know some of them. it was done at | |wyndham's theatre in london, and we think | |that in a comfortable english playhouse, | |with tea between acts and leisurely | |persons with whom to visit in the foyer, | |it would make an agreeable matinee. | |certainly it is admirably acted here, and,| |as has been intimated, its quiet drollery | |and its polite maneuvering make it a | |relief. | | | | whether american audiences, used to | |stronger fare than tea at the theatre, | |will find it sustaining is a question that| |would seem to be answered by the | |announcement, just received from the | |lyric, that the engagement closes next | |saturday evening. | | | | the fable relates how the honorable mrs.| |bayle discovered that her husband and lady| |ensworth had been flirting with peril | |during her absence in egypt, how she | |blithely threw them much together, with | |the result that they grew intensely weary | |of each other, and how at last everybody | |concerned was happily and sensibly | |reconciled. | | | | the spirit of the piece is sane and | |"nice," the decoration of it whimsical and| |graceful. | | | | miss lucille watson, embodying the | |spirit of witty mischief, gives a very | |fine performance of the part of mrs. | |bayle, a "smart," good woman, and miss | |ruth shepley is excellent in byplay and | |flutter as a silly, good woman. | | | | cyril scott is graceful and vigorous as | |a philandering husband, dallas anderson | |comical as a london clubman with a keener | |relish in life than he is willing to | |betray, and william mcvey wise, paternal | |and weighty in that kind of a part. | | | | "the best people" is a pleasant spring | |fillip. | the first admonition in theatrical reporting is "don't resumé the plot or tell the story of the play." this is almost all that many dramatic reporters try to do, because it is the easiest thing to do and requires the least thought. but, after all, it is usually valueless. the story of the play does not interest readers who have already seen the play and it spoils the enjoyment of the play for those who intend to see it. the usual purpose of any theatrical report is to criticize, but a report that simply resumés the story of the play is not a criticism; hence space devoted to the story is usually wasted. to be sure, this admonition must be qualified. if the development of the critic's judgment of the play requires a resumé of the story, there is then a reason for outlining the action. however, even then, the outline should be very brief. the following is a typical example of the usual dramatic reporting which is satisfied when it has told the story of the play. in this, the first two sentences are a very bald attempt to repay the manager for his tickets. the resumé of the story, given very obviously to fill space, is not of any critical value. the only real criticism is at the end and is inadequate because the praise is given without reason. | grace george and her small but | |excellent company of artists added one | |more to their long list of successful | |performances last night in the production | |of geraldine bonner's clever comedy of | |modern life, "sauce for the goose," at | |the ---- theatre. that the moody and | |sparkling miss george has a good claim to | |the title of america's leading | |comedienne, no one who saw the | |performance last evening could deny. in | |this piece she is cast for the part of | |kitty constable, who is in the third year | |of her married life and living with her | |husband in new york city. mr. constable | |has been engaged in writing a book on the | |emancipation of woman and as a result has | |come to neglect his pretty little wife | |and seek the companionship of a certain | |woman of great intellect, mrs. alloway, | |who leads him on by an affected sympathy | |with his work. he chides his wife for her | |seeming negligence of the culture of her | |mind, telling her that she lacks grey | |matter. the climax comes when mr. | |constable tries to get away from his wife | |on the evening of their wedding | |anniversary to dine with mrs. alloway. | |kitty tries the emancipated woman idea | |and goes to the opera with another man | |and has dinner with him in his | |apartments. she lets her husband know of | |her plans and he comes to the room in a | |rage. by thus playing first on his | |jealousy and then by ridiculing his | |ideas, she wins him back to herself. the | |company was made up of artists and there | |was not a crude spot in the whole | |performance. the part of harry travers, | |the friend of mrs. constable's, was | |excellently done by frederick perry, as | |was that of mr. constable by herbert | |percy. probably the most difficult | |character in the play to portray was that | |of the "woman's rights" woman, mrs. | |alloway, which was most admirably done by | |edith wakeman. | the word criticism must not lead the reporter to think that, as a critic, his only function is to find fault. to criticize may mean to praise as well as to condemn. if the critic is not restricted by the policy of his paper, he should be as willing to praise as to condemn, and vice versa. but whichever course he takes he must be ready to defend his criticism and to tell why he praises or why he condemns. there is always a tendency to praise a play in return for the free tickets; this should be put aside absolutely. the critic owes something to the public as well as to the manager. if the play seems to him to be bad, he must say so without hesitation and he must tell why it is bad. too many really bad plays are immensely advertised by a critic's undefended statement that they are not fit to be seen. had the critic given definite reasons for his condemnation, his criticism might have accomplished its purpose. in the same way it is useless to say simply that a play is good. its good points must be enumerated and the reader must be told why it is good. however, criticism must be written with delicacy. if your heart tells you to praise, praise; if your heart tells you to condemn, condemn with care. remember that your condemnation may put the play off the boards or at least hurt its success, and there must be sufficient reason for such radical action. the critic's debt to the public is large, but he owes some consideration to the manager. he must hesitate before he says anything that may ruin the manager's business. critics very often condemn a play for trivial reasons; they feel indisposed, perhaps because their dinner has not agreed with them, the play does not fit into their mood and they turn in a half column of ruinous condemnation. perhaps they like a certain kind of production--farces, for instance--and systematically vent their ire on every tragedy and every musical comedy. they do not use perspective; they do not judge the stage as a whole. no matter how poor a play is or how much a critic dislikes it, he must consider what the stage people are trying to do and judge accordingly. in many cases it is not the individual play that deserves adverse criticism, but the kind of play. all of these things must be considered; every dramatic critic must have perspective. he must be fair to the stage people and to the public; his influence is greater than he may imagine. no matter how strong the occasion for condemnation may be, the dramatic critic is never justified in speaking bitterly. the poor production is not a personal offense against him nor against the public. it is simply a bad or an unworthy attempt and his duty is confined to pointing how or why it is not worthy. that does not mean that he is justified in using bitter, abusive, or even sarcastic language. it is great sport to make fun of things and to exercise one's wits at some one's else expense--it is also easy--but that is not dramatic criticism. the public asks the critic to tell them calmly and fairly, even coldly, the reasons for or against a production--the reasons why they should, or should not, spend their money to see it--bitter sarcasm overreaches the mark. just as soon as a critic tries to be personal in his remarks on a play he is exceeding his prerogative and is open to serious criticism himself. the necessary attributes of a dramatic reporter, as we have seen, are: fairness, logical thinking, and a background of stage knowledge. and of these three, the background is of the greatest importance; it is the stimulus and the check for the other two. the more a critic can know about every phase of the theatrical profession, contemporary or historical, the better will be his criticisms. the more knowledge of the stage that his copy shows, the more greedily will his readers look for his "theatrical news" each day. however clear his idea of a play may be he cannot express it clearly and readably without a background of other plays to refer to. and, by the same sign, a wealth of allusions and a quantity of theatrical lore will often carry a critic past many a play concerning which he is unable to form a clear opinion. to develop your ability as a dramatic reporter, watch the theatrical criticisms in reputable dailies and weeklies and learn from them. xvii style book _being a copy of the style book compiled for the course in journalism of the university of wisconsin from the style books of many newspapers._ = . capitalize:= all proper nouns: smith, madison, wisconsin. months and days of the week, but not the seasons of the year: april, monday; but autumn. the first word of every quotation, enumerated list, etc., following a colon. the principal words in the titles of books, plays, lectures, pictures, toasts, etc., including the initial "a" or "the": "the merchant of venice," "fratres in urbe." if a preposition is attached to or compounded with the verb capitalize the preposition also: "voting _for_ the right man." the names of national political bodies: house, senate, congress, the fifty-first congress. the names of national officers, national departments, etc.: president, vice president, navy department, department of justice (but not bureau of labor), white house, supreme court (and all courts), the union, stars and stripes, old glory, union jack, united states army, declaration of independence, the (u. s.) constitution, united kingdom, dominion of canada. all titles preceding a proper noun: president taft, governor-elect wilson, ex-president roosevelt, policeman o'connor. the entire names of associations, societies, leagues, clubs, companies, roads, lines, and incorporated bodies generally: mason, odd fellow, knights templar, grand lodge of knights of pythias, woman's christian temperance union, wisconsin university, first national bank, schlitz brewing company (but the schlitz brewery), metropolitan life insurance company, chicago and northwestern railway company, the association of passenger and ticket agents of the northwest, clover leaf line, rock island road, chicago board of trade, new york stock exchange (but the board of trade and the stock exchange). the names of all religious denominations, etc.: catholic, protestant, mormon, spiritualist, christian science, first methodist church (but a methodist church), the bible, the koran, christian, vatican, quirinal, satan, the pronouns of the deity. the names of all political parties (both domestic and foreign): republican, socialism, socialist, democracy, populist, free silverite, labor party, (but anarchist). sections of the country: the north, the east, south america; southern europe. nicknames of states and cities: the buckeye state, the hub, the windy city. the names of sections of a city and branches of a river, etc.: the east side, the north branch. the names of stocks in the money market: superior copper, fourth avenue elevated. the names of french streets and places: rue de la paix, place de la concorde. names of automobiles: peerless, the white steamer, pierce arrow. names of holidays: fourth of july, christmas, new year's day, thanksgiving day. names of military organizations: first wisconsin volunteers, twenty-third wisconsin regiment, second army corps, second division sixth army corps, national guard, ohio state militia, first regiment armory, the militia, grand army of the republic. the names of all races and nationalities (except negro): american, french, spanish, chinaman. the nicknames of baseball clubs: the white sox, the cubs. miscellaneous: la france, irish potatoes, enfield rifle, american beauty roses. = . capitalize when following a proper noun:= bay, block, building, canal, cape, cemetery, church, city, college, county, court (judicial), creek, dam, empire, falls, gulf, hall, high school, hospital, hotel, house, island, isthmus, kindergarten, lake, mountain, ocean, orchestra, park, pass, peak, peninsula, point, range, republic, river, square, school, state, strait, shoal, sea, slip, theatre, university, valley, etc.: south hall, park hotel, hayes block, singer building, dewey school, south division high school, superior court, new york theatre, beloit college, wisconsin university, capitol square. = . do not capitalize when following a proper name:= addition, avenue, boulevard, court (a short street), depot, elevator, mine, place, station, stockyards, street, subdivision, ward, etc.: northwestern depot, pinckney street station, third ward, harmony court, amsterdam avenue, broad street, wingra addition, washington boulevard, winchester place. = . capitalize when preceding a proper noun:=--all titles denoting rank, occupation, relation, etc. (do not capitalize them when they follow the noun): alderman, ambassador, archbishop, bishop, brother, captain, cardinal, conductor, congressman, consul, commissioner, councilman, count, countess, czar, doctor, duke, duchess, earl, emperor, empress, engineer, father, fireman, governor, her majesty, his honor, his royal highness, judge, mayor, motorman, minister, officer, patrolman, policeman, pope, prince, princess, professor, queen, representative, right reverend, senator, sheriff, state's attorney, sultan: alderman john smith (but john smith, alderman), senator la follette (but mr. la follette, senator from wisconsin). the same rule applies when the following words precede a proper noun as part of a name: bay, cape, city, college, county, empire, falls, gulf, island, point, sea, state, university, etc.: city of new york, gulf of mexico, university of wisconsin, college of the city of new york, college of physicians and surgeons. = . do not capitalize:= the names of state bodies, etc.: the senate, house, congress, speaker, capitol, executive mansion, revised statutes. (these are capitalized only when they refer to the national government: e. g., the capitol at madison, the capitol at washington.) the names of city boards, departments, buildings, etc.: boards, bureaus, commissions, committees, titles of ordinance, acts, bills, postoffice, courthouse (unless preceded by proper noun), city hall, almshouse, poorhouse, house of correction, county hospital, the council, city council, district, precinct: e. g., the fire department, the tax committee. certain other governmental terms: federal, national, and state government, armory, navy, army, signal service, custom-house. points of the compass: east, west, north, south, northeast, etc. the names of foreign bodies: mansion-house, parliament, reichstag, landtag, duma. common religious terms: the word of god, holy writ, scriptures, the gospel, heaven, sacred writings, heathen, christendom, christianize, papacy, papal see, atheist, high church, church and state, etc. the court, witness, speaker of the chair, in dialogues. scientific names of plants, animals, and birds: formica rufa. a. m., p. m., and m. (meaning a thousand); "ex-" preceding a title. the names of college classes: freshman, sophomore. college degrees when spelled out: bachelor of arts; but b. a. seasons of the year: spring, autumn, etc. officers in local organizations (election of officers); president, secretary, etc. certain common nouns formed from proper nouns: street arab, prussic acid, prussian blue, paris green, china cup, india rubber, cashmere shawl, half russia, morocco leather, epsom salts, japanned ware, plaster of paris, brussels and wilton carpets, valenciennes and chantilly lace, vandyke collar, valentine, philippic, socratic, herculean, guillotine, derby hat, gatling gun. = . punctuation:= omit periods after nicknames: tom, sam, etc. always use a period between dollars and cents and after per cent., but never after c, s, and d, when they represent cents, shillings, and pence: $ . , per cent., s d. punctuate the votes in balloting thus: yeas, ; nays, . punctuate lists of names with the cities or states to which the individuals belong thus: messrs. smith of illinois, samson of west virginia, etc. if the list contains more than three names, omit the "of" and punctuate thus: smith, illinois; samson, west virginia; etc. where a number of names occurs with the office which they hold, use commas and semicolons, thus: j. s. hall, governor; henry overstoltz, mayor; etc. never use a colon after viz., to wit, namely, e. g., etc., except when they end a paragraph. use a colon, dash, or semicolon before them and commas after them, thus: this is the man; to wit, the victim. "such as" should follow a comma and have no point after it: "he saw many things, such as men, horses, etc." set lists of names thus without points: mesdames-- george v. king charles c. knapp henry a. lloyd john h. cole jr. do not use a comma between a man's name and the title "jr." or "sr." as john jones jr. use the apostrophe to mark elision: i've, 'tis, don't, can't, won't, canst, couldst, dreamt, don'ts, won'ts, ' s. use the apostrophe in possessives and use it in the proper place: the boy's clothes, boys' clothes, burns' poems, fox's martyrs, agassiz's works, ours, yours, theirs, hers, its (but "it's" for it is). george and john's father was a good man; jack's and samuel's fathers were not. do not use the apostrophe when making a plural of figures, etc.: all the s, the three rs. do not use the apostrophe in frisco, phone, varsity, bus. use an em dash after a man's name when placed at the beginning in reports of interviews, speeches, dialogues, etc.: john jones--i have nothing to say. (no quotation marks.) in a sentence containing words inclosed in parentheses, punctuate as if the part in parentheses were omitted: if there is any point put it after the last parenthesis. use brackets to set off any expression or remark thrown into a speech or quotation and not originally in it: "the republican party is again in power--[cheers]--and is come to stay." use the conjunction "and" and a comma before the last name in a list of names, etc.: john, george, james, and henry. use no commas in such expressions as feet inches tall, years months old, yards inches long. punctuate scores as follows: wisconsin , chicago . punctuate times in races, etc.: -yard dash--smith, first; jones, second. time, : - . peters carried the ball thirty yards to the -yard line. = . date lines:= punctuate date lines as follows: madison, wis., jan. .-- do not use the name of the state after the names of the larger cities of the country, such as new york, chicago, boston, philadelphia, baltimore, san francisco, seattle. abbreviate the names of months which have more than five letters. = . quoting:= quote all extracts and quotations set in the same type and style as the context, but do not quote extracts set in smaller type than the context or set solid in separate paragraphs in leaded matter. quote all dialogues and interviews, unless preceded by the name of the speaker or by "question" and "answer": "i have nothing to say," answered mr. smith. william smith--i have nothing to say. question--were you there? answer--i was. quote the names of novels, dramas, paintings, statuary, operas, and songs: "the brass bowl," "il trovatore." quote the subjects of addresses, lectures, sermons, toasts, mottoes, articles in newspapers: "the great northwest," "our interests." be sure to include "the" in the quotation of names of books, pictures, plays, etc.: "the fire king"; not the "fire king"; unless the article is not a part of the name. do not quote the names of theatrical companies, as her atonement company. do not quote the names of characters in plays, as shylock in "the merchant of venice." do not quote the names of newspapers. in editorials put "the star" in italics, but in "the kansas city star" put "star" in italics and use no quotation marks. do not quote the names of vessels, fire engines, balloons, horses, cattle, dogs, sleeping cars. = . compounds and divisions:= omit the hyphen when using an adverb compounded with -ly before a participle: a newly built house. use a hyphen after prefixes ending in a vowel (except bi and tri) when using them before a vowel: co-exist. when using such a prefix before a consonant do not use the hyphen except to distinguish the word from a word of the same letters but of different meaning: correspondent, but co-respondent (one called to answer a summons); recreation, but re-create (to create anew) reform, but re-form (to form again); re-enforced; biennial, etc. do not use the hyphen in the names of rooms when the prefix is of only one syllable: bedroom, courtroom, bathroom, etc. (except blue room, green room, etc.). when the prefix is of more than one syllable use the hyphen. follow the same rule in making compounds of house, shop, yard, maker, holder, keeper, builder, worker: shipbuilder, doorkeeper. in dividing at the end of a line: do not run over a syllable of two letters. do not divide n. y., m. p., ll. d., m. d., a. m., p. m., etc. do not divide figures thus: ,- , ; but thus , ,- . do not divide a word of five letters or less. = . figures:= use figures for numbers of a hundred or over, except when merely a large or indefinite number is intended: twenty-three, , about a thousand, a dollar, a million, millions, a thousand to one, from four to five hundred. use figures for numbers of less than when they are used in connection with larger numbers: there were boys and girls; there were last week and this week. use figures for hours of the day: at p. m.; at : this morning. use figures for days of the month: april , the nd of may. use figures for ages: he was years old; little -year-old john. if the words " -year-old john" begin a sentence or headline, spell out the age. use figures for dimensions, prices, degrees of temperature, per cents., dates, votes, times in races, scores in baseball, etc.: feet long, $ a yard, degrees, jan. , . time of race-- : . use figures for all sums of money: $ , $ . , cents. use figures for street numbers: grand avenue. use figures for numbered streets and avenues above th; spell out below th: twenty-third avenue, east th street. use figures in statistical or tabular matter; never use ditto marks. use figures, period, and en quad for first, second, etc.: .--, .--. do not begin a sentence or paragraph with figures; supply a word if necessary or spell out: at o'clock; over men. do not use the apostrophe to form plurals of figures: the s, rather than the 's. in all texts from the bible set the chapters in roman numerals and the verses in figures: matt. xxii. - ; i. john v. - . in sunday school lessons say verse . say three-quarters of per cent.; not / of per cent. set tenths, hundreds, etc., in decimals: . ; . . = . abbreviations:= abbreviate the following titles and no others, when they precede a name: rev., dr., mme., mlle., mr., mrs., mgr. (monsignore), m. (monsieur). do not put mr. before a name when the christian name is given except in society news and editorials: mr. johnson; but samuel l. johnson. supply mr. in all cases when rev. is used without the christian name: rev. henry w. beecher; but rev. mr. beecher. never use "honorable" or the abbreviation thereof except with foreign names, in editorials, or in documents. abbreviate thus: wash., mont., s. d., n. d., wyo., cal., wis., colo., ind., id., kan., ariz., okla., me. do not abbreviate oregon, iowa, ohio, utah, alaska, or texas. abbreviate thus: madison, dane county, wis.: but dane county, wisconsin. use the abbreviations u. s. n. and u. s. a. after a proper name. y. m. c. a., w. c. t. u., m. e. are good abbreviations. abbreviate names of months when preceding date only when the month contains more than five letters: jan. ; but april . when the date precedes the month in reading matter spell it out: the th of january; the th inst. abbreviate "number" before figures: no. . abbreviate contract, article, section, question, answer, after the first in bills, by-laws, testimony, etc.: section ., sec. .; question--, answer--, q.--, a.--. do not abbreviate railway, company, the names of streets, wards, avenues, districts, etc.: madison street railway company; state street, monona avenue. street and avenue are sometimes abbreviated in want-ads: state-st, monona-av. spell out numbered streets and avenues up to th: thirty-fourth street, th street. use & in names of firms, but use the long "and" in names of railroads. use etc. and not &c.; use brothers and not bros. (except in ads); use & only when necessary to abbreviate in stocks. do not abbreviate the names of political parties except in election returns, then: dem., rep., soc., lab., ind., pro., un. cit. put in necessary commas in abbreviating railroad names: c., m. & st. p. ry. (chicago, milwaukee and st. paul railway); c., c., c. & st. l. r. r. (cleveland, cincinnati, chicago and st. louis railroad). abbreviate without periods in market review and quotations: c, bu, brls, tcs, pkgs, f o b, p t, etc. spell out centimes except when given thus: f c. do not abbreviate fort and mount: fort wayne, mount vernon. = . preparation of copy:= use a typewriter or write legibly; some one must read your copy. if you write with a typewriter, double or triple space your copy; never use single space. don't write on more than one side of the paper. leave sufficient margin for corrections and leave a space at the top of the first page for headlines; leave an inch at the top of each page. don't put more than one story on a single sheet of paper. don't trust the copy-reader to fill in blanks or to correct misspelled names. if you write by hand print out proper names as legibly as possible; underscore _u_ and overscore _n_. don't assume that the copy-reader, the proofreader, or the editor will punctuate for you, or eliminate all superfluous punctuation. remember that uniformity is more to be desired than a strict following of style. don't turn in copy without re-reading carefully and verifying all names and addresses. use short paragraphs; always paragraph the lead separately; indent paragraphs distinctly. don't write over figures or words; scratch out and rewrite. number your pages; when pages are inserted use letters: pages , a, b, , . a circle around an abbreviation or a figure indicates that the word or number is to be spelled out. a circle around a spelled-out word or number indicates that it is to be abbreviated or run in figures. mark the end of your story, thus: # # # = . don'ts:= don't use "honorable" or abbreviations thereof, except in extracts from speeches or documents, in editorials, or before foreign names. don't add final s to afterward, toward, upward, downward, backward, earthward, etc. don't use "signed" before the signature of a letter or document; run signature in caps. don't begin a sentence or paragraph with figures; insert a word before the figures or spell out. don't use commas in dates or in figures which denote the number of a thing, as a. d. , state street, policy ; in other cases use the comma, as $ , ; , , people. don't forget that the following are singular and require singular verbs: sums of money, as $ was invested; united states; anybody, everybody, somebody, neither, either, none; whereabouts, as "his whereabouts is known." don't forget that things occur by chance or accident, and that things take place by arrangement. don't "sustain" broken legs and other injuries. don't "administer" punishment. don't confound "audiences," "spectators," and casual "witnesses." don't say "party" for "person." don't use "suicide," "loan," "scare," as verbs. don't use "gotten"; it is questionable; use "got." don't use "burglarize." don't use "transpire" for "occur." don't use "locate" for "find"; to locate a thing is to place it. don't use "stopped" for "stayed": he stayed at the central hotel. don't "tender" receptions nor "render" songs; use simply "give" and "sing." don't "put in an appearance"; just appear. don't use "don't" for "doesn't." don't use "stated" for "said." don't say "per day" or "per year," but "a day," "a year"; per is a latin word and can be used only before a latin noun, as "per diem" or "per annum." don't say "the meeting convened"; members might convene but a single body cannot. don't "claim that" anything is so; you can "claim" a thing, however. don't say "mrs. dr. smith," just "mrs. smith." don't say "between" when more than two are mentioned. don't use "proven" for "proved." don't confound "staid" with "stayed." don't say "different than," but "different from." don't split infinitives or other verbs. don't use "onto." don't use "babe" or "tot" for "baby" or "child." don't use superlatives when you can help it. don't use trite expressions or foreign words and phrases. don't use "corner of" in designating street location. don't say "died from operation," but "died after operation"--to avoid danger of libel. don't get the _very_ habit. don't use "couple of" instead of "two." don't use mr. before a man's full name. don't use slang unless it is fitting--which is seldom. don't mention the reporters, singly or collectively, unless it is necessary. it rarely is. don't qualify the word "unique"; a thing may be "unique," but it cannot be "very unique," "quite unique," "rather unique," or "more unique." don't use the inverted passive: e. g., "a man was given a dinner," "smith was awarded a medal." don't concoct long and improper titles: justice of the supreme court smith, superintendent of the insurance department jones, groceryman brown. if the title is long put it after the man's name; thus: george smith, justice of the supreme court. don't use the verb "occur" with weddings, receptions, etc.; they take place by design and never unexpectedly. don't say "a number of," if you can help it. be specific. don't use the word "lady" for "woman," or "gentleman" for "man." don't say "a man by the name of smith," but "a man named smith." don't use "depot" for "station"--railway passenger station. appendix i suggestions for study these suggestions for study embody the method used in the course in news story writing in the course in journalism of the university of wisconsin. the text of the several chapters corresponds to the lectures that are given in preparation for, and in connection with, the study of the various kinds of news stories. these suggestions for study correspond to the exercises by which the students learn the application of the principles embodied in the lectures. hence these suggestions are given mainly from the instructor's point of view; however, a slight alteration will adapt them to home or individual study. although they give very little practice in news gathering, they enable the student to gain practice in the writing of news--in accordance with the purpose of this book. the reporter who is studying the business in a newspaper office may use them to advantage in connection with his regular work. exercises for the first chapter . collect clippings of representative news stories, printed in the daily papers, to be used as models. . keep a book of tips of expected news in your town or city. . study news stories in your local paper and try to determine from what source the original news tip came. try to discover from the story the routine of news gathering which furnished the facts. . in the same stories try to determine what persons were interviewed; frame the questions that the reporter might have asked to secure the facts. the instructor may impersonate various persons in a given news story and have the students interview him for the facts; this is to assist the student in learning to keep the point of view and to keep him from asking ridiculous questions. . try to discover what stories in any newspaper are the result of actual reporting by staff reporters--point out where the others come from. . notice the date line on stories that come from the outside, and learn its form. exercises for the second chapter . watch for local stories that seem to be worth sending out; determine what element in them makes them worth sending out; calculate how far from their source they would be worth printing. . study the news value of stories that are printed in the local papers; determine why they were printed. look for the same things in stories with date lines in the local papers. . determine what class of readers any given news story would interest. . notice the time element (timeliness) in newspaper stories. . try to determine the radius of your local paper's personal news sources: how near the printing office one must live to be worth personal mention. . watch for local stories whose news value depends upon the death element, upon a prominent name, a significant loss of property, mere unusualness, human interest, or personal appeal; see what the local papers do with these stories and whether the local correspondents send them out. . analyze the nature of the personal appeal in stories that are printed only for their personal appeal. . notice how local reasons change the news values of local stories. . in any or all of these stories determine what the feature is. distinguish between the fundamental incident which the story reports and the additional significant feature which enhances the news value of the fundamental incident. exercises for the third chapter . run over the style book at the end of this book; note the essential points in newspaper style. . give the principal rules for the preparation of copy. . glance over the "don'ts" in the style book. exercises for the fourth chapter . study the form and construction of news stories, especially simple fire stories. . pick out the feature of each story--the additional incident in the story which increases the news value of the story itself--and see if the striking feature has been played up to best advantage. . notice how the reader's customary questions--what, where, when, who, how, and why--are answered in the lead. make a list of the answers in any given story. exercises for the fifth chapter . collect good fire stories appearing in the newspapers. study the construction of the lead and the order in which the facts are presented in the body of each story. . write the leads of fire stories. the chances are that actual fires will seldom occur at the time when the student wishes to study the writing of fire stories, but the instructor may give his class, orally or in writing, the facts of a fire story. he may use imaginary facts or he may take the facts from a story clipped from a newspaper--the latter method is better because it enables the instructor to show the students, after they have written their stories, just how the original story was written in the newspaper office. the facts should be given in the order in which a reporter would probably secure them in actual reporting so that the student may learn to sort and arrange the facts that he wishes to use, and to select the feature. the instructor may even impersonate different persons connected with the story and have the class interview him for the facts. this method is to be followed throughout the whole study of news story writing. (in individual study, practice may be secured from writing up imaginary or real facts.) . in these first fire stories, use fires that have no interest beyond the interest in the fire itself--that is, no feature. begin the story with "fire" and devote the lead to answering the reader's customary questions. . look for newspaper fire stories that are not correctly written and reconstruct the lead according to the logic of the fire lead. that is, strive for conciseness and cut out details that do not properly belong in the lead. . make a list of the reader's customary questions concerning any fire and write out the briefest possible answers. then construct a lead to embody these answers. determine which answer should come first and which last, according to importance. . write the bodies of some of these stories. first list the facts that are to be presented and determine the order of their importance. . emphasize the separateness and completeness of the two parts of the story--the lead and the body of the story. test the leads to see if they would be clear in themselves without further explanation. . strive for brevity, conciseness and clearness; wage war on all attempts at fine writing. exercises for the sixth chapter . study fire stories which have features--an interest beyond the mere fire itself--and see how the newspapers write them. . in a feature fire story of class i., make a list of the reader's customary questions concerning the fire, as if it were a simple fire story, and a list of the answers. see if any answer is more interesting than the fire itself, or if its presence makes the story more interesting. show that such an answer is the feature. . write fire stories with features in some one of the reader's customary answers. (class i.) . study a simple fire story and try to imagine what things--properly answers to the reader's customary questions--might happen to give the fire greater news value. this will show the student how to look for the feature of a story. . write the lead of any fire story in as many different ways as possible, striving in each one to play up the same feature. . study a simple fire story and try to imagine what unexpected things might occur in connection with the fire which would be of greater interest than the fire itself. show that these would be features and that they do not fall within the answers to the reader's customary questions--i. e., they are unexpected. . write fire stories with features in unexpected attendant circumstances. . make up lists of dead and injured; notice how the newspapers arrange and punctuate these lists. . study fire stories with more than one feature. work out the possibilities in any given fire along these lines. . write fire stories in which there is more than one feature worth a place in the lead. try various combinations in the lead to discover the happiest arrangement. show how one of many striking features may be of so much importance as to drive the other features entirely out of the lead. exercises for the seventh chapter . count the number of words in the sentences and paragraphs of representative newspaper stories. . practice writing fire leads that might be printed alone without the rest of the story. . take a fire lead and experiment with various beginnings to show the possibilities: a. noun--experiment with and without articles. b. infinitive--distinguish infinitives in "to" and in "-ing." c. _that_ clause. d. prepositional phrase. e. temporal clause. f. causal clause. g. others. show that any of these beginnings may be used in the playing up of any one feature. . study how a name may overshadow an interesting story; determine when a name is worth first place in a lead. study the practice of representative papers in this--do not hesitate to show how a paper has been illogical in beginning certain stories with an unknown name, for everything one sees in a newspaper is not ipso facto good usage in newspaper writing. . in students' stories, notice what the principal verb says and point out any misplaced emphasis. . wage war on "was the unusual experience of" and "was the fate of" in leads. . try to avoid "broke out" in fire leads. devote the space to more interesting action. . cut out all useless words in students' exercises; strive for brevity. go through a student's story and weigh the value of each word, phrase, and sentence; cut out the useless ones or try to express them more briefly. do the same to actual newspaper stories. . weigh the value of every detail introduced into a lead and cut out the unnecessary ones; relegate them to the rest of the story. . wage war on all meaningless generalities; demand exactness. . refer the class to the style book in this volume and require them to follow a uniform style. point out the differences in style of various papers. . see if the bodies of students' stories mean anything without the presence of the leads. require the body of the story to be separate and complete in itself. this need not, of course, be carried to the point of repeating addresses given in the lead. . try writing a story by simply elaborating and explaining the details mentioned in the lead of the story. determine what facts must be added. . see if any story can stand the loss of its last paragraph. determine how many paragraphs it can lose without sacrificing its interest. . in writing the body of a fire story, list the facts that are to be told, in their logical order; thus: origin, discovery, spread, death of firemen, escapes, injuries, rescues, explosion, extinguishing of fire. number them in the order of their importance. try to build a story out of these by following the logical order and at the same time crowding the most interesting facts to the beginning. . practice getting the facts of a story by means of interviews. the instructor may have the students determine what persons they wish to interview for the facts and the instructor may impersonate these persons in turn. the class may then write the story from the facts gained in this way without reference to the interviews. this is for selecting and arranging facts in their logical order. . practice the use of dialogue in stories. judge its effectiveness and show that in most cases it is well to avoid dialogue. . practice rewriting long stories into short press dispatches of words or less, considering the different news value. exercises for the eighth chapter . collect clippings of other kinds of news stories. . in writing these other stories use the fire story as a model; the facts may be presented as they were in the fire story. . study the possible features in accident stories; write accident stories with various features; make lists of dead and injured. . study and write robbery stories with various features; distinguish between the various names applied to robbery and to the people who rob. . study and write murder and suicide stories with various features, striving in each case to give the facts without shocking the reader. show how the featureless murder or suicide story is very much like a featureless fire story. . study and write riot, storm, flood, and other big stories. . in the study of police court news have the class go to the local police courts and report actual cases. . send the students to report meetings. report conferences, decisions, etc. insist that the story begin with the gist of the report in each case and never with explanations. . write stories on bulletins, catalogues, city directories, etc. study them with reference to their timeliness and try to discover what in them has the most news value. require the student to begin with this element of news value and to give the source (the name and date of the bulletin, etc.) in the lead. . look over the daily papers and pick out news stories which bury the gist of their news and have the students rewrite the leads to play up the real news or to give greater emphasis to buried features. exercises for the ninth chapter . collect good examples of the follow-up and the rewrite story; follow one important story through several days' editions to see how it is rewritten day by day. examine an afternoon paper's version of a story covered in a morning paper. . take any news story and work out the follow-up possibilities; imagine what the next step in the story will be. . on this basis, write follow-up stories and rewrite stories. . write a follow-up story which, while beginning with a new feature, retells the original story. . study and write follow-up stories involving fires, accidents, robberies, murders, suicides, storms (present condition), etc. exercises for the tenth chapter . collect good examples of speech reports. . take notes on oral speeches and write reports of varying lengths. practice taking notes in the proper way and write the report at once--perhaps as an impromptu in class. the instructor may send his students to public lectures or read representative speeches to them in class. . write reports of speeches from printed copies of the speech; that is, edit them in condensed form. . take one lead and experiment with different beginnings, playing up the same idea in each case. . discuss speeches to determine the newsiest and timeliest thing in the speech--the statement to be played up in the lead. . in the body of the report try to use as much direct quotation as possible, use complete sentence quotations, do not mix quotation and summary in the same paragraph or sentence. study the rules regarding the use of quotation marks. . have the students write running reports of speeches--that is, have them write their report as they listen to the speech and submit their report in this form. naturally the lead must be written later. exercises for the eleventh chapter . collect representative interview stories. . have students interview various people without the aid of a note book; have them bring back quoted statements by the use of their memory. have them interview some one who will criticize their manner and method. . have a definite reason or timeliness for every interview--have the student map out a definite campaign beforehand. try writing out the questions beforehand in shape to fill in the answers. . write interview stories from the results of these attempts. . begin the same interview story in various ways. . write an interview story in which the feature is a denial or a refusal to speak; tell what should have been said and what the denial or refusal signifies. . study the form of the body of the report (see speech reports). . write stories which are the result of several interviews on the same subject; arrange them informally and formally. exercises for the twelfth chapter . collect examples of good court reports. . attend and report actual cases in the local courts (preferably civil courts). . determine what is the most interesting thing in each. . from this, write court reports--reports of the cases which the students have heard. . experiment with the various beginnings for the same report. . try summarizing a case in one paragraph. . practice getting down testimony verbatim. . practice summarizing testimony in indirect form. . practice writing out the testimony in full in the various ways. . write testimony with action in it for the sake of human interest. . show how all of these may be combined into one good court report. exercises for the thirteenth chapter . notice how various newspapers treat social news; study the reason in each case; collect examples. . list the facts of a wedding story; write short and long wedding stories. . write wedding announcements, beginning in various ways. . write engagement announcements. . write up receptions, banquets, dinners, etc.; report actual functions. . write announcements for the same functions. . write up some unusual social story as a news story. . practice writing obituaries and simple death stories with accompanying obituary. write sketches of the lives of prominent people. . in these exercises use actual events as subjects. exercises for the fourteenth chapter . study sporting stories for their material and method. . report a football game or some other sporting event. . make a running account of a football or baseball game. . write a brief summary of the game to be sent out as a dispatch, limiting it to words. . write up the same game in - words; attach a condensed running account of the same length. . write a long story of the same game, following the outline given in the text; attach a detailed running account by periods or innings; compile tables of players and results for the end. . the study of sporting news may be taken out of its logical place and studied during the baseball or football season. exercises for the fifteenth chapter . collect human interest and newspaper feature stories. . watch for material for human interest stories; look at the facts in your other news stories in a sympathetic way and see how they could be made into human interest stories. . write human interest stories on facts given by the instructor and on facts discovered by the students. . write animal stories, and witty comments on the weather. . write up some timely local subject as a -word feature story. exercises for the sixteenth chapter . gather good theatrical reports and watch for those in which the whole report is written around a single idea. . at the theater watch for things to comment on; try to bring away one definite idea about the play--with illustrations. . write dramatic criticisms that are the embodiment of a single idea or criticism on the play. . try to point out the bad things in a play without being bitter or personal. . write a half-column of copy on a vaudeville show, supposing that the copy is paid for and must praise, not only the show as a whole, but each individual act. exercises for the seventeenth chapter . notice the form and punctuation of the date line: madison, wis., feb. .-- . notice the writing of street addresses: grand avenue, twenty-sixth street; th street; (without "at"). . notice in the use of figures--sums of money, hours of day, ages, figures at the beginning of sentence. . notice use of titles; use of mr. before a man's name--always give a man's initials or first name the first time you mention it in any story. appendix ii news stories to be corrected (the following stories have been prepared to illustrate some of the most usual mistakes in newspaper writing. they may be rewritten or used as exercises in copy-reading. as a class exercise, the student may revise and correct these stories _without recopying_, just as a copy-reader revises poorly written copy.) i shortly after : this morning fire broke out in a pile of old papers in the basement of the harmony flat building, at congress avenue, a four-story eight-apartment structure. two firemen were killed by a falling wall. the fire had a good start before the janitor, michael jones, who sleeps in the basement, awoke. he turned in an alarm and ran through the halls awakening the occupants. the people on the two lower floors escaped in their night clothing by the stairways, but the fire spread very rap- idly, the occupants of the upper floors be- ing forced to flee down the fire escapes in the rear. when the firemen put in an appearance, mrs. jeanette huyler appeared at a third story window and called for help. an ex- tension ladder being hoisted, she was res- cued without difficulty. during the fire the wall on the east side fell and killed fireman john casey and jacob hughes; fireman williams jacobs was hit on the head by a brick and seriously injured. the fire was extinguished before it spread to an adjoining three-story flat building on the west. the firemen in searching the ruins found the body of a man who was later identified as rupert smithers; he was and occupied a lower flat by himself. the janitor said that he was deaf and prob- ably did not hear the warning. the three dead and injured firemen belong to hose co. no. . loss $ , , fully insured. ---------- ii the police have arrested john johnson, years old, sixth street, charged with murdering mrs. laura buckthorn, the well-known proprietor of the duchess restaurant, high street. he is now in the county jail. mrs. buckthorn was sixty years old and the widow of one of the oldest settlers in the city. she lived in her small cottage at sixth street and supported herself by means of the restaurant. john johnson, a street car motorman occupied a room in her cottage. mrs. buckthorn was found dead in her bed, in a pool of blood, with two bullet holes in her head this morning. mrs. grady, the restaurant cook said, "i became alarmed when mrs. buckthorn did not appear as usual at the restaurant this morning and went to her home to find her." inquiry showed that mrs. buckthorn had drawn $ from the first national bank yesterday and her daughter, mrs. j. d. jackson, sixth street, says that her mother often kept such sums of money at home under the mattress of her bed. mrs. jackson also says that she often warned her mother against such habits. the money was not under the mattress this morning. further inquiry showed that john johnson did not appear for work as usual this morning and was later found by police- man patrick o'hara in the railroad yards. he had with him $ . and a ticket to new york. he was known to be hard up but refused to account for the money and was given a berth in the county jail. samuel benson, cashier of the first na- tional, is sure that the two -dollar bills which were found on johnson are the same bills that he gave to mrs. buckthorn yesterday afternoon. johnson will be given a hearing to-morrow but it is al- ready considered certain that he is the guilty party, the evidence being so strong. (this story may be rewritten for local use and for a dispatch.) ---------- iii sparks, resulting from the grounding of an electric wire, ignited a bucket of gas- olene and fired the shop of the g. w. smith motor co., at , west street last night, five automobiles valued at $ , being destroyed and the building being damaged to the extent of , dol- lars by fire. the insulation on the wires of an exten- sion light that edward flasch, one of the repair men was using became cracked, the wire grounding as a result. the sparks fell into a bucket of gasolene standing nearby and in a few minutes the entire building was ablaze. g. w. smith, pro- prietor of the garage, said that he was sit- ting in his office at the time of the explo- sion and tried to put the fire out with sand but could not get the blaze under any con- trol. he then started to run out as many machines as possible. six cars, valued at $ , were saved. ---------- iv madison, september th, ; with a loud deafening roar that violently aroused hundreds from their beds of slum- ber the monster gas holder occuppying the southwest corner of south blount and main streets at the gasplant of the madi- son gas and electric company collapsed very suddenly at :so a. m. this morning, and now lies partly submerged in water, a total wreck. the damage will be fully , dollars, but there will be no inter- ruption to the service the company's excel- lent reserve equippment being immediately brought into action for the emergency. the cause of the explosion was at first clothed in deep mystery before the officials of the company had time to make any in- vestigation. however it was definitely ascertained during the morning when mr. john w. jackson, the secretary and treasurer of the company, being interviewed by a daily news correspondent this morning, stated that the immense quantities of snow on the roof of the holder was primarily re- sponsible. the weight of the snow on one side of the holder causing it to drop down broke the wheel and pushed the holder off the foundation on which it was standing. there was a momentary blaze but when the tank settled down into the reservoir below the fire went out and the awful peril from this highly dangerous source was fortunately averted. as it was dozens of windows at the planing mill on the opposite side of the street were all left intact. in fact no dam- age whatsoever outside of the holder re- sulted from the unfortunate accident. two workmen, jacob casey and nelson jones, were unfortunately caught beneath the wreckage and their bodies were removed later in the morning by the fire department. the tank was full when it collapsed and that it did not scatter de- struction and take more innocent lives was one of the fortunate features of the accident and a great cause for congratula- tion among the officials of the company today. (this story illustrates, among other things, excessive wordiness.) ---------- v after being chased by a young woman for several blocks, a man who gave his name as john weber, was pursued through a saloon at - th street by policeman arthur brown and captured on the roof of a building adjoining the saloon, where the man had hidden behind a chimney. weber was arrested by the policeman and is held on a charge preferred by charles young, a grocer at sixth avenue, of attempt- ing to rob young's grocery store. according to young, just before he closed his store for the night last evening, a young man entered the store and asked for a pound of butter. "i thought," said young, "that the man was just married and might be a possible new customer. i started for the back of the store to open a new tub but just as i turned to go, he hit me over the head with his cane. the blow dazed me but i still had sense enough to grab him by the collar. in the fight we both fell through the glass door at the front of the store and the d--n rascal got away." a young woman, who was pass- ing the store, seeing the fracas, screamed and started to run after the young man. she followed him until he ran into a sa- loon. then she ran up to policeman brown, who was standing at the corner of th st. and sixth-av and told him that a robber had gone into the saloon. the po- liceman ran into the saloon, but found the man had left by the back stairs. the po- liceman followed up two flights of stairs leading to the roof, on the run, where he found weber hiding behind a chimney. weber refused to give his address. after watching until she saw the robber taken away in the paddy-wagon, the doughty young woman disappeared. her name is unknown. ---------- vi a burglar dressed in a salvation army uniform was arrested for attempting to burglarize walter white's home, west nd st. at about two o'clock last night. he gave his name as julius woll and his address as rd ave. the caretaker at walter white's said he was awakened at o'clock by the noise of bureau drawers opening and he at once phoned to the station. an officer came and found the would-be burglar under the bed. after considerable scuffling the man was arrested and taken to the station. the salvation army denied any connec- tion with the prisoner but the landlady at his address said he had two uniforms and always wore one. he also carried a prayer book under his arm whenever he left his room. she also said that he had resided in her house for six weeks and owed four weeks board; also that he had not been there for two weeks. inquiry proved that he was out regularly until three or four in the morning. ---------- vii the wedding of mr. james henry, seventh street, and miss sarah jones, last night at the home of the bride's parents, at north johnson street, was a brilliant success. fifty guests were present and the pres- ents which they brought all but filled the parlor. after the ceremony a seven- course banquet was served until : o'clock. miss sadie jones rendered "the rosary" to the accompaniment of mr. john field. the bride wore a gown of pink taffeta and carried sweet peas. the bridesmaid, lily swenk, was dressed in white muslin. the groom and best man, mr. arthur howles, wore conventional black. rev. stone of the first m. e. church officiated. the groom is a promising young law- yer of this city. his bride is one of the city's leading young society woman, being deeply interested in the womans' suf- frage league. there marriage is the re- sult of a love affair begun at the univer- sity and is the cause of heart-felt congrat- ulations from their friends. after a trip to the coast, the happy couple will reside in this city. ---------- viii "what we need in our universities are sportsmen and not sports," said president g. e. gilbert of the western university, in the convocation address yesterday aft- ernoon at four o'clock. "the sportsman plays for the game, but the sport plays for the victory." the president continued, "before the battle, and during the battle, the sportsman can be told from the sport." it is the actions of the man, he said, when he is in the test that determine to which class he belongs. the president summarized the various college activities and showed how the two classes of men appear in each different activity. and in each, as the president said, "you can tell the sportsman from the sport." "i think that this, the relation between the sportsman and the sport, is the truest analogy that can be applied to human life. life as a sea, life as a battle, life as a river in which you must always paddle your own canoe upstream, life as a hill-climbing contest--all these analogies have their weaknesses. but life as a game is a true analogy." the president concluded with a glowing tribute to our university. ---------- ix faulty leads evading the police by sliding down a rope fire escape from a hotel window, jo- seph matus, charged with robbing a lum- ber jack of $ , escaped the police temporily only to be arrested an hour later at the chicago, milwaukee and st. paul depot. ---------- ignited by the breaking of an electric lamp, a tank of whiskey containing , gallons exploded and threw francis tab, w. th st., thirty feet against the opposite wall at the e. j. jimkons com- pany, th street this morning. ---------- fire of unknown origin started in the big lumber yards owned by charles john- son at clinton avenue, yesterday aft- ernoon. the yards and one million feet of lumber were totally destroyed. the entire district between mitchell street and the south river was in danger of total destruction, according to fire chief casey. ---------- fire starting in a shed on west street caused the total destruction of the first baptist church and the death of two fire- men killed by falling walls. loss $ ,- . ---------- trade war is the only probable result of the abrogation of the russian treaty, was the statement of the hon. frank j. blank, secretary of state, before a large and enthusiastic audience at the opera house last evening. people packed the building to overflowing. ---------- john jones, a workman, who was slightly injured when a thousand pounds of powder exploded and wrecked the three-ex powder mill last night, was taken to the st. james hospital. ---------- the presence of mind and coolness of mrs. j. b. sweeny, north street, saved little johnny sweeny from death last night when she caught him by the coattail and dragged him from beneath the fender of a street car. mrs. sweeny was dragged feet by the car and taken to the st. luke's hospital in an ambulance that was hastily summoned. ---------- falling through a street car window without receiving so much as a bruise was the unusual experience of michael casey last night on main street. michael was not intoxicated--so he says. ---------- recklessly driving his automobile over the curb on smith street, mr. james white, who resides at smith street, was fatally hurt by a careless chauffeur, who was unable to handle his machine and skidded at the corner near mr. white's home. ---------- at a meeting of the sane fourth com- mittee in the city library last evening at seven thirty, it was decided that smith- town must pass a law forbidding the sale and use of cannon crackers. index a abbreviations, . accidents, , - , . accuracy, , , , , . addresses, style of, , , , , , . advertising, . ages, how written, . animal story, . announcements, of engagements, ; social, ; stories on, ; wedding, . article beginning, , . assignments, , . associated press, . association, city press, , . athletic news, - , , . b baseball stories, . beat, or run, , . beat, or scoop, , . beginning of lead, , ; with article, , ; with name, , , , , , , ; with time, . beginnings of court reports, - ; of human interest stories, - ; of interview stories, - ; of speech reports, - . big story, , ; following-up of, ; handling of, ; resulting interviews from, , . bills, stories on legislative, . body of the story, , ; discussion of, ; of court reports, ; of follow stories, ; of human interest stories, ; of interview stories, ; of news stories, ; of obituaries, ; of speech reports, . book, of tips, , ; style, , - . box, , . break, to, . brevity, , , , . brief summary athletic story, . bulletins, stories on, . business office, . c capitalization, - . circulation, , . city editor, , . city press association, , . classes of readers, . clause beginning of lead, . clean copy, . clearness, , , . clippings, . coherence, , . column, . compositor, . compounds and divisions of words, . concreteness, , . conferences, reports of, . continued case beginning, . coöperation in newsgathering, , . copy, ; preparation of, . copyreader, . copyreading, . corrected, stories to be, . correspondent, work of, ; instructions to, , . court reporting, ; discussion of, - , . cover, to, . crime, stories on, - . criticism, dramatic, - . crowd, used as feature, . cub reporter, . cynicism, , . d datelines, , . dates, how written, , , . day city editor, . dead, lists of, . death element, , , , , . decisions, reports of, . definiteness, . desk man, . despatch, , . dialogue, use of, ; in court reports, ; in human interest stories, , ; rules for, . dictation of stories, . diction, - . directories, stories on, . distance, effect of, , . division of words, . _don'ts_, in dramatic reporting, ; in general, ; in leads, - . _down_ style, . dramatic reporting, - . e editing, , . editor, ; day or night city, , ; sporting, , ; state, ; sunday, ; telegraph, , . editorial room, . editorial writers, . elections, , , , . emphasis, . engagement announcements, . entertainments, reports of, . exaggeration, , . expected news, . f faults in news stories, - . faulty stories to be corrected, . feature, the, , , , , , - , , , , , , , ; crowd as, ; death as, , ; exaggeration for, ; fire fighting as, ; _how_, ; in accident stories, ; in football stories, - ; in human interest stories, - ; in murder stories, ; in police stories, ; in robbery stories, ; in speech reports, ; in suicide stories, ; injuries as, ; more than one, ; playing up of, , ; property threatened as, ; rescues as, ; unexpected attendant circumstances as, ; _what_, ; _when_, ; _where_, ; _who_, ; _why_, . feature fire story, - . feature social story, . feature story, the special, , . featureless fire story, - . figures, news value of, ; use of, , , . fine writing, , , , . fire story, , , , , , . fires, , , , , , , , , . follow, or follow-up, story, ; relation of, to court reports, ; relation of, to interviews, ; writing of, , - . following up related subjects, . football stories, - . form of the news story, - . freak leads in speech reports, . g gathering the news, - ; in athletic reporting, ; in court reporting, ; in human interest stories, ; in interviewing, ; in reporting speeches, . generalities, meaningless, . gist, , , , , . grammar, , , . group interviews, . h heads, headlines, , , , . hospitals, as news sources, . _how_, feature in, . human interest stories, , , , , , , ; discussion of, - . humor, , , , . humorous story, . i infinitive beginning of lead, . injuries, feature in, ; list of, . instructions to correspondents, . interest, , , , , , , , ; human, , , , , , , , - . interview stories, - . interviews, for facts, , ; for opinions, , , - ; group, . k keynote beginning of speech report, . killing a story, . l lead, ; beginning of, , ; _don'ts_ in, - ; in athletic stories, , ; in court reports, - ; in fire stories, , , , - ; in follow stories, - ; in human interest stories, ; in interview stories, - , ; in obituary stories, ; in other news stories, ; in speech reports, - ; length of, ; main verb of, . leaded, . length, of lead, ; of paragraphs, ; of sentences, . line-up of teams, . linotype, . lists of dead and injured, ; of guests, patronesses, etc., , ; of names, . local interest, , . long football story, . loss of life, , , ; of property, , . m mailing stories, . main verb of lead, . make-up, making up, , . manner, reporter's, . marriages, . meaningless generalities, . meetings, reports of, , , . money, sums of, , , . morgue, , . "mr.", use of, , , . murders, . n name beginning, in court reports, ; in human interest stories, ; in interview stories, , ; in news stories, , , - ; in speech reports, . names, prominent, , , - , , , ; use of, , , - . narrative order, in athletic stories, ; in court reports, ; in human interest stories, ; in interview stories, ; in news stories, - , - ; in obituaries, ; in speech reports ; in wedding stories, . news, - , ; agencies for gathering, , ; coöperation in gathering, , ; expected and unexpected, ; gathering of, - , , , , , ; sources of, , ; sporting, - , , . new story, - . news story form, - . news tips, , , . news values, , - , , , , . newspaper terms, - . night city editor, . nose for news, viii. notebook, . note taking, in athletic reporting, ; in court reporting, ; in dramatic reporting, ; in interviewing, ; in speech reporting, . noun beginning of lead, . o obituaries, . order of narrative (see narrative order). outlining of a story, . p paragraph length, , . paragraphing, , , , , . participial phrase beginning for lead, , . parts of a news story, , , . pathetic story, . pathos, , , . personal appeal, , . personal news, , . photographs, . playing up, ; of the feature, , . point of view of newspaper, . police court news, , . policy, . political news, . practice, . preparation of copy, . prepositional phrase beginning, . press associations, , . printed matter, stories on, . prominent names, , , - , , , . proof, . proofreader's signs, , . property losses as features, , . property threatened as feature, . public records, . "punch," . punctuation, . purpose of newspapers, . q q. & a. testimony, , , . queries, . questions, reader's customary, as features, ; in fire stories, , , , ; in follow stories, ; in human interest stories, ; in interview stories, ; in obituaries, ; in other news stories, ; in speech reports, . quotation beginnings, direct, , , , , ; indirect, . quotations, , , , , , , . quoting, rules for, . r range of news sources, . readers, classes of, . reader's customary questions. _see_ questions. receptions, , . rehashing, - . related stories, , , . releasing a story, , . reporter, , , , , , , , , . reporting court news, - , . reports, dramatic, - ; of meetings, conferences, decisions, etc., ; of speeches, sermons, lectures, etc., - . rescues as features, . rewrite man, . rewrite story, , - . robberies, , . runs, or beats, , . running a story, . running story, , , , , . s sarcasm, . scoop, or beat, , . season story, . second day story, , , - . sensationalism, , , . sentence length, . sermons, reports of, , - . set up, to, . simple fire story, - . slang, , . slash, to, , . slug, . sob squad, . social announcements, . social news, - . sources of news, , . speaker beginning, , . special feature story, . speech reports, , - , , . sporting editor, , . sporting news, - . staff, . state editor, . stenographic reports, , . stickful, . stories to be corrected, . storms, , . story, ; baseball, - ; big, _see_ big story; body of, _see_ body of the story; faults in news, - ; feature fire, - ; fire, , , , ; follow, follow-up, or second day, , , - ; form of news, - ; news, - , , , - ; on announcements, bulletins, and other printed matter, ; on legislative bills, ; parts of news, , , ; police court, ; related, ; rewrite, , - ; running, , , , , ; simple fire, - ; special feature, ; summary athletic, ; unusual social, . street numbers, , , , , , , . style, , , , , . style book, , - . suggestions for study, , . suicide stories, , . summary beginning, for court reports, ; for interview stories, , ; for speech reports, . sums of money, , , . sunday editor, . superlatives, , . t tables of athletic results, , . taking notes. _see_ note taking. telegraph editor, , . telegraph queries, . telephone, use of, . terms, newspaper, - . testimony, . _that_-clause beginning, in interview stories, ; in speech reports, . theatrical news, - , . time, indication of, , . time beginning, . timeliness, in general, ; in human interest stories, , , ; in interviews, , . tips, , , . title beginning of speech report, . titles, use of, , , , , , , , . track news, , . truthfulness, ; in general, ; in human interest stories, ; in interviewing, ; in speech reporting, , . typewriter, use of, . u unexpected attendant circumstances, . unexpected news, . uniformity, , , . united press, . unusual social stories, . unusualness, , . _up_ style, . uplift run, , . usual football story, . v values, news, , , , , , , . vaudeville reports, . vernacular, newspaper, . vividness, , , . w weather story, . wedding announcements, . wedding story, . _what_, as feature, . _when_, as feature, . _where_, as feature, . _who_, as feature, . _why_, as feature, . wordiness, . y yarn, . +---------------------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation, punctuation and in | |spacing in abbreviations have been retained as in the original,| |along with deliberate misspellings and errors in "news stories | |to be corrected" in appendix ii. | +---------------------------------------------------------------+ the sky trail _by_ graham m. dean author of _daring wings_ _circle patrol_ the goldsmith publishing co. chicago ------------------------------------------------------------------------ copyright the goldsmith publishing company made in u. s. a. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the sky trail chapter one gray clouds of winter hung over the city as the noon edition of the _atkinson news_ roared off the press. tim murphy, famous young flying reporter and aviation editor of the _news_, pecked away half-heartedly at his typewriter trying to write a story about a minor automobile accident that had happened a few minutes before in front of the _news_ building. the raw, damp weather and the lead-colored sky had a depressing effect on tim. he felt earthbound, restless, and he longed to soar through the clouds in the _good news_, the trim, fast biplane owned by the paper. "what are you looking so gloomy about?" asked ralph graves, who had been tim's flying companion on many an aerial adventure. "this weather is enough to give anyone a grouch," replied tim. "here it is, almost spring, and we have to get a week of sloppy weather that spoils all our plans. that job of overhauling the _good news_ and installing the new motor will be done today but it won't do us any good. with weather like this we won't get any flying assignments." "i know just how you feel," sympathized ralph, "ive been out chasing the fire trucks on a couple of chimney fires and i've slopped through all the mud and slush i'm going to for one day. gosh! but i'd like to hop over a few clouds in the _good news_." the telephone on tim's desk rang and he turned to answer. he was smiling when he swung back and faced ralph. "dash off your copy," he said. "carl hunter, the manager at the airport, just phoned that the _good news_ is ready for a test flight. if we cut lunch this noon we'll have time for a short hop. what say?" "don't ask foolish questions," grinned ralph. he hurried to his typewriter where his fingers were soon beating a tattoo on flying keys as he wrote the story of the fires. ralph finished his story, turned it in at the copy desk, and was on his way to rejoin tim when a deep rumble shook the building. "earthquake!" shouted one of the copy boys as he dove under a desk. the windows rattled in their frames and the entire building shook as the terrific noise continued. then a great pall of black smoke could be seen mounting skyward. the building ceased its trembling, the copy boy scrambled out from under the desk and the telephones voiced their sharp cries. tim was the first to answer. from his attitude others in the news room sensed some major disaster. the managing editor, george carson, human dynamo of the paper, ran to tim's desk and leaned close to the receiver. he could hear the words which were being shouted into the transmitter at the other end of the line. the managing editor turned to ralph. "run to the composing room," he cried. "tell them to stand by for an extra. the storage tanks on the midwest oil company property west of town have caught fire and are exploding." ralph waited to hear no more, but ran to the composing room where he gave the managing editor's message to the foreman. then he hurried back to the editorial office. tim was scribbling a bulletin for the extra with one hand while he listened to the first report of the explosion. five or six men were missing. they might have been caught in the first blast or perhaps they had escaped and were too excited to report their safety. the managing editor took the story as fast as tim could write it, wrote a new banner line for the front page, and rushed the copy to the composing room. "who's talking?" he asked. "one of the mechanics from the airport," said tim. "the storage tanks are only a mile and a half from the field and he saw the first one let go. a man from the oil company is at the field now and they are getting the story from him." "is the _good news_ in condition to fly?" asked the managing editor. "just got word a few minutes ago she was ready to test," replied tim. "is it safe to go up on a picture assignment for photos of those burning oil tanks?" "if you'll pay for all the paint i scorch off the plane," said tim. "we'll pay for it," cried carson. "take ralph with you and get all the pictures you can. we'll want them for the city final. and whatever you do, don't let your motor cut out when you're over those burning tanks." "if it does you'll have to look for two new reporters," chuckled ralph. tim turned the telephone over to another reporter and they stopped only long enough to get a camera and make sure that it had a plentiful supply of plates. the editorial office was in an uproar. carson was shouting orders at everyone who came within hearing distance; reporters were running from the room, starting for the scene of the explosion; others were hastening to hospitals where injured might have been taken and one was delving into the files to compare the present disaster with fires of other years. a heavy pall of oily, black smoke blanketed the city and some streets were so dark the street lights had been turned on. tim and ralph ran to the nearby garage where the cars used by _news_ reporters were stored. they took the first machine available, a light, speedy roadster. tim climbed behind the wheel and they shot out of the garage. traffic down town was in a tangled jam that would take an hour to clear for the rumbling explosions from the oil tanks had alarmed the entire city. many people, believing that the city was about to fall on their heads, had hurried to their cars in an attempt to flee to the open country. now they were just as anxious to return to their homes. by sliding through alleys, tim managed to get to a fairly clear boulevard that led to the airport. a light breeze had started to clear the smoke from the air and tim stepped on the accelerator. the indicator on the speedometer climbed steadily--forty, forty-five and fifty miles an hour. "look out," cried ralph, "or we'll be picked up for speeding." "no chance," replied tim. "all the police are at the fire. we've got to make time if we want good pictures." tim and ralph were supremely happy as they sped toward the airport. they were going into the clouds again--into the clouds in quest of the news and the pictures. barely a year before the _news_ had purchased an airplane and tim had been assigned the duties of flying reporter. ralph had been selected to help and tim had trained his friend as a flyer. together they had uncovered some of the biggest stories of the year for the _news_ and their exploits had become exceedingly popular with the people of atkinson. in their first year of following the sky trails they had flown across the top of the world to prove that the ice and snow of the arctic did not cover a hitherto unknown continent; tim had flown down into old mexico and secured exclusive photographs of a rebel leader; and together they had brought about the death of the sky hawk, a former german war ace who had preyed on the air lines of the middle west. now they were off on a new adventure and their hearts beat faster as they neared the airport. to their right great billows of smoke mounted skyward from the burning storage tanks and occasionally tongues of flame could be seen as the fire made some new conquest. the airport was just beyond the city limits and its administration building and hangars flanked the boulevard. tim spun the roadster through the gate and stopped beside hanger no. . the broad doors of the hangar had been rolled open and the _good news_, its nose pointed toward the field, was waiting for them. the metal propeller was turning slowly as the engine idled. the fuselage had been painted a brilliant crimson with the wings a contrast in silver grey. carl hunter, quiet, efficient manager of the field, was waiting for them. "how does the new engine sound?" asked tim. "mighty sweet," replied hunter. "i haven't had her up for i knew you would want the first flight. however, i gave her a thorough test on the blocks and she never missed a stroke. boy, you've got some plane with that new horsepower radial motor. you'll do miles an hour and have plenty of power to spare." they hastened to the plane where tim and ralph made a quick but thorough inspection. the biplane had been overhauled and re-rigged during the winter with a new, more powerful motor. the _good news_ would be fifty miles an hour faster. the flying reporters climbed into their cockpits. ralph, who was to handle the camera, took the forward cockpit and tim handled the controls in the rear one. tim opened the throttle and listened attentively as he ran the motor up and down the scale. there was never a second's hesitation. hunter came close and shouted in tim's ear. "don't get too close to the fire," he cried. "the heat will raise the dickens with the air and it will be pretty rocky." tim nodded and motioned for the blocks to be cleared away. the _good news_ rolled easily out of the hangar, flipped its tail saucily at the few mechanics left at the field, and roared over the soggy ground and into the air. tim thrilled to the touch of the controls and the _good news_ answered even to the slightest movement of the stick. the new motor settled to its work in a manner that warmed tim's heart. he felt that he had reserve power for any emergency as he swung the biplane around and headed for the burning oil tanks. tim put the _good news_ in a steady climb and they gained altitude rapidly. at , feet he levelled off and ralph got busy with the camera. the oil storage lot, a large tract of level land, was dotted with a dozen large tanks. five of the tanks had caught fire and exploded, the force of the explosion knocking off the steel tops. these tops, like great black pancakes, had been blown clear of the tract. one of them had hurtled down to crush the roof of the house nearest the fire. the walls of two of the tanks had given way and tim and ralph could see the firemen fighting desperately to stop the spread of the flames. safety trenches had been a part of the protective system at the tank farm, but some of them had been weakened by the explosion and the flaming gasoline was finding the vulnerable spots. tim swung the _good news_ over the blazing storage tanks and even , feet in the air they could feel the heat. the plane danced crazily and ralph, who had been leaning far out, clutched the side of the plane and shook his fist at tim. the flying reporter snapped off the throttle and they glided down on a gentle incline, as the propeller turned slowly. "got enough pictures?" yelled tim. "three more plates left," shouted ralph. "let's go down where i can get some close ups. make a run for the fire at about four hundred feet; then zoom up just before we get there. that will give us some real pictures." "also scorch all the new paint off the ship," protested tim. "carson said he'd pay for a new coat," ralph reminded him and tim nodded and snapped on the switches again. the motor roared into action and they shot down out of the murky sky. at four hundred feet tim pulled back on the stick and the _good news_ levelled off. they were a mile west of the burning tank farm when he banked sharply and swung back toward the city. the clouds of smoke, rolling upward, were streaked with vivid flashes of flame. tim chilled as he thought of the fate that would be theirs if their plane failed to respond to the controls. he forced the thought from his mind and took a fresh grip on the stick. ralph glanced back and smiled. tim motioned to his own safety belt and directed ralph to strap himself into the plane. no telling what might happen in the next smoky-flame seared seconds. tim pushed the _good news_ into several tight banks while ralph strapped himself into the plane. then they were ready for their picture making dash. ralph trained his camera and glued his eyes to the sight. it would be a great action picture, awe inspiring in its power, if they could get it. tim, one hand on the stick and the other on the throttle, watched his air speed. it was increasing rapidly. half a mile from the burning tanks they were going one hundred and fifty miles an hour. a quarter of a mile away and their speed had increased to one hundred and seventy-five. then there was no more time to check the air speed. they were going fast enough and tim knew his motor had plenty of reserve power for any emergency. ralph, in the forward cockpit, was busy with his camera. two exposures of the rolling, mass of smoke and flame were made in the split seconds before tim threw the _good news_ into a steep zoom. the towering pillar of smoke was less than five hundred feet ahead of their propeller when tim put the pressure on the stick. the nose shot skyward and the _good news_ danced upward along the outer rim of smoke. ralph was ready for the final exposure when a terrific explosion and a wave of rag flame and heat tore the heavens asunder. the _good news_ leaped upward, bucking like a wild horse. tim, his eyebrows singed and lungs burning from the scorching heat, fought the controls. up, up, up pitched the _good news_, tossing wildly on the edge of the inferno of flame and smoke. the noise of the explosion had deadened their ears and neither ralph nor tim could hear the laboring of the motor as tim gave it full throttle. the new paint on the wings and fuselage curled and darkened in the heat and for a second tim thought the gasoline tank might explode. then above it all came the sound of a second explosion and the _good news_ stood up on its tail. tim was thankful that they had used their safety belts for he was almost thrown from the cockpit. out of the smoke hurtled a great piece of steel. tim heard ralph scream a warning but he was powerless. the _good news_ was out of control. fascinated by the sight of the great projectile which was approaching them with terrifying speed, tim lived an eternity. actually it might have been a second, probably it was less. the _good news_, falling tail downward, missed the deadly piece of steel by less than two feet. they were past one danger only to be confronted with another even more horrible to contemplate than the one they had just escaped. ralph, his eyes burning in his smoke-blackened face, was looking back at tim, trusting that the young flyer would be able to pull the _good news_ out of the tailspin. with a last despairing effort tim crashed his fist against the throttle. it leaped ahead a good inch. it had jammed in the emergency and he had not noticed it. more fuel flooded into the laboring cylinders and the motor, its full power unlashed, lifted them almost vertically into the sky. when they were out of danger and in the cool, clean air, tim brought the nose of the plane down and they headed for the airport. the _good news_ looked to be ready to take first prize at a fire sale. the entire ship was grimy from the heavy oil smoke and the dope on the wings and fuselage was curled and cracked from the terrific heat. tim nosed down over the airport and idled his motor as they skimmed to a perfect three point landing and rolled to a stop in front of their hangar. carl hunter ran to their plane. "you crazy news hounds," he cried. "i thought you were goners when those explosions caught you. how did you ever get out alive?" "we'll thank the new motor for saving our necks," replied tim. "we were in trouble, believe me. the throttle stuck and the engine wasn't getting all the gas. in a moment of desperation i smashed the throttle with my fist and opened it. a second later and we were climbing to safety." "good thing you made me strap myself in," grinned ralph, "or you would have lost your passenger when we took that wild west ride." "we were mighty lucky to get back," said tim. "next time we cover a fire on an oil tank farm we'll know enough to stay at a safe distance." "but think of the great action pictures we've got," said ralph. "i'm thinking of my own neck right now," replied tim. "when the second explosion came and that piece of steel picked us out for a target i just said good-bye to everything. while we're passing around the thanks for getting out alive we'll have to include old lady gravity. the _good news_ was dropping earthward just fast enough for us to escape." "we'd better get these pictures to the office so they can use them in the final," said ralph. "you take the camera and the car and go on," said tim. "i won't be needed at the office for a while and i want to check over the plane and see if it suffered any serious damage. tell carson he'll have to okay an order for another coat of paint." "i'll wait and see how the pictures come out before i tell him," chuckled ralph as he got in the roadster and started for the office. tim and hunter went over the _good news_ carefully, checking every joint and strut. then they gave the motor a thorough test. it was sweet and true. "a real plane," was the field manager's comment when they had completed their inspection. "after a test like the one to-day you can count on it carrying you through anything short of a hurricane." "i'm not so sure it wouldn't do that," said tim. "we'd better fill up the gasoline tank," he added. "never can tell when we may get an assignment that will call for another quick getaway." they refueled the ship and were rolling it back into the hangar when a car skidded through the gate. the managing editor and ralph were in the machine and from their haste tim knew that he would soon be in the clouds again on the trail of another big story. chapter two the managing editor of the _news_ jumped from the car before ralph brought it to a stop and ran toward tim. "can you start on another assignment right away?" he asked. "whenever you say, mr. carson," replied tim. "we've just made a complete check and the _good news_ isn't hurt in the least. she's refueled and ready to go." "then you're heading for cedar river valley," said the managing editor. "here's the situation. the village of auburn you took food and medical supplies to last spring when the cedar was on a rampage is in need of help again. the river is causing trouble and the worst ice jam in the history of the country is just above the village. this changeable weather has kept the river thawing and then freezing and thousands of tons of ice are piling up behind the jam. i want you and ralph to make a trip there this afternoon, survey the situation, get all the pictures you can, and report to me. when we know the size of the jam we can plan to get relief to them." "we'll be on our way in ten minutes," promised tim. "the people at auburn helped me when i was working on the sky hawk mystery and i'll be glad of the chance to do another favor for them." "in the excitement of this new story," said the managing editor, "i almost forgot to tell you how much i appreciate your fine work in getting the pictures of the fire at the oil tanks. i've never seen anything like them for action. they were so good we put out an extra with nothing but pictures on the front page. biggest selling extra ever published in atkinson." "they may prove fairly expensive by the time you pay the cost of a new coat of paint for the _good news_," said tim. "hang the cost of the paint," exclaimed the managing editor, "those pictures were worth $ to the paper. why the one showing that piece of steel hurtling up out of the smoke and flame is the best action picture ever taken." "the what!" said tim. "the picture showing that piece of steel coming toward you," repeated carson. "i'll explain," said ralph, and he turned to tim. "we had a lucky break," he continued. "when that explosion caught us i had only one plate left in the camera. in the excitement i snapped the shutter and it so happened that the camera was aimed to get that steel plate that almost wrote 'finish' for us." "we'll be able to sell that picture all over the country," said the managing editor, "and i'll see that you boys get half of whatever the paper makes on it." carl hunter came out of the administration building to report that the weather in the direction of cedar valley was fair. "better get into some heavier clothes," he warned, "for it will be pretty breezy up there if tim decides to step on the gas." "our winter flying outfits are all in town," said ralph. "guess we can make it this way." "i've got some spare clothes," suggested hunter. "some of them belong to 'tiny' lewis but they'll keep you warm at least." the young reporters laughed at the thought of wearing "tiny" lewis' flying togs. "tiny," was the exact opposite from his name. he was as round as a barrel and not much over five feet six in height. the boys followed hunter back to the administration building and made their way to the pilots' room. hunter opened several lockers and finally found the clothes he sought, heavy fleece-lined coveralls especially designed for cold weather flying. when the boys had donned their ill-fitting clothes they looked like a pair of aerial scare crows for their legs projected awkwardly from the suits, which were far too short for them. "throw a couple of robes over your legs and you'll be all right," suggested the field manager. "not for me," grinned tim. "ralph can bundle up all he wants to but i'm not going to have a blanket tangled around the stick just about the time i have to get into action." when the boys returned to no. hangar the mechanics had the _good news_ warmed up and on the line. the managing editor looked at his watch. "just a few minutes after one-thirty," he said, half to himself, half to his star reporters. then aloud he said, "you won't be able to get to auburn, snap your pictures and get back here in time for the city final. however, if you get some good shots we'll put out a five o'clock picture extra so step on it all the way." "we'll be back in less than two hours," promised tim. "wouldn't be able to do it with the old motor in the ship, but with this new power unit we'll do an hour steady over and back. the trip is about miles each way and with the time it takes for the pictures we'll make it in two hours easy." "then i'll have the engravers and the composing room stand by for a five o'clock picture extra," said the managing editor. "this will be a red-letter day in the history of the _news_--two picture extras in the same day and believe me, boys, that's what the readers want. pictures, action, and more pictures. now get going." ralph lifted his big camera into the front cockpit and settled himself for the trip. he wrapped a heavy robe around his legs for he knew tim was going to tear loose on the trip to auburn and even though it was moderately warm on the ground the air at two thousand feet would be chilly. tim checked his instruments, waved for the mechanics to get in the clear, and opened his throttle. the _good news_ lifted her tail off the muddy field, splattered the water out of half a dozen puddles, and then shot up into her own domain. the new radial motor, tested in flame and smoke little more than an hour before, leaped to its task and they sped away into the east. behind them the fire still raged at the oil tanks, but firemen appeared to have checked its spread. tim pushed the throttle steadily forward until the air speed indicator registered miles an hour. at , feet the ground was a dull, gray checkerboard beneath them. in places there were splotches of dirty snow, a last vestige of winter. creeks, silver ribbons winding through the countryside, were running bankfull of water. several times they sighted streams in which the outgoing ice had jammed around some bridge or sharp curve. behind these jams the stream had spread out until it formed a small lake. none of them were of major importance but at one bridge half a dozen men were busy trying to dynamite the mass of ice which was threatening the safety of the structure. as they neared the valley of the mighty cedar the country became rougher and there were fewer fields for an emergency landing. a plane in trouble in the valley would have small chance of making a safe descent. they were fifteen miles from auburn when they caught their first glimpse of the river, a great lake stretching for miles up its valley. then they saw the jumbled mass of ice above the village. the towering blocks had jammed at a sharp bend in the river and hundreds of tons of ice, born by the spring freshets, had built a great dam which was impounding the waters of the river. the bed of the stream below the ice jam carried little more than a trickle of water when compared to the usual volume. from the position of the jam tim could see that unless the pressure was relieved soon the water behind the ice, spreading out over the valley, would soon creep around the wings of the jam and sweep down on the village. the _good news_ slid down out of the clouds and swung over the scene of the impending disaster. the village was practically deserted. men and women were at the jam, working side by side in what appeared a futile effort to start the thousands of tons of ice moving down stream before their own homes were destroyed. tim guided the _good news_ up the valley, over the jam, and on up stream. the jam of ice extended nearly a half mile above the village. the river above that point, running free, was piling more ice on the jam, adding to the pressure which hourly threatened to let go and sweep everything before it. ralph, leaning far over the side of the plane, was busy with his camera. he motioned for tim to return to the village. there they took pictures of the practically deserted town and tim dropped low enough for ralph to get some good flashes of the men and women working along the edge of the ice jam. just a year before the villagers had helped tim when he was on the trail of the sky hawk and he felt that he owed them a real debt. they gazed upward as the plane sped over them but they did not recognize the scorched, blackened plane as the _good news_. tim and ralph waved eagerly, but there was no reply. the villagers were weighted down with despair. ralph indicated that he had used the last of the plates in the camera and tim swung the _good news_ into the west. he headed back for atkinson at miles an hour, the motor singing as they shot through the greying sky. the clouds were dropping on them and by the time they were half way to atkinson they had a ceiling of less than six hundred feet. tim tried to rise above the clouds, but they were massed solidly. he climbed to the five thousand foot level only to find himself lost in swirling vapor and with the air growing colder every minute. ice started to form on the wings of the _good news_ and tim realized the danger. the plane was harder to handle, slower to answer the controls. ralph sensed the danger of the higher altitude and motioned for tim to dive, but the flying reporter shook his head. he was too experienced an airman for a power dive when ice was gathering on his ship. to have nosed the ship down at miles an hour might be fatal for both of them. with the ceiling probably down to nothing they would flash out of the clouds at high speed with only a few hundred feet of clearance. normally they could get away with it but with the wings weighted down with ice one of them might snap off when he pulled back on the stick. it was too dangerous to risk. he decided to take his time, come down gradually, and fight the ice as best he could. the next ten minutes were an hour to tim as he eased the _good news_ toward the ground. little by little they lost altitude. the ship was loggy now with its burden of ice but he managed to keep it out of a dive and they finally levelled off at two hundred feet. even at that low altitude the clouds were brushing their wings but the air was warmer and the ice gradually disappeared from the wings. for a few minutes tim had been too busy with his own troubles to think about those of the villagers back at auburn, but the danger of the ice past his mind returned to them. it had been plain to him that unless something was done in the next few hours the massed ice would give way and march down the valley, sweeping everything before it. as towns went auburn wasn't much to brag about, but its people were friendly and the village was home to them. tim, an orphan, knew what it meant to be without a home and he resolved to do everything within his means to help the villagers. they roared over the suburbs of atkinson, sped across the heart of the city, and skidded over the ground to roll to a stop in front of their own hangar. the managing editor was waiting for them. "get the pictures o. k.?" he cried. "camera full of the best ice photos you ever saw," grinned ralph as he eased his cramped legs over the side of the plane and dropped to the muddy ground. "how is the situation in the valley?" asked the managing editor. "critical," replied tim as he shut off his engine. "i never saw so much ice in my life. the jam is at a sharp bend in the river just above the village. thousands and thousands of tons of ice has piled up there and the river is bringing down more every hour. the flow of water below the jam is practically shut off and it's spreading out above the ice. by tomorrow morning the whole thing will let go and that will be the end of the village." "what are the people doing?" carl hunter wanted to know. "everything they can do," said ralph. "all the men and women are out at the jam, working side by side. i saw them plant several charges of dynamite and they might just as well have been five inch firecrackers for all the good it did. there isn't enough dynamite in this part of the state to move that jam. they couldn't get it planted in time." "i wish we could do something to help them," said the managing editor thoughtfully. "if you really want to save the village," said tim, "i think i've got a plan that will work. listen." in a few words he outlined his plan. the managing editor listened thoughtfully. "sounds like it is the only chance of saving them, but you'll be running a mighty big risk, tim." "i'm willing to take the chance if you'll let me have the _good news_. i'll have to cover nearly a thousand miles before i can really start work." "the _good news_ and anything else you need is yours," promised the managing editor. "then i'll get ready and start at once," said tim. "count me in," added ralph. "not in this first trip," said tim. "i've got to fly fast and far and the less weight the faster i'll go. when i'm ready to start for auburn again i'll need you. in the meantime you see that we have at least a dozen flares ready to take with us for it will be midnight or later by the time we reach the valley again." ralph promised to have the parachute flares ready and then followed the managing editor to one of the _new's_ cars. an extra was being held up for the pictures in ralph's camera and after all his duty was to the paper first. tim turned the _good news_ over to the mechanics for refueling and went over to hunter's office to get warm and map out the course of his next flight. the field manager unfurled a roll of maps and helped tim check his plans. "you're going to get plenty of hours in the air today," he grinned. "i know it," smiled tim, "and only a little more than three hours ago i was grumbling because there wasn't more chance for any flying assignments this week." tim took a ruler and laid out his course, an air line from atkinson to fort armstrong, the nearest army post. it was a good five hundred miles and with certain weather ahead tim knew that he would have to count on three hours for the flight. he should be at the army post by seven o'clock. if he allowed himself one hour at the post he ought to be able to start back around o'clock. three more hours and he would be back in atkinson at o'clock. a stop to pick up ralph, make final arrangements and then into the air again for cedar river valley. every minute counted and after carefully checking his course tim hurried back to his plane. "aren't you going to telephone the fort you're coming?" asked the field manager. "carson promised to do that," replied tim. "i'll need his political pull to get the material i need at the fort. you phone carson when i take off. have him tell the army people i'll drop in on them about o'clock, wind and weather allowing." "you'll make it all right, tim," said carson, "but look out for ice if you go too high." "i had a taste of that coming back from the valley," said the flying reporter. "no more of that for me if i can help myself." enough gas for a four hour flight had been placed in the tanks of the _good news_. the engine, still warm, caught on the first turn and roared into action. tim adjusted the pack parachute carson had brought from the office, settled himself on his seat, and motioned "all clear." water and mud sprayed from the wheels as the _good news_ picked up speed. then it lifted off the heavy field, shook itself free of the mud, and climbed the low-hanging clouds. the ceiling was less than five hundred and by this time the afternoon was grey and a sharp breeze was zipping down out of the north. it would be a nasty night for flying over an unmarked and unlighted course. tim followed the air mail trail for half an hour and then turned to his left. fort armstrong was now almost straight south on an air line. with prairie country the flight would have been easy but tim knew that miles out of atkinson he would run into the flint hills, a branch of the great smoky mountains which wandered out into the prairie at a most inconvenient angle. if the ceiling was low over the flint hills, he would be in for a nasty half hour of flying. the first hour slid away as tim roared southward at nearly miles an hour. the thunder of his motor roused prairie villages from their winter lethargy and stampeded cattle on lonely farms. occasionally some farmer, surprised at his chores, shook his fist angrily as tim sailed over the chimney tops. the ceiling was still six hundred when tim sighted the first low ridge of hills that marked the flint range. he had flown over the territory only once before and that time when he was returning the year before from old mexico with exclusive pictures of a rebel leader. the hills were really ridges of rock, rearing their sharp, bleak heads into the air--a trap for any unwary flyer. to crash on those inhospitable crags would have meant the end for plane and pilot. tim lifted the _good news_ until his wing tips were brushing the massed clouds. six hundred and fifty was the highest he could go without burying himself in the clouds and flying blind, something which he did not relish. tim throttled down to half speed as he reached the first ridge of the flint hills. he cleared the tops of the crags by two hundred feet and was congratulating himself when another ridge loomed ahead of his spinning prop. the second one bulked higher and beyond he could see a third which buried its head in the low-hanging clouds. tim slid over the second ridge and then swung sharply to the right. perhaps he would find a gap in the third ridge which would let him through. for five minutes he sped along, hunting for some opening that would let him through. he was almost ready to make a blind attempt through the clouds when he caught sight of a break in the hills. it was not more than feet wide but tim took the chance, banked the _good news_ sharply, and dove for the opening. the hills closed in on him and dismal masses of rock on each side waited for him to crash. but he slid through the narrow break and found himself again over the prairie, the hills in the background. the rest of the trip to fort armstrong was easy going compared with the task of getting through the hills and tim sighted the lights of the army post at five minutes to seven. markers on the landing field flashed on when guards heard the sound of his motor and mechanics were waiting to guide his ship into a hangar when he landed and taxied up the runway. tim's body ached from the cold and his legs were stiff and cramped. a mechanic reached up and gave him a hand as he clambered out of the cockpit. an officer with a captain's bars on his shoulder, strode into the hangar. "we were expecting you, murphy," he said. "your managing editor telephoned that you were on your way and we've tried to have everything ready for you. how did you find the flint hills?" "they gave me the shivers for half an hour," admitted tim, "but i managed to find a gap in the third ridge and got through without burying myself in the clouds." "you were lucky," commented the army man who introduced himself as captain john nugent, in command of the air force at fort armstrong. "better come over to my quarters and get warm and have a snack to eat," suggested the army man. tim readily agreed for he was chilled to the bone and hungry. "i know you're anxious to start back," said captain nugent, "but you'll be more alert if you rest a few minutes and fill up with some hot food. i've had my boy keep things hot for you." "that's mighty nice of you," said tim, "and i expect i'll save time in the end if i take a few minutes rest here." when they reached the captain's quarters, the army man insisted that tim take off his things and enjoy a good meal. "have you planned your trip back?" he asked. "looks like i'll have to try the flint hills in the dark," said tim. "i've got to be in atkinson before midnight if my plan to help the people at auburn is going to work. i'm sure that ice jam will go before morning and if it does it's goodbye to that town." "if anything goes wrong with your ship in the hills with the load you'll be carrying, it will be curtains for you," said the army man. "i haven't had time to think about that," confessed tim. "as far as i can see it is the only way to get back in time. i'll have to bore up into the clouds and take a chance." "columbus took a chance and was lucky," said captain nugent. "however, you're not columbus and you've had just about your share of luck for one day. don't tempt fate too much." "i won't deliberately tempt fate," said tim, "but time counts tonight." "would half an hour make a great deal of difference?" "it might," replied the flying reporter. "half an hour isn't long when it comes to considering your own life." "but i must think of the people of auburn." "if you crash in the flint hills it won't help them." "true enough. but what else can i do?" "go around the hills." "that would take too much time." "not more than an extra half hour," countered the army man. "look at this map." they bent over the map on the table and the army officer pointed out what he considered tim's best route for the return flight to atkinson. "you'll have to swing to the east of the hills," he said, "but your flight will be over level country and you'll have a chance if anything goes wrong." "i believe you're right," agreed tim. "the last thing i'm looking for tonight is a crack-up." an orderly came in to announce that tim's plane was ready for the return trip. captain nugent put on a heavy coat and accompanied tim to the runway. the _good news_, outlined in the field's floodlights, was waiting for tim, motor idling. captain nugent climbed up to the forward cockpit and made a thorough inspection of the contents. satisfied that everything was ship-shape, he dropped back to the ground. "you've got an even dozen demolition bombs," he told tim. "the men didn't have time to rig a bomb rack on your plane but they did the next best thing. they put the 'eggs' in a hammock that will carry them without danger unless you happen to crack-up." "pleasant prospect," smiled tim. "but i don't think you'll have any trouble if you swing out around the flint hills," said the army officer. "say, what the dickens have you been doing to this plane?" he demanded as he noticed for the first time, the smoke-blackened condition of the wings. tim explained what had taken place earlier in the day and the army officer whistled as the flying reporter told how they had been caught by the explosion of the oil tanks. "if you've had a narrow escape like that today," said captain nugent, "i guess flying the hills at night won't bother you." "i've decided not to risk it," said tim. "i'm going to go around." "the air is getting sharper," said the army man. "sure you've got warm enough clothes? we'll be glad to lend you some extra togs if there is anything you need." "thanks a lot," said tim. "you've been mighty good to let me have these high explosive bombs. i won't need anything more and now i think i'd better get under way." tim climbed into the rear cockpit, tested the motor, and after waving farewell to captain nugent, sent the _good news_ skimming down the lighted runway. the motor barked lustily as the plane gained altitude, the lights of the fort armstrong were soon lost in the night. tim followed the course captain nugent had helped him lay out. for more than an hour he sped over the right-of-way of the southwestern railroad. mile after mile he was guided by the dim streaks of steel which were barely discernible in the darkness. the railroad skimmed the east end of the flint hills and when the lights of macon showed in the distance tim knew he was around the worst barrier. the dreaded hills now lay to his left and behind. he glanced at his watch. he was making good time. with no unforeseen emergencies he would be in atkinson by eleven. the sky had lightened somewhat and tim now had a ceiling of , feet. with a greater margin of safety, he opened the throttle wide and the _good news_ bored into the night. in the dim light of the instrument board tim could see the needle on the air speed indicator hovering near the -mile an hour mark. he was making more than three miles a minute. that was time! it was faster than tim had ever traveled. then the indicator crept on up. two hundred and five and then it wavered at two hundred and ten. the motor was not turning over any faster than a minute or two before so tim knew he must have picked up a good tail wind. let'er go! the sooner he reached atkinson the sooner he would be on the last lap of his trip to auburn and the nearer the completion of his plans for the salvation of the village. on he roared through the night and the lights of small towns were little more than blurs in a magic carpet. far ahead the lights of atkinson reflected against the clouds and four minutes later tim was throttling down the motor preparatory to gliding into the airport. for the first time since leaving fort armstrong the load of high explosive bombs which he had obtained at the army post worried him. supposing he struck a mud puddle and nosed over? one blinding, shattering blast and it would be all over. so much depended on the success of his landing that he dared not think of failure. the flood lights came on and bathed the field in a chilling blue brilliance. tim cut his motor and sidled down, killing speed every second. he glanced at his watch. ten fifty-five; five minutes to the good. he was less than two hundred feet above the field when the deafening roar of an incoming tri-motored passenger and express plane drowned the sound of his own motor. tim looked up and froze at his controls. the tri-motor was coming in from the left, and their paths would cross in less than feet. chapter three tim could see lights gleaming from the windows of the tri-motor. it was the westbound transcontinental more than an hour late and its pilots were bringing it in fast in an attempt to make up every minute possible. the distance between the planes narrowed rapidly. the _good news_ had almost lost flying speed, was drifting in, when tim first sighted the tri-motor and he was powerless to change his course. he jammed the throttle open and the motor coughed as the raw fuel leaped into the white-hot cylinders. there was only one chance; that he could get up enough speed to throw the _good news_ into a nose dive. he could avoid the tri-motor that way but his own chances of coming out of the dive would be slim. in that split second tim made his decision. he would attempt the dive. there were probably women and children on the tri-motor for the night plane usually carried a heavy passenger list. if the two planes met they would all be blown to eternity. the _good news_ picked up momentum again and tim shoved the nose down. just as he pushed the stick ahead he heard the engines of the tri-motor quicken their stride. evidently the pilots of the big ship had seen him and were making a desperate effort to avert the collision. tim hoped they would have enough sense to climb. the _good news_ quivered under the sudden strain of the maneuver and tim saw the ground race up to meet him. the undercarriage of the tri-motor almost brushed the upper wing of the _good news_. then the planes were clear but the _good news_ was diving toward the field. tim had only one hope. he pulled back on the stick and closed his eyes. he could feel the ship falling, then the pitch of the descent lessened. he opened his eyes. the _good news_ was skimming along the field with its wheels less than five feet from the ground. tim looked up for the tri-motor. it was circling, waiting for him to land. the flying reporter lifted the _good news_ up again for he was going too fast to attempt a landing. he swung around and then dropped down on the field, checking his speed with a delicate hand lest he bump hard enough to set off the "eggs" cradled in the forward cockpit. the _good news_ rolled to a stop in front of its hangar. carson, hunter, ralph and a group of mechanics were waiting for tim. they were white and shaky for they had seen how death had ridden on the wings of the two incoming planes only a minute before. "tim, tim," cried ralph in a choked voice, "i thought you were a goner." "so did i," admitted tim, and for once he found it hard to smile. "i'll report those flying yahoos," stormed the usually mild-mannered hunter. "they'll be grounded for thirty days for pulling a reckless landing like that. you had the right of way and they attempted to cut in on you. here they come now." the tri-motor had come to a stop on the concrete apron in front of the administration building and its pilots sprinted toward the no. hangar. they were red-faced and shaking with anger. "what's the idea?" stormed the first one as he addressed tim. "you crazy, flying fool, you almost wrecked us. i've a good notion to beat up on you." "shut up!" the words whipped through the night and the angry pilot turned to face the field manager. "but this nut almost wrecked us," he protested as he pointed at tim. "shut up!" cried hunter and he almost choked with rage, "if anybody here is going to get a licking you're one of them. you cut in on murphy. we had given him the right-of-way and you barged down and almost ran him into the ground. as it happens he was on special duty tonight, flying in here from fort armstrong. you may have something to explain to uncle sam and the least you'll hear about this will be thirty days on the ground without pay." "you can't get away with that," protested the second flyer. "why this kid was trying to beat us in." "i'll get away with it and i may have your skins to boot," promised carson. "you're so all-fired smart, suppose you step over here and take a look at the load murphy is carrying tonight." the pilots of the big transport followed hunter to the _good news_ where they peered into the forward cockpit. "bombs!" exclaimed one. "we'd have been blown to pieces if we had met in the air," gasped the other. "which is just exactly the reason murphy took such a desperate chance to avoid hitting you," exclaimed hunter. "do you still want to beat up on him?" "not on your life," said the transport pilots and they turned to tim to offer their apologies. "we are lucky to be here," said tim as the tri-motor men stammered their appreciation. ralph, who had gained control of his emotions, busied himself loading a dozen parachute flares into the forward cockpit. by : the _good news_ had been refueled for the flight to auburn. "what are the latest reports?" asked tim. "the ice is piling up every hour," said the managing editor. "people in the village have started to move their belongings and they expect the town will be swept away before morning." "have they been warned to watch for us and get in the clear when we start dropping the bombs?" "everyone has been ordered to be in the clear by midnight. before they leave they will build large fires along the bank of the river to guide you." "that's a good idea," said tim. "all set," he called to ralph, who had taken his place in the forward cockpit, squeezed in between high explosive bombs and parachute flares. "all ready," replied ralph. "only take it easy. i don't want to be part of another explosion today." "don't worry," said tim. "i'll handle the ship like we were carrying a basket of easter eggs." tim settled himself for the flight to auburn and a minute later the _good news_ was winging its way into the east. the safety of the village depended on the success of their efforts. within the next hour and tim and ralph realized the seriousness of their mission. they sped into the night at a chilling pace and both reporters welcomed the signal fires which marked the course of the river. it was just before midnight when they swung down out of the sky to reconnoiter the ice jam. ralph dropped a parachute flare which lighted the country-side for half a mile around. there was no one in the vicinity of the jam and the village had been deserted. tim inspected the face of the jam closely, hunting for the key point where the pressure was greatest. up and down the river they cruised while ralph lighted three more flares. finally tim was satisfied that he had picked out the vulnerable spots in the jam and he motioned for ralph to get ready with the bombs. by pre-arranged signal ralph was to drop a bomb over board every time tim raised his left arm. several of the flares had dropped on the ice and there was plenty of light. tim's arm jerked upward and a small, black object hurtled down from the plane. the night was torn by a blinding flash followed by an ear-shattering roar. a geyser of ice and water mounted upward from the point where the bomb had struck. "score one," cried ralph as he prepared another bomb. tim nodded grimly. the explosion had been spectacular but he wondered how much it had weakened the jam. ralph dropped two more parachute flares and before their light had faded they had time to plant four bombs. more flares and more bombs. they honeycombed the face of the jam with the high-explosive missiles and above the sound of their own plane they could hear the angry grumble of the river as the restless water, impounded by the ice barrier, sought to continue its journey down stream. they had one flare and two bombs left and they had failed to break the jam. tim motioned for ralph to light one of the two remaining flares and in the calcium glare he made a final survey of the river. his arm moved quickly and ralph tossed out the last of the bombs. they watched the little black objects speed toward the ice; then saw them swallowed in mounting sprays of ice and water. tim could hear ralph's shout of victory above the sound of their own motor and the rumble of the river as the waters, the ice barrier finally broken, started down stream. the river was a heaving, moving mass of ice. great cakes leaped high into the air and came down with thundering crashes as the pressure of the water was unleashed. tim watched the breaking of the jam with apprehension. there was just a chance that the river might rush over its banks and sweep away the village but if he had calculated right the force of the onrushing water would be expended on the far side of the valley. the light from the fires on the edge of the river reflected dully on the scene and was not sufficient to show them what was taking place. after five minutes of anxious cruising, tim yelled to ralph to light the last of their flares. the brilliant white light revealed a scene majestic in its power yet terrible in its uncontrolled fury. thousands of tons of ice were moving down stream, sweeping everything before them but they were moving in the direction tim had planned. the ice was piling over the banks of the river, leveling great trees, crushing the few barns and small buildings on the far side of the river, but the village itself was safe and already the villagers were starting to return to their homes. a dozen men who had come down to the river bank to watch the ice go out waved their thanks at the flying reporters. with his goal reached and success at hand, tim felt a great drowziness creep over him. his hand lost its firm grip on the stick and his eyes closed in spite of himself. he managed to shake off the fatigue and shouted to ralph to take the plane. ralph fitted the extra stick in the control socket in the forward cockpit and waggled the controls, indicating that he was ready. the _good news_ turned away from auburn, away from the tumbling mass of ice in the cedar river, and sped toward home. tim, exhausted by the strenuous experiences of the day, dropped into a deep slumber and did not awaken until ralph plopped into a mud puddle on their home field. chapter four the story of the flying reporters and their successful effort to break the ice jam which threatened auburn was the front page news the next day. tim and ralph collaborated in writing the story of their night flights and the managing editor wrote a front page editorial praising them for their heroism and devotion to duty. a telegram from the mayor of auburn, in which he expressed the appreciation and gratefulness of the residents of the village, was also printed in a box on the front page. dan watkins, the veteran chief of the copy desk, smiled at tim when the first edition came off the press. "looks like you and ralph have just about monopolized the front page," said the gray-haired copyreader. "i'd just as soon not be there," said tim. "i know, i know," said watkins, "but it is all fine advertising for the _news_. wonder if you chaps will get a raise or a bonus." "i wasn't looking for either one when i decided to make the attempt," said tim. "i only thought of those poor folks in the valley who were faced with the loss of their homes if the jam broke." "i know you weren't looking for personal gain or glory," replied the copyreader, who had long been a friend and valued adviser of tim's. "you do what you think is right; that's one reason why you are invaluable to the _news_. last night the managing editor paced the floor every minute you were in the air. keep at it, tim, and one of these days you'll be the managing editor of some large paper." after the noon edition was on the press the managing editor summoned tim and ralph to his desk. "what about the condition of the _good news_?" he asked tim. "you'll have to pay for a complete repaint job, mr. carson," said tim. "the ship was badly scorched and smoked up when we got caught in the explosion over the flaming oil tanks. it ought to have the rigging thoroughly checked to see that nothing was sprung in the hard flying i did the rest of the day." "all right, tim," said the managing editor. "you and ralph take the afternoon off, go out to the field, and get a crew started on the repainting. never can tell when we'll need the plane in another emergency and it has become invaluable." "then the stories we've uncovered in the last year have justified the expense of the plane?" tim asked eagerly. "no question about it," replied the managing editor. "you have done far more than either the business manager or i expected and your aviation column is one of our best news features. the only thing i worry about is that you boys will crash one of these days." "don't worry about that," put in ralph. "there is little danger for we have a good ship and we try not to take unnecessary chances." tim and ralph went to the administration building when they reached the airport. they found carl hunter in his office. "hello, heroes," he called, whereupon tim and ralph gave him a good-natured pummeling that left them all breathless. "now that the cyclone is over," smiled the field manager, "i suppose you want something." "you're right for once," said tim. "we want you to put a crew on repainting the _good news_ and checking up on the rigging. carson said to get it done in a hurry for we may need the ship at any time." "i had a hunch you'd breeze in sometime today with a request like that," replied the field manager, "and i'm one up on you. a couple of painters are waiting in the hangar now. same color job as before?" "the same," said tim, "and i hope this one will last longer than the one we scorched off." "you may not be so lucky the next time you start flirting with burning tanks of oil," warned hunter. "there won't be any next time," promised ralph. "we've had our fill of those thrills. no more dodging a chunk of steel that's intent on destroying us. honestly, i lived a whole lifetime in that split second." hunter and the young reporters left the administration building and walked to hangar no. . the scorched and blackened plane that reposed inside was hardly recognizable as the _good news_. hunter gave his instructions to the painters and they started cleaning the wings and fuselage preparatory to repainting the plane. several mechanics were summoned and they set about the task of making a thorough check of the motor and the rigging of the _good news_. when they left the hangar and started back for their car, a raw, wet wind cut through their clothes. "feels like another blizzard is getting ready to descend on us," remarked ralph as he scanned the sky. "weather report says 'continued cloudy'," replied the field manager, "and i'm hoping it's right. another blizzard would raise havoc with us. everyone of our planes is carrying its capacity of mail and we're making every possible effort to keep on schedule." "ralph is inclined to be pessimistic today," laughed tim. "he's always predicting a blizzard or cloudburst." a clerk ran out of the administration building and called to them. "you're wanted on the telephone," he told tim. the flying reporter hurried to answer the summons. when he rejoined ralph several minutes later his face was grave. "something's in the wind," he said. "carson just phoned from the office and wants us to go to town as fast as we can." "have any idea what he wants?" asked ralph as they climbed into the roadster which had brought them to the field. "not a glimmer," replied tim. "there is something mighty mysterious. he talked so low i could hardly hear what he said. we're not to go to the office. carson will meet us in room at the hotel jefferson." "sounds like secret service," said ralph. "that might not be so far wrong," replied tim thoughtfully. fifteen minutes later the reporters entered the hotel jefferson and made their way to the third floor. they stopped at the door of room and tim knocked. the door was opened by the managing editor of the _news_, who motioned for them to enter the room. there were two men beside the managing editor in the room when tim and ralph entered. they were strangers to the reporters and they waited for carson to introduce them. "when i introduce these men," carson told his reporters, "you'll know why i had you come to the hotel." the managing editor turned to the older of the strangers, a heavy-set, gray-haired man whose eyes were of an unusual, penetrating blue. "boys," he said, "i want you to know col. robert searle, head of the state police department." tim and ralph felt their pulses quicken as they heard the name of the visitor. the managing editor turned to introduce the second man, who was taller than searle and younger by several years. "and i also want you to know," went on the managing editor, "captain ned raymond of the bureau of investigation of the state police." tim and ralph acknowledged the introductions and sat down on the bed. they waited for the managing editor to continue. "these men have called on us for assistance," explained carson. "i want them to tell you their troubles and the final decision on what you do will be up to you." colonel searle moved restlessly. "i've heard a great deal about you boys," he said "especially in connection with the sky hawk. you did great work there but i thought you were older." "an older man wouldn't be as fast, as alert, as tim and ralph," said their managing editor. "perhaps you're right," agreed colonel searle. "captain raymond and i are playing a hunch," he went on, "and we have both agreed that if this hunch comes true we are going to need your aid. the airplane has placed an entirely new means of escape in the hands of criminals and we must be ready to combat this. with the present economy policy of the state legislature it would be impossible for us to secure funds for the training of our troopers as pilots or for the purchase of an airplane. for that reason we came here today to appeal to your managing editor." the head of the state police paused for a moment. "interested?" he asked. "go on," chorused tim and ralph. "what we have in mind," continued colonel searle, "is deputising you two for special service. if any emergency arises in which we need an airplane in this section of the state, you would be available. it would also insure your paper of being in first on big news stories." "if mr. carson is favorable," said tim, "you can count on ralph and me." "just a minute," put in captain raymond. "one thing more. there has been a change in the political set-up in dearborn and as a result many criminals are going to be driven out of that city and forced to other fields. it will be natural for some of them to transfer their activities to this state. if they come, as we confidently expect, they will be more dangerous than the average bandit. and remember, the sky hawk is gone but some of his men are still alive. through special police channels we have learned that several of them have banded together again and have been operating in and near dearborn. if they decide to come back this way your mission might be doubly dangerous." "they couldn't be any worse than the sky hawk," said ralph. "in that case," said colonel searle, "i consider it an honor and a privilege to appoint you as special and secret members of the state police." captain raymond produced the records which tim and ralph were to sign and in less than five minutes they were in the state police. colonel searle gave them identification cards and the small gold eagle which also indicated their position. "we may not need you," said captain raymond, "but if things come out as i predict, it won't be long before part of the sky hawk's old gang will be back. the hawk is gone, thanks to you boys, but the memory of his methods and daring lives on in the minds of the men who associated with him." as the newspaper men prepared to leave, colonel searle added a final word of caution. "remember, not a word about our meeting here to anyone. if it becomes known in any way, that we have enlisted you as special agents, it might expose you to needless danger. that's why we had you meet us here instead of in your office." tim and ralph were the first to leave room . in spite of their excitement they did not speak until they were back in their car where their conversation could not be overheard. "what do you think of it?" asked ralph. "looks like the state police are expecting serious trouble and are getting ready for it." "you mean the sky hawk's old gang?" "exactly." "i thought they were through when we got the sky hawk," said ralph. "i had hoped so," said tim, "but i guess it was too good to be true. if they do come this way, they won't have any love for us." ralph looked down at the little gold eagle in the palm of his hand. "at least we'll have the power of the state police behind us," he said. "and we'll probably need it," added tim. chapter five tim and ralph returned to the _news_ office where tim busied himself writing copy for his aviation column in the next day's paper. among the letters he found on his desk was one from the news director of the transcontinental air mail company at san francisco. the letter contained an announcement of the company plans to increase their passenger and air mail service to three trips a day each way across country. it would mean the inauguration of the most auspicious air transport program in the country. the letter went on to say that giant tri-motored biplanes, capable of carrying passengers and half a ton of mail or express, were being completed in the transcontinental's shops. a half dozen of the new planes would be put in service with the opening of the new schedule and a dozen more would be completed as rapidly as possible. the letter indicated that all of the planes would stop at atkinson, which meant tim's home city would have the best transcontinental air service in the country. the story was news, big news, and he devoted the remainder of the afternoon to writing it. he got in touch with carl hunter at the field and learned that hunter had just received instructions to put on an extra ground crew. the postmaster supplied information on the value of the increased air mail service to bankers and business men and when tim had finished gathering his material he had enough for a two column story. the young aviation editor of the _news_ worked until six o'clock, went out for a hasty dinner, and returned to the office to complete his story. the aviation copy must be ready the first thing in the morning to send to the waiting linotypes. tim checked the facts in his story carefully. when he finished reading it over he felt that it was a creditable news story, certainly it was interesting and he thought it fairly well written. ralph, who had been sent out late in the afternoon to cover a service club dinner, came stamping into the office. "of all the hot air," he exploded, "i've listened to a prize assortment in the last hour and a half. i'm always getting stuck for some assignment like this." tim had little sympathy to offer and ralph went over to his typewriter and banged savagely at the keys. at nine o'clock the boys decided to call it a day. tim had written the last line of copy for his aviation department and ralph had managed to finish his story on the dinner. the air was raw and bitter when they reached the street and heavy clouds obscured the stars. "nasty night for the air mail," commented tim as he turned up the collar of his coat. "going to snow before morning," predicted ralph. "hope you're wrong," replied tim. "we've had enough winter. i'm ready for spring." the young reporters walked to the corner where they boarded different street cars. ralph started home and tim went to his room. tim undressed when he reached his room, selected an interesting adventure novel, and stretched out on his bed to read. lost in the thrilling exploits of the hero of the novel, he did not notice the passage of time. the coolness of the room finally aroused him and when he looked at the clock it was nearly midnight. tim got up and felt the radiator. it was cold and the wind was whistling in the eaves outside his window. he looked down into the street. faint swirls of snow danced along the paving and while he watched the air became thick with snowflakes. the wind was increasing, whipping the snow into a blizzard. tim could hardly see beyond the first street light. he looked at the clock again. it would be tough on the air mail flyers if they were between landing fields or in the great smokies when the storm broke. the rugged peaks of the mountains would be merciless on such a night. tim turned to the telephone and called the municipal airport. after an interval carl hunter answered. "how is the mail?" asked tim. "getting a bad break," snapped hunter. "the storm dropped like a blanket and two of the ships were caught in the great smokies. we haven't heard from either the eastbound or the westbound for more than half an hour." "what are you going to do?" "nothing until the storm breaks." "and then?" "send out rescue planes if i can find anyone to fly them. all of the mail pilots are on the east end of the division and even if the storm lets up at daybreak it will be noon before they can get here." "you can count ralph and me for anything we can do," promised tim. "thanks a lot," replied the field manager. "i'd appreciate it if you would come out now. i'm here all alone and my nerves are getting jumpy in the storm. bring plenty of heavy clothes for the temperature is dropping fast. may be near zero by morning." tim promised to go to the field at once and after hunter had hung up the receiver telephoned for ralph. a sleepy-sounding voice finally answered his summons and in a few words tim explained what was needed. "i'll throw on some clothes and hop a cab for the field," said ralph, all thought of sleep having vanished. tim dressed carefully and warmly for he had a hunch it would be a good many hours before he saw bed again and from past experiences he was wise enough to follow his hunch. the flying reporter phoned for a cab and then went downstairs to await its arrival. he stopped at the door of his landlady's room and slipped a note under to tell of his sudden departure. then he went into the front hallway. the lights of a cab gleamed dimly through the snow and tim hastened out into the storm. the taxi driver, heavily bundled, grunted as tim gave his destination. "sure you want to get to the airport?" demanded the driver. "can't you make it?" asked tim. "don't know," replied the taxi man. "the snow is drifting fast and that road is bad on a night like this." "see how far you can get," said tim as he climbed into the cab. with a grinding of gears the cab moved into the storm. the snow was falling in a solid blanket that obscured even the buildings flanking the street. lights were visible for only a few feet and tim and the driver felt as though they were in a world of their own. once or twice the cab slid into the curb but each time the driver managed to keep it under way and they finally pulled through the gate at the airport. tim told the driver to charge the trip to the _news_ and was about to enter the administration building when another cab jolted to a stop. ralph, bundled in a heavy coat, hopped out and followed tim into the field manager's office. hunter, a radiophone headset at his ears, was listening intently to an air mail report. he motioned for the boys to take chairs and went on with his work. the reporters waited until hunter had finished taking the message. "what news now?" asked tim. "bad news," replied the field manager. "two planes lost somewhere in the great smokies. it's a cinch that the storm forced them down and you know how much chance there is of making a safe set-down on a night like this." "who were on the ships?" ralph wanted to know. "tiny lewis was coming east and george mitchell was on the westbound," replied hunter. "they don't make any better flyers than those two," commented tim. "but they can't buck a storm like this," hunter reminded. "why, man alive, you can't see ten feet ahead of you." "maybe they had a break and landed when the first flakes started down," suggested ralph. "you're too optimistic," replied the field manager. "this storm wasn't on the weather charts. it just dropped down from nowhere. i don't believe those ships could have stayed up two minutes after they nosed into the storm and neither one of the pilots had time to use their radio-phones." "good thing they had parachutes," said ralph. "i'm afraid chutes wouldn't do them much good," said tim. "they wouldn't have time to use them and wouldn't know where they were going if they did. we'll find lewis and mitchell with the planes." conversation stopped. there was no use to say anything more. they knew the air mail pilots had stuck by their ships. when the storm cleared they would find the ships and the pilots and they only hoped that in some miraculous fashion the ships had not crashed too hard. at four o'clock the storm lessened and the wind abated. at five o'clock there was only a trace of snow in the air and at six o'clock the mechanics had struggled through the drifts from town and were warming up two reserve mail planes. the _good news_, its fuselage damp from the coat of paint, was in no condition to take the air and hunter had placed two of the transcontinental's planes at the disposal of the flying reporters. tim and ralph loaded thermos bottles of hot chocolate into the cockpits of their planes, put in first aid kits, ropes and hand axes and generally prepared for any emergency that might confront them. abundant supplies of extra blankets were tossed into the mail compartment ahead of the pilot's cockpit and the hood was strapped down. the motors of the great green and silver biplanes droned steadily as tim and ralph seated themselves at the controls. "locate them first," hunter shouted to the reporters. "if you can't land and bring them out yourselves, come back and get help. good luck and--hurry!" tim and ralph fully understood the urgency of their mission and they swung the tails of their planes around, opened the throttles and bounced over the field in a smother of snow. the mail planes, their horsepower motors barking in the near zero weather, lifted off the field and sailed away toward the great smokies. somewhere hidden in the dim peaks to the west were the air mail planes and their pilots. chapter six the heavy mail plane was much different from the _good news_ and tim spent the first five minutes in the air getting used to the controls and the feel of the ship. the air speed indicator showed one hundred ten miles an hour with a quartering wind. the sky was clear and the cold air made him thankful for the heavy flying clothes he had donned before climbing into the ship. the flying reporters had mapped out their plan of action before leaving the field at atkinson. tim was to search for lewis while ralph would hunt for mitchell. lewis, on the eastbound plane, would have been the farthest from the atkinson field, and tim gunned his ship hard as he headed for the mountains. the frosty peaks of the great smokies loomed ahead of the churning propeller, ready to snag any unfortunate plane and pilot. tim adjusted his headset and tuned the radiophone in on the station at atkinson. hunter was talking with the air mail station west of the mountains when tim broke in with his buzzer signal. "any news?" he asked. "not a word," replied the field manager. "looks like whatever rescuing is done today will have to be handled by you and ralph. we won't have extra ships and pilots here until nightfall and that will be too late. you'll have to find lewis and mitchell today." "we'll find them if it is humanly possible," promised tim. they were well into the foothills of the mountains when ralph signaled that he was going to start his search for mitchell, who had been on the westbound ship the night before. ralph circled downward while tim continued his dash toward the formidable, rocky crests in the west. according to all the information available, lewis should have been on the east side of the divide. five minutes before the blizzard struck he had radiophoned that he was about to cross the crest of the range. tim had been up an hour and a half when he reached the higher slopes and precipices of the mountains. he shoved the mail plane up and up until he was almost to the divide before he started his detailed search for the missing plane and pilot. back and forth tim cruised the mail plane, dodging in and out of canyons, circling over sheer precipices that fell away for a thousand feet, scanning the snow and the rocks for some sign. the powerful motor was using great quantities of fuel and tim watched the gasoline gauge with an anxious eye. at nine o'clock he had fuel for a little more than another hour of flying. to have gone back to atkinson was out of the question. he would land at some village or ranch in the foothills, replenish his gasoline tanks, and resume the search. half an hour later he switched on the radiophone and informed the field manager that he was temporarily abandoning his search. hunter directed tim to the nearest ranch where fuel would be available and the flying reporter snapped off the radiophone and glided down off the divide. ten minutes later he swung low over ranch buildings which nestled in a sheltered valley in the foothills. below the buildings was a level meadow, the only piece of ground that appeared safe to attempt a landing. the noise of the airplane motor brought men from the ranch buildings and tim waved at them. smoke coming from a chimney of the ranch house gave him his wind direction and he dropped down on the meadow to make a careful survey. the field, although covered by six or seven inches of snow, appeared level. tim gunned the motor, banked sharply, and fishtailed down. the mail plane landed hard, bounced on a low ridge, threatened to dig its nose into a drift, and finally straightened out, coming to a standstill not more than ten feet from a barbed wire fence. the flying reporter unfastened his safety belt and stood up in the cockpit. his legs ached with the cold, which had crept through his heavy boots and clothing to chill the very marrow of his bones. half a dozen cowboys plowed through the drifted snow. they greeted tim with cheery cries. "you're off the trail, big boy," said the first cowboy to reach the plane. "i'm all right," replied tim, "but i've been out all morning looking for one of the air mail ships that was lost in the blizzard last night." "someone get caught in the mountains?" another cowboy asked. "two planes," replied tim. "one of them was the westbound ship and the other was eastbound. they were last heard from just before the blizzard closed down." "gosh," said the first cowboy, "the great smokies are a tough bunch of hills for anyone to be caught in a storm." "we've got two planes out searching for them," explained tim. "i ran low on gas and thought maybe you fellows would have some at the ranch you could spare. it would save me a long trip back to atkinson." a heavy-set, red-faced man had made his way to the green and silver mail plane. he had overheard tim's request and stepped up to the plane to introduce himself. "i'm hank cummins, owner of the circle four ranch," he said. "you're welcome to all the gasoline you need and anything else we can do to help you." tim introduced himself and found that the owner of the circle four and all of his men had read of his exploits as the flying reporter. "you're one of the fellows who got the sky hawk last year!" exclaimed a cowboy. tim grinned and nodded. the owner of the ranch started giving orders and the cowboys hurried away to fill cans with gasoline and replenish the nearly empty fuel tanks of the mail plane. tim crawled stiffly from the cockpit. it felt good to be on the ground again with a chance to exercise his stiffened muscles. he flailed his arms to bring back the circulation and stamped his feet on the ground. in five minutes the cowboys were back with the heavy cans of gasoline and tim directed their efforts. a short time later and the mail plane was ready to go again. "better come up to the house and have a snack to eat before you start," urged mr. cummins. "i haven't any time to spare," replied tim. "it will be time saved," said the ranch owner. "you get some warm food inside and you'll be a lot more alert. come on up to the house and sit down at the table for a few minutes." tim finally agreed and accompanied the rancher to the house. a chinese cook served hot coffee, bacon and eggs and the food gave tim new courage and enthusiasm to resume his gruelling search. when the flying reporter returned to the meadow he found that the cowboys had appointed themselves a ground crew and had turned the mail plane around. several of them, armed with shovels, were busy clearing a path through a heavy drift that extended across the middle of the field. tim thanked mr. cummins for his kindness and promised to send a check to cover the bill for the gasoline. "that's all right," laughed the rancher. "we're glad to be able to help you." the flying reporter climbed into the cockpit, switched on the starter, and heard the motor roar on the second or third time over. the propeller spewed fine snow in every direction and the cowboys ran for shelter before the driving white particles. tim throttled down, aimed his plane down the makeshift runway, and gave her the gun. the mail ship bounced over the frozen surface of the meadow, swung dangerously as the wheels bit into the soft snow which the cowboys had attempted to clear away, and finally nosed into the air. tim took his time in gaining altitude and then swung back over the ranch. he waved at the group below and could see them reply. then he headed into the west to resume his search on the treacherous slopes of the great smokies. noon found tim deep in the fastnesses of the mountains, searching obscure pockets and canyons, then roaring along thinly forested slopes where a motor failure would have spelled instant destruction. one o'clock. two o'clock. still there was no trace of the missing plane. the sun had cleared away the clouds of the morning and the visibility was good. the air was a little warmer but tim was forced to beat his arms against his body to keep them from stiffening in the cold. the supply of gasoline he had obtained at the ranch was getting low when he knew that he was near the end of the search. there was just enough to explore a distant tier of peaks that swung off to his right. not much chance of the mail being that far off the regular airway but he didn't dare let any possibility escape. tim scanned the broken walls of rock ahead. there seemed little chance that a pilot could escape if his plane crashed in such a country. the flying reporter was about to abandon his search when something on the crest of a jagged ridge drew his attention. he swung the mail ship nearer and circled down for a closer view. it looked--it looked--yes, it was, the tail of an air mail plane sticking up above the rocks. tim stood up in the cockpit and cried aloud. he had found the eastbound mail! was there a chance that the pilot had survived the crash? the question raced through tim's mind and he sent the air mail plane hurtling downward. he levelled off two feet above the peak which had impaled the eastbound mail and circled carefully. he made two complete swings and there was no sign of life in the wrecked plane. lewis, pilot of the eastbound, must have been flying blind, attempting to make a landing, when he struck the crag. the mail had evidently hit the peak at a sharp downward angle. the tail had been ripped off and left to serve as a solitary beacon which eventually brought tim to the scene. the rest of the plane had skidded and bounced along the far slope of the mountain for more than a hundred feet, finally coming to rest in a small clump of straggling mountain pine. the tough tree trunks had crumpled the wings back along the fuselage and tim had to admit that it was just about as complete a washout as he had ever seen. there was no ledge along the mountain on which he could make a landing and he had about decided to return to atkinson and report when a slight movement in the wreckage attracted his attention. tim dropped the heavy mail plane as low as he dared and cut his motor down to a minimum. he was not more than fifty feet above the clump of pines which held the wreck of the air mail. from the splintered wood and canvas he saw an arm emerge and then the face of tiny lewis, one of the best pilots in the service. the flying reporter was low enough to glimpse the wild stare in lewis's eyes and he knew that the pilot had been knocked out of his senses by the crash. while tim watched lewis collapsed and sank back into the wreckage. the motor of tim's ship had aroused some inner sense and lewis had made a supreme effort to make his presence known. tim looked about eagerly for a landing field. the nearest level ground was at least three miles down the mountain and on the other side. there was only one thing to do--speed for help. the circle four ranch was nearest and tim opened the throttle of the mail ship and sped into the east. he wondered how lewis had managed to withstand the cold of the night and day. perhaps he had been sheltered somewhat by the wreckage of the plane. it was just after three o'clock when tim roared over the circle four ranch house and set the mail plane down in the pasture with little ceremony. by the time he had taxied back to the side of the field nearest the ranch buildings cummins and his cowboys were climbing the fence. "i've found the eastbound plane and pilot," shouted tim, "and i need more gas and a couple of men to fly back with me and help get the pilot out. he appears hurt and is caught in the wreckage." hank cummins roared orders with great gusto and the cowboys hurried to carry them out. the fuel tanks were refilled in record time. "you say you needed two men?" asked the owner of the circle four. "it will be a long climb up the mountain," said tim, "and we may have to carry lewis down. he weighs something over two hundred pounds and that won't be any picnic if he can't walk." "i'll say you need two men then," said cummins. "looks to me like there's room for three or four in that mail hole there." "there is room enough," explained tim, "but remember we'll have to count on bringing lewis back with us." "we could leave a couple of the boys on the mountain," said the ranchman. "give them plenty of blankets and we can send after them tomorrow. sounds to me like we'll need lots of help." "all right," agreed tim. "you pick the men and we'll get under way." cummins turned to the cowboys, all of whom were eager to make the trip. "curly, boots and jim," he called, and three husky punchers stepped up to the side of the plane. "pile in boys," urged tim. "you'll have to lay down in the mail compartment and you won't get a chance to see very much scenery if you put the top down." "leave her up," cried curly, "i've always wanted to see how this dog-goned country looked from the air." "you're the doctor," laughed tim. "don't blame me if you get pretty cold on the flight to the mountains." extra blankets for the punchers who would stay in the great smokies were stowed aboard and a haversack of food was handed up to the plane. then willing hands swung the mail ship around, tim opened the throttle, and they bounced over the meadow and into the air. in a little more than half an hour tim circled over the only level ground on the side of the mountain. there was a long, narrow gash that appeared smooth enough for a landing and he set the mail ship down cautiously. the first time he overshot the mark and had to try again. on the second attempt he made a perfect three point and killed his speed quickly. tim shut off the motor and climbed out of his cockpit. the cowboys tumbled down from the mail compartment while cummins tossed the blankets, rope and hand axes after them. the mail plane was rolled to some nearby trees and securely lashed down. tim was taking no chances on a sudden wind destroying their means of escape from the mountains. after making sure that the plane was safe, they started the long climb up the mountain. at times they moved rapidly, especially where the wind had swept the snow off the rocks. but again their progress was heart-breaking, deep drifts forcing them to fight for every foot of headway. up and up they climbed, stopping only occasionally to rest. the cowboys were in good physical condition and tim was glad that he kept himself in shape. the strenuous climb might have killed a man who was not sound in heart and lungs. the last, long climb was in sight when they stopped for a short rest. "boy," sputtered curly, "i'm glad i'm not a mail pilot. believe me, i'll stay on the ground and chase the dogies. think of smashing up in a place like this." "it is pretty wild," admitted tim, "but the boys don't crack up very often." they resumed the climb and managed to reach the crest of the mountain just as the sun disappeared behind a higher range in the west. the tail of the wrecked plane had been the lone sentinel which had guided them in their long climb. it had been impaled by a tooth-like rock that held it firmly. in the pines on the other slope they could see the wreckage of the plane and the marks in the snow plainly showed the course of the stricken ship. the rescue party hurried down the steep slope. tim, in the lead, was the first to reach the wreckage. "tiny! tiny!" he called. there was no answer. "tiny! tiny!" he shouted and the mountains mocked him with their echoes. tim plunged into the wreckage, working toward the place where he had seen the arm and face of the pilot when he had discovered the wreck. with cummins at his side, he fairly tore the wreckage apart until they came to the pilot's cockpit. an arm through a piece of canvas was the first indication that lewis was still in the plane. then they found him! he was wedged into the cockpit. his eyes were closed and he was breathing slowly. his face was white in the gathering dusk. the cowboys, with their hand axes, hacked a path out of the wreckage and they lifted lewis from his trap and carried him out into the open where they spread blankets and laid him down. the owner of the circle four, who professed to have a slight knowledge of physical ailments, went over the injured flyer carefully. "he'll probably be on the shelf a few months," he said when he had completed his examination, "but i think he'll pull through all right." "what's wrong?" asked tim. "looks to me like a considerable number of broken ribs, and a good hard crack on the head that might be a slight fracture, and exposure, of which the exposure is about as bad as any." the cowboys built a roaring fire that cast eerie shadows on the wreckage of the mail and then proceeded to loosen the injured flyer's clothes. lewis' body was thoroughly warmed and the circulation restored to his arms and feet before they bundled him up for the trip down the mountain. it was eight o'clock before they were ready to start the descent. the hours had been spent in cutting a plentiful supply of pine knots which would serve as torches and in fashioning a stretcher on which to carry the injured flyer. according to the plan outlined by the ranchman, four of them would carry the stretcher while the fifth would go ahead, lighting the trail with one of the pine knots. the mail flyer was still unconscious when they placed him on the makeshift stretcher but he was made comfortable with an abundance of blankets. tim took one of the forward handles of the stretcher, cummins took the other and boots and jim undertook to carry the back end. curly, his arms loaded with the pine fagots, went ahead to light the way. the stretcher was heavy and bundlesome and even the short distance to the crest of the mountain was a cruel struggle. they were almost exhausted when they reached the top and put down the stretcher. however, the rest of the journey to the plane would be down hill. they alternated carrying the stretcher and the torches and made fair progress. when their supply of pine pieces ran low they were forced to call a halt while boots and jim hunted up a clump of pines and secured a new supply. the trip down the mountains required three hours and it was eleven o'clock when they finally staggered into the clearing that sheltered the waiting mail plane. when they let the stretcher down, they heard the injured flyer groan. tim bent low over lewis. "where am i? what's happened?" demanded the air mail pilot, his voice little more than a whisper. "you crashed in the storm," replied tim. "we found you in the great smokies and are getting ready to take you back to atkinson. how do you feel?" "kind of smashed up inside," whispered lewis. "hang on a couple of hours longer and we'll have you in a hospital," smiled tim. "how about it, old man?" "sure, sure," was the low reply. the cowboys helped tim wheel the mail plane around and head it down the narrow clearing. then they lifted lewis into the mail compartment and onto the bed they had prepared for him. tim turned to the owner of the circle four. "i'd better head straight for atkinson when i take off," he said. "two of the boys will have to stay here and i'll bring the two who go with me back to the ranch in the morning." "that's all right with us," agreed cummins. "curly and i will make the trip with you and boots and jim can stay here tonight. in the morning they can go back and bring down the mail. the boys from the ranch will meet them with horses sometime in the forenoon." boots and jim took armsful of the pine fagots and hurried down the clearing. they placed flaming torches to light to take off and tim started the motor while cummins and curly crawled into the mail compartment to look after lewis. tim exercised great care in warming up the motor. it must not fail him when he called on it to lift the heavy plane into the night sky. finally satisfied that the motor was functioning perfectly, tim settled himself in the cockpit and opened the throttle. the narrow clearing, dimly outlined by the uncertain light of the pine torches, was none too long. the mail plane started slowly, then gathered speed and flashed into the night. chapter seven tim fought the controls as the mail plane careened down the clearing in the dim light of the blazing pine torches. he heard, faintly, the encouraging shouts of boots and jim as they cheered for a successful takeoff. the odds were terrific. the clearing was barely long enough for a takeoff with the best of conditions. the ground was uneven and the snow materially checked his speed. tim waited until the end of the clearing loomed. then he pulled back on the stick and jerked the plane off the ground. they zoomed into the night sky and tim breathed easier, but only for a second. the motor missed and he felt the loss of flying speed. he instantly switched to the other magneto and the motor resumed its rhythmic firing. it was just in time for the plane had dropped dangerously low. tim circled over the clearing, got his directions, and then headed in a direct airline for atkinson. the mail plane hurtled through the night at one hundred thirty miles an hour, its maximum speed, and tim pushed it every mile of the way. it was hard work piloting the mail for every muscle and bone in his body cried with fatigue. the long hours in the air, and the struggle up and down the mountain had sapped his energy. in spite of the cold, he found it hard to keep awake. the motor droned steadily and its song lulled tim into a dangerous state of lassitude. his eyes grew heavy and once or twice he caught himself dozing. the flying reporter realized fully the danger of going to sleep at the controls and used every power at his command to ward off the sleepiness. he beat his arms against his body, stamped his feet on the floor of the cockpit and even stood up so that the icy blast from the propeller beat against his cheeks. the remedies would be effective for four or five minutes. then he would feel himself slipping again. each time it was harder to arouse himself to the task of moving his arms and legs, of standing up and facing the chilling slipstream. they were not more than twenty-five miles from atkinson when tim's eyes finally closed and his head fell forward. his hands, which had gripped the stick in desperate determination, relaxed and the mail ship cruised on with its pilot asleep in the cockpit. for three or four minutes all went well. the mail plane, a well rigged craft, maintained an even keel and hank cummins and curly, crouched in the mail compartment with the injured lewis, had no intimation that tim was not at his post of duty. then a vagrant night wind swept out of the north and caught the plane at a quartering angle. the stick waggled impatiently as though signalling tim that his attention was needed. finding no master hand to control it, the stick gave up the job and surrendered to the wind. the mail veered off to the south, went into a tight bank, and ended up in a screaming nose dive. the wires shrieked as the air speed increased and the motor added its crescendo to the din. the plane had dropped one thousand feet and was less than nine hundred feet above the ground when the terrific noise penetrated tim's sub-conscious mind. when he opened his eyes he knew they were in a power dive, heading for the earth at nearly two hundred miles an hour. without glancing at the altimeter tim seized the stick and attempted to bring the plane out of its dive. the motor pulsated with new power and gradually, carefully he brought the nose up. when he felt that the wings would not snap off under the tremendous strain, he levelled off. tim looked below. not a hundred feet away he could see the outline of objects on the ground. another second or two of sleep and they would all have been wiped out in a crash. he wiped the cold perspiration from his brow, relaxed just a bit, and set a new course for atkinson. ten minutes later he could see the lights of the city reflected in the sky and in another five minutes he was circling down to a landing on the municipal field. the great sperry floodlight, used when the air mail planes were landing or taking off, bathed the field in its blue-white brilliance. it was as light as day and tim set the heavy ship down as lightly as a feather. he taxied up to the administration building and an ambulance, waiting near the gate, backed down toward his plane. "they telephoned from the circle four that you had found lewis and his ship," shouted carl hunter as he hurried up to the plane. "found him on top of a mountain," replied tim. "he's some smashed up inside but i think he'll pull through. the mail is still in the plane but two of the boys from the circle four are watching it and they'll start down with it tomorrow." the field manager took charge of the situation and they lifted the injured flyer down from the mail cockpit. lewis was unconscious again but was breathing deeply and freely. the young surgeon with the ambulance gave him a cursory examination. "he'll pull through all right," was his verdict as he swung into the ambulance and it started its dash for the hospital in the city. tim was so tired and chilled that he had to be helped from the cockpit. his legs, aching from the cold and the arduous exertion of the day, simply folded up under him. hank cummins grinned at him. "i don't feel much better myself," he admitted. "and gosh, what an appetite climbing a mountain gives a fellow. let's eat." supported by the ranchman on one side and the field manager on the other, tim made his way to the administration building. "ralph must have come in early since he didn't wait for me," said tim as they entered the manager's office. hunter did not answer immediately and tim turned toward him with anxious eyes. "what's the matter, carl?" he demanded. "isn't ralph in; haven't you heard from him?" "we haven't had any news," admitted the field manager, "but you know ralph well enough to realize that he can take care of himself in almost any kind of an emergency." tim knew that ralph was capable and resourceful but he had also had a vivid demonstration of the dangers of flying in the great smokies. "i've got to start out and hunt for him," he cried. "have the boys get the plane ready to go." "you'll do nothing of the kind," snorted hunter. "you're in no shape to fly. look at your eyes. you'd be sound asleep in ten minutes and then we'd have to start looking for you. no sir! you stay right here, put some warm food inside and then roll in. the mail planes are going through tonight on schedule and they've all been instructed to look for some sign of a campfire in the mountains. ralph may have found the wrecked westbound, landed, and be unable to get back into the air again." there was sound advice in the field manager's words and tim realized that it would be folly for him to attempt to fly again that night. a waiter from the restaurant at the other end of the administration building brought in a tray of steaming hot food and tim, hank cummins, curly, and hunter sat down for a midnight lunch. "there's just one thing i'd like to know," said the ranchman. "what in thunder were you trying to do when you started for the ground all of a sudden. i was scared half to death and curly was shouting his prayers." "to tell the truth i went to sleep," confessed tim. "when i woke up we were in a power dive and not very far from the ground. i was scared stiff but lady luck was with us and the wings stayed on when i pulled the plane out of the dive. otherwise, we might not be having hot soup right now. and boy, does this soup hit the spot!" they had nearly finished their lunch when the door opened and the managing editor of the _news_ hurried in. "they phoned me you were coming in a few minutes ago," he told tim. "how are you? where's ralph? is lewis all right?" the flying reporter answered the managing editor's questions as rapidly as possible and then related the events of the day. he introduced the managing editor to hank cummins and curly and told of the important part the circle four men had taken in the rescue of the injured pilot. "that's great work, tim, great," exclaimed the managing editor. "if ralph isn't reported by morning you'll want to start out again. how about writing the story for the _news_ before you turn in?" the lunch and opportunity to relax had restored part of tim's strength and he was eager to write the story of the day's happenings. it was all fresh and vivid in his mind. if he went to sleep and tried to write the story in the morning part of the dashing action, the brilliant color of the words, would be lost. he agreed to the managing editor's suggestion and sat down at the typewriter in the field manager's office. with a handful of paper on the desk beside him, he started his story. the other men in the room continued their conversation but they might as well have been in another world as far as tim was concerned. he was reliving the events of the day, transferring the story of what had happened in the clouds into words and sentences that would thrill the readers of the _news_ the next day. page after page of copy fell from the machine as tim's fingers hammered at the keys. the managing editor unobtrusively picked them up and read them with increasing eagerness. in glowing words tim painted the story of the entire events of the day from the sudden onslaught of the blizzard to the final landing of his plane on the home field. it was a story high in human interest--a story every subscriber of the _news_ would read and remember. when tim had completed the last sentence, he turned to the managing editor. "i'm all in," he admitted, "and if carl will lend me a cot in the pilot's room i'm going to roll in." "you deserve a week of sleep," said the managing editor, as he finished reading the story. "this is one of the best yarns you've ever written," he added enthusiastically. "now when ralph gets in and writes his story--" carson didn't finish. he saw the look of anxiety that his words brought to tim's tired, white face and he added quickly. "you head for bed and we'll let you know just as soon as we hear from ralph." tim nodded dully, almost hopelessly, and stumbled into the pilot's room where he threw himself on a cot. he was asleep before he had time to draw up the blankets. half an hour later tim was roused from his deep slumber by someone shaking his shoulders. faintly he heard words. "the pilot on the westbound tonight saw a campfire in the timber along one of the lower mountains. it must be ralph. we'll start the first thing in the morning." chapter eight when tim and ralph parted in the foothills of the great smokies, ralph took up his search for george mitchell, pilot of the missing westbound mail. throughout the morning ralph conducted his fruitless quest and when noon came he was forced to turn back from the mountains and seek a ranch or village where he could refuel his plane. ralph's ship was slightly smaller than tim's and consequently had a longer cruising radius with the same fuel load. ten miles north of the regular air mail route lay the village of rubio and ralph set the mail plane down in a pasture east of the town. the noise of the plane had drawn the attention of the villagers and they swarmed to the field. ralph quickly explained his needs and the owner of the village garage brought out a truck loaded with gasoline. refueling of the mail ship was soon accomplished and ralph then hastened into the village where he went to the only restaurant and managed to secure a good, warm meal. he ordered a large lunch prepared and packed and by the time he had finished his dinner the lunch was ready. he paid for the food and walked back to the plane. several of the village boys volunteered to hold the wings while ralph warmed the motor. he gave the new fuel a thorough test and then signalled for the boys to let go. the propeller sliced through the air and its blast created a small blizzard which hid the crowd of villagers in a smother of snow. the mail ship gathered momentum, bumped over the uneven ground and finally bounced into the air. ralph headed back for the air mail route to resume his search. back and forth he cruised, confining his search to the foothills of the mountains for there was slight chance that mitchell would have reached the great smokies. the afternoon wore on and ralph's hopes of finding the missing flyer that day lessened. it was slow and tedious work cruising over the rolling hills whose slopes were covered by dense growths of trees, principally pines. if mitchell had come down in one of the forests it might be weeks before he would be found. ralph was speculating on how long his fuel would last when he saw an irregular gash in the tops of the trees ahead. he swung the plane lower. something had taken off the tops of half a dozen tall, scraggly pines. it looked as though some giant of the sky had paused a moment, swung a mighty sickle, and then gone on. a quarter of a mile further ralph saw a repetition of the broken tree tops. then he caught sight of the missing mail plane. the tail of the ship was sticking straight up in the air; the nose was buried in a deep drift at the base of a mighty pine. the propeller was splintered and the undercarriage gone but otherwise the plane did not appear to have been badly damaged. ralph gunned his motor hard and watched for some sign of the pilot near the wrecked plane. for ten minutes he circled the spot before looking for a landing place for his own ship. in one of the valleys between the foothills he found a small meadow that looked as though it would serve as an emergency landing field. he took careful note of the position of the wrecked plane and then drifted down to attempt the landing. the meadow was bordered by pines that stuck their spires into the sky and ralph thought for a time that it would be impossible to avoid their scraggly tops and get into the meadow. he finally found a break in the pines and sideslipped through. then he straightened out and fishtailed down into the meadow. the pines had protected the meadow from the driving north wind of the night before and the snow had not drifted. ralph taxied the mail plane up under the shelter of the trees, lashed it securely, and then prepared for his trip to the wrecked plane. the young reporter took his package of food he had had prepared at rubio, ropes and a hand axe and started the climb up the foothills. the snow had drifted but little and he made good progress. in little more than half an hour he reached the scene of the wreck of the air mail. ralph shouted lustily, but there was no response. the tail of the big ship was pointing straight into the sky. ralph could see that mitchell was not in the pilot's cockpit. then he gasped with astonishment. the door of the mail compartment was open. ralph ran across the small clearing and hastily climbed the wings and on up to the mail compartment. one glance was sufficient. the sack of registered mail was missing! there was no sign of a struggle at the plane and there was no response to his frantic shouts. ralph sat down in the mail cockpit to think things over. his first thought had been that the mail had been robbed. he discarded that belief and decided that mitchell, possibly unharmed in the crackup had taken the precious sack of registered mail and was attempting to find his way out of the forest and make for the nearest town. ralph dropped down from the fuselage and started a search in the snow. it was light and powdery and had drifted just enough to make the detection of footprints difficult. the reporter made a careful search but it was not until he was on the far side of the plane that his efforts were rewarded. footprints, almost concealed by the snow which had fallen later, were dimly visible. ralph, eager and alert, took up the trail and soon had lost sight of the wreck of the westbound air mail. the footprints zig-zagged this way and that for it had been night when mitchell had deserted the plane and started to make his way out of the forest. ralph plowed steadily through the snow. the forest was silent except for the occasional call of a snowbird and ralph felt a mighty loneliness around him. the shadows were lengthening rapidly and ralph pushed forward with renewed determination. at intervals the reporter stopped and listened intently for some sound. it was possible that mitchell might call for help. sundown found the reporter far from the wreck of the air mail, weaving his way along the dim trail. ralph, although little versed in woodcraft, could read certain signs in the dim footprints. he could see that mitchell had been tiring rapidly. the steps were more uneven and once or twice the air mail flyer had stopped beside some tree to rest. the light in the forest was fading rapidly and ralph advanced as fast as possible. once he lost the dim trail and had to retrace his steps. he begrudged the lost time and when he found mitchell's trail started at a dog-trot, but with the coming of the night he was forced to slow down. the reporter stopped in a small clearing and called lustily through cupped hands. again and again he shouted and at last he thought he heard a faint reply. perhaps it was only an echo. he called again and a voice, far away, answered. confident that he was near the missing pilot, ralph hurried forward, bending almost double in order to follow the dim trail. he stopped every few hundred feet and shouted. each time the reply came clearer and stronger. ralph came out on the bank of a small stream. below, on the rocks beside the creek bed, he saw the crouched form of the air mail flyer. "george! george!" cried ralph. "down here," came the reply. "take it easy or you'll slip and twist your ankle just like i did." in less than a minute ralph was beside the man he had been hunting and mitchell told him of the events preceding the crash and how he had attempted to escape from the forest and reach some habitation. "the storm struck so quickly i didn't have a chance to escape," said the air mail flyer as ralph worked over the twisted ankle. "the snow and ice collected on the wings and forced me down. maybe you saw where i took the tops off the trees before i finally cracked." "sure did," said ralph. "matter of fact, the only way i found your ship was through seeing those broken tree tops. they gave me the clue that a plane had been in trouble. a little further along i saw the tail of your ship sticking up in the air." "i took a real flop," went on the mail flyer. "just nosed right straight down and smacked the old earth. i ducked just in time and outside a few bruises wasn't hurt. managed to get the sack of registered stuff out and figured i could get out of the woods and reach some ranchhouse or the railroad. then i fell over this bank, twisted my right ankle, and i've been here ever since." ralph chopped some dry wood from a dead tree nearby and soon had a fire blazing merrily among the rocks. he made the mail flyer as comfortable as possible, warmed the lunch he had brought with him and they both enjoyed the meal, the first mitchell had eaten in twenty-four hours. after the lunch had been devoured, ralph turned his attention to the injured ankle. it was a bad wrench but he managed to fix a makeshift bandage that held it firm. after that was done he picked up a blazing piece of firewood and struck out into the night. in a few minutes he was back with a forked branch which he informed mitchell could be used as a crutch. ralph picked up the sack of registered mail and with his assistance mitchell managed to negotiate the steep slope of the creek valley. when they were in the woods ralph went back and extinguished the fire. the reporter returned and helped support the mail flyer as they started the slow and painful journey to the plane which was to be their means of escape. mitchell did the best he could but his ankle throbbed incessantly and they were forced to rest every few hundred feet. after an hour and a half of the gruelling work, mitchell was exhausted and ralph decided that it would be best for them to wait until morning before continuing their journey. he selected a clearing which had only one large tree in the center. brushing away the snow he cut enough pine branches for a makeshift bed and then constructed a barrier of branches to shield them from the wind. a fire was started and mitchell, weak and chilled from his exertions, laid down beside it. ralph massaged the swollen ankle until the pain had eased and the mail flyer fell asleep. the reporter busied himself securing enough firewood to last until morning and after that task was completed laid down beside mitchell in the fragrant pine bows. he dropped into a deep sleep of exhaustion and had slept for some time when he awoke with a terrifying fear gripping his heart. blazing eyes were staring at him from the edge of the forest; eyes that burned their way into his mind. a whole ring of them were closing in, creeping ever nearer the fire. for a moment the terror of the situation held ralph motionless. then he leaped into action. the fire had died low but there was still a few burning embers. he seized the ends of several of these and hurled them toward the hungry eyes. the flaming brands made fiery arcs through the night. some of them dropped sizzling into the snow; others struck dark bodies. hoarse cries shattered the midnight stillness as the wolves fled before ralph's sudden attack. in a second it was over and when mitchell wanted to know what had happened, ralph felt as though he had been dreaming. "wolves were closing in on us when i woke up," he explained. "for a minute i was too scared to do anything. then i remembered that they were afraid of fire and i hurled half a dozen embers from our campfire at them." "i never thought of wolves," said the mail flyer. "good thing you woke up or we might have become 'a great mystery' or some such thing. it wouldn't take those timber wolves long to finish a fellow." ralph agreed that the wolves were dangerous and piled new fuel on the fire. mitchell still had his heavy service automatic and ralph appropriated the weapon. the bright light from the fire kept ralph awake for a time but after an hour and a half of struggling against fatigue his eyes closed. stealthy movements in the forest failed to arouse him and slinking figures emerged from the timber. the wolves were advancing again. a dozen of the hungry, grey beasts of prey crept nearer and nearer the fire. in an ever narrowing circle they closed in upon their victims, treading lightly lest they make some noise. mitchell, exhausted from his long battle through the snow and the pain of his injured ankle, was breathing deeply. the reporter had fallen asleep sitting up and his head was bent forward as though he was in thought. in his right hand was the heavy . caliber automatic. closer and closer came the wolves. forty feet. the fire crackled as it bit into a pine knot and the beasts stopped their advance. but ralph failed to wake up and the deadly circle drew nearer to the little camp in the center of the clearing. thirty feet. mitchell stirred restlessly and then relapsed into the deep sleep that claimed him. another moment and the wolves would spring, their glistening, bared teeth ripping at their victims. they crept closer, crouched for the fatal spring. the fire was lower, its light making only a dim glow, and through this could be seen the bright eyes of the wolves. from the heavens came the deep thunder of the motor of the westbound mail. its echoes filled the night and ralph awakened instantly. the wolves, startled by the sudden burst of sound, were motionless. in the brief second before they leaped, ralph threw his body across mitchell to shield the injured flyer from the savage onslaught. the automatic in his hand blazed, shattering the darkness with shafts of flame. bullets thudded into the gray shapes which swirled around the dim campfire. a huge timber wolf landed on top of ralph. he felt its hot breath, heard the throaty growl of triumph, felt the muzzle seek his throat. with desperate effort and strength born of terror, ralph pressed the muzzle of the automatic against the shaggy grey fur. the shock of the heavy bullet distracted the wolf and it ceased its efforts to kill ralph and slunk into the shadows. the reporter crouched over mitchell, waiting for more onslaughts. the wolf cries continued and ralph put more fuel on the fire. in the light from the leaping flames he saw the explanation. his first bullets had brought down two of the huge beasts and their companions, scenting the fresh blood, had turned from their attack and were tearing the stricken wolves to pieces. mitchell handed a fresh clip of cartridges to ralph and the reporter sent another hail of lead in the direction of the wolves. fresh cries of pain filled the night but it was not until ralph had brought down two more of the great beasts that the others slunk away and disappeared in the timber. "how did they happen to get so close?" mitchell asked. "i must have fallen asleep," admitted ralph. "first thing i heard was the roar of the westbound plane going over and then i saw a whole circle of hungry eyes looking at us. they were crouched, ready to spring, when the sound of the plane distracted them. it gave me just time enough to get into action with the gun." "good thing you did or all that would have been left of us by morning would be soup bones," grinned mitchell. "i've had all the thrills i want for one night. i'm not going to risk going to sleep again." the reporter and the mail flyer sat up and talked for the remainder of the night. at the first lightening of the sky, they resumed their journey toward the plane. in the clearing they left the bodies of four wolves and further along the trail they found the body of a fifth, the one which had leaped upon ralph. they finally reached the wreck of the mail plane and continued until they came to the clearing where ralph had left his ship. "not any too much room to get out of this pocket," commented mitchell as he surveyed the tall pines which enclosed the valley. "i had to fish tail in and dodge a few trees doing it," replied ralph. "but if i got in i guess i'll be able to get out all right." mitchell rested in the snow while ralph unlashed the plane and turned it around. then the reporter boosted the flyer into the mail cockpit and prepared for the take-off. he primed the motor and felt that luck was with him when it started easily. mitchell leaned out of the mail cockpit and shouted back at ralph. "i know this ship," he cried. "let her get a good run. then pull back hard and she'll climb almost straight up. don't hold her in a climb for more than two hundred feet or she may slip back on back and go into a tail spin." ralph nodded his thanks and made a final check to see that the plane was ready for the attempt to get out of the valley. tall pines loomed on every side. straight ahead there was a slight break in the tree tops he hoped to be able to slide through. it would require skilful piloting but they had passed through so many ordeals in the last few hours that ralph felt himself capable of meeting the emergency. the reporter leaned ahead and tapped mitchell on the shoulder. "all set?" he asked. mitchell nodded. "then hang on," cried ralph and he opened the throttle and sent the plane skimming through the snow. the barrier of pines rose ahead of the propeller. ralph waited until the last second and then jerked the stick back. the wheels lifted off the ground and the ship flashed into the air. it was going to be close but it looked like they would clear the trees and wing their way eastward in safety. ralph whipped the plane through the narrow opening in the tree tops. they were almost clear when one wing brushed the snow-burdened tips of the pine. it was just enough to throw the plane out of balance. they lost speed and the nose started down. ralph had visions of being impaled on the tops of the trees and he worked frantically to right the plane. lower and lower they slipped. then the motor overcame the pull of gravity and they resumed their climb. two tall trees barred their way and ralph banked sharply. there was a sudden jar as though some giant had reached up to pluck the plane from the sky. then it was over and they were soaring towards the clouds. mitchell, who had been watching their progress, relaxed and slumped down into the mail cockpit. ralph, perplexed by the last jarring sensation as they cleared the final barrier, wondered what had happened to the ship. the wing tips had not been damaged and the tail assembly was all right. determined to find out what had taken place, ralph leaned far out of the cockpit in order to see the landing gear. one glance was sufficient. the left wheel had been smashed. ralph slid back into his seat and gave his attention to the handling of the plane. he had more than an hour in which to decide how he would land at atkinson. the sky cleared and the sun peeped over the horizon. the last snow of winter would soon be little more than a memory but it would be a bitter one for the air mail with two planes wrecked. atkinson was just waking up when ralph roared over and circled the airport. he swooped low to attract attention and first on the field was tim, who had been awakened by the sound of the plane. "one wheel of ralph's ship is smashed!" cried hunter. "and i'll bet he hasn't got a whole lot of gas left," said tim. "what will we do?" asked carson, who had returned to the field. "take a wheel up to him," replied tim. turning to the field manager, he asked, "have you got a spare wheel that will fit that ship?" "two of them," said hunter. "i'll have them in in less than a minute." he hastened to the parts room and returned with a spare wheel. together they ran to hangar no. which was the home of the _good news_. the plane, repainted and with its motor and rigging carefully checked, was ready to go again. "you handle the controls," tim told hunter, "and i'll do the plane changing stunt." hunter warmed up the _good news_ and tim secured the extra equipment he needed. he tossed a coil of rope into the forward cockpit and put an assortment of wrenches of various sizes into the pockets of his tight-fitting leather jacket. then he vaulted into the cockpit and signalled for hunter to open the throttle. the _good news_ flipped through the open door of the hangar, made a short run, and then, its powerful motor thrumming steadily, nosed skyward in a steep climb. hunter took the _good news_ alongside the slower mail plane and tim signalled to ralph what he intended to attempt. mitchell, who was now aware of the danger of their situation, was watching anxiously from the mail cockpit of ralph's plane. himself an expert flier, he was fuming impatiently at his helplessness. hunter and ralph coordinated the speed of their planes and hunter gradually edged over the other plane. tim made one end of the rope fast to the cockpit and to the other he tied the spare wheel. he lowered the wheel over the side of the fuselage and slowly let it down until it was just above mitchell. the mail flyer reached up and took the wheel, untying the rope to which it had been fastened. then tim pulled the rope back, knotted it in half a dozen places, and tossed it overboard again. "take it easy," he warned hunter as he unfolded his long legs and eased them over the side of the cockpit. the air was cold and clinging to a swaying rope one thousand feet above the ground while traveling ninety miles an hour was no picnic. little by little tim slid down the swaying rope. ralph watched the controls of his plane like a hawk, creeping nearer and nearer to tim. the gap between tim and the upper wing of the mail plane lessened--almost vanished. then the flying reporter let go and sprawled on the wing, his hands clutching the forward wing. the drop had knocked the breath from his body and he gasped painfully. after a short rest he felt his strength returning and started edging toward the center of the ship. ralph held the plane steady and tim made good progress. in less than five minutes he was in the mail cockpit with mitchell. in a few words the injured pilot told tim what had happened, of his own crash and attempt to get out of the timber with the registered mail, how ralph had found him and later fought off the wolves and how they had smashed a wheel in getting clear of the trees surrounding the valley. tim told mitchell that he had found lewis, the other missing pilot, and brought him safely to atkinson. that done, tim took the wheel and slide out of the cockpit and down on to the landing gear. the axle was only slightly bent and was still strong enough to stand the strain of landing in the snow. tim worked hard to get the lock nut off the smashed wheel for it had jammed. he finally worked it loose and then dropped the damaged wheel on to the flying field far below. the new wheel slid into place and he managed to get the lock nut on. the wheel wobbled a little but it would permit ralph to land in safety. tim clambered back into the mail cockpit and motioned for ralph to land. the pilot brought the mail ship down to an easy landing and taxied up to the row of hangars where they were met by the impatient managing editor. a photographer was waiting and he snapped half a dozen pictures as ralph and tim helped mitchell from the plane. the flyer was sent in to town for treatment at a hospital and tim and ralph accompanied the managing editor to the _news_ office. "don't you want something to eat?" asked carson as they reached the office. "i'll wait," grinned ralph. "if i eat now i'll go to sleep and you'll never wake me up. i'll write the story first and eat afterward." chapter nine the afternoon editions of the _news_ that day featured the stories tim and ralph had written of their adventures in rescuing the air mail pilots. pictures of ralph's plane landing and of ralph and tim helping george mitchell were spread all over the second page. but long before the presses started their daily run tim was in the air again, refreshed by at least part of a night's sleep. ralph, exhausted by his adventures and lack of sleep, went to bed as soon as he finished writing his story. after returning to the airport, tim prepared to take his cowboy friends back to the circle four ranch. hank cummins, the owner of the circle four, was waiting for tim at the field. "just had a telephone call from the ranch," he said, "and by the time we get there they'll have the mail down where we can pick it up." "that will be fine," exclaimed tim. "i'll have it back here by late afternoon." tim warmed up the _good news_ and motioned for the ranchman and curly to climb into the forward cockpit. "better strap yourselves in," he warned them. "this ship steps out and we're going places. if we happen to hit some rough air you'll think you're riding a bronco." curly grinned as though he thought tim was joking but the flying reporter insisted that the cowboy strap himself in the plane. the _good news_ was pulsating with power and tim decided to give his new friends a thrill or two. he opened the throttle and the plane dusted down the field like a scared jackrabbit. tim pulled back hard on the stick and the powerful motor took them almost straight into the sky. up and up they spiraled, clawing for altitude and getting it by leaps and bounds. five hundred, seven-fifty, one thousand, fifteen hundred and then two thousand. they were flashing away from the earth at a dizzying pace. when the plane was about the two thousand foot level, tim levelled off and headed in the direction of the circle four. the air speed indicator started to climb. there was a favoring wind to boost them along and the needle advanced steadily. they breezed along at a hundred and eighty miles an hour and when tim pushed the speed up to one hundred and ninety miles an hour curly turned around. his face was white and scared looking. he motioned for tim to slow down and the flying reporter shut off the motor. "i don't want to get home in a minute," yelled the cowboy. "take your time, take your time. all i've got to do when we get home is chase cows." tim grinned and shook his head. "you haven't seen anything yet," he cried. "if you think a horse can buck, watch this." the flying reporter switched on the motor again and fed fuel into the white-hot cylinders. their speed increased until they were flashing through the sky at two hundred and five miles an hour. curly and hank cummins were clinging to the combing of the front cockpit, their knuckles white from the desperation of their grip. tim eased up on the throttle and slowed down to the sedate pace of one hundred and fifty miles an hour. curly and hank settled down in their seats, only to lose their hats when tim swung the _good news_ into a loop. from that he dropped into a falling leaf and ended up by flying upside down. "can a bronco do stunts like that?" asked tim when the _good news_ was again on an even line of flight. "one or two," curly managed to say, "but they can't buck upside down for that long a time. take me home. i'll be glad to get out of this sky horse." the _good news_ fairly snapped the miles out of its exhaust and it was only a short time after they had left the field at atkinson when tim brought the plane to rest in the meadow below the ranch buildings. boots and jim were waiting for him with the sacks of mail they had taken from the wreckage of lewis' plane in the great smokies. tim checked the sacks. "every one of them here and nothing damaged," he said. "by night they'll be on their way east again by air mail." hank cummins urged him to go to the ranch house for a warm lunch, but tim refused the invitation. "then pay us a visit this summer when you have your vacation," insisted the owner of the circle four. "come out here with the boys. they'll teach you how to ride and rope and maybe do a little fancy shooting. there's good fishing in the streams back in the hills and maybe, if the rustling that started last summer keeps on, you might run into a little excitement." "in that case," smiled tim, "i wouldn't be surprised if you had a couple of reporters spending their vacations with you this summer." "nothing would please me more," said the genial ranchman, "and be sure and drop in whenever you fly this way." "thanks for all you've done," said tim, "and if we can ever do you a favor, don't hesitate to call on us." with the air mail pouches in the forward cockpit tim headed the _good news_ for home. the headwind slowed him somewhat but even with that handicap he was back in atkinson by mid-afternoon. a special section of the air mail eastbound had just come in and the salvage mail was placed aboard it to continue the journey to eastern cities. when the air mail had taken off, hunter turned to tim. "i'm writing a complete report and forwarding it to headquarters," said the field manager. "it was certainly great of you and ralph to help out as you did. lewis might have died and mitchell certainly would have had a rough time of it before we could have reached them if you fellows hadn't volunteered." "we're always ready in an emergency," said tim. "besides, we got some dandy stories for the paper." "the company will reward you in some way," said hunter, "and they won't be stingy about it when they read my report." "don't lay it on too thick," urged tim. "not very much," grinned hunter as he went into his office. tim was about to leave the field when hunter called that he was wanted on the phone. when tim answered he recognized the voice of captain ned raymond of the state police. "i'd like to see you at the hotel jefferson right away. same room as before," said the captain. "i'm just starting for town," replied tim. "i'll be there in fifteen or twenty minutes." captain raymond was pacing up and down the narrow confines of room when tim entered. "glad to see you again, murphy," said the state police official. "sit down," and he waved toward the bed. captain raymond continued his pacing, chewing nervously at the end of a heavy pencil. "trouble brewing," he said in the sharp, short way of his. "got a tip from chicago today. we'll have to keep a sharp lookout." "just what for?" asked tim. "that's it, that's it," exploded the fiery policeman. "if i knew where to look, but i don't." "then we'll have to sit back and wait for something to happen." said tim. "but keep our eyes open," added captain raymond. "my tip is that some of the members of the sky hawk's gang have worked out a new scheme of some kind and are planning a lot of robberies. going to make a wholesale business out of it. our part of the country has been picked first because it will be easy for them to make a getaway. the mountains west of here, the river east. good hiding for anyone who is evading the law." tim waited while captain raymond continued his pacing of the room. "you have that plane of yours ready to go at a minute's notice," said the trooper. "it's always ready," replied tim, "for we never know just when a big story will break and we'll need the plane." "good, good. and have no fear but what you'll get all the excitement you want in a short time." "i've had about all i want for a while," smiled tim and he told of what he and ralph had gone through in the rescue of the air mail flyers. "that's the stuff," explained captain raymond. "you boys are just the types we need. i know i can count on you to come through in an emergency. guess that's all for this time. i just wanted to warn you to expect trouble soon. if you want to get in touch with me at any time telephone the troop barracks at harris. if i'm not there, they'll know where to locate me within a few minutes." when tim left the hotel it was with the knowledge that he would soon be in conflict with members of the sky hawk's old band. he knew they would be formidable foes but there was no fear in his heart. the flying reporter returned to the _news_ office and started writing his aviation column for the following day. he was tired and made slow progress, but he had a little more than a column of material ready when he closed his desk at six o'clock. dan watkins, the head of the copy desk and one of tim's closest friends, was waiting for him. "where are you going to eat tonight?" asked the copy chief. "anyplace where it is quiet," replied tim. "my head feels a little light." "then some clam chowder could just about hit the spot with you," suggested watkins and they left the _news_ building and walked to a small, cozy restaurant on a nearby sidestreet. the quiet and the soft lights eased tim's taut nerves and he felt his whole body relaxing. "you've had some mighty busy days," commented watkins when they were comfortably seated. "busy but lots of fun," replied tim. "how about the chances you've been taking?" "they weren't chances," said the flying reporter. "i always had a sturdy plane and i tried to use good judgment. once or twice, i'll admit that i took chances but in those cases the object far surpassed the risk." "i heard the business manager and the managing editor talking about you today," said watkins. "isn't my work up to standard?" asked tim. "it wasn't about your work it was about you." "what do you mean?" "both of them are worried about your health. they are afraid you're working too hard and when the managing editor and the business manager start to worry about your health you can bet your bottom dollar you're valuable to the paper. with me, i could have a nervous breakdown and they'd never bat an eye. probably be glad to get rid of me." "don't talk like that, dan," pleaded tim. "you know that's not so. why you're the balance wheel of the editorial office. carson wouldn't know what to do if anything happened to you. he depends on you to keep things running smoothly, see that the boys all cover their assignments and that the copy goes steadily to the machines." "we won't argue over that," smiled the copy chief, "but you should have heard those two going at it this afternoon. the business manager fairly ripped into carson." "what for?" "for letting you be sworn into the state police." "you know that!" "of course." "but how?" "it's my business to know things like that. anyway, the business manager said the state police could take care of themselves and that you were too valuable for the paper to lose. he said that hundreds of people took the _news_ just to read about the adventures you and ralph go through." "what did carson say?" asked tim. "oh he explained what the state troopers were up against and they had it hot and heavy for a while. all of which gets back to what i wanted to say to you. be careful, tim, on this state police job. the troopers are paid to take chances with criminals; you're not. help them where you can but don't risk your own life unnecessarily." "i don't intend to take unnecessary risks," said tim, "but you know how i feel about crime. anything i can do to stop it or, after it is committed, to bring the criminals to justice, i'll do." "i realize that, tim, and i admire you for it," said watkins. "all i ask is that you be careful. the _news_ has done a great deal for you and it will do a great deal more if you give it a chance." routine work filled the next ten days and there was no further news from captain raymond of the state police. the warm winds of spring swept in from the south and the last traces of the late winter blizzard disappeared. the grass sprang up and the trees started to leaf. during the lunch hour the reporters gathered on the south side of the _news_ building to exchange yarns and gossip. gray skies of winter had been replaced by the cheerful ones of spring and life on the paper moved smoothly. the menace of the sky hawk's gang had almost been forgotten when tim was given an assignment that was to lead to many a strange and thrilling adventure. chapter ten when tim returned to the editorial room after lunch that day the managing editor summoned him to his office. "i've got an assignment that is somewhat different from your usual run of things," explained carson, "but i'm sure you'll enjoy it. the southwestern railroad is speeding up the time of its midnight mail. the new schedule calls for an average speed of fifty-one miles an hour. the superintendent of this division has invited me to send a reporter on the first trip tonight. how would you like to ride the cab of the mail down to vinton?" "i'd like it, mr. carson," replied tim. "i've always wanted to ride in the cab of a fast train." "you'll have your chance tonight," smiled the managing editor, "for if i know anything about train schedules the mail is going to throw the miles up her stack when she hits her stride." carson telephoned the railroad offices that tim would ride the cab that night. "you'd better go down to the station about eleven o'clock," said the managing editor. "you'll get your pass at the ticket office. then go down to the roundhouse and get aboard the engine there. the engineer and conductor will be expecting you. this is quite an event for the railroad people and i want to give them a good yarn. i'll send ralph to vinton this afternoon in the _good news_ and he'll wait there and bring you home in the morning. one of the staff photographers will be at the station to take flash-lights when the mail pulls out." "i'll finish my aviation column for tomorrow," said tim, "and then get some old clothes for i don't imagine it will be any too clean on the engine." when ralph returned from an assignment he was told to take the _good news_ and fly to vinton, there to await the arrival of tim on the midnight mail. tim accompanied his flying companion to the airport and helped him wheel the _good news_ out of the hangar. "traveling on a train will seem kind of slow compared to the _good news_," suggested ralph. "i don't know about that," replied tim. "the mail's new schedule is a hair raiser and they'll have to pound the steel pretty hard to make their time. it won't be any picnic, i can tell you that." ralph, satisfied that the motor was thoroughly warm and ready for its task, waved at tim. "see you in the morning," he called. then he whipped the _good news_ across the field and streaked into the southwest. tim watched the plane until it disappeared before he turned to the car which had brought them from town. on his way back to the city he drove leisurely, thoroughly enjoying the sweetness of the spring afternoon. the road swung onto a viaduct that spanned the myriad rails of the southwestern. a transcontinental limited was pulling into the long station, feathery puffs of steam drifting away from the safety valve. the train came to a stop, porters swung their stools down on the platform and the passengers descended. the engineer dropped down from the cab and started oiling around the iron speedster of the rails. there was something thrilling, fascinating about it and tim looked forward with high interest to his trip that night. he drove on up town, returning the car to the garage. after dinner alone he walked to his room, found a suit of coveralls and an old cap and bandanna handkerchief. these he rolled up and wrapped in paper. that done he sat down for an hour of reading the latest aviation journals and at eight o'clock he set his alarm clock for ten-thirty and laid down for a nap. the next thing tim knew the alarm was ringing steadily and he roused himself from the deep sleep into which he had fallen. he washed his face and hands in cold water and felt greatly refreshed, ready for whatever the night might have in store in the way of adventure. on the way to the station tim stopped at an all night restaurant and enjoyed a platter of delicious country sausage. then he continued his walk toward the railroad yards. the reporter descended the steps from the viaduct and entered the brightly lighted station. it was two minutes to eleven when he walked up to the ticket window and introduced himself. the agent on duty handed him his credentials and told him the shortest way to the roundhouse. tim left the station and its glow of light. outside the night air was cool and he pulled his leather jacket closer around him. great arc lights gleamed at intervals in the yard and a chugging switch engine disturbed the quiet. three blocks from the station was the roundhouse with its countless chimneys and numberless doors. tim picked his way carefully over the switches, skirted the yawning pit that marked the turn-table and entered the master mechanic's office at the roundhouse. the master mechanic, old tom johnson, was checking over the schedule of the mail with fred henshaw, who was to pull the mail. "what do you want?" growled johnson when he saw tim standing in the doorway. "i'm from the _news_," replied tim. "the superintendent wanted a reporter to ride the mail tonight." "what's your name?" asked the master mechanic. "tim murphy." "oh, so you're the flying reporter," smiled johnson as he got out of his chair and shook hands with tim. "i've read a lot about you. glad to know you. meet fred henshaw. he'll give you a few thrills tonight." tim and the engineer shook hands. "we won't go as fast as you do by plane," smiled the engineer, "but we'll go places." "i'm looking forward to the trip," said tim. "it will be a real experience." the telephone rang and the master mechanic answered. "the dispatcher says the mail will be in on the advertised," he said. "that gives us a break for the test run." henshaw nodded and motioned for tim to accompany him into the roundhouse. electric lights high up under the roof tried vainly to pierce the shadows which shrouded the hulking monsters of the rails as they rested in their stalls. there must have been fourteen or fifteen locomotives in the roundhouse, some of them dead; others breathing slowly and rhythmically, awaiting their turn to be called for service on the road. at the far end of the roundhouse there was a glare of light as hostlers finished grooming the for its run that night on the mail. the was the latest thing the southwestern boasted in the way of fast-passenger motive power. it was capable of hauling sixteen all-steel pullmans at seventy miles an hour and was as sleek and trim as a greyhound. the engineer took his torch and made a final inspection to be sure that everything was in readiness for the test run. then he extinguished the torch, threw it up into the cab, and motioned for tim to follow him. the little engineer scrambled up the steps and swung into the cab. tim followed but with not nearly as much grace. the fireman was busy with a long firehook and the glow from the open door of the firebox lighted the cab with a ruddy brilliance. when the iron doors of the firebox slammed shut and the fireman straightened up, the engineer introduced his fireman, harry benson. introductions completed, the engine crew fixed a place for tim on the seat behind the engineer. henshaw looked at his watch. it was eleven forty-five. he stuck his head out the window and looked at the turn-table. it had been swung into place ready for the to steam out of the house. harry benson started the bell ringer, henshaw released the air and opened the throttle a notch. the came to life, steam hissed from its cylinders, the drivers quivered and moved slowly in the reverse motion. the slid out of the roundhouse, rocked a little as it went over the turn-table and then eased down the darkened yards until it came to a stop near the end of the long train shed. at eleven-fifty a penetrating whistle came through the night to be followed several minutes later by the blazing headlight of the westbound mail. the long string of mail cars came to a halt in front of the station, the engine which had brought them in was cut off, and steamed down the yard on its way to the roundhouse. a lantern at the head end of the mail signalled for the to back down and henshaw set the engine in motion again. with a delicate handling of the air he nosed the tender of the against the head mail car. the work of coupling the engine to the train was a matter of seconds. then henshaw tested the air. it worked perfectly and the midnight mail was ready to continue its westward race across the continent. the interior of the cab was lighted by a green-shaded bulb just above the gauges on the boiler. the sides were in the shadows and there was no reflection to bother the engineer as he stared into the night. the conductor ran forward along the train and handed a sheaf of order tissues into the cab. henshaw and his fireman read them together to make sure that they understood every order. "slow order for that new bridge at raleigh is going to hurt," was the only comment the engineer made as he climbed back on his box. mail trucks rumbled along the platform as extra crews hastened the work of unloading and loading the mail. then they were through. the mail was ready for the open steel. the conductor's lantern at the back end of the train flashed in the "high ball" and henshaw answered with two short, defiant blasts of the whistle. the engineer dusted the rails with sand, opened the throttle, and the settled down to its night's work. with nine steel cars of mail to hold it down, the giant engine plunged out of the yards. over the switches they clattered, the cab rocking and reeling as they struck the frogs. they had a straight shot through the yards to the main line and henshaw wasted no time in getting the into its stride. they flashed past the outer signal towers and now only two twin ribbons of steel lay ahead of them. the mail was speeding down the right-hand westbound track. they would meet the eastbound trains coming down the left-hand pair of rails. the needle on the speed indicator mounted steadily as henshaw opened the throttle notch by notch. the 's exhaust was a steady, deafening volley that made conversation impossible. block signals popped up in the searching rays of the headlight to disappear in the thunder of the train almost before tim had time to read their signals. but the engineer saw them all and knew that the steel highway ahead of him was clear. harry benson was busy feeding the fire. he swayed to and fro in the glare from the open firebox. first to the tender, then to the cab with a scoop of coal, then back to the tender for more coal. by the time the mail was five miles out of atkinson, henshaw had the near the peak of its stride. they were rolling down the line at better than seventy miles an hour. it was a dizzy pace and the cab rocked and rolled over the steel. tim marveled at the easy grace of the fireman as he swung back and forth between the cab and the tender, feeding great shovels of coal into the hungry firebox. the mail flashed through sleeping villages and past darkened farmhouses. the country through which they were speeding was sparsely settled and there were few grade crossings. only occasionally did henshaw reach for the whistle cord and send a sharp warning into the night. raleigh was their first scheduled stop and five miles this side of the city they slid down into a valley where a roaring stream rushed under the rails. a repair crew had been strengthening the bridge and had not quite completed their work. as a result the dispatcher had put out a slow order which called for a speed not in excess of thirty miles an hour over the bridge. henshaw glanced at his watch and grumbled to himself as he pinched the mail down to comply with the orders. the air brakes ground hard on the wheels and tim looked back at the train. sparks were flying from every truck, cascading in showers along the right-of-way. they rumbled over the bridge and henshaw opened up again. every minute counted and he rolled the mail into raleigh at a lively clip. there was no need to handle the mail as he would a crack transcontinental limited with extra fare passengers and a diner full of chinaware and henshaw whipped the mail into the station and ground her down hard. they stopped with a jerk that jarred every bone in tim's body. the doors of the mail cars were rolled open and the crew started tossing the pouches. henshaw picked up his torch, lighted it, and dropped down to oil around while benson pulled the spout down from the nearby water tank and gave the engine a drink. high speed means lots of steam and steam means water and more water. hundreds of gallons gushed into the tank on the tender and the fireman had just completed his task when they got the highball. he was still on top of the tender when henshaw cracked his throttle and started the mail on another leg of its fast run. the fireman scrambled down off the swaying tender, opened the firebox, and started throwing in coal like a man possessed. there was a slight grade out of the station at raleigh and the laboring exhaust fairly pulled the fire out the stack. once over the grade the hit her stride and they rolled away along the foothills of the great smokies. this particular main stem of the southwestern ran through the foothills for several hundred miles, finally finding a pass through which the rails continued their journey to the coast. the running would be more precarious now and there was only one more stop and that for water at the village of tanktown, a hamlet where a few railroad men made their home. tim was fascinated by the precision with which the great locomotive worked, with the confidence the engineer displayed in its handling and with the dexterity of the fireman as he fed fuel to the firebox. on and on rushed the mail, the speed never under sixty miles an hour and sometimes well over seventy. just before they plunged into the foothills they struck a stretch of ten miles of almost straight track with only one or two gentle grades. henshaw yelled at his fireman and benson grinned and motioned for the engineer to open the throttle. the bar went back into the last notch and tim felt the engine pulsate with new power. the needle on the speed indicator climbed to seventy-five and kept on. it paused at eighty and then went on up to eighty-three. they were bouncing around in the cab when the little air whistle which the conductor uses in signalling the engine peeped. henshaw waited until the conductor had signalled several times before he eased off on the throttle and they dropped down to the slow pace of sixty-five miles an hour. "i guess we gave the boys behind a thrill," yelled henshaw and the fireman nodded as he straightened up to rest his weary muscles. once in the foothills where the grades were frequent and the curves tighter, their speed dropped below sixty miles an hour. when they stopped at tanktown for coal and water, they were seven minutes ahead of their schedule and henshaw took ample time to touch up the journals and bearings of the great engine with liberal doses of oil. the conductor ran forward. "what's the idea," he demanded. "were you trying to put us all in the ditch?" "keep cool, keep cool," grinned henshaw. "our orders were to make time and we made it." "our orders didn't call for eighty-three miles an hour," sputtered the trainman. "next time you try a stunt like that i'll pull the air on you." "you'll lose time if you do," smiled the engineer. "you sit back in your mail cars and i'll do the worrying about keeping the train on the rails." the fireman yelled that he was ready to go. henshaw looked at his watch and climbed into the cab. the whistle blasted two short, sharp calls and the flagman on the back end swung aboard. the mail sped on the last lap of its inaugural run on the new schedule. mile after mile disappeared behind the red lights of the last car. they were less than forty miles from the end of the division when they swung around a curve to see the rails ahead of them disappear in an inferno of flame. henshaw jammed on the air and leaned far out of the cab. tim dropped down in the gangway and looked ahead. a small patch of timber through which the right-of-way passed was on fire, and a wall of flame barred their way. the engineer pinched his train down to a stop about two hundred yards from the burning timber. even at that distance they could hear the roar of the flames and feel the heat from the cauldron of fire. "looks like this is the end of your run," said tim. "don't know," replied the engineer. "we might make it." "going to try and run the fire?" asked the fireman. "orders say to get the mail through to the west end on time," said the engineer, "and orders are orders. what say, boys?" "i say yes," grinned the fireman. "the steel ought to hold us and we can coast through without much push or pull on the rails." "i'm riding the mail," said tim when the engineer turned to him. "then here we go," decided henshaw. he threw over the reverse lever and started backing away from the flames. when the was a mile from the burning timber he brought the train to a stop. mail clerks and trainmen had their heads out the doors, wondering what the engineer was going to do. the conductor hurried up. "we'll have to stay here," he told the engineer. "stay here? well, i guess not," replied henshaw. "orders say 'on time' at the west end. if you're going to stay with this train, swing on and make it snappy. we're going to run for it." the conductor protested but the engineer set his train in motion and the conductor finally swung on one of the mail cars and climbed inside. the picked up speed rapidly and they rolled down on the fire. "duck down behind the boiler when i yell," said the engineer and tim and the fireman nodded that they understood. the distance between the pilot and the flames was decreasing rapidly. tim slid off the box behind the engineer and clung to one side of the cab. the world ahead was a wall of fire that leaped toward the heavens. tim heard the engineer yell and he ducked behind the head of the boiler. the engine swayed sickeningly but held to the steel. there was the roar of the fire, the stifling heat that seemed to sear its way into his lungs, hot brands filled the cab and he felt his hair scorching in the terrific heat. then the engine stumbled onto cool steel and they were through the burning timber and into the cool night air again. tim shook the cinders from his hair and straightened up. he looked for the engineer and found henshaw industriously beating out tongues of flame which were licking around the window. between flailing his arms at the fire he would stop momentarily to widen out on the throttle as the swung into her stride again. the reporter turned to the fireman's side of the cab. benson was missing. with a cry of alarm, tim summoned the engineer from his side of the cab. "the fireman's gone!" he cried. both of them felt the hand of death grip at their hearts. perhaps a lurch of the cab had thrown benson out and into the flaming woods. there would have been no chance for his survival and they looked at each other with horror written in their faces. the shock of the sudden tragedy left tim speechless and the engineer climbed slowly back to his throttle. there was no joy in the cab of the over their victory with the flames for henshaw had lost the best fireman he had ever had. tim was used to sudden shocks but the one of turning to look for the fireman and finding him gone was one that would remain with him through life. the needle on the steam gauge wavered and started down as the made its heavy demands for power. someone must keep the fire hot. henshaw glanced anxiously at his watch. "we're right on the dot now," he shouted at tim. "if you can throw the black diamonds for about thirty minutes we'll go into the west end on time." "i'll do my best," shouted tim above the noise of the madly working machinery. a foot lever which operated a small steam engine opened the door of the firebox and tim stepped on the lever. the heavy iron doors swung open and he looked into a white-hot pit. the fire was thin in spots and he picked up benson's scoop, set his legs for the pitch and roll of the cab, and swung a scoop of coal into the firebox. the first one went where he intended it but on the second attempt they struck a tight curve and most of the coal went up the engineer's neck. henshaw laughed. "better luck next time," he shouted encouragingly. tim took a fresh grip on the scoop and in less than five minutes had an even bed of coal scattered over the firebox. there was something strange and mysterious about the woods being on fire and it troubled tim, who sought some solution as he swayed from tender to firebox and back to tender. here it was, the spring of the year, and that patch of woods afire. a campfire started by tramps might have spread, but tim doubted that thought. sparks from a passing train might have been the cause but for some reason, perhaps just a newspaperman's intuition, he felt that there was something sinister behind the cause of the fire. "take it easy, we're almost in," shouted henshaw as he pointed to the lights of vinton as they swung around a curve. tim stuck his scoop into the coal pile and straightened up for the first time since he had taken the fireman's place. the muscles in his back ached and his arms were sore, but he felt that he had earned his ride. his thoughts still on the fire, he stepped over to the engineer's side of the cab. "anything of special value on tonight?" he asked. "don't know for sure," replied henshaw as he eased up on the throttle. "there were rumors back at atkinson that there was a lot of _specie_ aboard for some coast bank. never can tell but the mail usually has a pouch or two of valuable mail." tim was silent as henshaw guided the mail through the maze of tracks that marked the east entrance of the yards at vinton. green and red lights blinked out of the night at them. there was the hollow roar as they rumbled past long lines of freight cars on the sidings, the sharp exhaust of a laboring switch engine, the multiple lights of the roundhouse and finally the station itself loomed in the rays of their headlight. at the far end of the big depot tim could see another engine waiting to be hooked onto their train to continue the mail's dash for the coast. henshaw cracked his throttle just enough to bring them in with a flourish and stopped his scorched string of mail cars at the station on time to the second. when tim dropped out of the cab he was astounded to see colonel robert searle, head of the state police, striding toward him. "hello, murphy," said the officer, "what's this i hear about you fellows running through a piece of burning timber?" "that's right, colonel," said tim. "we struck a patch about forty miles down the line and it looked for a time like we weren't going to get through. then mr. henshaw, the engineer, decided to run for it." "you didn't waste much time when you first stopped for the fire did you?" "not any more than we had to," said the engineer. "the string of varnished cars was stepping on a fast schedule." "then that explains why there wasn't a million dollar robbery on this line tonight," said the head of the state police. chapter eleven "million dollar robbery!" exclaimed tim and the engineer. "what do you mean?" "just this," explained colonel searle. "there's a million in cold cash back in one of those mail cars. we got a tip after you were out of raleigh that there might be trouble and there isn't any question but that the timber was set afire in an attempt to stop the train. whoever planned the robbery figured that the train crew would leave the train and go up for a closer view of the fire. when you decided to back up and run for it, you threw a monkey wrench into their plans. it must have been a small gang or they would have attempted to have stopped you even then." "our fireman is missing," put in tim. "when we got the cinders out of our eyes after dashing through the fire we found harry benson gone." "maybe he was in with the gang," suggested colonel searle. "not benson," said the engineer firmly. "he's one of the most loyal men on the line. only one thing could have happened to him. he lost his balance and fell out the gangway." tears were in the engineman's eyes and they were silent for a moment. gray streaks of dawn were making their appearance on the eastern sky when tim and the head of the state police left the mail train. railroad officials had indicated that they would start an investigation of the cause of the fire, but colonel searle informed tim that he intended to make his own inquiry. they were leaving the station when the fresh engine which had been coupled on the mail sounded the "high ball" and another engineer took up the race for the coast. they went to a hotel were ralph, who had just dressed, greeted them. he wanted to know all about the events of the night and tim painted a vivid word picture of what had happened. "we'll get something to eat," said colonel searle, "and then fly down the line and take a look at that timber patch." "do you think this may have something to do with the old sky hawk gang?" asked tim, giving voice to a thought that he had harbored for some time. "looks like one of their fiendishly clever jobs," admitted the colonel, "and it's just about time for them to start something." half an hour later they were at the vinton airport, warming up the motor of the _good news_. the sun was just turning the eastern sky into a warm, rosy dawn when tim gave the motor a heavy throttle and sent the _good news_ winging off the field. he swung the plane over vinton, picked up the twin tracks of the southwestern and headed back toward atkinson. his hands, sore and bruised from handling the heavy scoop, ached as he held the controls of the plane. unconsciously he compared the massive, brute power of the locomotive with the graceful, birdlike machine he was flying. riding the cab of the mail had been an experience he would never forget but he was happy to be back in the clouds on the trail of what promised to be another sensational story. the rails twisted and turned through the foothills and tim marveled as he thought of the speed they had made with the mail, wondered how they had ever stayed on the steel at the dizzying pace with which they had split the night. the hills broadened out, wider valleys appeared and it was in one of these that they found the smouldering patch of timber which had been an inferno of flame and smoke only a few hours before. railroad section men had already gathered at the scene and tim could see other gasoline handcars speeding down the rails. ties would have to be replaced, new ballast put in and the rails tested to make sure that the heat had not warped them. traffic on the system must not be held up a minute longer than necessary and the railroad men were rallying to the emergency. tim found a small meadow which was large enough for a landing. he fish-tailed the _good news_ into the field and set the plane down lightly. they lashed it with spare ropes which tim carried in his own cockpit and then started for the railroad, a quarter of a mile away. blackened stumps of trees reared their heads into the gay sunlight of the spring morning, grim reminders of the near tragedy. perhaps they were the only headstones harry benson would ever have, thought tim, as he wondered if they would find any trace of the fireman. a husky section boss told them to get out and stay out but colonel searle displayed his badge, which gave them access to anything they wanted to see. the entire timber lot was not more than four or five acres in extent. it had been covered with a heavy growth of underbrush and with the drought of the year before it had been tender for any careless or intentional match. small patches of timber were still burning but along the railroad right-of-way the flames had either died down or had been smothered by section men beating at them with wet sacks. "find anything of the fireman?" tim asked one of the workers. "sure," replied the railroad man, "he's up the line a couple hundred feet." "alive?" "you bet. got a broken leg but all right outside of that," grinned the man as he continued beating a sack at a stubborn blaze at the base of a stump. tim waited for no further question but ran toward the far side of the timber lot where a group of railroad men had gathered. they were in a circle around someone on the ground. the flying reporter pushed them aside and looked down on the scorched, smoke-blackened features of harry benson. the fireman was in great pain from his broken leg, but he was making a brave attempt to smile. "hello, reporter," he said. the words were close clipped and came from lips tense with pain. "hello yourself," said tim. "we thought you must have been thrown out into the fire after we missed you last night." "not me," said the fireman. "it was a close call but i didn't get anything more than a bad scorching. who fired for the rest of the run?" tim held out his sore, cramped hands and the railroad men joined in the fireman's laugh. "laugh all you want to," smiled tim, "but i kept that kettle of yours hot and henshaw took her in on time." "how did you happen to fall out of the cab?" asked colonel searle, who had joined the group around the fireman. "i was trying to get one more shovel of coal into the old pot," said benson. "i misjudged the distance and speed and was caught half way between cab and tender when we hit the fire. figured i knew my way back to my side of the cab and made a jump for it. instead of going where i intended i dove out the gangway. good thing for me it only took us about five seconds to run that fire or i'd have plunged right into the center of it. i landed rolling, hit a rock and broke my leg and have been here ever since. now we're waiting for a special that is coming down from vinton with a doctor." "notice anything peculiar about the fire while you were lying here?" asked the officer. "only one thing," admitted the fireman. "it smelled kind of oily and the smoke was mighty dark but my leg was hurting so much i didn't pay a lot of attention to the fire except to worry for fear it might spread and i wouldn't be able to get out of the way." "did you hear any strange sounds?" asked tim. "only once," replied the fireman. "sounded sort of like a high-powered car but when i didn't hear it again i thought i must have been going batty." "didn't see anyone?" asked the colonel. "not until some of these section hunkies came chugging down the line," said the fireman. satisfied that they could gain no additional information from questioning the fireman, tim and colonel searle turned away and joined ralph to start a systematic search of the blackened timber. the two reporters and the head of the state police moved back and forth across the timber, searching for something that might indicate how the fire had started. they covered the section of timber on the right side of the railroad without result and then crossed over the rails and resumed their search on the left side. for half an hour they combed the charred underbrush but without success and they met on the far side of the timber lot to discuss further plans. "slim pickings," commented the colonel. "i haven't found enough to hang on a toothpick." "about all i've got is an idea," said tim as he started toward an old stream bed which cut through the valley. the colonel and ralph, their curiosity aroused, followed the flying reporter. the creek which ran through the valley had changed its channel a number of times and its old courses were filled with rubbish which the wind had deposited. it was in these old creek beds that tim resumed his search. he had not been hunting five minutes when his cry brought the colonel and ralph to his side. below them, hidden in the underbrush of the old channel, they saw half a dozen large tin containers. "that's how your fire was started," said tim. "someone doused the timber with a generous supply of crude oil and how that stuff does burn." they slid down the bank of the old creek bed and tim and ralph pulled one of the containers out where they could get a better view. "careful how you handle those," warned colonel searle, "and don't move more than one or two. i'll have a fingerprint expert out here to look them over. we may find a valuable story in the fingerprints if the chaps who started the fire got careless." "they're not the type to overlook any clues," said tim. "not as a rule," conceded the colonel, "but you must remember they wouldn't have figured in the state police being in on this so soon. believe me, it was a clever stunt of theirs setting fire to the woods and using that as a ruse to stop the mail. if it hadn't been for the determination of engineer henshaw to get his train through on the new schedule on time, we'd have had something to really worry about this morning. if it had been a large gang they would have attempted to stop you anyway so it must have been a small, brainy outfit. just the type of fellows the sky hawk used to have in his outfit." there were no identifying marks on the containers and tim and ralph were careful not to disturb more than the one they had pulled into view. the whistle of the special from vinton sounded and when they climbed back to the level floor of the valley, they saw the stubby three car train grinding to a halt. behind the engine were two cars loaded with construction material, new rails and ties and fresh ballast. the last car was a passenger coach which was disgorging half a hundred workmen. a doctor, nurse and several railroad officials also got off the rear car and hastened toward the injured fireman. "benson will soon be out of his agony," said tim. "what a night he must have had, lying there with the flames all around and practically helpless because of his broken leg." a telegraph operator who had come down on the special was busy shinning up a telegraph pole to cut in his instrument and place the scene of the fire in communication with the dispatcher and other points on the division. "i'm going to have that fellow telegraph for our fingerprint expert to meet you at atkinson," said the colonel. "you boys fly back home, write your stories, and bring him back. it will save hours over the best train connections he could make, and he may be able to read a surprising story if there are any fingerprints on these empty oil cans." chapter twelve tim and ralph left the colonel and started for the _good news_. on their way they passed over a small, level piece of ground. two strange looking marks, about six feet apart and from thirty to forty feet long, attracted tim's attention and he stopped to examine them. "trying to read 'footprints in the sands of time'?" asked ralph. "not exactly footprints," grinned tim, "but these marks didn't just get here. someone made them and i'd like to know what for." "they look like those made by airplane landing wheels," suggested ralph, "but a plane couldn't land or take off in this short a space." tim studied the marks carefully and then proceeded toward the _good news_ without making any further comment on his discovery. the flying reporters swung their plane around and ralph unblocked the wheels while tim warmed up the motor. then they sped away toward atkinson, leaving the charred and blackened remains of the timber behind them. when they landed at their home field, the managing editor was waiting for them. "what's this about an attempt at a million dollar robbery?" he demanded. tim and ralph looked at each other blankly. they had not dreamed that the news might have preceded them for they thought the railroad people and the state police were trying to keep it under cover. "how did you find out about it?" asked ralph. "a little birdie flew in and whispered in my ear," grinned the managing editor. "the rumor is correct," admitted tim. "some gang set a patch of timber on fire last night in an attempt to stop the mail and get away with that shipment of money to the west coast. the only thing that averted the holdup was the quick action of the engineer in deciding to run through the fire and his speed in reversing his train and backing up a mile to make a run for it." "it must have been a thrill riding in the cab when you shot through the flame and smoke," said carson. "almost too much of a thrill," conceded tim. "the fireman fell out of the cab and broke a leg. i finished firing on the run into vinton and this morning they found the fireman lying along the right-of-way. he was suffering from shock. lucky thing for him the fire didn't spread." "then you've plenty of material for a corking good yarn," exclaimed carson. "hop in the car and we'll head for the office." tim and ralph told everything that had taken place and the managing editor became more enthused as their story progressed. "you think it may be some members of the old sky hawk gang?" he asked. "i've got a hunch that it is," said tim. "that will make a fine angle to bring into the story," said carson. "if i mention that we suspect any of the old gang, it will queer our chances of getting them," said tim. "i'll write you a story every reader of the paper will find interesting but i don't want to give away whom we suspect. those oil cans back there may have some fingerprints on them that will prove valuable clues." the managing editor finally agreed to tim's wishes and when they reached the _news_ building tim and ralph went to their typewriters and started writing their stories. tim wrote the main story of the attempt to rob the train, making it vivid with glowing descriptions of the train's race through the flaming timber. ralph wrote the story of the investigation and then tim dashed off a column about the fireman who, his leg broken, had laid along the right-of-way with the flames threatening to bring his death. both young reporters were alive to the excitement of the hour and they breathed their own interest into their stories. as a result the copy they placed on the managing editor's desk was brilliant, readable material of the kind that would make any managing editor's heart warm. carson read the stories with a quick eye, pencil poised to mark out errors. but he found none and when he had finished he leaned back in his swivel chair and smiled at tim and ralph. "another piece of fine work," he said. "believe me, you boys can write." "stories like those don't have to be written," said tim. "they write themselves." carson glanced at the clock. it was almost noon. "better get some lunch if you're going to fly the fingerprint expert back to the scene of the attempted robbery," he said. "we won't have time to eat," said ralph. "you'll take time," ordered the managing editor. "after all the energy and brain power you've used in writing these stories you need to give your bodies food." "now this is an assignment. go down to the red mill and order the biggest steaks they have in the house. take at least forty-five minutes for your lunch and forget to pay the check as you leave. they'll put it on my account. mind now, i want you to relax. your minds will work much better after you've had something to eat." the boys promised they would obey the managing editor's instructions and went to the red mill where they discussed the events of the preceding hours over thick, juicy steaks. when the flying reporters returned to the airport, a thin, bespectacled young man who carried a black brief case under one arm was waiting for them. "i'm charlie collins, fingerprint man for the state police," he told them. the flying reporters introduced themselves and then turned to the manager of the airport, who was standing nearby. "plane all ready to go?" asked tim. "everything o. k.," replied hunter, "and the sky's clear all the way. there's a tail wind that will help all the way." "faster the better," grinned tim. "how fast will you travel?" asked the fingerprint expert nervously. "oh, about two hundred," replied tim. "two hundred miles an hour!" "sure," said tim. "we can even do a little better than that if you're in such a hurry to get down there." "i'm in a hurry all right," said collins, "but not 'two hundred miles an hour' in a hurry. i've never been up before." "you'll like it," said ralph. "greatest thrill you'll ever have." "will it bump and jump around badly?" asked the fingerprint expert. "rides smoother than a pullman on a day like this," promised tim. "well, since colonel searle ordered me to come down with you, i'll have to go," concluded collins, "but i'd much rather make the trip by auto or by train." "you'll like it once you're up," said tim as he helped the suspicious one into the forward cockpit. ralph buckled the safety belt on their passenger and then fastened his own. tim flipped the wings, waggled the stick, and they roared off the field. when the wheels left the ground, the fingerprint expert let out a shriek that even tim could hear above the motor but as soon as they were in the air, collins' nerves settled and he started to enjoy his ride. tim shoved the throttle well ahead and their air speed climbed to one hundred eighty miles an hour. there were plenty of clouds in the sky but there was a ceiling of three thousand feet and tim sent the _good news_ dancing along. almost before they knew it they were circling down to land in the field they had used earlier in the day. colonel searle was waiting to greet them and he gave charlie collins a hand down from the forward cockpit. "how did you like the ride?" tim asked the fingerprint expert. "i was scared stiff at the start," admitted collins, "but after we were off the ground i enjoyed every minute of it." "thought you would," smiled tim. they staked down the _good news_ and then hurried across the railroad tracks and on to the old creek bed where they had found the empty oil containers. collins took charge of the investigation and tim and ralph sat down to watch him work. the fingerprint expert moved slowly and carefully, fearful lest he might blot out some print that would be valuable. every tin was examined and the fingerprints recorded and filed for comparison with the records at the headquarters of the state police. "anything that looks familiar?" asked colonel searle when collins had finished his task. "can't be sure," replied the expert. "some of them look like prints by the sky hawk's old crowd. i won't know for sure until i can get back to the records in the office." tim and ralph looked at each other significantly. here was another mention of the sky hawk. the trail was getting warmer. the railroad men had completed the work of repairing the right-of-way where it had been damaged by the fire, and trains, delayed for hours, were on their way once more. transcontinental limiteds and long strings of refrigerator cars were wheeling down the steel as fast as their engineers could roll them. colonel searle decided to ride back to vinton on one of the trains and requested tim and ralph to take collins to atkinson with them. this the flying reporters agreed to do and in less than ten minutes they were winging their way homeward, passing train after train which seemed to be little more than crawling along the twin ribbons of steel. when they slid down out of the sky to a perfect three point the sun was far down in the west. less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since tim had climbed into the cab of the midnight mail at the union station but many things had happened in those few hours and more portended. a car was waiting at the field to whisk the fingerprint expert away, but before collins left he promised to telephone the _news_ office whatever secrets the fingerprints might unfold. tim and ralph helped the mechanics wheel their plane into the hangar and then started for the city. they had dinner and then went to the _news_ office to await whatever word there might be from the fingerprint expert. the building was deserted except for a scrub-woman who was busy swishing her mop around the desks in the business office on the main floor. tim and ralph walked up to the editorial office and switched on the lights over their desks. the telephones, which kept up an almost incessant clamor during the daytime, were silent, sulking on the desks. the electric printers which brought in the news of the world in never ending sheets of copy paper slept beneath their steel hoods. it was strange how quiet the plant could be at night. with the setting of the sun its life seemed to drain away, only to return again with the sunrise. tim worked on his aviation column for the next day while ralph wrote a feature on the speed with which the railroad crews had repaired the right-of-way damaged by the fire. it was mid-evening before the telephone on tim's desk rang. the summons were imperative. tim took the receiver off the hook and his hand shook. ralph stopped work and came over to lean over his shoulder. the call was from the headquarters of the state police. it was collins, the fingerprint expert, speaking. chapter thirteen the connection was poor and tim was forced to call the operator and ask for a better wire. finally they were able to hear collins distinctly. "i've checked up on the fingerprints," said the expert, "and they tally with those of shanghai sam and pierre petard, two members of the old sky hawk gang!" tim's hand trembled as he heard the words. shanghai sam and pierre petard were considered the two most dangerous members of the gang next to the sky hawk himself. the hawk was gone but sam and pierre were carrying on for him. collins talked steadily for several minutes. "remember how you chased the sky hawk when he had the death ray?" he asked. tim replied in the affirmative. "from all the dope i can get," said collins, "sam and pierre were with the hawk that night, one of them in the plane itself and the other waiting to help with the getaway on the ground. of course they'll have no scruples if you cross their path. in fact, they would probably go out of their way to meet you. pleasant prospect, isn't it?" "not so pleasant," replied tim, "for those chaps will stop at nothing." the reputation of shanghai sam and pierre petard was known to every police official in the central west. petard had served in the allied aviation forces during the war but he had later been revealed as a german spy and had thrown his lot with that of the sky hawk, former german war ace. shanghai sam came from the opposite end of the world, a white man who had been king of the crooks in the far east. when the middle west had offered a richer field he had not hesitated to transfer his activities and had joined the sky hawk and his band. "have you found any trace of either of them, except the fingerprints, near the scene of the attempted robbery?" asked tim. "i looked over the reports a few minutes ago," replied collins, "and they must have vanished into thin air." "i'm not so sure but what that's exactly what they did," said tim as he thought of the queer marks he had found near the railroad right-of-way. collins warned them to be extremely careful of their movements for the next few days and then hung up. "well, what do you think of that?" asked ralph. "just about what i expected," said tim, "i was convinced that men trained under the sky hawk were behind the attempt. they are the only ones with the brains and the daring to have thought of such a way to stop the mail. the only thing that averted a million dollar robbery last night was the quick hand of engineer henshaw and his decision to run through the fire." "the railroad ought to retire him on a double pension," said ralph. "don't think he'd want to retire," said tim. "he's the kind who will stay at the throttle until he is too old to stand the strain of the high speed demanded today." their conversation turned to what might happen in the future and how best to protect themselves against shanghai sam and pierre petard. "our best protection will be to keep on the alert," said tim. "we'll keep our eyes open and our wits about us. in the morning we'll get some pictures of sam and pierre from the state police and become more familiar with their looks. they'll try another job in a few days and we'll want to be ready to cope with them in any emergency." they left the office together and long after tim had gone to bed he thought of the strange marks. they were connected in some important way, he felt, with shanghai sam and pierre petard. the next day tim went to the public library where he spent the morning reading all that was available about pierre petard, the former war hero. there was nothing in the library about pierre petard the criminal. tim also read voluminously about the development of airplanes and of the many freak planes that had been invented and of a few that had been made to fly. there was a growing conviction in his mind, but he was not yet prepared to divulge it even to ralph. it was so simple that they might all laugh at him. when tim returned to the office, captain ned raymond was talking to ralph. the captain had pictures of shanghai sam and pierre petard for the flying reporters to study. "they'll try something else soon," asserted the state police official, "and we'll rely on you boys to help us in running them down. the railroad has offered a five thousand dollar reward and it will be yours if you bring about their capture." "we'll do the best we can," promised tim, "for the five thousand dollars would come in handy." "just two thousand five hundred dollars apiece," smiled ralph. "what a lot of ice cream that would buy," he added. captain raymond cautioned the flying reporters against taking any undue chances and warned them that the state police were without a single clue as to where sam and pierre were hiding. "you'll never find them in atkinson," said tim. "why not?" asked the police official. "it's the largest city in this part of the state." "they'll never hide in any city," said tim. "when you find them it will be in some isolated section of the state, perhaps in the valley of the cedar." "have you any clues?" demanded captain raymond. "nary a clue," replied tim, "but i've a hunch and i believe in playing hunches." captain raymond was about to leave when one of the telephones on the copy desk rang. they heard the copy-reader who answered shout, "bank robbery!" the words sent a chill of apprehension through tim and ralph. tim had been convinced that the gangsters of the sky would strike again but he had not expected it would be within forty-eight hours after their failure to rob the million dollar train. "what bank?" he cried. "citizens national," replied the copyreader, who was busy writing a bulletin in longhand as the police reporter dictated the story. "how much?" demanded captain raymond. "one hundred and ten thousand in cold cash," said the copyreader. "let's go," said tim, and they dashed for captain raymond's car, which was parked in front of the building. in five minutes they were at the citizens national bank building, elbowing their way through the crowd which had gathered. their state police badges got them past the cordon of guards and they rushed into the lobby. the robbery had been well planned and executed. the two bandits had entered the bank just before closing time and secreted themselves in a washroom. just as the cashier was about to place the currency in the vault, they emerged and covered the employees with a sub-machine gun. one of them took the money, stuffing it in a brown leather portfolio. then they slipped out a side entrance and into a waiting car. twenty more seconds and they were lost in the heavy traffic. a clerk had gathered his wits enough to obtain the license and a brief description of the car. it had been a black coupe, low and powerful, with license no. - . state police were scouring the highways but so far there had been no report of the car. then came the news that the coupe had been stolen only a few hours before in a village fifty miles away and toward the cedar river. when that news reached the bank, tim determined to take up the chase in the _good news_ and fifteen minutes after leaving the bank the plane was soaring into the sky. chapter fourteen the flying reporters headed into the east toward the valley of the cedar river. tim's mind was working rapidly. the robbery had all the signs of having been done by shanghai sam and pierre petard. the smooth efficiency with which they had worked and the perfection of their escape pointed to the plans of men well versed in crime. the _good news_ roared over the village from which the bandit car had last been reported and tim swung the plane low. excited residents pointed down a road that angled away to the right. tim kept the _good news_ low and they sped along the country highway, every nerve tensed for some glimpse of the bandit machine. they were not more than fifteen miles from the village and in a desolate part of the state when they saw smoke rising from the highway ahead of them. with a startled cry tim realized what had happened. the bandits' car had been wrecked and had then caught on fire. even though shanghai sam and pierre petard were villains of the deepest dye, he had no desire to wish any man death under a flaming car. the _good news_ circled slowly over the twisted, red-hot wreckage of the machine. there was no sign of life and tim decided to attempt a landing in a small, level space nearby. the pilot of the _good news_ brought his ship down in the field and made a quick stop. ralph, white-faced and shaking, turned to face tim. "do you think they were caught in the wreckage?" he asked. "can't tell," replied tim. "we'll have a look." the reporters crashed through the underbrush along the road and came upon the smouldering remains of the car. they made a careful survey but could find no trace of anyone having been trapped under the machine. "don't tramp all over the road," tim warned his companion. "there may be some footprints we'll want to follow. i've a hunch this burning car was nothing more than a clever ruse to throw pursuers off the trail. we've wasted plenty of time landing and getting over here. in the meantime, the bandits are well on their way in some other kind of a machine." "they didn't get away in a car," said ralph. "look at the road. there hasn't been a wagon or auto along since the light rain last night. they've taken to the brush." "we'll never find them in the brush," promised tim. "they're too clever for that. a posse would smoke them out. we'll have a look around and see what we can find." they discovered the footprints of two men but the marks looked as though someone had made a hasty attempt to cover them up. when the trail entered the brush the footprints were soon lost to view. "we'll swing around the car in circles," said tim. "in that way we ought to come upon their trail somewhere. keep an eye on the direction it was headed when we lost it." ralph nodded and disappeared in the closely matted underbrush. tim could hear his companion's footsteps growing fainter and fainter until they could be heard no longer. the flying reporter moved carefully, eyes on the alert for any sign which might give him some clue on how the bandits had escaped after wrecking and setting fire to their machine. he found what he was looking for in a small clearing in the underbrush. there were two parallel marks, spaced about six feet apart, and extending for thirty or forty feet. they were exactly like the marks which he had found near the scene of the attempted holdup of the midnight mail only a few days before. tim cupped his hands and called lustily for ralph. an answering cry came for a distance and five minutes later ralph threshed his way through the heavy scrub. "look at those," tim cried exultantly. "same thing we saw near the railroad right-of-way after they tried to hold up the mail train. when we find out what they mean and what they were made by we'll have the secret of these robberies." "they look like they had been made by the wheels of an airplane," said ralph, "but no plane could take off in such a short distance." "how about an autogyro?" suggested tim. "good heavens," exclaimed ralph. "i'll bet you've got the solution." "i only wish i had," smiled tim, shaking his head. "when i first saw those marks the day after the burning of the timber along the railroad right-of-way i thought of an autogyro. when i looked up their capabilities i found that they wouldn't fit into the picture. no, ralph, it's not an autogyro." "but whatever makes those marks must help them to escape," said ralph. "we can only guess at that," tim warned him. "those marks might, just possibly, be coincidence and not be connected with the bandits." "you'll never make me believe that," said ralph. "and i probably never will myself," conceded tim, "but i'm not going to take anything for granted. we're up against something that is going to test our brains and our nerves to the utmost." the young reporters continued their search but after half an hour had discovered nothing which would aid them. "we'd better get back to our plane and report where we found the bandit car," said tim. "all right," agreed ralph, "but before we do i want to take a final look at the wreck of their machine. it's cooled off somewhat and i'd like to look it over. there may be some marks on the body that will give us a clue." the wind had been rising steadily and was whipping through the underbrush, whining a symphony all its own. then the young reporters caught a sudden alarming smell of smoke and heard the crackling of flames. "someone must be near us," said ralph. "i smell smoke and can hear a fire." the words were hardly out of his mouth when a sheet of flame, whipped by the angry wind, leaped into the air. "the fire from the car has spread to the underbrush," cried tim. "quick, ralph, or we'll be cut off from our plane." in another second their danger was clearer. some vagrant tongue of flame, gnawing at the woodwork of the car, had reached out and fired the underbrush. the shower of the preceding night had been only enough to dampen the dust of the road and the brush and weeds were quickly devoured by the spreading flames. tim and ralph raced through the underbrush, tearing their clothes to shreds as they crashed against stumps or fought their way out of tangles of briars. their faces were scratched and bleeding but they did not stop. their life depended on their legs and they used every ounce of their strength in the grim race against the fire. the flames were roaring hungrily, advancing on them with a terrible certainty of purpose. the reporters' lungs ached cruelly as the boys plunged on, gasping for the breath that was needed to give them the strength to continue. the clearing in which they had left the _good news_ should be near at hand but still they crashed through the undergrowth. on and on they stumbled, the crackling of the flames spurring them to new effort. "i'm all in," gasped ralph as he dropped in a pitiful huddle. "go on, tim, go on! i'll make it out of here somehow." "get up, ralph, get up!" cried tim as he tugged at his companion's limp body. "the fire," he screamed, "the fire! we can't stay here! we must go on!" ralph made a brave effort to get to his feet and with tim supporting him stumbled on. clouds of smoke billowed around them, filling their lungs, and waves of heat beat down upon them as the wind swept the fire nearer and nearer. with cries of relief they staggered into the small, level place where they had left the _good news_. the biplane was waiting for them, eager to sweep them up into the air and away from the fire. the boys tumbled into their places and tim snapped on the switches. the motor coughed once or twice and then roared into its sweet, even song of power. there was no time to turn the plane around, no time to wonder if there was room to take off. there was only time for one thing; to jam the throttle wide open, send the _good news_ roaring down the wind and hope that she would lift clear of the brush when the time came. ralph snapped on his safety belt and tim secured himself in his own cockpit. then they were off, rocketing over the uneven ground as the plane gained speed. the powerful motor shattered the heavens with its defiance of the flame and smoke billowing after and lifted the plane clear of the tangled underbrush which raised its arms in a futile effort to entangle the plane. the boys filled their lungs with the clear, pure air of the upper regions as the _good news_ started on the return trip to atkinson. both ralph and tim were busy thinking of the recent events and of their discoveries at the scene of the wrecked car. they were thankful for their escape, narrow though it had been, from the brush fire. when they landed at their home field tim went straight to the administration building and telephoned news of the fire to the state conservation office where steps would be taken to send men to fight the flames. after seeing that the _good news_ was properly cared for the boys returned to the _news_ office. captain raymond was waiting for them. "what news?" he asked eagerly. "not very much," replied tim. "they got away. we found their car, wrecked and on fire, along a little used road. thought they might have been caught in the wreckage and we landed nearby and went to have a look. it was only a ruse to throw us off the trail and slow up the chase. they might have had another car hidden nearby. at least we couldn't find any definite trace of them." "i've checked up on the descriptions of the men who robbed the citizens national," said the state policeman, "and i'm sure that shanghai sam and pierre petard did the job. find them and we'll rid the middle west of a real menace." "find them is right," said ralph. "looks to me like that is about the hardest thing anyone around here ever tackled." "i think it is the hardest," said captain raymond grimly, as he got up to leave the office. "thanks a lot boys," he said. "too bad you couldn't have been in the air sooner or you might have traced them from the time they left the city." "that's an idea," said tim. "we could arrange to have one or the other of us at the field all the time. when an alarm comes in flash it to us there and the _good news_ could be in the air in less than five minutes." "good suggestion," said captain raymond. "i'll see mr. carson at once." the lanky figure of the state officer disappeared into the managing editor's office and tim and ralph looked at each other and smiled. "if carson will agree to a plan like that, we'll get somewhere," promised tim. "why didn't you tell him about the strange marks we found?" asked ralph. "wouldn't do any good and besides i want to do a little private sleuthing of my own. we might just as well have that fat reward the railroad people have out. the bank may offer a sizeable sum and it won't be long until the capture of shanghai sam and pierre petard will mean a small fortune." captain raymond, accompanied by the managing editor, came into the editorial office. "boys," said carson, "captain raymond believes one of you should stay at the airport all the time in case there are any more robberies. i agree with him and we'll work out arrangements at once." in less than an hour tim was back at the airport where he explained his needs to the genial manager. hunter agreed to put an extra cot in the pilot's room and tim sent into town for bed clothes and toilet articles he would need. it had been decided that tim would take the night shift, sleeping at the field while ralph would remain there during the day. the reporters soon settled into the new routine. hours lengthened into days and there was no further word of the gangsters who had robbed the citizens national. it was as though the world had swallowed them. the state police never relaxed their vigilance and extended their tentacles into every section of the state but without avail. no one seemed to know where shanghai sam and pierre petard had gone after they had wrecked their car. the spring days faded into those of early summer and tim and ralph were restless under the routine which kept them on such confining hours. they didn't dare venture away from the airport, yet both of them had commenced to feel that their steady vigil was of little avail. tim continued to read avidly all of the aviation journals he could buy as well as spending considerable time looking into the files of old technical magazines and heavy volumes which he borrowed from the library tim had returned to the field late in the afternoon to relieve ralph and they were discussing plans for their summer vacation when the telephone rang. hunter summoned tim. the young reporter instantly recognized the voice of captain raymond, tense with excitement. "another robbery," he cried. "this time there is no mistake. it was shanghai sam and pierre petard. they weren't even masked." "where was it?" cried tim. "at hospers," shot back the captain. "they walked into the bank just before it closed, made the employees shut the doors right on time and then took an hour to thoroughly loot the institution. first reports indicate something over $ , in cash." "they don't bother with chicken feed," exclaimed tim. "what direction did they head?" "toward the river valley!" cried the captain. "my men are after them but you may be able to spot them from the air." "we'll start at once," promised tim. ralph, who had heard tim's excited voice, was ready to go. "where to?" he asked. "hospers," replied tim. "it's that little industrial town about fifteen miles northeast of here. sam and pierre just picked the bank clean and made a getaway. captain raymond's men are on their trail but maybe we can spot them from the air and force them to cover." "right," agreed ralph. "let's go." tim stopped only long enough to snatch a repeating rifle from a case on the wall of the field manager's office and then they were on their way. the _good news_ was ready for them and ralph climbed into the front cockpit. tim handed the rifle up to him and then swung into his own place. the motor roared into action, blasted the dust from under its wheels, and then flirted them across the field and into the air. tim opened the throttle and the air speed indicator went up to the one hundred ninety mile an hour mark. in almost no time they were over the town of hospers and the red-roofed buildings which comprised its large farm machinery factory. on into the east they sped, high enough to get a commanding view of all the highways for miles around. tim figured that the robbers had started their escape less than half an hour before and they should sight the bandit car soon unless they had already taken to cover. beneath them powerful touring cars, loaded with state troopers, were dashing madly along the highways but there was no sign of the machine they sought. tim and ralph swept the countryside with eyes trained for the slightest unusual sign. they roared well ahead of the troopers and then swung in ever widening circles in their effort to find their quarry. a cry from ralph fixed tim's attention on a small smudge along the road ahead. something was on fire! the _good news_ dropped out of the sky like an avenging eagle, motor whining and wires shrieking. the plane hurtled earthward in a power dive that made the fuselage quiver and it was not until they were under the five hundred foot level that tim brought the nose up and checked their mad descent. below them was the body of a wrecked automobile with flames licking at the cushions and woodwork. "the fire's just started," cried ralph. "they can't be far away." tim nodded and set the _good news_ down in a field a quarter of a mile back from the road. "we may be able to get them this time," exulted ralph as he leaped out of the front cockpit, rifle in hand. "don't see how they could be far away," admitted tim. "the least we can do is take a look at that wrecked machine." the boys broke into a fast trot and were soon at the edge of the road where the powerful touring car in which the bandits had made their escape had been ditched. "smells to me like they had taken some gasoline out of the tank and thrown it over the car," said ralph. tim had been making a quick survey of the road. it was a graveled highway and there were no footprints to give them a clue on which direction the robbers had fled. "we'd better get back to the _good news_ and get into the air again," said tim. the words were hardly out of his mouth when they heard the motor of the _good news_ break into its familiar song. "they've tricked us!" cried. tim. "they're stealing our own plane!" the reporters plunged madly toward the field in which they had left their plane but before they had covered half the distance they saw the _good news_ shoot into the air. ralph and tim, weeping with rage, watched their plane gain altitude and then circle over them. the pilot leaned far out and waved derisively. ralph's answer was to drop on one knee and send a stream of well directed bullets at the plane overhead. they could see the bullets rip through the wings. ralph, aiming at the propeller, was undershooting his mark. if he could land just one good shot in the whirling blade, it would disable the plane and bring the bandits back to earth. ralph exhausted the supply of ammunition in the magazine of his rifle and was helpless as the bandits headed the _good news_ in an easterly direction. "what chumps we were, knowing they couldn't be far away, to leave the _good news_ unguarded," mourned tim. "we may have to hunt for new jobs when carson hears of this," added ralph. "i'm not thinking of that so much as i am the humiliation," said tim. "here the state police feel that we are reliable and brainy enough to help them and then we go and pull a boner like this. i'll tell carson what happened if you'll tell captain raymond and colonel searle." "here comes the captain now," said ralph as a touring car, loaded with state police, skidded to a stop in the gravel. "get them?" cried captain raymond. "they got us," said tim. "we spotted their burning car and landed to have a look. while we were hunting around their wrecked machine they slipped behind us and stole the _good news_. if you look east, you may see a speck against the clouds. that's the _good news_ and they're in it." captain raymond stared incredulously at tim. "you mean to tell me you let them steal your plane?" he demanded. "i'm afraid that's about right," put in ralph. "we didn't exactly offer them the plane but they helped themselves anyway." captain raymond broke into a hearty laugh, but stopped abruptly as he saw the expressions on the faces of tim and ralph. "you wouldn't blame me for laughing," he said, "if you could have seen the woebegone looks on your faces just now. come on, cheer up. they pulled a fast one on you this time but they won't do it again. we were pretty close this time; next time we'll be close enough so we can land them in jail. pile into the car, boys and we'll swing further east, picking up what information we can on the direction in which they are heading." chapter fifteen twenty-five miles east of the place where the bandits had stolen the _good news_, tim, ralph and the state police came upon the crumpled remains of the plane. from all indications the bandits had landed safely, then opened the throttle and sent the _good news_ charging into a clump of trees. the wings of the crimson plane had folded back along the fuselage, the propeller was splintered into a thousand bits and it was generally ready for the scrap heap. tim went wild with rage and wept in his futile anger. when he finally calmed down it was with a quietness that foreboded no good for shanghai sam and pierre petard. "we can't learn anything more by inspecting what's left of the _good news_," he said. "let's circle around and see if we can find trace of a car they might have had waiting for them to make their getaway." captain raymond agreed that tim's suggestion was a good one and the state police spread out in their search for clues. tim and ralph, working together, found the only clue of the afternoon. half a mile beyond the wreckage of the _good news_ they found two marks, about six feet apart and nearly forty feet long, in a small field which was hidden from the nearest road by a heavy growth of trees. tim made a careful inspection of the marks. "that settles it," he said finally. "i'm going east tonight and when i come back we'll make it hot for the fellows who stole the _good news_ and then deliberately crashed it." when they returned to atkinson, tim carried his story to the managing editor and carson was wrathfully indignant. he had no word of censure for his flying reporters. instead, he praised them for their daring and urged them to new efforts in the detection of shanghai sam and pierre petard. "i'm playing a long hunch," said tim, "but i feel that if i can go east tonight, i'll be able to learn information there that will bring about the arrest of this pair of air pirates." "go as far as you like, tim," said the managing editor, "just as long as you deliver the goods." "thanks, mr. carson. i'll leave on the early night train for new york." ralph helped tim throw a few things in a traveling bag and saw his flying companion to the union station and aboard the limited which would carry him on his quest for new clues. "what's clicking in the old bean?" ralph asked as they stood beside the pullman. "just a wild hunch," said tim, "and i don't want to be laughed at if it goes wrong. that's why i'm keeping it under my hat. if there is anything to it, you'll be the first to find out. and say, while i'm away, beg a plane off carl hunter and have it ready when i return. we may need a ship in a hurry. we've done plenty of favors for carl and he'll be glad to help us out." "i'll have a ship ready before you're back," promised ralph as tim swung up on the steps of the slowly moving train. "good luck." the limited picked up speed and its tail lights vanished as ralph stood on the platform, wondering what queer mission had taken tim east so suddenly. thirty-six hours after leaving atkinson tim awoke to find his train pulling into the outskirts of new york. the steam locomotive was uncoupled from the long string of pullmans and an electric engine took its place at the head of the train for the few remaining miles into the heart of the city. the train picked up speed rapidly and rolled steadily into manhattan, hesitating only a moment before it plunged into the darkness of the tunnel under the river. then they were in the great terminal, where trains were arriving or departing continuously throughout the day. tim went to a hotel the managing editor had recommended and after leaving his traveling bag set forth in quest of the information which he felt would result in the apprehension of shanghai sam and pierre petard and put an end to the series of crimes which they had carried out successfully in the middle west. the flying reporter's first call was at the office of the largest aircraft manufacturer in the united states. after some insistence he was admitted to the office of herman bauer, the chief designer, a quiet, gray-haired man. in a few words tim explained his mission. "i'm glad you came to us," said bauer. "i've been reading of these robberies and once or twice the stories have mentioned how completely the bandits disappear and that the only marks they leave behind are those parallel lines in small clearings." "then you've guessed what they must be using?" asked tim eagerly. "yes," assented bauer, "but i'm afraid i can't help you much more than to say that i believe you're on the right track. our company doesn't go in for that sort of thing and if we did we'd have to have assurance that the machine would be used legally." "i hardly expected that your firm was involved in any way," explained tim, "but with your knowledge of the companies capable of doing such a job i thought you might be able to give me some valuable leaders." "i can't off hand," replied the designer, "but if you'll come back this afternoon i'll make some inquiries in the meantime and may have information that will help you." tim thanked the aviation expert and passed the remaining hours of the morning walking through the streets of busy, restless new york. at two o'clock he returned to herman bauer's office. the designer greeted tim cordially and turned to introduce a younger man who was in his office. "i want you to know mac giddings," he told tim. "mac is one of my assistants and has managed to uncover some information that should help you." tim and the assistant designer shook hands cordially. they were of the same type, tall and slender, with a seriousness of purpose that brought an immediate and warm friendship. "i've heard rumors for some time that a little company back in the jersey mountains was up to some kind of a trick that wasn't altogether above board," said giddings. "one of our draughtsmen was fired by them but before he left he saw enough of the plans to see what they had in mind. if you say the word, we'll hop in my car and drive out. we can make it before sundown." tim agreed to the assistant designer's suggestion and they were soon threading their way through the heavy mid-afternoon traffic. once out of the heart of the city they struck a thoroughfare and sped across the jersey flats. the flying reporter told his new friend of their experiences with shanghai sam and pierre petard and gave him an outline of his own conclusions. "seems to me you've found the solution," said giddings as he swung his machine off the main highway. "and i wouldn't be surprised if we verify it within the next two or three hours." the roads became rougher and their car labored up steep grades. farm houses looked less prosperous and by six o'clock they had reached a section of jersey with which few people were familiar. they were almost to the pennsylvania line in a wild, sparsely settled region. "we'd better leave my car here," said giddings, "and go the rest of the way on foot." he drove his car behind a thicket that screened it from the view of any chance passerby and they continued their journey afoot. half an hour later they topped a ridge and looked down on a valley, flanked on each side by small clearings. to the right of the creek were several frame houses while on the left side was a wide, low building, half frame, half canvas, which could be nothing but a hangar. "take it easy," cautioned giddings. "these people don't like strangers and they're apt to shoot first and ask questions afterwards." tim and the assistant designer made their way toward the clearings with great caution. fortunately they were on the left bank of the stream and would not have to cross it in order to reach the hangar. a small crew of mechanics who had been at work in the hangar came out of the building and made their way across the rough bridge and to one of the houses which evidently was used as a mess house. "now's our chance," whispered giddings as he moved toward the hangar. "you don't need to go," said tim, grabbing at his companion. "there is no need for you to take any chances. this is my game and i can see it through now." "i've voted myself in on it," said giddings. "let's go." they moved quietly through the underbrush and made their way toward the rear of the hangar. there they stopped and listened to make sure that no one had been left on guard. "all clear," whispered tim. "i'm going in." the flying reporter found a place where he could wiggle under the canvas wall at the rear of the hangar. giddings was right behind him and when they stood up it was to look upon the most unusual workshop either of them had ever seen. workbenches and lathes were along the walls of the makeshift hangar but the object which held their attention was the monoplane in the center. "i'm right!" exclaimed tim jubilantly, "i'm right!" "you sure are," agreed giddings. "i'm going to have a look at this contraption." the monoplane was the strangest plane either of them had ever seen. they pinched themselves to make sure that they were not dreaming for it was such a bizarre looking craft. "old man bauer will have a fit when he hears about this," chuckled giddings, "for he has always had a pet theory that this type of machine would never fly. said you couldn't get enough power into the wing propellers." "i'd like to try it," said tim as they started a quick inspection of the monoplane. the machine had been camouflaged by an expert. on the ground it would have been invisible from the air while in the air it would be practically invisible from the ground, so cleverly had the colors been mixed and camouflage been applied. but the feature of the monoplane which drew their attention was the wing propellers. at the outer tip of each wing were mounted horizontal propellers, each about four feet in diameter. small, powerful air cooled motors supplied the power for the wing propellers while a standard whirlwind was the motive power for the main propeller in the nose of the ship. "talk about autogyros," exclaimed tim. "why this thing could take off and land in a flower bed. i'll bet those wing propellers can pull it almost straight up." "that's the theory," said giddings, "and from the robberies that this gang you're after has been getting away with successfully it looks to me like they've been using one of these machines, probably the first one this outfit ever turned out." "when i first saw those parallel tracks after the attempt to rob the midnight mail i figured they must be using some kind of a machine like this," said tim, "but i knew it would have to be more efficient than anything sold on the commercial market." "let's get out of here before dark," said giddings. "we've got a long trip back to the city and we can discuss plans on our way back." tim agreed and they made their way out of the hangar and back to the car without detection. on the trip to new york tim discussed plans for the capture of shanghai sam and pierre petard with the young aircraft designer. "i've got something i've been fooling with for a long time," said giddings. "it's a sort of radio detector designed for use in time of war. when it is fitted into a plane you can ascertain whether any other ships are in the air and by adjustment of the detector tell how far away they are." "just the thing i'll need," said tim enthusiastically. "is there any chance that you'll lend it to me for a few days?" "that's why i mentioned it," said giddings. "the device needs a thorough testing and once i've proved its value i'll have no trouble in selling my patents. we'll both profit by your using it." when they reached the city giddings drove to his apartment, which contained living quarters and a room which he had fitted up as an electrical laboratory. far into the night they worked in the laboratory, giddings explaining the use of his radio detector and tim working with it to be sure that he could handle it to the best advantage. when the flying reporter left giddings' apartment he was burdened with the radio detector, which, although placed in a compact cabinet, was heavy. "i'm going to report this outfit over in the jersey woods," said giddings, "and it won't take uncle sam long to put a damper on their activities. there will be no objection to their manufacture of their plane for commercial use but to make them especially for aerial bandits is a proposition that uncle sam won't stand for." "i'm glad you'll take care of that," said tim. "they really have a wonderful plane and it's a shame that a crooked outfit has gotten hold of it. undoubtedly money which the sky hawk obtained when he was at the peak of his career is behind them." "which will be just one more reason why uncle sam will be glad to shut them up," said giddings. "by tomorrow afternoon the woods will be full of federal men for a surprise raid. be sure and let me know how you come out and send the radio detector back as soon as you're through." "i'll do that," promised tim, "and thanks so much for all you've done for me." when the flying reporter reached his hotel, he found a telegram. "we've been trying to find you since late afternoon," said the clerk who handed him the message. "it was marked important." tim tore open the yellow envelope and read the brief message. his senses reeled as the import of the telegram flashed through his mind. ralph had been kidnapped! chapter sixteen the message, from the managing editor of the _news_, was brief and to the point. "ralph kidnapped this afternoon. come home." the shocking news paralyzed tim's brain and he leaned helplessly against the clerk's desk, his face drained of all color. "are you ill?" asked the clerk. "no, i'll be all right in a minute," tim managed to say. "just some surprising news from my managing editor." the flying reporter went to a nearby lounge and sat down. ralph kidnapped. it must be impossible; it was impossible, he told himself. yet there was the telegram from carson--so simple and yet so startling. "ralph kidnapped this afternoon. come home." they needed him in atkinson and tim pulled himself together and went to the desk to inquire about the air passenger service west. "you can get a plane at seven in the morning," said the clerk. "by changing at dearborn you'll land at atkinson at five in the afternoon." "telephone my reservation," said tim and he turned to hasten to his room. he partially undressed and threw himself on the bed, still dazed from the shock of the telegram. what could ralph have been doing; what had he run into that had resulted in his kidnapping? who would want to kidnap him and how had they done it? these and a dozen other questions raced through tim's tired mind. finally, in complete physical and mental exhaustion, he dropped into a sound sleep. afternoon of the following day found tim disembarking from the mail and passenger plane at his home airport. carson and the field manager were waiting to greet him. "what's this about ralph being kidnapped?" demanded tim, to whom the hundred and ten mile an hour schedule of the passenger plane had seemed slow as they winged their way westward from new york. "there isn't a whole lot to tell," said the managing editor. "the day after you left ralph took one of the cars and headed for cedar river valley. said he had a hunch that the bandits had a hideout there and that he might improve his time while you were away by making a sort of a lone search for them. he was still boiling mad over their stealing the _good news_ and cracking it up." "i feel that way myself," said tim. "go on." "ralph never got to the valley," said carson. "in fact, he didn't get more than fifty miles from atkinson. the first we knew he was in trouble was a report late in the afternoon of one of our cars being found abandoned on a road east of here and on the way to the valley i knew it was the machine ralph had taken and personally headed the investigation." "what did you find?" asked tim breathlessly. "signs of a hard scrap," said the managing editor. "ralph must have stumbled on sam and pierre or they might have been trailing him. it was along a lonely road with lots of underbrush nearby." "anything to show that ralph was hurt?" "there were several bullet marks in the body of the car but there was no sign of blood," said the managing editor. "find anything else?" "some peculiar marks in a clearing nearby. they were similar to those you reported at railroad fire and bank robbery." "i was sure those marks would be there," mused tim. "well, one thing sure," he added, "sam and pierre are about at the end of their string. i know what they've been using to make their escapes and have the means of detecting them the next time they come into the open." tim told carson and hunter of his visit to the aircraft company in new york and how the chief designer and mac giddings had helped him, of the discovery of the secret airplane factory in the jersey woods and of the marvelous plane that they had developed. then he explained the radio detector which mac giddings had perfected and his plan for catching shanghai sam and his companion. "it sounds o. k.," said the managing editor enthusiastically. "i've got a plane here at the field you can equip," volunteered the field manager. "i'll have the mechanics start getting it in shape." throughout the night tim remained at the airport, supervising the installation of the radio detector in the fast biplane which hunter provided for his use. by dawn the plane was ready to go. "what are you going to do now?" asked the managing editor. "start a steady patrol of the cedar river valley," said tim. "when i get tired hunter has agreed to relieve me. we'll both ride the plane and only come down when we need gas and oil." "won't they get suspicious of what you're up to?" asked the managing editor. "i doubt it," said tim. "we'll be up ten to twelve thousand feet all the time and with the muffler carson has fitted on the exhaust they won't be able to see or hear us on the ground." "and will the radio detector work at that height?" "giddings said it was good up to twenty thousand feet," replied tim. "at least it is the best we have and if it does work we'll soon put an end to these marauders." an hour later the silver-gray biplane which they had equipped was cruising over the cedar river valley. the altimeter showed , feet and tim throttled down the engine as he started the patrol of the valley. hunter, in the forward cockpit, had a headset on and was listening for some sound in the radio detector. through the hours of the morning they maintained their vigil and at noon flew halfway back to atkinson to land at an air mail emergency field and refill their gasoline tanks. "i'll take the controls this afternoon," said hunter, and tim agreed to the suggestion. when they were near the valley again tim set the radio detector going. there was a low, steady hum in the earphones for the noise of their own motor was cut out of the set's pickup. at two o'clock a sound came through the earphones that electrified tim. hunter, in the rear cockpit, could see tim's body tense as the flying reporter bent over the detector and adjusted the dials for more delicate tuning. somewhere below them the motor of a powerful plane was being warmed up! the roaring in the earphones was strong; then weak, as their own biplane swung away from the source of the sound. by following the path of the strongest sound they would be able to find their quarry and hunter watched tim's hand carefully for directions on how to pilot the plane. when they reached the center of a dense forest along the right bank of the cedar the roaring was loud and steady. they were still up eight thousand feet and too high to see what was going on below. tim took a pair of field glasses out of a case and leaned over the side of the ship while hunter banked the biplane in easy circles. the powerful lenses made the ground leap toward them and tim could see every object clearly. he gasped as his glasses focused on a clearing in one of the densest parts of the forest. he was looking down on an exact replica of the plane he had seen in the makeshift hangar in the jersey woods only two days before. the upper wings, as he had expected, were carefully painted so that detection from the sky was almost impossible. under normal conditions tim and hunter could have flown low over the clearing without seeing the plane but thanks to the radio detector they had been able to spot it with little trouble. hunter shut off the motor and leaned toward tim. "what are they doing?" he cried. "getting ready to take off," shouted tim. "they're climbing into the plane. here they come!" "see anything of ralph?" "no, but there's a small shack on one side of the clearing and he is probably in there. we'll take care of these chaps first and then drop down and see where they've hidden ralph." hunter snapped on the switch and the motor roared into action again. tim kept his glasses trained on the plane below. the wing motors had been started and the ship, after a run of thirty or forty feet, was rising almost vertically. it was a beautiful take-off and tim knew that the master hand of pierre petard was at the controls. "we'll let them get out of the forest country," tim shouted at hunter. "if we swoop down on them now we'll have them sneaking into some small clearing where we can't follow." "right," cried hunter as he swung his biplane westward and took up the pursuit. for half an hour the strange game of hunted and hunter continued with tim and hunter keeping five to six thousand feet above the other ship. when they were finally over open country tim motioned for hunter to give his plane the gun and the field manager, anxious for action, opened the throttle and sent his ship thundering downward. tim opened a black leather case in the forward cockpit and swung a sub-machine gun over the side of the plane. they had come prepared for any emergency for both of them realized that the men they sought would stop at nothing to make their escape. the biplane shrieked down on its unsuspecting quarry, flashing out of the heavens like an avenging eagle. intuition must have caused pierre petard to glance over his shoulder just in time to see hunter preparing for the final swoop. they saw pierre reach quickly and tap sam on the shoulder. instantly the man in the forward cockpit turned and in another second a light machine gun, similar to the one tim held, belched a stream of bullets at them. sam's aim was good and the bullets traced a wicked line along one wing, coming ever closer to the fuselage. but it was for only a second. hunter was a master of the air and he sent his plane into a screaming dive that ended only when he was under the other plane and in a position for tim to pour a hail of bullets into the fuselage of the ship above them. the bandit plane veered sharply and for a second tim had a clear shot at the propeller. the bullets from the machine gun shattered the whirling blade and the air was full of bits of wood. hunter pulled his own ship into the clear and they watched anxiously while pierre attempted to bring his damaged plane to a safe landing. it fluttered down like a crippled bird, turning this way and that, now limping along for a few feet and then abruptly dropping away until it seemed inevitable that it should end in a deadly tailspin. "they'll make it all right," cried tim. "they're heading for that big pasture," and he pointed to a large field. hunter gave the biplane full throttle and sped earthward at a daredevil pace. they must beat the bandit ship down. the field manager sideslipped into the pasture and set his plane down hard. tim leaped from the cockpit, his machine gun freshly loaded and ready for action. hunter, a repeating rifle in hand, joined him. the bandit plane was staggering down toward the field. it barely cleared the fence and bounced toward them. "get back of this ridge," tim warned hunter. "they may try to shoot it out and we'd make good targets out here in the open." hunter agreed and they sought shelter behind a low ridge along the edge of the field. the bandit plane rolled on and on. they could see pierre working desperately at the controls. "the wing motors," cried tim. "he's trying to start them. if he does they'll get away from us." "keep down," warned hunter, "i think the burst of bullets you put into their ship disabled the controls to the wing motors or he'd have used them before he landed." the bandit plane finally rolled to a stop less than two hundred feet away. "come out with your hands up!" ordered tim. the answer was a flicker of flame from the forward cockpit, the staccato of a machine gun and the thud of bullets into the dirt which protected them. tim answered instantly, his machine gun tracing a steady, deadly line along the fuselage. hunter pumped shell after shell into his repeating rifle. the firing from the plane ceased abruptly. "we'll come out," cried a weak voice and pierre petard stood up in his cockpit. tim and hunter moved forward cautiously, fearing a ruse, but they found that shanghai sam had been wounded in the shoulder in the last exchange of shots and pierre, knowing that the end of his career was near, was white and shaken. "where is the reporter you kidnapped?" demanded tim. "back in the clearing where we made our headquarters," replied pierre. "we didn't harm him," he added as though fearing tim might manhandle him. "if he is," promised the flying reporter, "i'll give you something to remember me by." shanghai sam refused to talk and hunter went to the nearest highway where he stopped a motorist. within an hour captain raymond and a detail of state police were on the scene, ready to take charge of the prisoners. tim, relieved of the responsibility of capturing the sky pirates, hastened to a farmhouse where he telephoned the story to the _news_. carson, the managing editor, was jubilant. "but how about ralph?" he asked. "state police are on their way to get him now," said tim. "the whole case will be cleaned up in another hour or two." "splendid," exclaimed the managing editor. "we're going on the street with an extra now with the _news_ taking full credit for the capture of those fellows." early that evening tim and ralph were reunited in the _news_ office. they had much to tell and they had an interested audience in their managing editor, the field manager and the members of the _news_ staff. ralph told how he had been on his way to the cedar river valley when he had seen the bandits bring their plane down in a small clearing near the highway. ralph had left his car to make a closer inspection but had been discovered by pierre and sam. he had fled to his car but had been captured before he could make his escape. he had been forced into the bandit plane and taken to their hiding place in the wilderness of timber and underbrush in the river valley. "they took good care of me," grinned ralph, "but i realized that when they completed their series of daring robberies they would probably leave me tied up in the shack, which wasn't such a pleasant prospect. the money they had obtained in their robberies was all in the shack and believe me i was sure happy when the state police arrived." from new york came a telegram from mac giddings congratulating tim on the use of the radio detector and adding that federal agents had raided the hidden factory in the jersey woods, seizing all men and equipment. giddings added that his own company was making arrangements to take over the plans and manufacture the new plane on a commercial basis. "at least some good will come from this whole affair" said tim. "the plane was truly a marvel. it's too bad that it had to have its first test in this fashion." captain raymond made his way into the room. a stranger was with him but tim recognized the man as the chief executive of the state, gov. ned turner. captain raymond introduced tim and ralph to the governor. "when captain raymond told me all of the fine things you two have done in capturing these sky pirates i wanted to tell you in person how much this means to the state. it is a real privilege to commission you as honorary life members of the state police." when tim and ralph were finally alone with their managing editor, they confessed their extreme fatigue. "what you need is a good rest," said carson. "you'll get the $ , reward the railroad offered, the banks should pay you handsomely and the paper is going to give each of you a bonus of a month's pay. you'd better take a vacation and spend a little of that money." "sounds good to me," said tim. "what do you say to accepting the invitation hank cummins extended to visit at the circle four ranch for a month?" "make it unanimous," smiled ralph. "then you can plan on leaving the first part of the week," said the managing editor. "in the meantime we'll see about buying a plane to replace the _good news_ for i know neither of you will be happy until then." produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) news writing the gathering, handling and writing of news stories by m. lyle spencer, ph.d. professor of english, lawrence college on the staff of "the milwaukee journal" d. c. heath & co., publishers boston new york chicago copyright, , by d. c. heath & co. to thomas b. reid dean of the wisconsin newspaper men preface the first week of a reporter's work is generally the most nerve-racking of his journalistic experience. unacquainted with his associates, ignorant of his duties, embarrassed because of his ignorance, he wastes more time in useless effort, dissipates more energy in worry, and grows more despondent over his work and his career than during any month of his later years. yet most of his depression would be unnecessary if he knew his duties. to acquaint the prospective reporter with these duties and their proper performance is the purpose of this volume, which has been written as a practical guide for beginners in news writing. its dominating purpose is practicalness. if it fails in this, its main purpose will be lost. because of this practical aim the attempt has been made to approach the work of the reporter as he will meet it on beginning his first morning's duties in the news office. after an introductory division explaining the organization of a newspaper and acquainting the beginner with his fellows and superiors in the editorial rooms, the book opens with an exposition of news. it then takes up sources of news, methods of getting stories, and the preparation of copy for the city desk. in discussing the writing of the story, it has seemed necessary to devote much attention to the lead, experience showing that the point of greatest difficulty in handling a story lies in the choice of a proper and effectively worded lead. likewise, it has been necessary to discuss the sentence at great length and to touch the paragraph only lightly, because the one is so much a matter of individual judgment, the other subject to such definite laws,--laws of which, however, most cub reporters are grossly ignorant. in some classes in news writing the instructor will find it possible and advisable to pass hastily over the chapter on the sentence, but as a rule he will find a careful study of it profitable. in part iii, that dealing with types of stories, emphasis has been laid on interview, crime, and sports stories, because it is these that the cub reporter must be most familiar with on taking up his work in the newspaper office. for the same practical reasons the volume omits editorial and copy reading, and makes no attempt to teach the beginner to be a dramatic critic or a city editor. it aims to give him only those details and that instruction which shall make him a competent, reliable reporter for the city editor who first employs his services. the book is written also with the belief, based on practical experience, that news writing as a craft can be taught. it is not contended that schools can produce star reporters. the newspaper office is the only place where they can be developed. but it is maintained that the college can send to the city room men and women who have been guided beyond the discouraging defeats of mere cub reporting, just as schools of law, medicine, and commerce can graduate lawyers, doctors, and business men who know the rudiments of their professions. and this contention is based on experience. during the last four years the studies here offered have been followed closely in the class room, from which students have been graduated who are now holding positions of first rank on leading american dailies. some too, though not all, had had no previous experience in newspaper work. all the illustrations and exercises except two are taken from published news articles, most of the stories being unchanged. in some, however, fictitious names and addresses, for obvious reasons, have been substituted. for aid in the preparation of this volume my thanks are due to mr. c. o. skinrood of _the milwaukee journal_, mr. warren b. bullock of _the milwaukee sentinel_, and mr. paul f. hunter of _the sheboygan press_, who have made numerous criticisms upon the book during its different stages. their suggestions have been invaluable. for permission to reprint stories from their columns my thanks also are due to the _appleton post_, _atlanta constitution_, _boston transcript_, _chicago american_, _chicago herald_, _chicago tribune_, _des moines register_, _indianapolis news_, _kansas city star_, _los angeles times_, _milwaukee journal_, _milwaukee sentinel_, _minneapolis tribune_, _new york herald_, _new york sun_, _new york times_, _new york tribune_, _new york world_, _omaha news_, _philadelphia public ledger_, and the _washington post_. m. l. s appleton, wisconsin _march , _ contents part i organization of the paper i. introduction ii. the editorial rooms iii. the mechanical department iv. the business department part ii the news story v. what news is vi. news sources vii. getting the story viii. organization of the story ix. the lead x. the body of the story xi. the paragraph xii. the sentence xiii. words part iii types of stories xiv. interviews, speeches, courts xv. accident, crime xvi. sports xvii. society xviii. follow-ups, rewrites xix. feature stories xx. correspondence stories appendix style book marks used in correcting copy corrected copy specimen proof terminology exercises index part i organization of the paper news writing organization of the paper i. introduction = . the city room.=--the city room is the place where a reporter presents himself for work the first day. it is impossible to give an exact description of this room, because no two editorial offices are ever alike. if the reporter has allied himself with a country weekly, he may find the city room and the business office in one, with the owner of the paper and himself as the sole dependence for village news. if he has obtained work on a small daily, he may find a diminutive office, perhaps twelve by fifteen feet, with the city editor the only other reporter. if he has been employed by a metropolitan journal, he will probably find one large room and several smaller adjoining offices, and an editorial force of twenty to thirty or forty helpers, depending upon the size of the paper. = . metropolitan papers.=--the metropolitan paper, of course, is the most complex in organization, and is therefore the one for a beginner to examine. the chances are two to one that the cub will have to begin on a so-called country daily, but if he knows the organization of a large paper, he will experience little trouble in learning the less complicated system of a small one. for this reason the reader is given in part i an explanation of the organization of a representative metropolitan newspaper. = . all papers different.=--the reader is cautioned, however, against taking this exposition as an explanation of anything more than a typical newspaper. the details of organization of various papers will be found to differ somewhat. the number of editors and their precise duties will vary. one journal will be a morning, another an afternoon, paper; a third will be a twenty-four-hour daily, employing a double shift of men and having one city editor with day and night assistants. one paper will have a universal copy desk with a single copy editor handling all departments. another will have, instead of a state editor, a section editor, a man who handles all special matter not carried by the press service from possibly half a dozen states. thus the organizations vary in certain minor details, sometimes materially so; but, on the whole, one general system will prevail. and it is to give the student an understanding of a typical newspaper plant that part i is written. ii. the editorial rooms = . beginning work.=--as stated in the preceding chapter, the place at which the reporter presents himself for work the first day is the city room. before coming, he will have seen the city editor and received instructions as to the time. if the office is that of a morning paper, he will probably be required to come some time between noon and six p.m. if it is that of an afternoon paper, he will be asked to report at six or seven a.m. let us suppose it is a metropolitan afternoon journal and that he is requested to be in the office at seven, the hour when the city editor appears. the ambitious reporter will always be in his place not later than : , so that he may see the city editor enter. = . copy readers.=--when a reporter appears on his first morning, he will find a big, desk-crowded room, deserted except for two or three silent workers reading and clipping papers at a long table. these men are known variously as the gas-house gang, the lobster shift, the morning stars, etc. they are the reporters and copy readers who read the morning papers for stories that may be rewritten or followed up for publication during the day. they have been on duty since two or three in the morning and have prepared most of the material for the bull-dog edition, the morning issue printed some time between : and : a.m. and mainly rewritten from the morning papers. on the entrance of the new reporter they will look up, direct him to a chair where he may sit until the city editor comes, and pay no more attention to him. they, or others who take their places, edit all the news stories. they correct spelling and punctuation, rewrite a story when the reporter has missed the main feature, reconstruct the lead, cut out contradictions, duplications, and libelous statements, and in general make the article conform to the length and style demanded by the paper; and having carefully revised the story, they write the headlines and chute it to the composing room. on the whole, these men are the most unpopular on the force, since they are subject to double criticism, from the editors above them and the reporters whose copy they correct. the city editor and the managing editor hold them responsible for poor headlines, libelous statements, involved sentences, and errors generally; the reporters blame them for pruning down their stories, changing leads, and often destroying what they regard as the very point of what they had to say. = . other reporters.=--as the new reporter waits by the city editor's desk, he will notice the arrival of the other members of the staff, who immediately begin their work for the day. one of these is the labor reporter. his business is to obtain and write news relating to labor and unions. another is the marine reporter. he handles all news relating to shipping, clearing and docking of vessels, etc. another reporter handles all stories coming from the police court. another watches the morgue and the hospitals. another, usually a woman, obtains society news. still another visits the hotels. and so the division of reporters continues until all the sources of news have been parceled out. = . the city editor.=--then the city editor enters. if the reporter wishes to make good, let him love the law of the city editor. he is the man to whom all the reporters and some of the copy readers are responsible, and who in turn is responsible to the managing editor for the gathering and preparation of city news. he must know where news can be found, direct the getting of news, and see that it is put into the paper properly. when news is abundant, he must decide which stories shall be discarded, and on those rarer occasions when all the world--the good and the bad--seems to have gone to sleep, he must know how to make news. every story written in the city room is first passed on by the city editor, who turns it over to the copy readers for correction. even the length of each story is determined by him, and often the nature of it, whether it shall be humorous, pathetic, tragic, or mysterious. to his desires and idiosyncrasies the reporter must learn quickly to adapt himself. sometimes the city editor may err. sometimes, during his absence, he may put in authority eccentric substitutes, smaller men who issue arbitrary commands and require stories entirely different in style and character from what is regularly required. but the cub's first lesson must be in adaptability, willingness to obey orders and to accept news policies determined by those in authority. he must therefore follow to the letter the wishes of the city editor (or his assistants) and must always be loyal to him and his plans.[ ] [ ] for an admirable exposition of the way in which the city editor handles his men and big stories, the student is advised to read two excellent articles by alex. mcd. stoddart: "when a gaynor is shot," _independent_, august , , and "telling the tale of the titanic," _independent_, may , . = . the news editor.=--as a reporter's acquaintance grows, he will come to know other editors in the city room,--the news, telegraph, state, market, sporting, literary, dramatic, and other editors. of these the news editor, sometimes known also as the make-up or the assistant managing editor, is most important. he handles all the telegraph and cable copy and much of what is sent in by mail. he decides what position the stories shall take in the paper, which articles shall have big heads and which little ones, which shall be thrown out, and in general determines the make-up of the pages. the news editor is always a bright man of wide knowledge, thoroughly conversant with state and national social and political movements, and more or less intimately acquainted with all sections of the united states. = . telegraph editor.=--next to the news editor, and usually his chief assistant, is the telegraph editor. on some papers the two positions are combined. this man handles all telegraph copy from without the state, including that of the press bureaus and special correspondents in important american and european cities. frequently in the largest news offices there are as many as a dozen telegraph operators who take his stories over direct wires. like the news editor, he must be a man of wide acquaintance in order to know the value of a story from a distant section of the united states or the world. since the outbreak of the european war, his has been an unusually responsible position because of the immense amount of war news and the necessity of knowing the exact importance of the capture of a certain city or the fall of a fort. = . state editor.=--next comes the state editor, who is responsible for all the state news and helps with the telegraph copy and local news when it becomes too bulky for the other copy readers to handle. the state editor manages the correspondents throughout the state and is particularly valuable when his paper is in the capital city or the metropolis of the state. most of his copy comes by mail or long-distance telephone from correspondents residing or traveling in the state. nearly all this copy needs editing, coming as it does largely from correspondents on country dailies and weeklies. in addition to editing stories sent in by correspondents, the state editor keeps a space book, from which he makes to the cashier in the business office a weekly or monthly report of the amount of material contributed by each correspondent. = . sporting editor.=--unless given a place in the sporting department, the reporter will not soon meet the sporting editor, who, with his assistants, is usually honored with a room to himself and is independent of the city editor. but some day, by accident perhaps, the cub will get a peep through a door across the hallway into a veritable den. that is the sporting room. the four walls are covered with cuts of willard, gotch, johnston, matthewson, travers, hoppe, and dozens of other celebrities in the realm of sports. there the sporting editor--often a man who has been prominent in college athletics--reigns. because of the intense interest in sports he must publish the news of his department promptly, and in consequence he often is privileged to make expenditures more freely than other editors. the sporting editor of a big daily must be an authority in athletic matters and should be able to decide on the instant, without looking up the book of regulations, any question relating to athletic rules or records. = . exchange editor.=--another editor, who usually will be discovered in a room by himself, is the exchange editor. he will be found all but buried in piles of exchanges, now and then clipping a story not covered on the wires, an editorial, a criticism of his own paper, or a comment of any kind that may be worth copying or following up. he must know thoroughly the bias of his paper, to know what to clip and publish. favorable references to his paper he reprints. criticisms he refers to the managing editor, who reads them and throws them into the waste basket, or else keeps them for a reply in a later issue. most of the jokes, anecdotes of famous men and women, stories of minor inventions and discoveries, and timely articles relating to current events, fashions, beliefs, etc., published on the editorial page and in the feature sections of the sunday issue, are the result of the exchange editor's long hours of patient reading of newspapers mailed from every section of the united states. = . the morgue.=--one of the chief duties of many exchange editors is to supply the morgue with material for its files. the morgue, sometimes called the library, is an important adjunct of every newspaper office. in it are kept, perhaps ready for printing, obituaries of well-known men, stories of their rise to prominence, pictures of them and their families, accounts of great discoveries, inventions, and disasters, and facts on every conceivable newspaper topic,--all ready for hasty reference or use. if the president of the united states were to drop dead from apoplexy, the papers would have on the streets in a quarter of an hour's time columns of stories giving his whole career. when the steamer _eastland_ turned over in the chicago river, causing the death of persons, the papers published in their regular editions boxed summaries of all previous ship disasters. when willard knocked out johnson at havana, reviews of willard's and johnson's ring careers were printed in numerous dailies. all such stories are procured from the morgue, from files supplied mainly by the exchange editor. in some of the larger offices, however, these files are maintained independently of the exchange editor, and are under the charge of the librarian and a staff of assistants who keep catalogued lists of all maps, cuts, photographs, and clippings. on a moment's notice these may be obtained for use in the paper. = . other editors.=--other editors, who may be passed with brief mention because of their minor importance in this volume, are the market, dramatic, literary, and society editors, and the editorial writers. the market editor handles all matters of a financial nature. sometimes on the largest dailies there are both a market and a financial editor, but usually the work is combined under a single man whose duties are to keep in close touch with markets, banks, manufactories, and large mercantile companies, and to write up simply and accurately from day to day the financial condition of the city and the country. the duty of the literary editor is often little more than book reviewing. frequently he does not have an office in the building, and on small papers his only remuneration is the gift of the book he reviews. the society editor, in addition to reporting notes of the social world, generally handles fashion stories, answers letters regarding etiquette, love, and marriage, and edits all material for the woman's page. the work of the editorial writers is explained by their name. they quit work at all sorts of hours, take two hours off for lunch, and are known in the city room as "highbrows." but many an editorial writer who comes to work at nine in the morning has worked very late the night before, searching for facts utilized in a half-column of editorial matter. = . cartoonists and photographers.=--the business of the cartoonist is to draw one cartoon a day upon some timely civic or political subject. he is responsible to the managing editor. under him are other cartoonists who illustrate individual stories or do cartoon work for special departments of the paper. the sporting editor has one such man, and the city editor has one or two. finally, there are the photographers, subject to the city editor, who rush hither and thither to all parts of the city and state, taking scenes valuable for cuts. = . the managing editor.=--the men whose work we have been discussing thus far are those whom the reporter meets in his daily work. above all these is an executive officer whom the cub reporter rarely sees,--the managing editor, who has general supervision over all the news and editorial departments of the paper. he does little writing or editing himself, his time being taken up with administrative duties. all unusual expenditures are submitted for his approval. the size and make-up of the paper, which varies greatly from day to day on the large dailies, is a matter for his final decision. the cartoonist submits to him rough drafts of contemplated drawings. the city, telegraph, and news editors confer with him about getting important stories. the sunday editor consults with him with regard to special features. to him is submitted a proof of every story, which he reads for possible libel and for general effectiveness. now and then he returns a story to the city editor to be lengthened or to be pruned down. occasionally he may kill an article. always he is working at top speed, from the time he gets to his office at : a.m., or : p.m., until he sits down to compare his paper with the first edition of rival publications. for the managing editor scrutinizes with minute care every daily in the city, and when he finds anything to his paper's discredit, he begins an immediate investigation to learn how the slip happened and who was responsible. = . editor-in-chief.=--above the managing editor is the editor-in-chief, often the owner of the paper. of him the sub-editors say that his chief business is playing golf and smoking fat cigars. as a matter of fact, his duties are at once the most and the least exacting of any on the paper. he is either the owner or the personal representative of the owner, who looks to him for the execution of his policies. but since such policies necessarily must be subject to the most liberal interpretation, the final responsibility of the editorial rooms falls on the shoulders of the editor-in-chief. to make known the plans of the paper, the editor-in-chief holds with the editorial writers, the managing editor, and the city editor weekly, sometimes daily, meetings, at which are discussed all matters of doubt or dissatisfaction relating to the editorial rooms. = . conclusion.=--in conclusion, then, we have the editor-in-chief, who is responsible for the general policies of the paper. immediately beneath him is the managing editor, who executes the editor-in-chief's orders. responsible to the editor-in-chief or the managing editor are the editorial writers, the news, city, sporting, exchange, literary, and dramatic editors, and the cartoonist. beneath the city editor are a few of the copy readers and all the reporters. such is the organization of the editorial staff of a typical metropolitan newspaper. iii. the mechanical department = . division.=--beyond the editorial rooms is the mechanical department, with which every reporter should be, but rarely ever is, acquainted. because of the heavy machinery necessary for preparing and printing a paper, the mechanical department is often found in the basement. this department is divisible into three sub-departments, the composing room, the stereotyping room, and the press room. = . the copy cutter.=--when a story has been revised by the copy reader and given proper headlines, it is turned over to the head copy reader or the news editor, who glances over it hastily to see that all is rightly done and chutes it in a pneumatic tube to the basket on the copy cutter's table or desk in the composing room. the copy cutter in turn glances at the headlines and the two or three pages of copy, and records the story upon a ruled blank on his desk. then he clips the headlines and sends them by a copy distributor to the headline machine to be set up. the two or three pages of copy he cuts into three or four or five "takes," puts the slug number or name on each, and sends the "takes" to different compositors, so that the whole story may be set up more quickly than if it were given all to one man. if the time before going to press is very short, the pages may be cut into more takes. the slug names, sometimes called guide or catch lines, are marked on each take to enable the bank-men to assemble readily all the parts after they have been set in type. = . the linotype machine.=--each compositor on receiving his take places it on the copy-holder of his linotype or monotype machine and begins composing it into type. the linotype machine consists of a keyboard not unlike that of the typewriter, which actuates a magazine containing matrices or countersunk letter molds, together with a casting mechanism for producing lines or bars of words. by touching the keys, the compositor releases letter by letter an entire line of matrices, which are mustered automatically into the assembling-stick at the left and above the keyboard, ready to be molded into a line of type. when the assembling-stick is full of matrices, enough to make a full line, the operator is warned, as on the typewriter, by the ringing of a tiny bell. the machinist then pulls a lever, which releases molten lead on the line of matrices and casts a slug of metal representing the letters he has just touched on the keys. the machine cuts and trims this slug of lead to an exact size, conveys it to the receiving galley for finished lines, and returns the matrices to their proper places in the magazine for use in a succeeding line. when the operator has composed twenty or twenty-five of these slugs, his take is completed. he then removes the slugs from their holder, wraps them in the manuscript, and sends them to the bank to be assembled with the other takes of the same story. the proof of the compositor's take looks something like the matter at the top of the next page. the big _three's_ are the compositor's slug number. this take was set up by the workman operating machine number . the _loops_ is the catch line, or slug name, by which the story is known, every take of the story being named _loops_, so that the bank-men may easily get the parts of the story together. the letters at the right of _loops_, in the same line, are merely any letters that the compositor has set up at random by tapping the linotype keys to fill out the line. ---------------------------------------- three three ---------------------------------------- loops... ... ... ...) rna.. an........ army birdmen break records for loops san diego, cal., sept. .--sergt. william ocher and corporal albert smith, attached to the united states army aviation corps at north island, made fifteen loops each while engaged in flights, shattering army and navy aviation records. both officers used the same machine equipped with a ninety horsepower motor, and designed for long distance flying. this take, which was picked up at random in the editorial rooms of the _milwaukee journal_, was followed by this: ---------------------------------------- seven seven ---------------------------------------- folo loops........................etaoin falls , feet, unhurt. omaha, sept. .--francis hoover, chicago aviator, fell , feet at david city, neb. he alighted in a big tank and was not injured. the compositor in this case was at machine number , and the slug name given the story was _folo loops_: that is, it was a follow story, to come after the one slugged _loops_. = . the proofs.=--on receipt of the different takes by the bank-man, the various parts of the story are assembled, with the proper head, in a long brass receptacle called a galley, and the first, or galley, proof is "pulled" on the proof press, a small hand machine. three proofs are made. one goes to the managing editor, on whom rests responsibility for every story in the paper; one to the news editor; and one, with the original copy, to the head proofreader, who is responsible for all typographical errors. the head proofreader in turn gives the proof to an assistant and the manuscript to a copyholder, who reads the story to the assistant for the detection of typographical errors. a corrected galley proof will be returned in the form shown in the specimen proof sheet printed on page . = . the form.=--after all corrections have been made and the position of the story in the paper has been determined by the news editor, it is inserted in its proper place among other articles which together make up a page of type, or what printers know as a form. this form is locked in an enveloping steel frame, called a chase, and carried to the stereotyping room, the second department in the mechanical composition of the paper. in the small newspaper offices, the sheet is printed directly from the form. but since the leaden letters begin to blur after , impressions have been made, and since it has been found impossible to do fast printing from flat surfaces, it is necessary for the larger papers to cast from four to twelve stereotyped plates of each page. = . stereotyping process.=--these stereotyped plates are circular or semicircular in shape, so that they fit snugly on the press cylinders. they are made in the following way: when the form is brought into the stereotyping room, it is placed, face up, on the flat bed of a strongly built press. over the face of the columns of type are spread several layers of tissue paper pasted together. upon the paper is laid a damp blanket, and a heavy revolving steel drum subjects the whole to hundreds of pounds of pressure, thus squeezing the face of the type into the texture of the moist paper. intense heat is then applied by a steam drier, so that within a few seconds the moisture has been baked entirely from the paper, which emerges a stiff flat matrix of the type in the form. = . the autoplate.=--this matrix in turn is bent to the shape of the impressing cylinder that later stamps the page, and is put into an autoplate, or casting machine, which presses molten metal upon the paper matrix, cools the metal, and turns out in a few moments the finished, cylindrical plates ready to be put on the press for printing. duplicates follow at intervals of from fifteen to twenty seconds, so that several impressions of the same page may be made at once in the press room and the whole paper printed more quickly than if a single impression of a page were made at one time. = . the press room.=--the press room, the third and final stage in the mechanical composition of the paper, is where the printing is done on highly complicated machines. the larger the number of pages of the paper printed, the more complicated the presses, the marvel of them being their adaptability to running full, or half, or third capacity, according to the needed output, or to printing a double or triple number of small sized papers in a third or half the usually required time. the large presses of the great dailies print, fold, cut, paste, and count, according to the size of the sheet, , to , papers an hour. a double sextuple press has a limit of , twelve-page papers an hour. = . the printing press.=--it is on the cylinders of these presses that the circular stereotyped plates are fitted, two plates filling nicely the round of the cylinder. all the plates for the inside pages of the paper are stereotyped and screwed on their cylinders a half-hour or more before press time, the pages with the latest news being held until the last possible moment. usually the last page to come is the title page, and as soon as the last locking lever has been clamped, the wheels of the big press begin to turn. as the cylinders with their plates revolve, raised letters on the surface of the plate come in contact, first with the inked rollers, then with the paper, which is spun from large rolls and drawn through the press, obtaining as it goes the impression of the pages of type. as the printed ribbon of paper issues from beneath the cylinders, it is cut into pages, folded, and counted, ready for the circulation department. the whole period of time elapsing between the chute of the last story from the city room and the delivery of the printed pages to the newsboys will not have exceeded ten minutes. = . speed in printing.=--even this brief time is materially cut when great stories break. the result of the willard-johnson fight in and all the details up to the last few rounds were cried on the streets of new york within two minutes after johnson had been knocked out in havana. this was made possible by means of the "fudge," a device especially designed for late news. this is a small printing cylinder, upon which is fitted a diminutive curved chase capable of holding a few linotype slugs. when the fudge is used, a stereotyped front page of the paper is ripped open and a prominent blank space left, so that if the press were to print now, the paper would appear with a large unprinted space on its front page. to this blank space, however, the fudge is keyed, so that as the web of paper passes the main cylinder, the little emergency cylinder makes its impression and the page appears to all appearances printed from a single cylinder. = . speed devices.=--the value of the fudge, of course, is that, by printing directly from the linotype slugs, it saves the time expended in stereotyping. its speed, too, is increased by reason of the fact that every great newspaper has in the press room near the fudge a composing machine to which a special telegraph wire is run, and a special operator to read the news direct from the wire to the compositor. this enables the papers to meet the baseball crowd on its way home with extras giving full details of all the plays, and during the last quarter of the football game to sell in the bleachers a complete account to the end of the first half. but even this speed is not always sufficient. where the outcome of a big piece of news may be predicted, advance headlines are set up and held ready to be clamped on the press. in the case of the willard-johnson fight, two heads were held awaiting the knockout: jess willard new champion and jack johnson retains title. when president mckinley died in september, , one prominent milwaukee newspaper man held locked on his presses from : a.m. until the president died at midnight the plates that would print the whole story of mr. mckinley's life, assassination, and death. then when the flash came announcing the dreaded event, the presses were started, and ten seconds afterward newsboys were crying the death of the president of the united states. such are some of the devices editors use to publish news in the shortest possible time. iv. the business department = . divisions of the business department.=--when the paper issues from the press, it passes into the hands of the circulation manager, whose duties are in an entirely different department of the newspaper organization,--the business department. this department is divided into two or three more or less closely connected divisions, presided over by the circulation manager, the advertising manager, and the cashier. over all these is the business manager, who supervises the department as a whole. = . the circulation manager.=--the work of the circulation manager has been termed simple by outsiders. but the simplicity exists only for outsiders. the distribution of a hundred thousand to a million papers a day is not a small task in itself, particularly when one considers the scores of trains to be caught, the dozens of delivery wagons and wagon drivers to be guided, and the hundreds of newsboys and newsstands to be supplied with the very latest editions at the very earliest moment. yet the circulation manager's duties are even more multifarious than this. all the canvassers for new subscriptions are under his supervision. the organization of the newsboys for selling his paper is his duty,--and it is marvelous how the good-will of the newsboys, even when they handle all rival publications, can boost the sales of some particular circulation manager's papers. the advertising of the paper's past and forthcoming news features, such as stories by special writers, exclusive dispatches, etc., are the brunt of his work, because in so far as he makes people believe in the superiority of his news, they will buy the papers. even the outcries against public grievances and the publication of subscription lists for charitable purposes are often the thoughts of the circulation manager, because they invite more readers. some managers, under the guise of helping the down-and-outs, even publish free all "situations wanted" advertisements, because they believe that the loss in advertising will be more than paid for by the gain in the number of readers, with the resultant possibility of higher advertising rates or more advertising in other departments because of the increased circulation. = . the advertising manager.=--closely associated with the circulation manager is the advertising manager, who is dependent upon the former for his rates. it makes a great difference with the advertising manager's rates whether the circulation is a hundred thousand or a quarter of a million, and whether the circulation is double or one half that of the rival morning publication. the advertising manager's duties are as manifold as those of his associate. he directs the advertising solicitors and advises prospective advertisers about the place, prices, space, and character of their advertisements. a chewing tobacco ad is worth little in the column bordering the society section; the back page is far more valuable for advertising than the inside; and the columns next to reading matter are worth more than those on a page filled only with advertisements. the advertising manager, too, has the power of accepting or rejecting advertisements. liquor, soothing syrup, and questionable ads are barred by many managers. some will not even accept so-called personal ads. yet at the same time that they are rejecting ads in this class, such managers are straining every point to gain desirable ones. one way of obtaining these is by advertising solicitors. another is by advertising in one's own paper and in publications in other cities. many of the metropolitan dailies exchange whole and half-page advertisements, directing attention to their circulation figures and the number of agate lines of advertising matter printed within the preceding month or year. some of these papers publish audited statements, too, of the relative number of advertising lines printed by their own and rival publications. but the advantage is always in their own favor. = . the cashier.=--the third division of the business department is the cashier's office, frequently known as the counting room. briefly put, the cashier directs the pay-roll and all receipts and disbursements of the paper. he keeps the books of the publishing company. from him the reporter receives his pay envelop, and to him are sent all bills for paper, ink, machinery, telegraph and telephone messages, and similar expenses. rarely has the cashier served an apprenticeship in the editorial department, but he knows thoroughly the business of bookkeeping, money changing, banking, and similar work, which is all that is required in his position. part ii the news story the news story v. what news is = . essentials of news writing.=--to write successful news stories, four requisites are necessary: the power to estimate news values properly, the stories to write, the ability to work rapidly, and the power to present facts accurately and interestingly. = . the "nose for news."=--recognition of news values is put first in the tabulation of requirements for successful writing because without a "nose for news"--without the ability to recognize a story when one sees it--a reporter cannot hope to succeed. editorial rooms all over the united states are full of stories of would-be reporters who have failed because they have not been able to recognize news. the following is a genuine first paragraph of a country correspondent's letter to a village weekly in tennessee: |there is no news in this settlement to speak of. we| |did hear of a man whose head was blown off by a | |boiler explosion, but we didn't have time to learn | |his name. anyhow he didn't have any kinfolk in this| |country, so it don't much matter. | then follow the usual dull items about henry hawkins sundaying in adamsville and tom anderson autoing with a new girl. = . need of knowing news.=--the fault with this correspondent was that he did not know a good story. he lacked an intuitive knowledge of news values, and he had not been trained to recognize available news possibilities. a clear understanding of what news is, and an analysis of its more or less elusive qualities, is necessary, therefore, before one may attempt a search for it or may dare the writing of a newspaper story. = . definition of news.=--in its final analysis, news may be defined as any accurate fact or idea that will interest a large number of readers; and of two stories the accurate one that interests the greater number of people is the better. the student should examine this definition with care as there is more in it than at first appears. strangeness, abnormality, unexpectedness, nearness of the events, all add to the interest of a story, but none is essential. even timeliness is not a prerequisite. if it were learned to-day that a member of the united states senate had killed a man in , the occurrence would be news and would be carried on the front page of every paper in america, even though the deed were committed years ago. and if it should transpire that csolgosz was bribed by an american millionaire to assassinate president mckinley in , the story would be good for a column in any paper. freshness, enormity, departure from the normal, all are good and add to the value of news, but they are not essential. the only requirements are that the story shall be accurate and shall contain facts or ideas interesting to a considerable number of readers. = . accuracy.=--the reason for emphasizing so particularly the need of accuracy in news requires little discussion. _accuracy first_ is the slogan of the modern newspaper. if a piece of news, no matter how thrilling, is untrue, it is worthless in the columns of a reputable journal. it is worse than worthless, because it makes the public lose confidence in the paper. and the ideal of all first-class newspapers to-day is never to be compelled to retract a published statement. this desire for accuracy does not bar a paper from publishing, for example, a rumor of the assassination of the german crown prince, but it does demand that the report be published only as an unverified rumor. = . interest.=--the statement, however, that interest is the other requisite of news requires full explanation, because the demand immediately comes for an explanation of that elusive quality in news which makes it interesting. in other words, what constitutes interest? any item of news, it may be defined, that will present a new problem, a new situation, that will provoke thought in the minds of a considerable number of readers, is interesting, and that story is most interesting which presents a new problem to the greatest number of people. it is a psychological truth that all men think only when they must. yet they enjoy being made to think,--not too hard, but hard enough to engage their minds seriously. the first time they meet a problem they think over it, and think hard if need be. but when they meet that problem a second or a third time, they solve it automatically. a man learning to drive a car has presented to him a new problem about which he must think keenly. the steering wheel, the foot-brake, the accelerator, the brake and speed levers, the possibility of touching the wrong pedal,--all demand his undivided attention and keep him thinking every moment of the time. but having learned, having solved his problem, he can run his car without conscious thought, and meanwhile can devote his mind to problems of business or pleasure. as professor pitkin says: whatsoever we can manage through some other agency we do so manage. and, if thinking is imperative for a while, we make that while as brief as possible. the baby thinks in learning to walk, but as soon as his feet move surely he refrains from cogitation. he thinks over his speech, too, but quickly he outgrows that, transforming discourse from an intellectual performance to a reflex habit. and he never thinks about the order and choice of words again, unless they give rise to some new, unforeseen perplexity; as, for instance, they might, were he suddenly afflicted with stammering or stage fright. this is no scandal, it is a great convenience. thanks to it, men are able to concern themselves with fresh enterprises and hence to progress. indeed, civilization is a titanic monument to thoughtlessness, no less than to thought. the supreme triumph of mind is to dispense with itself. for what would intellect avail us, if we could not withdraw it from action in all the habitual encounters of daily life?[ ] [ ] _short story writing_, pp. - . = . what provokes thought is news.=--men apply the same principle, too, in their news reading. whatever presents a new problem, or injects a new motive or situation into an old one, will be interesting and will be read by those readers to whom the problem or situation is new. it is not, therefore, that american men and women are interested in the sins and misfortunes of others that they read stories of crime and unhallowed love, but that such stories present new problems, new life situations, or new phases of old problems and old situations. a story of innocence and hallowed love would be just as interesting. when the newspapers of the united states make the president's wedding the big story of the day, it is not that they think their patrons have never seen a wedding, but that a wedding under just such circumstances has never been presented before. and every published story of murder or divorce or struggle for victory offers new thought-provoking problems to newspaper readers. men are continually searching for new situations that will present new problems. and any story that will provoke a reader's thought will be enjoyed as news. = . timeliness.=--but there are certain definite features that add greatly to the interest of stories. timeliness is the first of these. indeed, timeliness is so important in a story that one prominent writer[ ] on journalism deems it an essential of a good story. certainly it figures in ninety per cent of the published articles in our daily newspapers. the word _yesterday_ has been relegated to the scrap heap. _to-day_, _this morning_, _this afternoon_ should appear if possible in every story. and the divorce that was granted yesterday or the accident that happened last night must be viewed from such an angle that _to-day_ shall appear in the write-up. close competition and improved machinery have made freshness, timeliness, all but a requisite in every story. [ ] professor willard grosvenor bleyer. see his _newspaper writing and editing_, p. . = . closeness of the event.=--next to nearness in time comes nearness in place as a means of maintaining interest. other things being equal, the worth of a story varies in inverse proportion to its closeness in time and place. a theft of ten dollars in one's home town is worth more space than a theft of a thousand in a city across the continent. a visit of mrs. gadabit, wife of the president of our city bank, to neighborville twenty miles away is worth more space than a trip made by mrs. astor to europe. whenever possible, the good reporter seeks to localize his story and draw it close to the everyday lives of his readers. even an accidental acquaintance of a man in town with the noted governor or the notorious criminal who has just been brought into the public eye--with a brief quotation of the local man's opinion of the other fellow, or how they chanced to meet,--is worth generous space in any paper. oftentimes a resident man or woman's opinion of a statement made by some one else, or of a problem of civic, state, or national interest, is given an important place merely by reason of the fact that the story is associated with some locally prominent person. always the effort is made to localize the news. = . the search for extremes.=--again, say what one may, the american public loves extremes in its news stories. if a pumpkin can be made the largest ever grown in one's section, or a murder the foulest ever committed in the vicinity, or a robbery the boldest ever attempted in the block, or a race the fastest ever run on the track, or anything else the largest or the least ever registered in the community, it will be good for valuable space in the local news columns. a record breaker in anything is a new problem to the public, who will read with eager joy every detail concerning the attainment of the new record. = . the unusual.=--the exceptional, the unusual, the abnormal is in a sense a record breaker and will be read about with zest. a burglar stealing a bible or returning a baby's mite box, a calf with two heads, a dog committing suicide, a husband divorcing his wife so that she may marry a man whom she loves better,--such stories belong in the list with the unique and will be found of exceptional interest to readers. = . contests.=--the description of a contest always makes interesting news. no matter whether the struggle is between athletic teams, business men, society women, race horses, or neighboring cities, if the element of struggle for supremacy can be injected into the story, it will be read with added zest. such stories may be found in the search of politicians for office, in the struggles of business men for control of trade or for squeezing out competitors, in contests between capital and labor, in religious factions, in collegiate rivalry, and in many of the seemingly commonplace struggles of everyday life. the individual, elementary appeal that comes from struggle is always thrilling. = . helplessness.=--opposed to stories depicting struggle for supremacy are those portraying the joys or the sufferings of the very old or very young, or of those who are physically or mentally unable to struggle. the joy of an aged mother because her boy remembered her birthday, the undeserved sufferings of an old man, the cry of a child in pain, the distress of a helpless animal, all are full of interest to the average reader. helplessness, particularly in its hours of suffering or its moments of unaccustomed pleasure, compels the sympathy of everyone, and every reporter is delighted with the opportunity to write a "sob story" picturing the friendlessness and the want of such unprivileged ones. these stories not only are read with interest, but often prove a practical means of helping those in distress. = . prominent persons.=--directly opposed to stories about helpless persons or animals are those of prominent men and women. for some reason news about the great, no matter how trivial, is always of interest, and varies in direct proportion to the prominence of the person. if the president of the united states drives a golf ball into a robin's nest, if the oil king in the middle west prefers a wig to baldness, if the millionaire automobile manufacturer never pays more than five cents for his cigars, the reading public is greatly interested in learning the fact. nor is it essential that the reader shall have heard of the prominent man. it is sufficient that his position socially or professionally is high. = . well-known places.=--the same interest attaches to noted or notorious places. a news item about reno, nevada, is worth more than one about rome, georgia, though the cities are of about the same size. a street traffic regulation in new york city is copied all over the united states, notwithstanding the fact that the same law may have been passed by the city council in winchester, kentucky, years before and gone unnoticed. and so with coney island or niagara falls or death valley, or any one of a hundred other places that might be named. the fashions they originate, the ideas for which they stand sponsors, the accidents that happen in their vicinity, all have specific interest by virtue of their previous note or notoriety. and if the reporter can fix the setting of his story in such a place, he may be assured of interested readers. = . personal and financial interests.=--finally, if a news story can be found that will bear directly on the personal or financial interests of the patrons of the paper, one may be sure of its cordial reception. if turkeys take the roup six weeks before thanksgiving, or taxes promise a drop with the new year, or pork volplanes two or three cents, or an ice famine is threatened, or styles promise coats a few inches shorter or socks a few shades greener, the readers are eager to know and will applaud the vigilance of the editors. for this reason, a reporter can often pick up an extra story--and reporters are judged by the extra stories they place on the city editor's desk--by occasionally dropping in at markets, grocery stores, and similar business houses and inquiring casually for possible drops or rises in price. for the same reason, too, new styles as seen in the shop windows are always good for a half-column. and one cannot think of covering a dressmakers' convention, an automobile show, a jewelers' exhibition, or a similar gathering without playing up prominently the new styles. a clever san francisco reporter covering a convention of insurance agents once produced a brilliant story on new styles in life insurance policies. = . summary.=--by way of summary, then, it may be said that the only requirements of an event or an idea to make it good story material are that it be presented accurately and that it possess interest for a goodly number of readers; and any fact or idea which presents a situation or poses a problem differing, even slightly, from preceding situations or problems encountered by the readers of a paper is sure to possess interest. timeliness is of vital worth, but is not a necessity. the geographical nearness of an event adds to its value, as does the fact that the event or the product or the result is a record breaker or is unique in its class. contests of all sorts invariably possess interest, and stories of the helplessness of old persons, children, or animals never fail to have an emotional appeal. any news item concerning a well-known person or place is likely to attract attention, and any story that touches the home or business interests of the public is sure to command interested readers. all these features are valuable, and any one will contribute much to the worth of a story, but none is essential. the prerequisite is that the news shall be true and shall present a new situation or problem, or a new phase of an old situation or problem. vi. news sources = . second essential of news writing.=--as explained in the preceding chapter, the first essential in news writing is a proper appreciation of news and news values. the second essential is the possession of a story to write. this chapter will discuss news sources, leaving for chapter iii an explanation of the methods of getting stories. = . gathering news.=--the prospective reporter who supposes that newspaper men wander aimlessly up and down the streets of a city, watching and hoping for automobiles to collide and for men to shoot their enemies, will have his eyes opened soon after entering a news office. he will learn that a reporter never leaves the city room without a definite idea of where he is going. if newspapers had to police the streets with watchers for news as the city government assigns officers of the law, the cost of gathering news would be prohibitive. = . police as news gatherers.=--as a matter of fact, a paper has comparatively few paid men on its staff, though it has hundreds of non-paid watchers who are just as faithful. the police are the chief of these. as every reporter knows, a policeman is compelled to make to his captain a full and prompt report of every fire, robbery, murder, accident, or mishap involving loss of, or danger to, life or property occurring on his beat. this report is made to the local precinct or station, whence it is telephoned to police headquarters. at the central station the report is recorded in the daily record book of crime, known familiarly to the public as the "blotter." not all of the reports recorded on the police blotter are made public, because hasty announcement of information received by the police oftentimes would forestall expected arrests; but such information as the desk sergeant is willing to utter is given out in brief bulletins, sometimes posted behind locked glass doors, sometimes simply written in a large ledger open to public inspection. whether written in the ledger or displayed on a bulletin board, these bulletins are known always as slips, of which the following are typical examples: oct. suicide attempt theodore pavolovich, yrs., arrested oct. , , fugitive, abandonment, chicago, attempted suicide by stabbing with a fork while eating dinner. sent to emergency hospital, ambulance . : p. m. conway oct. clothing found woman's coat, hat, and purse found on bank of lake michigan, foot of pine st., : p. m. skirt taken from water, same place, : p. m., by patrolman heath. clothing identified as mrs. george riley's, veazy st., missing since noon. : p. m. nock oct. leg broken mary molinski, yrs., single, grove st., fell down stairs, : p. m. leg broken. conveyed to st. elizabeth hospital by patrol . : p. m. pct. . oct. calf carcass found calf carcass, black and white hide, weight about pounds, found at th and henry ave. : a. m. oper these slips need little explanation. the name signed to each is that of the police officer reporting. the _pct. _ signed after the third indicates merely the local precinct from which the report was made. the time at the end of each slip signifies the exact time at which the report was received at police headquarters. = . arrest sheets.=--in addition to the slips there are the "arrest sheets," on which all arrests are recorded. these sheets are open always to public inspection, as the public has a right to know of every arrest, lest a man be imprisoned unjustly. on page is given a verbatim reproduction of the arrests recorded in a city in the middle west. the _m_ or _s_ at the top of the fifth column stands for _married or single_, and _r_ and _w_ at the top of the eighth, for _read and write_. the _d and d_ charge against the second offender is _drunk and disorderly_. it will be noted that the cases entered after ten o'clock had not been disposed of when this sheet was copied. from these arrest sheets and the slips, as the reader may readily see, the reporter is able to get a brief but prompt and accurate account of most of the accidents and crimes within the city. and with these advance notices in his possession he can follow up the event and get all available facts. = . other news gatherers.=--but there are numerous other non-paid news gatherers. doctors are required to report to the health department every birth, death, and contagious disease to which they have been called in a professional capacity. to the coroner is reported every fatal accident, suicide, murder, or suspicious death. the county clerk keeps a record of every marriage license. the recorder of deeds has a register of all sales and transfers of property. the building inspector has a full account of buildings condemned, permits granted for new buildings, and fire devices required. the leading hotels have the names of important guests visiting or passing through the city. thus by regular visitation of certain persons and places in the city, a newspaper through its representatives, the reporters, is able to get most of the news of its neighborhood. an arrest sheet =======+=======+========+====+====+=======+===+=====+============= name | ad- | occu- | a | m | where | c | r | charge | dress | pation | g | or | born | o | and | | | | e | s | | l | w | | | | | | | o | | | | | | | | r | | -------+-------+--------+----+----+-------+---+-----+------------- john | | cook | | s | u.s. | w | yes | vagrancy glass | lake | | | | | | | | st. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | chas. | | tailor | | m | " | " | " | d and d king | john | | | | | | | | st. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ben | | ped- | | m | " | " | " | violating loti | third | dler | | | | | | health | st. | | | | | | | laws | | | | | | | | nell | | house- | | s | " | " | " | drunk smith | west | work | | | | | | | ave. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | nick | | barber | | m | " | " | " | abandonment white | d st. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | edw. | | broker | | m | " | " | " | violating meyer | palm | | | | | | | speed laws | st. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | jane | | house- | | m | " | " | " | keeping gray | elm | wife | | | | | | disorderly | st. | | | | | | | house | | | | | | | | peter | | line- | | s | ger. | " | " | seduction amt | state | man | | | | | | | st. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | alex | st. | but- | | m | u.s. | " | " | fugitive bass | louis | cher | | | | | | | | | | | | | | geo. | | watch- | | m | " | " | " | murder holt | th | man | | | | | | | st. | | | | | | | -------+-------+--------+----+----+-------+---+-----+------------- =======+=========+=========+=======+=======+======+============= name | comp- | officer | date | time | cell | disposition | lainant | & pre- | | | & | | | cinct | | | ward | | | | | | | | | | | | | -------+---------+---------+-------+-------+------+------------- john | jacobs | jacobs | oct. | : | | glass | | | | am | | days | | | | | | | | | | | | chas. | hays | hays | " " | : | | bound king | | | | am | | over | | | | | | | | | | | | ben | jones | oper | " " | : | | loti | | | | am | | | | | | | | | | | | | | nell | hays | hays | " " | : | | smith | | | | am | | | | | | | | | | | | | | nick | chief | olson | " " | : | | white | police, | | | am | | | atlanta | | | | | | | | | | | edw. | thiel | thiel | " " | : | | meyer | | | | pm | | | | | | | | | | | | | | jane | j. b. | walker | " " | : | | gray | katz | | | pm | | | | | | | | | | | | | | peter | vera | towne | " " | : | | amt | mann | | | pm | | | | | | | | | | | | | | alex | chief | bower | " " | : | | bass | police, | | | pm | | | st. | | | | | | louis | | | | | | | | | | | geo. | mrs. | owens | " " | : | | holt | holt | | | pm | | | | | | | | -------+---------+---------+-------+-------+------+------------- = . regular news sources.=--places that serve as news sources are known as "beats" or "runs." the chief ones and the kinds of news found at each are: associated charities headquarters: destitution, poverty, relief work. boards of trade, brokers, commission men: market quotations; sales of grain, stocks, and bonds; financial outlook. boxing commission: boxing permissions and regulations. building department, real estate dealers, architects: new buildings, unsafe buildings. caterers: banquets, society dinners. civic organizations: reform movements, speakers, etc. civil courts: complaints, trials, decisions. commercial club: business news. coroner's office: fatal accidents, murders, suicides, suspicious deaths. county clerk: marriage licenses, county statistics. county jail: arrests, crimes, executions. criminal courts: arraignments, trials, verdicts. delicatessen stores: banquets, society dinners. fire department headquarters: fires, fire losses, fire regulations, condemned buildings. florists: banquets, dinners, receptions, social functions. health department: births, deaths, contagious diseases, reports on sanitation. hospitals: accidents, illnesses, deaths. hotels: important guests, banquets, dinners, social functions. labor union headquarters: labor news. morgue: unidentified corpses. police headquarters: accidents, arrests, crimes, fires, lost and found articles, missing persons, suicides, sudden or suspicious deaths. political clubs and headquarters: county, state, and national political news. probate office: estates, wills. public works department: civic improvements. railway offices: new rates, general shipping news. referee in bankruptcy: assignments, failures, creditors' meetings, appointments of receivers, settlements. register of deeds: real estate sales and transfers. shipping offices: departure and docking of vessels; cargoes, shipping rates, passenger lists. society for the prevention of cruelty to animals: arrests, complaints, animal stories. superintendent of schools: educational news. vice commission: arrests, complaints, raids. = . news runs.=--these runs are distributed among the different reporters, sometimes only one, sometimes three or four to a person. on a small paper all of the runs, or all to be found in that town, may be given to one reporter, the number assigned depending upon the size of the town, the nature of the territory covered, and the willingness or unwillingness of the owners to spend money in getting news. on the larger papers, however, police headquarters generally provide work for one man alone, known as the "watcher." in many cases he does no writing at all, but merely watches the slips and the sheets for reports and arrests, which he telephones to the city editor, who assigns other reporters to get the details and write the stories. another reporter watches the city clerk's office and perhaps all the other departments in the city hall, which he visits at random intervals during the day, but without such close attention to any one office as is given to police headquarters. still another goes to the shipping offices and two or three other places which he will visit ordinarily not more than once a day. but whether he goes five times a day or only once, a reporter is held responsible for all the news occurring on his run; and if he falls short in his duty or lets some more nimble-witted reporter scoop him on the news of his beat, he had better begin making himself friends of the mammon of unrighteousness to receive him into their habitations; for a scoop, even of a few minutes, by a rival publication is the unpardonable sin with the city editor. the wise reporter never neglects any news source on his run. = . dark runs.=--before we take up methods of getting stories, one other news source should be noted,--what reporters know as "dark runs," runs that are consistently productive of news, but which must be kept "dark." such places are garages, delicatessen stores, florists' shops, and similar shops providing flowers, cakes, and luxuries for private dinners and receptions. an unwritten law of trade makes it a breach of professional etiquette for a shopkeeper to tell the names of purchasers of goods, but many a proprietor, as a matter of business pride, is glad to recount the names of his patrons on lakeside drive and their splendid orders just given. garage men, too, wishing it known that millionaire automobile owners patronize their shops, often are willing to tell of battered cars repaired by their men. all such sources are fertile with stories. many a rich man's automobile crashes into a culvert or a telegraph pole and nobody knows of it but the mechanic in the repair shop. many a prominent club-man indulges in orgies of revelry and dissipation of which none knows but the caterer and a few chosen, non-committal friends. many a society leader plans receptions and dinners of which the florist learns before the friends who are to be invited. and by skilfully encouraging the friendship of these tradesmen, a shrewd reporter can obtain exclusive facts about prominent persons who cannot understand, when they see their names in the morning paper, how the information was made public. these "dark runs" justify diligent attention. they produce news, and valuable is the reporter who can include successfully a number of such sources in his daily rounds. = . value of wide acquaintance.=--attention may be directed, too, to the need of deliberately cultivating friendships and acquaintances, not only on these "dark runs," but wherever one goes--both on and off duty. in the stores, along the street, on the cars, at the club, the alert reporter gathers many an important news item. the merchant, the cabman, the preacher, the barkeeper, the patrolman, the thug, the club-man, the porter, all make valuable acquaintances, as they are able often to give one stories or clues to the solution of problems that are all but invaluable to the paper. and such facts as they present are given solely because of their interest in the reporter. one should guard zealously, however, against betraying the confidence of such friends. the reporter must distinguish the difference between publishing a story gained from a stranger by dint of shrewd interviewing, and printing the same story obtained from a fellow club-man more or less confidentially over the cigars and coffee. the stranger's information the reporter must publish. no newspaper man has a right to suppress news obtained while on duty or to accept the confidence of anyone, if by such confidence he is precluded the right to publish certain facts. the publication or non-publication of such news is a matter for the city editor's decision alone. but a story obtained confidentially from a friend at the club or in the home of a neighbor may not be used except with the express permission of those persons. many a man has seen himself and his paper scooped because he was too honorable to betray the trust of his friends; but such a single scoop is worth nothing in comparison with the continued confidence of one's friends and their later prejudiced assistance. personal and professional integrity is a newspaper man's first principle. vii. getting the story = . starting for a story.=--in the preceding chapter attention was directed to news sources, to definite places for obtaining news. the reporter's situation changes radically, however, when he is sent for a story and is told merely that somebody at grove and spring streets has been shot. there are four corners at grove and spring streets, and the shooting may have occurred, not on the corner, but at the second or third house from any one of the four corners, and maybe in a rear apartment. on such an assignment one should have on hand cards and plenty of paper and pencils. every reporter should keep several sharp, soft lead pencils. folded copy paper is sufficient for note-taking. the stage journalist appears always with conspicuous pencil and notebook, but the practical newspaper man displays these insignia of his profession as little as possible. a neat, engraved business card is necessary because often it is the only means of admittance to a house. = . use of the telephone.=--if the name of the person shot at spring and grove streets has been given him, the reporter may look it up in the telephone and city directories, in order to get some idea of the man and his profession. if the house has a telephone, the reporter may sometimes use this means of getting information, but this step generally is not advisable, as the telephone cannot be trusted on important stories. a person can ring off too easily if he prefers not to answer questions, and his gestures and facial expressions, emphasizing or denying the statements that his lips make, cannot be seen. the telephone is rather to be used for running down rumors and tips, for obtaining unimportant interviews, and for getting stories which the persons concerned wish to have appear in the paper. if in this case the reporter has doubts about the shooting, he may telephone to a nearby bakery or meat market to verify the rumor, but he had better not telephone the house. let him go there in person. = . city maps.=--if the reporter does not know the name of the individual shot or the location of grove and spring streets, he should consult his city map to learn precisely where he is going. if he is in a hurry, he may examine the map on his way to the car line, or while he is calling a taxi. actually he ought to know the city so well that he need not consult a map at all (and the man whose ambition is to be a first-class reporter will soon acquire that knowledge), but to a beginner, a map is valuable. = . finding the place.=--having arrived at grove and spring streets, the reporter should go first to the policeman on the beat. unless the shooting is one that for some reason has been hushed up, the policeman will know all the main details. usually, too, if approached courteously, he will be glad to point out the house and tell what he knows. if he knows nothing or pretends ignorance, the reporter must seek the house itself; nor must he be discouraged if he fails to get his information at the first, second, or third house, nor indeed after he has inquired at every door in the adjacent blocks. there are still left the neighborhood stores,--the groceries, bakeries, saloons, meat markets, and barber shops,--and maybe in the last one of these, the barber shop, a customer with his coat off, waiting for a shave, will remember that he heard somebody say a man by the name of davis was shot "around the corner." but he does not know what corner, or where the man lives, or his initials, or who gave him his information. = . regular reports to the city editor.=--the reporter's first step now is to go to the corner drugstore and examine the telephone and city directories for every davis living in the neighborhood. while in the drugstore he may call up the city editor and report progress on the story. when away on an assignment there is need always of reporting regularly, particularly if one is working on an afternoon paper. some city editors require a man to telephone every hour whether he has any news or not. a big story may break and the city editor may have nobody to handle it, or the office may have fuller information about the story which the reporter is investigating. besides, on an afternoon paper where an edition is appearing every hour or so, every fresh detail, though small, may be of interest to readers following the story. = . retracing one's work.=--if no davises are listed in the city or telephone directories, or none of those whose names appear knows anything of the shooting, the reporter's work of inquiry is still unfinished. he must go back to the patrolman on the beat and inquire if any person by the name of davis has recently moved into the neighborhood,--since, for instance, the last city directory was published. failing again, he must make once more the rounds of the houses on or near the four corners and of the neighborhood shops, inquiring in each instance for mr. davis. if there is a grocery store, a bakery, or a laundry in the vicinity, he must be sure to inquire there, particularly at the laundry, as the proprietors of those places are the first to get the names of newcomers in a neighborhood. the laundries must have names and addresses for deliveries, while housewives exchange gossip daily in the other places between purchases of vegetables and yeast cakes. = . need of determination.=--if the reporter still fails, he must not give up even yet without first resorting to every other measure that the special circumstances of the case make possible. there is never a story without some way to unearth it, and every such story is potentially a great one. a telephone message to the leading hospitals may bring results. inquiry at the corner houses in the four adjoining blocks may disclose a mr. davis. inquiry of the children skating along the sidewalk may unearth him. but in any event, the reporter must not give up until he has investigated every available clue. the city editor does not want and will not take excuses for failures to bring back stories; he wants stories. = . gaining access for an interview.=--if at his last place of inquiry, perhaps from one of the skating children, the reporter learns it was not mr. davis at all who was shot, but mr. davidson, who may be found three blocks down at spring and grosvenor streets, his task now immediately changes to gaining access to mr. davidson, or to mrs. davidson, or to some one in the building who can give him the facts. here is where his card may serve. if mr. davidson has rooms in a hotel, he may send his card up by a bellboy; if in a club, he may give it to the porter at the door. if the house at spring and grosvenor streets, however, is plainly one where a card would be out of place, he may simply inquire for mr. davidson. it is not at all improbable that mr. davidson was only slightly injured and one may be permitted to see him. if, however, the person answering the door states that mr. davidson cannot be seen, as he was injured that morning, the reporter may express his interest and inquire the cause, thus making a natural and easy step toward what newspaper men generally consider the most difficult phase of reporting,--the interview. = . requirements for interviewing.=--broadly speaking, there are six requirements for successful interviewing: a pleasing presence, the ability to question judiciously, a quick perception of news even in chance remarks, a retentive memory, the power to detect falsehood readily, and the ability to single out characteristic phrases. technically, an interview is a consultation with a man of rank for the sake of publishing his opinions. in practice, however, because the term _man of rank_ is hazy in its inclusiveness, the word has come to mean consultation with any person for the purpose of reporting his views. and in this sense the word _interview_ will be used in this volume. = . a pleasing presence.=--the first requisite for successful interviewing, a pleasing presence, must be interpreted broadly. in the term are included immaculacy of person and linen, as well as tact, courtesy, and all those qualities that make for ease of mind while conversing. clothes may not make a man, but the lack of them will ruin a reporter. an unshaven face or a collar of yesterday's wear will do a newspaper man so much harm in some persons' eyes that all the shrewd questions he can ask during the interview will be of little value. lack of tact in approaching or addressing a man will have the same unfortunate result. many reporters think that by resorting to flattery they can induce men to talk; then they wonder why they fail. a reporter must keep in mind that the persons he interviews usually possess as keen intellects as his own and mere flattery will be quickly detected and resented. = . courtesy.=--above all things in his purpose to present a pleasing presence, the interviewer must possess unfailing courtesy. he must never forget that he is a gentleman, no matter what the other person may be. he cannot afford to permit himself even to become angry. anger does not pay, for two reasons. in the first place, when a reporter loses his temper, he immediately loses his head. he becomes so absorbed in his own emotions that he cannot question shrewdly or remember clearly what is said by the man from whom he would extract information. in the second place, anger creates hostility, and a hostile man or woman not only does not willingly give information, but will be an enemy of the paper forever afterward. always, therefore, the interviewer must be courteous, knowing that kindness begets kindness and that the other fellow, if approached rightly, will respond in the end to his own mood. = . asking questions.=--concerning the second requirement for interviewing, judicious questioning, only general precepts can be given. the reporter must rely largely on himself. as a rule, however, the personal equation should be considered. every man is interested in himself and his work, and the interviewer often may start him talking by beginning on work. the essential thing is to get some topic that will launch him into easy, natural conversation. then, with his man started, the interviewer may well keep silent. only a cub reporter will interrupt the natural flow of conversation for the sake merely of giving his own views. if the man runs too far afield, the reporter may guide the conversation back to the original topic; but he may well subject himself to much irrelevant talk for the sake of guiding his informer back gracefully to the topic of interest. = . persons seeking advertisement.=--from the standpoint of the newspaper man, there are three classes of persons one encounters in interviewing: those who talk, those who will not, and those who do not know they are divulging secrets. concerning the first little need be said. such persons talk because they enjoy seeing their names in print. it is a marvel how many men and women object with seeming sincerity to their names being made public property, yet at the same time give the reporter full details for the story he wishes and hand him their cards so that he may spell their names correctly. many such celebrities will stand for any kind of interview, so that the reporter need only determine in advance what he would have them say to make a good story. with them advertisement is so much personal gain; they are glad to accede to any sort of odd statement for the sake of possible public notice. such persons are to be avoided; advertisements are written by the advertising manager or his helpers and fixed prices are charged. = . persons refusing to talk.=--with the second and third classes, however, the interviewer must be careful, particularly with the second. men who will not talk are usually well acquainted with the world. sometimes they may be forced into making statements by asking them questions that will almost certainly arouse their anger and so make them speak hastily, but the reporter himself must be doubly careful in such cases to keep his own temper sweet. oftentimes such men, particularly society criminals and others who possess an especial fear of having their wrong-doing known among their friends, try to keep from being written up by saying they are unwilling to make any kind of statement for publication, but that they will do so in court if anything is published about them. the reporter will not let such a threat daunt him. he will get the facts and present them to the city editor with the person's hint of criminal action, then let the city editor determine the problem of publication. = . persons divulging secrets.=--frequently a person of the second class may be slyly converted into the group of those who do not know they are divulging secrets, by the reporter deliberately leading away from the topic about which he has come for an interview, then circling round to the hazardous subject when the person interviewed is off his guard. probably the most ticklish situation in all reporting is here. to make a person tell what he knows without knowing that he is telling is the pinnacle of the art of interviewing. as mr. richard harding davis has so exactly expressed it: reporters become star reporters because they observe things that other people miss and because they do not let it appear that they have observed them. when the great man who is being interviewed blurts out that which is indiscreet but most important, the cub reporter says: "that's most interesting, sir. i'll make a note of that." and so warns the great man into silence. but the star reporter receives the indiscreet utterance as though it bored him; and the great man does not know he has blundered until he reads of it the next morning under screaming headlines.[ ] [ ] _the red cross girl_, p. . it is for such reasons that a quick perception of news even in chance remarks is a requisite for interviewing. if one does not grasp instantly the value of a bit of information, the expression of his face or his actions will give him away later when a full realization of the worth of the news comes to him, or else he will not be able to recall precisely the facts given. = . retentive memory.=--it is for the same reason, too, that a retentive memory is necessary. fifty per cent of those interviewed will be frightened at the sight of a notebook. and all men become cautious when they realize that their statements are being taken down word for word. the reporter must correlate properly and keep firmly in mind the facts gleaned in the interview, then get as quickly as possible to some place where he can record what he has learned. many an interviewer will listen a half-hour without taking a note, then spend the next half-hour on a horse-block or a curb writing down what the person interviewed has said. other reporters with shorter memories carry pencil stubs and bits of specially cut white cardboard, and while looking the interviewed man in the eye, take down statistics and characteristic phrases on the cards. some even, as on the stage and in the moving pictures, take occasional notes on their cuffs,--all this in an effort to make the one interviewed talk unrestrainedly. = . use of shorthand.=--a word may be said here concerning shorthand. its use in interviewing and in general news reports should not be too much encouraged, even when a man is entirely willing to have his exact words recorded. often it deadens the presentation of news. shorthand has its value as far as accuracy and record of occasional statements are concerned, and may well be used, but its too faithful use has a tendency to take from news stories the imagination that is necessary for a complete and truthful presentation. the stenographic reporter becomes so intent upon the words of the person he is quoting that he misses the spirit of the interview and is liable to produce a formal, lifeless story. the reporter may well use shorthand as a walking cane, but not as a crutch. = . precise questions in interviews.=--if one finds exactness of statement a requisite, one may obtain shorthand results by bringing along a sheet of typewritten questions for submission to the person interviewed. these questions the person must answer definitely or else evade, in either case furnishing story material. but whether a reporter comes armed with such a list of questions or not, he must at least have definitely in mind the exact purpose of his visit and the precise questions he wants answered. in the majority of cases the reason that interviewers meet with such unwelcome receptions from great men is that the latter are too busy to waste time with pottering reporters. certainly the men themselves say so. president wilson declares that of the visitors to the white house not one in ten knows precisely why he has come, states definitely what he wants, and leaves promptly when he has finished. such persons are an annoyance to busy men and women, and the newspaper man who can dispatch quickly the business of his visit will more likely meet with a favorable reception next time. = . learning a man's career.=--as an aid to interviewing prominent men, whether one typewrites one's questions in advance or merely determines what in general one will ask, the reporter should have a good general knowledge of the man's career and what he has accomplished in his particular field, so that the noted man may not be forced to go too much into detail to make his conversation clear to the interviewer. some men seem annoyed when asked to explain technical terms or to review well-known incidents in their lives. such facts may be obtained from the files of the morgue, from encyclopedias, from the _who's who_ volumes, and from local men associated in the same kind of work. frequently one will find it advisable to consult the city editor and other members of the staff, as well as local or less known men, by way of preparation for interviewing a prominent visitor. = . ability to detect falsehood.=--the fifth requirement for successful interviewing, and the last to be discussed in this chapter,[ ] is the ability to detect falsehood readily. all persons who talk for publication speak with a purpose. sometimes they talk for self-exploitation; occasionally they wish to pay a grudge against another man. sometimes their purpose is what they say it is; often it is not. sometimes they tell the exact truth; frequently they do not, even when they think they are speaking truthfully. it may seem odd, but it is true that comparatively few of the persons one questions about even the most commonplace occurrences can give unbiased reports of events. they were too much excited over the affair to observe accurately, or they are too much prejudiced for or against the persons involved to witness judicially. the reporter, therefore, must take into consideration their mental caliber and every possible motive they may have for acting or speaking as they do. if the person who met the reporter a moment ago at mr. davidson's door was his wife and she refused to talk about the shooting, or said he was not shot, she evidently had a motive for her statement. and if the woman next door recounts with too much relish and in too high-pitched tones the cat-and-dog life of the davidsons or their declared intentions each of killing the other, the reporter had better take care. she is probably venting an old-time grudge against her neighbors, whose son last month broke a window-pane in her house. countless libel suits might have been avoided had the reporters been able to detect falsehood more readily. [ ] the value of characteristic phrases and gestures in the interview is discussed on page . = . questioning everyone.=--because of these sharp discrepancies in men's natures and the fact that everyone sees an event from his own individual angle, it is necessary for a reporter to question everybody in any way connected with a story. he should see not only mr. and mrs. davidson, if possible, but other witnesses of the shooting, acquaintances in the neighborhood, the servants in the house, and anyone else, no matter how humble, likely in any way to be connected with or to have knowledge of the occurrence. oftentimes a janitor, a maid, or a chauffeur will divulge facts that the mistress or the detective bureau would not disclose for large sums of money. frequently a child in the yard or on the back steps will give invaluable information. this is particularly true when the older persons are attempting to conceal facts or are too much excited from a death or an accident to talk. children usually are less unstrung by distressing events and can give a more connected account. moreover, they are almost always willing to talk, and they generally try to tell the truth. = . a person's previous record.=--it is also well to inquire particularly about the past history or the previous record of the person involved. if the woman is a divorcee or the man an ex-convict, or if one of the children previously has been arraigned in police court for delinquency, or if any one of the participants has ever been drawn into public notice, such items will be worth much in identifying the characters in the story. if the man whose house is burning lost another house, well insured, a year ago; if the widow has married secretly her chauffeur two months after her husband's sudden death from ptomaine poisoning; if the man who spoke last night was the preacher who declared all protestant churches will some day return to the confessional;--if such facts can be obtained, they will add greatly to the interest and the value of the story, and the reporter should make every effort to obtain them. their interest lies, of course, either in the fact that they aid the public in identifying the persons, or that they provide material for interesting conjectures as to probable results. sometimes, indeed, this correlation of present and past facts grows so important that it becomes the main story. = . full details.=--while questioning different persons in an attempt to get all the facts, one should take care to record all details. it is far easier to throw away unneeded material when writing up the events than to return to the scene for neglected information. in particular, one should learn the name and address of every person in any way connected with the story, no matter how much trouble it may require to get the information. a man who is merely incidental at the beginning of the inquiry may prove of prime importance an hour later or in the follow-up next day. even the telephone number of persons likely in any way to become prominent--or where such persons may be reached by telephone--should be obtained. for, try as one will to get all the facts, one often needs to get additional information after returning to the office. in such a plight, it is of great value to know where a man may be reached who does not have a telephone in his own home. pictures, too, of the persons concerned are valuable. the news-reading public likes illustrations, and whether the photograph is or is not used, it is easily returnable by next day's mail. all papers promise to return photographs unharmed. = . getting names correctly.=--it would seem unnecessary to urge the necessity of getting initials and street addresses and of spelling names correctly; yet so many newspaper men err here that specific attention must be directed to it. numerous libel suits have been started because a reporter got an initial or a street address wrong and there happened to be in the city another person with the printed name and street address. even if the story does not contain cause for libel, a person whose name has been misspelled never quite forgives a journal for getting it wrong. the reporter should remember that many of the smiths in the world are smythes in print and many of the catherines spell it katharyne in the city directory. and such persons are sensitive. = . speeches.=--in covering speeches the reporter should make an effort to get advance copies of what the speaker intends to say,--and a photograph of him if he is an important personage. a large per cent of the impassioned and seemingly spontaneous bursts of oratory that one hears on church, lecture, and political platforms are but verbal reproductions of typewritten manuscript in the speaker's inside coat pocket, and if the newspaper man will ask for carbon copies of the oratory, the lecturer will be glad to provide them in advance,--in order to have himself quoted correctly. he will also be glad to provide the photograph. these advance copies of speeches are called "release" stories. that is, they are marked at the top of the first page, "release, june , : p.m.," meaning that no publication shall be made of that material before : p.m. of june . newspapers always regard scrupulously a release date, and a reporter need never hesitate to give his word that publication of speeches, messages, and reports will be withheld until after delivery. an editor of a paper in the middle west once thought to scoop the world by printing the president's message to congress the evening before its delivery, but he was so promptly barred from the telegraphic wires thereafter that he paid dearly for his violation of professional honor. with these advance copies of speeches in his possession the reporter may write at his own convenience his account of the lecture; or if he is rushed--and has the permission of the city editor--he may even stay away from the meeting. on the other hand, if the speaker is of national importance, it may be well to consult with the city editor about going out fifty miles or more to catch the train on which the distinguished guest is coming. in this way one can have an interview ready for publication by the time the great man arrives and sometimes can obtain a valuable scoop on rival papers. = . attending lectures.= where one is not able to get a typewritten copy of a speech, the only alternative is to attend the lecture. newspaper men usually are provided with free tickets, which they should obtain in advance, as the rush of the lecture hour throws unexpected duties on those responsible for the program, and one may sometimes be considerably inconvenienced in getting an admission card. inside there is generally a table close to the platform, where newspaper men may write comfortably. if the reporter has been given an advance copy of the speech, he should listen closely for any variations from the typewritten manuscript, as speakers in the excitement resulting from the applause or disapproval of the audience often lose their heads and make indiscreet statements or disclose state secrets that furnish the best story material for the paper next morning. if one does not have an advance copy, one should attempt to get the speech by topics, with occasional verbatim passages of particularly pithy or dynamic passages. as in the case of interviews, it is better not to attempt to take too much of the lecture word for word. the significance, the spirit of the address is of greater worth than mere literalness. if the city editor wants a verbatim report, he will send a stenographer. = . a newspaper man's honor.=--in conclusion, emphasis may be laid on the reporter's attitude toward obtaining news. he must go after a story with the determination to get it and to get it honorably. once he has started after an item, he must not give up until he has succeeded. but he must succeed with honor. stories are rampant over the united states of newspaper men stealing through basement windows at night, listening at keyholes, bribing jurymen to break their oath, and otherwise transgressing the limits of law and honor. but the day of such reportorial methods has passed. to-day a newspaper expects every man on its staff to be a gentleman. it wants no lawbreakers or sneaks. stories must be obtained honestly and written up honestly. the man who fakes a story or willfully distorts facts for the sake of injuring a man or making a good news article will be discharged from any reputable newspaper in america. and he ought to be. viii. organization of the story = . on the way to the office.=--the organization of the news material before beginning to write makes for speed, accuracy, and interest. on the way back to the office the reporter must employ his time as profitably as when getting the news, so that when he enters the city room he may have his facts arranged for developing into story form and may be able to hang his article on the city editor's hook in the briefest time possible. = . speed.=--next to accuracy, speed is a newspaper man's most valuable asset. some journalists even put speed first, and mr. thomas herbert warren but voiced the opinion of many of the fraternity when he wrote, thrice blessed he whose statements we can trust, but four times he who gets his news in fust. when the reporter starts back to the office, he has in his pocket a mass of jumbled facts, most of which have a bearing on the prospective story, but many of which have not. even those facts that are relevant are scattered confusedly among the different sheets, so that in order to write his story he must first rearrange his notes entirely. he may regroup these mentally while writing, by jumping with his eye up and down the pages, hunting on the backs of some sheets, and twisting his head sideways to get notes written crosswise on others. but all this takes valuable time,--so much, indeed, that the wise reporter will have on hand, either in his mind or on paper, a definite plan for his story. = . accuracy.=--that the reorganization of one's notes preparatory to writing will aid accuracy of statement and of presentation needs little argument. to paraphrase herbert spencer's words on reading: a reporter has at each moment but a limited amount of mental power available. to recognize and interpret the facts recorded in his notes requires part of his power; to strike in ordered sequence the typewriter keys that will put those facts on paper requires an additional part; and only that part which remains can be used for putting his ideas into forceful, accurate sentences. hence, the more time and attention it takes to read and understand one's notes, the less time and attention can be given to expressing the ideas, and the less vividly will those ideas be presented. moreover, when a writer attempts to compose from jumbled notes, because of his attention being riveted on expressing clearly and forcefully what he has jotted down, he is liable to include in his story facts that do not properly belong there, or to omit some illegibly written but important item, and so fail to present the incidents fairly and accurately. = . interest.=--finally, the third reason for ordering one's notes carefully before writing is to insure interest to the reader. the same story almost always can be presented in several different ways. every story, too, must possess a specific point, a _raison d'être_: as, the heinousness of the crime, the cleverness of the brigands, the loneliness of the widow. this _point_ of the story, this angle from which the reporter writes, is determined largely by the writer's selection of details, which in turn is dominated by the policy of the paper and the interest of the readers. if the paper and its patrons care particularly for humorous stories, certain dolorous facts are omitted or placed in unimportant positions, and the readers have a fair but amusing view of the occurrence. if they favor sob stories, the same incident, by a different selection or arrangement of details, may be made pathetic. but the reporter must select his details with such a purpose in mind. and unless he has some such definite motive and has so organized his material before beginning to write, he will present a more or less prosaic narrative of events with little specific appeal to the reader. of course, one oftentimes is too rushed to take so much care in preparation for writing. frequently, indeed, a reporter cannot wait until he can get back to the office, but must telephone the facts in to a rewrite man, who will put them into story form. but it is fair to say that the discerning reporter never idles away his time in the smoking compartment of the car when returning with a story. his mind is, and should be, engrossed with the story, which he should strive to make so good that it will appear on the front page of the paper. = . four orders of organization.=--in organizing material for writing, one may adopt any one or a combination of four different orders: time order, space order, climactic order, complex order. of these, probably ninety-five per cent of all the news stories published are organized on the time order or a combination of it with one or more of the other three. of the remaining three, probably four per cent of the stories are written in the climactic order, leaving only about one per cent for the space and complex orders. numerous articles, of course, are a combination of two or more of these orders. = . time order.=--the time order is a simple chronological arrangement of the incidents, as illustrated in the following: =boy burns toes in bed= |fearing the wrath of his father, kenneth cavert, | | -year-old son of mr. and mrs. george cavert, rankin| |and franklin streets, suffered in silence while fire| |in his bed friday evening painfully burned two of | |his toes and caused severe burns on his body. | | | |the lad went to bed shortly after dark friday | |evening. about a half-hour later he went downstairs | |for a drink. a few minutes later he went down again | |for a drink. | | | |shortly afterward mr. and mrs. cavert smelled cloth | |burning in the house, and going upstairs to | |investigate, found the boy in bed, wide awake, the | |blankets in flames, which surrounded the lad and had| |already seared his toes. one of the bed rails was | |burned almost in two and the bed clothing ruined. | | | |the lad afterward said he went downstairs to get a | |mouthful of water to spit on the flames. "i spit as | |hard as i could," said he, "but i couldn't put out | |the fire." | | | |although he will not tell how the fire started, it | |is supposed he was playing with matches.[ ] | [ ] _appleton_ (wisconsin) _daily post_, october , . = . space order.=--the space order explains itself, being nothing else than descriptive writing. the following story of the _eastland_ disaster in illustrates the space order: =victims' property listed= |a line of showcases extends down the center of the | |public hearing room on the first floor of the city | |hall. arranged for display are a hundred or more | |cameras of all sizes, thermos bottles, purses, hand | |bags, and even a snare drum. | | | |around the room are racks on which are hanging | |cloaks and coats, here a red sweater, there a white | |corduroy cloak. under them are heaps of hats, mostly| |men's straw, obviously of this year's make. there | |are several hundred women's headgear, decorated with| |feathers and ribbons. | | | |along one side are piled suit cases and satchels, | |open for inspection. they are packed for departure | |with toothbrushes and toothpaste, packages of gum, | |tobacco and books. a dozen baseball bats are leaning| |against one of the pillars near the end of the | |showcase. there are several uniforms to be worn by | |bandmen. in the extreme corner, surrounded by | |hundreds of shoes, of all kinds, is a collapsible | |go-cart. | | | |de witt c. cregier, city collector, stood behind one| |of the showcases yesterday afternoon, with a | |jeweler's glass, examining bits of ornament. | | | |piled before him in long rows were envelops. one by | |one, he or his assistants dumped the contents on the| |glass case and read off descriptions of each article| |to a stenographer: | | | |"one pocket mirror, picture of girl on back; one | |amethyst filigree pendant; one round gold embossed | |bracelet; gold bow eye-glasses; hawthorne club badge| |attached to fob; two $ bills." | | | |as the articles were listed they were put back into | |the envelops. had it not been for one circumstance, | |it might have been a pawnshop inventory. | | | |there was the jewelry worth more than $ , , | |articles for personal use, and musical instruments. | |but under the long rows of coats, hats, and shoes, | |there was a pool of water. it dripped from the red | |sweater onto a straw hat beneath. it fell into shoes| |and the place smelled of wet leather. | | | |when the bodies of those who perished in the | |_eastland_ disaster were removed from the water, | |their clothing and jewelry were taken by the police | |and tabulated. there was no space in the custodian's| |office; so he hastily fitted up the public | |hearing-room, brought in showcases and had | |carpenters build racks for the clothing....[ ] | [ ] _chicago tribune_, july , . = . climactic order.=--the climactic order is that in which the incidents are so arranged that the reader shall not know the outcome until he reaches the last one or two sentences. the following story, though brief, illustrates well the climactic order of arrangement: =valued a dress above life= |first, there was the young man. one night, while | |they were on the way to a movie, ambrosia noticed | |the young man was looking rather critically at her | |dress. | | | |when one is and lives in a big city where there | |are any number of girls just as good looking, | |besides a lot who are better looking, it is a | |serious matter when a young man begins to look | |critically at one's dress. | | | |particularly is it serious when the acquisition of a| |new dress is a matter of much painstaking planning; | |of dispensing with this or that at luncheon; of | |walking to work every day instead of only when the | |weather is fine; and of other painful sacrifices. | | | |ambrosia didn't say anything. she pretended she | |hadn't noticed the young man's look. but that night,| |in her room on east thirteenth street, ambrosia | |indulged in some higher mathematics. it might as | |well be vouchsafed here that the address on east | |thirteenth street is , and that ambrosia's name | |is dallard, and that she is an operator for the bell| |telephone company. the net result of her | |calculations was that, no matter how hard she saved,| |she wouldn't be able to buy a new dress until | |december or january. meanwhile,--but ambrosia knew | |there couldn't be any meanwhile. she had to have | |that dress. | | | |ambrosia found a card, and on it was the name of a | |firm which ardently assured her it wanted to afford | |her credit. then there was a little something about | |a dollar down and a dollar a week until paid for. | | | |so ambrosia got her dress. it had cost her $ , and | |it would be entirely hers when she had paid $ | |more. ambrosia wore it to a movie and the young man | |admiringly informed her she "was all dolled up." and| |everyone was happy. | | | |one never can tell about dresses, though; | |particularly $ ones. one night, when ambrosia was | |wearing the new possession for the third time, it | |developed a long rip. the cloth was defective. | | | |ambrosia took the dress back. the installment firm | |was sorry, but could do nothing, and of course the | |firm expected her to keep paying for it. | | | |ambrosia left the dress, and went back to her old | |one. the young man noticed it the next time they | |went out together. shortly afterward, when he should| |have called, he didn't. a collector for the | |installment house did, though. meanwhile, ambrosia | |was saving to buy another dress. she was quite | |emphatic about the bill from the installment | |house--she wouldn't pay it. | | | |once in awhile she saw the young man, but she didn't| |care for more calls until the new dress was | |forthcoming. | | | |tuesday it looked as if everything would come out | |all right. she had $ saved. wednesday she would | |draw her salary--$ . she knew where she could buy | |just what she wanted for $ . . it was much better | |looking than the old dress and better material. she | |even made an anticipatory engagement with the young | |man. | | | |wednesday came--ambrosia went to draw her salary. | |the installment house had garnisheed it. | | | |to-day ambrosia's job is being kept open by the | |telephone company, and it is thought some | |arrangement may be made by which the installment | |house will not garnishee her salary next week. | | | |at the general hospital she is reported as resting | |well. she was taken there in an ambulance yesterday | |afternoon after trying to kill herself by inhaling | |chloroform.[ ] | [ ] _kansas city star_, january , . = . complex order.=--the complex order, sometimes called the order of increasing complication, is that in which the writer proceeds from the known to the unknown. generally a story following this method of organization is nothing else than simple exposition. the following associated press story illustrates the type: =aÃ�rial torpedo boat invented= [_by associated press._] |washington, july .--an aërial torpedo boat for | |attack on ships in protected harbors is projected, | |it was learned to-day, in patents just issued to | |rear admiral bradley a. fiske, now attached to the | |navy war college, but formerly aid for operations to| |secretary daniels. | | | |the plan contemplates equipping a monster aeroplane,| |similar to a number now under construction in this | |country for the british government, with a whitehead| |torpedo of regulation navy type. | | | |swooping down at a distance of five sea miles from | |the object of attack, the air craft would drop its | |deadly passenger into the water just as it would | |have been launched from a destroyer. the impact sets| |the torpedo's machinery in motion and it is off at a| |speed of more than forty knots an hour toward the | |enemy ship. | | | |admiral fiske believes the flying torpedo boat would| |make it possible to attack a fleet even within a | |landlocked harbor. the range of the newest navy | |torpedoes is ten thousand yards and even the older | |types will be effective at seven thousand yards. | | | |carried on a huge aeroplane, the , pound weapon | |would be taken over harbor defenses at an altitude | |safe from gunfire. once over the bay, the machine | |would glide down to within ten or twenty feet of | |water, the torpedo rudders would be set and it would| |be dropped to do its work while the aeroplane arose | |and sped away.[ ] | [ ] _minneapolis tribune_, july , . = . climactic order difficult.=--of the four organization plans, the hardest by far to develop is the climactic order, which should be avoided by young reporters. this method of arrangement is on the short-story order, and the beginner will find it difficult to group his incidents so that each shall lead up to and explain those following and at the same time add to the reader's interest. some papers as yet admit only rarely the story developed climactically, but it is growing in popularity and the reporter should know how to handle it. = . important details.=--with the climactic order of arrangement eliminated, the reporter is practically limited to the simple time order, or a combination of it with one of the other two kinds,--which is the normal type of story. but he must keep in mind one other factor,--to place the most important details first and the least important last. there are two reasons why this method of arrangement is necessary. in the first place, readers want all the main details first, so that they may learn immediately whether or not they are interested in the story and if it will be worth their while to read the whole article. they are too busy to read everything in the paper; they can choose only those stories that excite their interest. if, therefore, they can learn in the first paragraph what the whole story is about, they will not be delayed and fatigued unnecessarily by reading non-essentials with the hope of finding something worth while. = . unimportant details.=--the second reason for such an organization is that stories appearing in the early editions have to be cut down to fit into the more valuable and limited space of the later issues. at the beginning of the day news is relatively scarce, and the front-page, left-hand column of the first edition may carry a story that will be cut in half in the city edition and be relegated to an inside page. more important news has come in as the day has aged. a reporter, therefore, must plan his stories with a view to having the last part, if necessary, cut off,--so that, indeed, if the news editor should prune the story down to only the first paragraph, the reader would still be given the gist of what has happened. note the following story, how it may be cut off at any paragraph and still present a perfect, though less imposing whole: =schoolboy sues bride, aged = |villisca, ia., dec. .--claude bates, years old | |and formerly of villisca, has brought suit in polk | |county for the annulment of his marriage to the | |widow patrick, years old and the mother of four | |children, two of whom are older than their | |stepfather. | | | |bates is still in school, and became acquainted with| |the widow when he went to her home to call on one of| |her daughters. according to the petition, young | |bates made such a hit with the mother of his best | |girl that she herself fell in love with him, and was| |soon a rival of her own daughter. the older woman | |knew many tricks with which the daughter was | |unacquainted, and in the end she managed to "bag" | |the game. | | | |the marriage, which took place in chicago, was kept | |a secret even after the couple returned home, and it| |was not until young bates told the whole story to | |his mamma a few days ago that his family had an | |inkling of the true state of affairs. now the suit | |has been filed by the boy's mother, because the | |young husband himself is too young to go into court | |without a guardian. | | | |as one of the causes of the suit, the petition cites| |that bates was inveigled into the marriage through | |"the wiles, artifices, and protestations of love" on| |the part of the widow. furthermore, the petition | |charges that the two were married under assumed | |names, that their ages were falsely given, and that | |their residences, as given the marriage clerk, were | |false. | | | |according to the petition, young bates was attending| |school, where he met mrs. patrick's daughter and | |fell in love with her. he called at the house and | |met the mother, who was divorced from her first | |husband some ten years ago. there were four of the | |patrick children, their ages being , , , and | | years. bates himself was just at that time. | |the petition sets up that almost immediately after | |becoming acquainted with mrs. patrick the latter | |began her attempts to induce young bates to marry | |her.[ ] | [ ] _des moines register_, december , . = . accuracy of presentation.=--one very definite caution must be given concerning the organization of the story,--the necessity of presenting facts with judicial impartiality. when the reporter is arranging his material preparatory to writing, casting away a note here and jotting down another there, he can easily warp the whole narrative by an unfair arrangement of details or a prejudiced point of view. frequently a story may be woefully distorted by the mere suppression of a single fact. a newspaper man has no right willfully to keep back information or to distort news. unbiased stories, or stories as nearly unbiased as possible, are what newspapers want. and while one may legitimately order one's topics to produce a particular effect of humor, pathos, joy, or sorrow, one should never allow the desire for an effect to distort the presentation of the facts. ix. the lead[ ] [ ] before reading this chapter, the student should examine the style book in the appendix, particularly that part dealing with the preparation of copy for the city desk. = . instructions from the city editor.=--before beginning the story, the reporter should stop at the city editor's desk, give him in as few words as possible an account of what he has learned, and ask for instructions about handling the story, about any feature or features to play up. the city editor may not offer any advice at all, may simply say to write the story for what it is worth. in such a case, the reporter is at liberty to go ahead as he has planned; and he should have his copy on the city editor's desk within a very few minutes. the city editor, however, may tell him to feature a certain incident and to write it up humorously. if the reporter has observed keenly, he himself will already have chosen the same incident and may still proceed with the writing as he planned on the way back to the office. a careful study of instructions given reporters will quickly convince one, however, that in nine cases out of ten the city editor takes his cue from the reporter himself, that in the reporter's very mood and method of recounting what he has learned, he suggests to the city editor the features and the tone of the story, and is merely given back his own opinion verified. not always is this the case, however. one reporter on a southern daily--and a star man, too--used to say that he could never predict what his city editor would want featured. so he used always to come into the office armed with two leads, and sometimes with three. = . two kinds of leads.=--the story, technically, is made up of two parts--the lead and the body. the lead is easily the more important. if a reporter can handle successfully this part of the story, he will have little trouble in writing the whole. the lead is the first sentence or the first group of sentences in the story and is of two kinds, the summarizing lead and what may be called the informal lead. the summarizing lead gives in interesting, concise language the gist of the story. the informal lead merely introduces the reader to the story without intimating anything of the outcome, but with a suggestion that something interesting is coming. of the two types the summarizing lead is by far the more common and may be considered first. = . summarizing lead.=--the summarizing lead may be a single sentence or a single paragraph, or two or three paragraphs, according to the number and complexity of the details in the story. a brief story usually has a short lead. a long, involved story made up of several parts, each under a separate head, often has a lead consisting of several paragraphs. sometimes this lead, because of its importance as a summary of all the details in the story, is even boxed and printed in black-face type at the beginning of the story. then follow the different parts, each division with its own individual lead. = . contents of the lead.=--what to put into the lead,--or to feature, as reporters express it in newspaper parlance,--one may best determine by asking oneself what in the story is likely to be of greatest interest to one's readers in general. whatever that feature is, it should be played up in the lead. the first and great commandment in news writing is that the story begin with the most important fact and give all the essential details first. these details are generally summarized in the questions _who_, _what_, _when_, _where_, _why_, and _how_. if the writer sees that his lead answers these questions, he may be positive that, so far as context is concerned, his lead will be good. = . construction of the lead.=--in constructing the lead, the most important fact or facts should be put at the very first. for this reason, newspaper men avoid beginning a story with _to-day_, _to-morrow_, or _yesterday_, because the time at which an incident has occurred is rarely the most important fact. for the same reason, careful writers avoid starting with _the_, _an_, or _a_, though it often is necessary to begin with these articles because the noun they modify is itself important. the name of the place, too, rarely ever is of enough importance to be put first. an examination of a large number of leads in the best newspapers shows that the features most often played up are the result and the cause or motive. thus: =result= |as a result of too much thanksgiving on thanksgiving| |day, prof. harry z. buith, , sixteenth street,| |a prominent seventh day adventist, is dead. | =cause= |just plain ordinary geese and a few ganders held up | |a train on the milwaukee road to-day and forced | |their owner, nepomcyk kucharski, fourth avenue,| |into district court. | =cause and result= |because harry a. harries, , north avenue, | |wanted two dollars for a license to marry anna | |francis, , peachtree avenue, his aged mother | |is dying this morning in st. elizabeth hospital. | sometimes, particularly in follow or rewrite stories, probable results become the feature. =probable results= |that immediate intervention in mexico by the united | |states will be the result of the villa raid last | |night on columbus, n.m., is the general belief in | |official washington this morning. | another feature often played up in leads is the means or method by which a result was attained. =means= |a sensational half-mashie shot to the lip of the cup| |on the eighteenth green won to-day for mrs. roland | |h. barlow, of the merion cricket club, philadelphia,| |over miss lillian b. hyde, of the south shore field | |club, long island, in the second round of the | |women's national golf championship tournament at the| |onwentsia club. | =method= |working at night with a tin spoon and a wire nail, | |capt. wilhelm schuettler dug feet to liberty and| |escaped from the hallamshire camp sometime early | |this morning. | often it is necessary to feature the name: =name= |cardinal giacomo della chiesa, archbishop of | |bologna, italy, was to-day elected supreme pontiff | |of the catholic hierarchy, in succession to the late| |pope pius x, who died aug. . he will reign under | |the name of benedict xv. | =name= |president wilson and mrs. norman galt have selected | |saturday, dec. , as the date of their marriage. | |the ceremony will be performed in mrs. galt's | |residence, and the guests will be confined to the | |immediate members of the president's and mrs. galt's| |families. | even the place and the time have to be featured occasionally. =place= |new orleans will be the place of the annual meeting | |of the southern congress of education and industry, | |it was learned from a member of the executive | |committee to-day. | =place= |chicago was selected by the republican national | |committee to-night as the meeting place of the | |republican national convention, to be held june , | |one week before the democratic convention in st. | |louis. | =time= |monday, sept. , is the date finally set for the | |opening of the state fair, it was announced by the | |program committee to-day. | = . form of the lead.=--the grammatical form in which the lead shall be written depends much on the purpose of the writer. some of the commonest types of beginnings are with: ( ) a simple statement; ( ) a series of simple statements; ( ) a conditional clause; ( ) a substantive clause; ( ) an infinitive phrase; ( ) a participial phrase; ( ) a prepositional phrase; ( ) the absolute construction. = . leads with short sentences.=--the value of the first two kinds is their forcefulness. often reporters break what might be a long, one-sentence, summarizing lead into a very short sentence followed by a long one, or into a number of brief sentences, each of which gives one important detail. such a type of lead gains its force from the fact that it lends emphasis to the individual details given in the short sentences. note the effect of the following leads: oak park has a "typhoid mary" |the epidemic of fever that has been sweeping through| |the western suburb since the high school banquet | |more than a month ago was traced yesterday to a | |woman carrier who handled the food in the school | |restaurant. | |george edward waddell, our famous "rube," fanned out| |to-day. it was not the first time rube had fanned, | |but it will be his last. tuberculosis claimed him | |after a two-year fight. | |if mrs. mary mccormick sneezes or coughs, she will | |die. her back was broken yesterday by a fall from a | |third-story window. thomas wilson is being held | |under a $ , bond pending her death or recovery, | |charged by the police with pushing her from the | |window. | = . lead beginning with a conditional clause=--the lead beginning with a conditional clause is valuable for humorous effects or for summarizing facts leading up to a story. as a rule, however, one must avoid using more than two such clauses, as they are liable to make the sentence heavy or obscure. |if antony fisher, , garden street, had not | |written dorothy clemens she was a "little love," he | |would be worth $ , , now. but he wrote dorothy | |she was a little love. | |if joe kasamowitz, queen's avenue, speaks to | |his wife either at her home or at the news-stand she| |conducts at the st. paul hotel; if he loiters near | |the entrance to the hotel; or if he even attempts to| |call his wife over the telephone before saturday, he| |will be in contempt of court, according to an | |injunction issued to-day by judge fish. | = . lead beginning with a substantive clause.=--the substantive clause has two main values in the lead,--to enable the writer to begin with a direct or an indirect question, and to permit him to shift to the very beginning of the lead important ideas that would normally come at the end of the sentence. |that jim jeffries was the greatest fighter in the | |history of pugilism and jim corbett the best boxer, | |was the statement last night by bob fitzsimmons | |before a crowd of , at the orpheum theater. | |that he had refused to kiss her on her return from a| |long visit and had said he was tired of being | |married, was the testimony of mrs. flora eastman | |to-day in her divorce suit against edwin o. eastman,| |of st. louis. | = . lead beginning with a phrase.=--infinitive, participial, and prepositional phrases are valuable mainly for bringing out emphatic details. but the writer must be careful, particularly in participial constructions, to see that the phrases have definite words to modify. |to see if the bullet was coming was the reason | |charlie roberts, aged , ninth street, looked | |down his father's pistol barrel at : a.m. to-day.| |playing with a rifle longer than his body, | |three-year-old ernest rodriguez, of los angeles, | |accidentally shot himself in the abdomen this | |morning and is dying in the county hospital. | |almost blinded with carbolic acid, fritz storungot, | |of south haven, groped his way to patrolman emil | |schulz at third street and brand avenue last night | |and begged to be sent to the emergency hospital. | |with her hands and feet tied, ida elionsky, , swam| |in the roughest kind of water through hell gate | |yesterday, landing safely at blackwell's island. | = . lead beginning with absolute construction.=--the absolute construction usually features causes and motives forcibly, but it should be avoided by beginners, as it is un-english and tends to make sentences unwieldy. the following illustrates the construction well: |her money gone and her baby starving, mrs. kate | |allen, marvin alley, begged fifteen cents of a | |stranger yesterday to poison herself and child. | = . accuracy and interest in the lead.=--the two requirements made of the lead are that it shall possess accuracy and interest. it must have accuracy for the sake of truth. it must possess interest to lure the reader to a perusal of the story. toward an attainment of both these requirements the reporter will have made the first step if he has organized his material rightly, putting at the beginning those facts that will be of most interest to his readers. = . clearness.=--but the reporter will still fail of his purpose if he neglects to make his lead clear. he must guard against any construction or the inclusion of any detail that is liable to blur the absolute clarity of his initial sentences. in particular, he must be wary of overloaded leads, those crowded with details. it is better to cut such leads into two or more short, crisp sentences than to permit them to be published with the possibility of not being understood. if a reader cannot grasp readily the lead, the chances are nine out of ten that he will not read the story. note the following overloaded lead and its improvement by being cut into three sentences: |barely able to see out of her swollen and discolored| |eyes, and her face and body covered with cuts and | |bruises, received, it is alleged, when her father | |attacked her because of her failure to secure work, | |mary ellis, years old, living at brown | |street, when placed on the witness stand monday, | |told a story which resulted in peter ellis, her | |father, being arrested on a charge of assault with | |intent to do great bodily harm. | |charged with beating unmercifully his daughter, | |mary, , because she could not obtain work, peter | |ellis, brown street, was arraigned in police | |court monday. the girl herself appeared against | |ellis. her body, when she appeared on the witness | |stand, was covered with cuts and bruises, her face | |black from the alleged blows, and her eyes so much | |swollen that she could hardly see. | the following lead, too, is overloaded and all but impossible to understand: |two letters written by h. m. boynton, an advertising| |agent for the allen-procter co., to "dear louise," | |in which he confessed undying love and which are | |replete with such terms of endearment as "little | |love," "dear beloved," "sweetheart," "honey," and | |just plain "love," and which were alleged by him to | |have been forged by his wife, mrs. hannah benson | |boynton, obtained a divorce for her yesterday in | |district court on the grounds of alienated | |affections. | few readers would wade through this maze of shifted constructions and heavy, awkward phrasing for the sake of the divorce story following. in the following form, however, it readily becomes clear: |two love letters to "dear louise" cost h. m. | |boynton, advertising agent for the allen-procter | |co., a wife yesterday in district court. the letters| |were produced by mrs. hannah benson boynton to | |support her charge of alienated affections, and were| |replete with such terms of endearment as "undying | |love," "honey," "sweetheart," "dear beloved," | |"little love," and just plain "love." boynton | |claimed that the letters were forged. | = . boxed summaries and features.=--when a story is unusually long and complicated and the number of details numerous, or when important points or facts need particular emphasis, it is customary to make a digest of the principal items and box them in display type before the regular lead. boxed summaries at the beginning of a story are really determined by the city editor and the copy readers, but a grouping of the outstanding facts for boxing is often a welcome suggestion and a valuable help to the sub-editors. if the reporter is in doubt about the need of a boxed summary, he may make it on a separate sheet and place it on the city editor's desk along with the regular story. types of stories that most frequently have boxed summaries are accidents, with lists of the dead and the injured in bold-face type; important athletic and sporting events, with summaries of the records, the crowds in attendance, the gate receipts, etc.; speeches, trials, and executions, with epigrams and the most important utterances of the judges, lawyers, witnesses, or defendants; international diplomatic letters, with the main points of discussion or most threatening statements; lengthy governmental reports, etc. an illustration of the boxed summary is the following, featuring the last statement of charles becker, the new york police lieutenant, electrocuted in for the death of herman rosenthal: =police officer pays penalty with his life= +----------------------------------------------------+ | | | "my dying statement." | | | | "gentlemen: i stand before you in my full senses, | | knowing that no power on earth can save me from the| | grave that is to receive me. in the face of that, | | in the face of those who condemn me, and in the | | presence of my god and your god, i proclaim my | | absolute innocence of the foul crime for which i | | must die. | | | | "you are now about to witness my destruction by the| | state which is organized to protect the lives of | | the innocent. may almighty god pardon everyone who | | has contributed in any degree to my untimely death.| | and now on the brink of my grave, i declare to the | | world that i am proud to have been the husband of | | the purest, noblest woman that ever lived,--helen | | becker. | | | | "this acknowledgment is the only legacy i can leave| | her. i bid you all good-bye. father, i am ready to | | go. amen." | | | | "charles becker." | +----------------------------------------------------+ |ossining, n. y., july .--at peace with his maker, | |a prayer on his lips, but with never a faltering of | |his iron will, charles becker expiated the murder of| |herman rosenthal at : this morning. pinned on his| |shirt above his heart, he carried with him the | |picture of his devoted wife. in his hand he clutched| |the crucifix. | | | |the death current cut off in his throat the whisper,| |"jesus have mercy." it was not the plea of a man | |shaken and fearful of death, but rather the prayer | |of one with the conviction that he was innocent. | | | |just before he entered the death chamber he declared| |to father curry, "i am not guilty by deeds, | |conspiracy or any other way of the death of | |rosenthal. i am sacrificed for my friends." | |previously at a.m. he issued "my dying statement."| |it was a passionate reiteration of innocence, and is| |left as his only legacy to his wife: "i declare to | |the world that i am proud to have been the husband | |of the purest, noblest woman that ever lived,--helen| |becker." | | | |absolute quiet reigned in the death house at . | |a.m. suddenly the little green door swung open. | |becker appeared. he had no air of bravado. behind | |him in the procession came fathers cashin and curry.| |becker walked unassisted to the death chamber. as he| |entered he glanced about, seemingly surprised. his | |face had the expression of a person coming from | |darkness into sudden light, but there was no hint of| |hesitancy to meet death in the stride with which he | |approached the chair which had already claimed the | |lives of four others in payment for the rosenthal | |murder. | | | |the doomed man held a black crucifix in his left | |hand. it was about ten inches long, and as he calmly| |took his place in the chair, he raised it to his | |lips. following the chant of the priests, he | |entoned, "oh, lord, assist me in my last agony. i | |give you my heart and my soul." | | | |when all was ready, the executioner stepped back and| |in full view of the witnesses calmly shut the | |switch. as the great current of electricity shot | |into the frame of the former master of gunmen, the | |big body straightened out, tugging at the creaking | |straps. for a few moments it stretched out. a slight| |sizzling was heard and a slight curl of smoke went | |up from the right side of becker's head, rising from| |under the cap. when the shock was at its height, his| |grip tightened to the crucifix, but as the | |electrocutioner snapped the switch off the cross | |slipped from the relaxed fingers. a guard caught it.| |the whole body dropped to a position of utter | |collapse. | | | |becker's shirt was then opened. as the black cloth | |was turned back to make way for the stethoscope, the| |picture of mrs. becker was revealed. it was pinned | |inside. the doctors pushed it aside impatiently, | |evidently not knowing what it was. they held | |stethoscopes to the heart. another shock was | |demanded of the cool young executioner. he stepped | |back and swung the switch open and shut again. the | |crumpled body clutched the straps again. once more | |the doctors felt his heart. they seemed to argue | |whether there was still evidence of life. once again| |the executioner was appealed to and once again he | |snapped on and off the switch. the lips then parted | |in a smile. the stethoscope was applied and it was | |declared that becker was dead....[ ] | [ ] george r. holmes, of the united press associations, in _the appleton post_, july , . = . informal lead.=--the opposite of the summarizing lead is the informal, or suspense, lead. this type begins with a question, a bit of verse, a startling quotation, or one or two manifestly unimportant details that tell little and yet whet the appetite of the reader, luring him to the real point of interest later in the story. such leads, sometimes known as "human interest" leads, are admittedly more difficult than those of the summarizing type, their difficulty being but one effect of the cause which makes them necessary. an examination of a large number of these leads shows that their purpose is to make attractive news that for some cause is lacking in interest. most frequently the news is old; often it is merely commonplace; or possibly it may have come from such a distance that it lacks local interest. in such cases the aid of the informal lead is invoked for the purpose of stimulating the reader's interest and inducing him to read the whole story. and this explains the difficulty of the informal lead. its originality must compensate for the poverty of the news it presents. it must be more attractive, more striking, more piquant than the ordinary lead. and the only ways of obtaining this attractiveness, this piquancy, are by novelty of approach and of statement.[ ] [ ] for an additional discussion of the informal lead, see chapter xix. = . question lead.=--a few illustrations of informal leads will make clearer their exact nature. first may be cited the question lead, two examples of which are given below, with enough of the story appended in each case to show the method of enticing the reader into the story. |how long can the war last? | | | |it's a fool question, because there is no certain | |answer. but when there is an unanswerable question, | |it is the custom to look up precedents. here are a | |few precedents.... | |if you planned to wed in september and married in | |july just to suit your own convenience, would you be| |provoked if your dear neighbors immediately seated | |themselves and wove a beautiful romance out of it? | | | |grace elliott bomarie, daughter of mr. and mrs. | |charles elliott bomarie, of lawrence avenue, and| |sister of bessie bomarie, former famous champion | |golf player, was not angry to-day. instead she | |laughed the merriest kind of a laugh over the | |telephone and said: | | | |"call me up in half an hour and i will tell you all | |about it." | | | |but she didn't. on the recall (that's the proper | |word in this day of equal suffrage), she was not at | |home. mrs. bomarie was, and said: | | | |"please just say that mr. and mrs. charles elliott | |bomarie announce the marriage of their daughter, | |grace elliott, to mr. albert wingate." | = . verse lead.=--the lead beginning with a bit of verse is more difficult than the question lead because of the uncertainty with which most persons write metrical lines. the following may serve as a fairly successful attempt: =u. s. jackies want mail= | perhaps you've seen a jolly tar | | a-pushing at the capstan bar | | or swabbing off the deck, | | and figured that a life of ease | | attends the jackie on the seas | | who draws a u. s. check. | | his lot, it seems, is not quite so; | | just hear this plaintive plea of woe | | that comes from off the buffalo. | | the sailors rise to raise a wail | | because they say they get no mail. | | | |will some milwaukee misses in their spare moments do| |uncle sam a favor by writing letters to cheer up | |some of his downhearted nephews in the navy? | | | |the boys are just pining away from lonesomeness, | |owing to the fact that no one writes to them. at | |least this is the sorrowful plea of g. h. jones, a | |sailor aboard the u. s. s. buffalo, who writes the | |sentinel from san francisco as follows: | | | |girls--why not use some of your idle moments in | |writing to us? i have been in the navy five years | |and have never received any mail. g. h. jones, | |u. s. s. buffalo, san francisco, cal.[ ] | [ ] _milwaukee sentinel_, august , . = . extraordinary statement in lead.=--an extraordinary statement made by a person in a speech, an interview, or a trial scene is often used in the informal lead. if, however, the quoted statement is so long or of such a nature that it summarizes the whole story, it places the lead, of course, not in the informal class, but in the normal summarizing group. the following illustrates well the extraordinary statement: =friend wife went too far= |mr. david elliott, | | chicago. | | | |sir: | | you can go to the d----l, and the quicker the | |better. | | | | sincerely, | | your wife. | | | |this is the letter in which david elliot thinks his | |wife "went too far." he produced it before judge | |david matchett saturday in a suit for divorce. | = . suspense lead.=--the most difficult to handle of all the informal leads is the suspense lead, where the writer purposely begins with unimportant but enticing details and lures the reader on from paragraph to paragraph, always holding out a half-promise of something worth while if one will continue a bit further. in this way the reader is tempted to the middle or end of the story before he is told the real point of the article. a difficult type of lead, this, but forceful when well handled. |pierre l. corbin, years old, of eatontown, who | |runs a dairy and drives his own milk wagon, matched | |the speed of his horse against that of a new jersey | |central train yesterday morning at o'clock in a | |race to the crossing at eatontown. it was a tie. | |both got there at the same time.[ ] | [ ] _new york times_, august , . |there are two ways of patching a pair of | |trousers,--neatly and bluey; and probably no tailor | |in manhattan is as certain of it to-day as sigmund | |steinbern. so he stated to the police yesterday when| |a customer sat him down on his lighted gas stove, | |and so he insisted last night when friends called to| |see him at the washington heights hospital. | |furthermore, to say nothing of moreover, he is a | |tailor of standing, or will be for the next couple | |of weeks, and he knows his place. it is not, he | |feels, upon a gas stove. | | | |to friends who called at the hospital to ask mr. | |steinbern exactly what had happened to him, he said,| |by way of changing the subject, that he has a sign | |in his store upon which the following appears: | | | |everything done in a hurry | | | |there, he contends, lies the seed of the trouble. | |regarding the seat of the trouble, more anon....[ ]| [ ] _new york herald_, december , . = . tone.=--no matter which of the two types of lead one uses, whether the summarizing or the informal, one point further needs attention in the writing,--the value of constructing such a lead as will suggest the tone of the story. half the leads that one reads in the daily papers do not possess this touchstone of superiority, but all the leads to the big stories have it. if the article is to be pathetic, tragic, humorous, mildly satirical, the lead should suggest it; and the reporter will find that in proportion as he is able to imbue his lead with the story-tone he aims at in his writing, so will be the success of his story. this topic is discussed further in the next chapter, but the reader may consider at this point the two following leads, in which one plainly promises a story of pathos and tragedy; the other, half-serious humor: |_died_--claus, santa, in the american hospital, | |christmas morning, aged ._ | | | |santa claus, who wasn't such an old fellow after | |all, overslept on the great morning. he had gone to | |bed plain vern olson--not in a toy shop at the north| |pole, but in a little room behind his widowed | |mother's delicatessen shop at south robey | |street. | |the cause of the high cost of living has been | |discovered. it's pie,--plain pie. teeny terss, who | |runs a greek restaurant on hodel street, made the | |announcement to-day. | = . conclusion.=--of the two types of lead, the beginner is advised to attempt at first only the summary lead, relying on the excellence of the news to carry the story. this kind of lead is definite. a reporter always can know when his lead answers the questions _who_, _what_, _when_, _where_, _why_, and _how_. and if he has presented his facts clearly in the lead, he may feel a certain degree of assurance that he has been successful. in writing the informal lead, on the contrary, one can never be positive of anything or of any effect. (and it is a particular effect for which the reporter always must strive in the informal lead.) climax and suspense are such elusive spirits that if a writer but give evidence he is seeking them, he immediately loses them. the only safe plan for the novice, therefore, is to confine himself at first exclusively to the summarizing lead. then as his hand becomes sure, he may take ventures with the elusive, informal, or suspense, lead. x. the body of the story = . inaccuracy and dullness.=--if the reporter has written a strong lead for his story, he need have small worry about what shall follow, which usually is little more than a simple narration of events in chronological order, with interspersions of explanation or description. if a wise choice and arrangement has been made in the organization of details, the part of the story following the lead will all but tell itself. the reporter's care now must be to maintain the interest he has developed in the lead and to regard the accuracy of succeeding statements. there are just two crimes of which a newspaper man may be guilty,--inaccuracy and dullness. and the greater of these is inaccuracy. = . accuracy.=--when a reporter is publishing a choice bit of scandal or a remarkable instance of disregarded duty, it is an easy thing, for the sake of making the story a good one, or for lack of complete information, to draw on the imagination or to jump too readily at conclusions, and so present as facts not only what may be untrue, but what often later proves entirely false. the ease of the thing is argued by the frequency with which it is done. such a reporter does a threefold harm: he compels his paper to humiliate itself later by publishing the truth; he causes the public to lose confidence in his journal; and he does irreparable injury to unknown, innocent persons. the day following the _eastland_ disaster in , one chicago paper ran the list of dead up to eighteen hundred. a week later the same paper was forced to put the number at less than nine hundred. a rival publication in the same city kept its estimate consistently in the neighborhood of nine hundred, with the resultant effect to-day of increased public confidence in its statements. in another city of the middle west judgment for $ , has recently been granted a complainant because one of the city staff made a rash statement about the plaintiff's "illicit love." the reporter was discharged, of course, but that did not repair the damage or reimburse the paper. = . law of libel.=--every newspaper man, as a matter of business, should know the law of libel. it varies somewhat in different states, but the following brief summary may be taken as a working basis until the reporter can gain an opportunity to study it in his own state. in the first place, the law holds responsible not only the owners of the journal, but the publisher, the editor, the writer of the offending article, and even any persons selling the paper, provided it can be proved that they were aware of the matter contained in the publication. what constitutes libel is equally far-reaching. it is any published matter that tends to disgrace or degrade a person generally, or to subject him to public distrust, ridicule, or contempt. any written article that implies or may be generally understood to imply reproach, dishonesty, scandal, or ridicule of or against a person, or which tends to subject such a person to social disgrace, public distrust, hatred, ridicule, or contempt, is libelous. even the use in an article of ironical or sarcastic terms indicating scorn or contempt is libelous, because such expressions are calculated to injure the persons of whom they are spoken. and if an article contains several expressions, each of which is libelous, each may be a separate cause for legal action. nor is it a defense to prove that such rumors were current, that such statements were previously published, or even that the writer did not intend the remarks to do injury. if it can be proved that the article has done injury, the writer and his paper are guilty of libel and must pay damages in accordance with the enormity of the offense. = . avoidance of libel.=--when it becomes necessary to make a statement about a person that may be unpleasing to him, the writer should give the name of the one making the charge or assertion, or else avoid making a specific charge by inserting _it is alleged_, _it is rumored_, _it is charged,_ or some such limiting phrase. note the following story of the arrest of two shop-girls and how skilfully the reporter avoids charging them with theft: | =charge two with shoplifting= | | | |edna k. whitter and minnie jensen, saleswomen in a | |new haven store, are under arrest charged with | |shoplifting. | | | |the former is said to have confessed after goods | |valued at more than $ , were found in her room. | |she is said to have implicated miss jensen, who | |denies the charge. | | | |desire to dress elaborately is alleged to have | |caused the young women to steal. miss jensen is the | |daughter of a farmer. investigations by detectives, | |it is said, may result in more arrests.... | whenever possible, it is well to avoid _it is said_, _it is rumored_. a story reads more convincingly when the reporter's authority is given. and the statement of the authority places the responsibility where it belongs. = . exaggeration.=--one word further about the _eastland_ disaster and loss of public confidence resulting from exaggerated stories. upon the news article itself there is a very definite effect of such exaggeration,--that mere extravagance of statement often defeats its own end. it is of first importance in writing that one's statements command the confidence of the reader. if a reporter writes that the wreck he has just visited was the greatest in the history of railroading, or the bride the most beautiful ever joined in the bonds of holy wedlock before a hymeneal altar, or the flames the most lurid that ever lit a midnight sky, the reader merely snickers and turns to a story he can believe. the value of understatement cannot be overestimated. probably the majority of the people of the united states are suspicious anyway of the truth of what they read in the newspapers. hence, if one must sin on the side of accurate valuation of news, let him err in favor of understatement rather than exaggeration. then when he is forced by actual facts to resort to huge figures, his readers will believe him. such a policy, consistently adhered to, will always win favor for a paper and a reporter. and that the best papers have learned this is proved by the fact that they no longer tolerate inaccuracy of statement or unverified information in their columns. = . "editorializing."=--one other caution must be given in the cause of accuracy, that of the necessity of presenting news from an unbiased standpoint, of eliminating as far as possible the personal equation,--in other words, of avoiding "editorializing." the news columns are the place for the colorless presentation of news. no attempt is, or should be, made there to influence public opinion. that function is reserved for the editorial columns, and the reporter must be careful not to let his personal views color the articles he writes. the following story was written for a small wisconsin paper by a rabid political reporter: | =thomas morris in town= | | | |thomas morris, lieutenant governor of this state and| |candidate for the united states senate, was in | |appleton this morning and spent the day in outagamie| |county shaking hands with those who would. but few | |would shake. he wanted to speak while here, but the | |enlightened citizens of this city were right in not | |letting him. peter tubits was his chief pilot | |through the county. | needless to say, this story was not printed. = . newspaper policies.=--even though it may seem--and in a measure is--in contradiction to what has just been said about accuracy and editorializing, it is nevertheless necessary before passing the subject to comment on the necessity of a reporter's observing a paper's editorial policies,--to say, in other words, that all news is not unbiased. for instance, if a newspaper is undertaking a crusade against midwives or pawnshops or certain political leaders, it gives those institutions or those persons little or no credit for the good they accomplish, nor does it feature impartially in its news articles their good and bad acts. yet such institutions or persons must have accomplished much good to arrive at the rank or position they now hold, and must continue to be of service to retain their standing. the following story, which appeared in a paper crusading against pawnshops and pistol carrying, is an illustration of what is meant by biased news: | =jilted, ends life with a gun= | | | |israel weilman was in love. three months ago the | |girl told him she would not marry him. last night | |weilman left his quarters at banker street and | |went to the home of rebecca schussman, south | |pueblo avenue, where his room-mate and cousin, david| |isaacs, was calling. | | | |"here are the keys to the room," he told his cousin,| |"i will not be home to-night." | | | |then weilman departed. a few minutes later a shot | |was heard in the alley back of the schussman home. | |they found weilman dead with a bullet wound through | |his heart. beside him was a new "american bulldog" | |revolver, retailing for $ . . in his pocket was a | |ticket of sale from the angsgewitz pawnshop. the | |profit on this style of weapon is about cents. | illustrations of prejudiced political news may be found daily in any newspaper. = . observing a paper's policies.=--it is necessary, therefore, to modify the preceding statements about unbiased news. those assertions express the millennial dream, colorless news, that american journalism is always approaching as an ideal, but has not yet reached. from the same associated press dispatch a georgia and a pennsylvania daily can produce stories respectively of success and dissension in the democratic party. from the same cable bulletin a milwaukee and a new york paper can obtain german victory and english repulse of repeated teutonic attacks. not only _can_, but _do_. it is only fair to the would-be reporter, therefore, to tell him that at times in his journalistic career he may be permitted to see snow only through a motorist's yellow goggles. the modern newspaper is a business organization run for the profit or power of the owners, with the additional motive in the background of possible social uplift,--social uplift as the owners see it. they determine a paper's policies, and a reporter must learn and observe those policies if he expects to succeed. = . following commands.=--observance of this injunction is particularly valuable in stories relating to political and civic measures. if one is on a paper with republican affiliations, one may be forced to hear and report a g. o. p. governor's speech with an elephant's ears and trumpet,--or with a moose's ears and voice if the journal is progressive. it makes no difference what the reporter's personal feeling or party preferences may be. on such papers he must follow precisely the commands of the managing editor or the city editor and must feature sympathetically or severely what they request. usually an intelligent sympathy with the general policy of the paper is sufficient for a reporter, no matter how conscientious. it is only rarely that he is trammeled with being forced to write contrary to his convictions. but at those times when such commands are given, he must see and write as requested or seek another position. = . consistency of policy.=--on the other hand, suppose in policies affecting the official standing of a newspaper every reporter saw and presented events from his own distorted angle. how consistent would a modern newspaper be? and how long could it hold the respect or patronage of its readers? = . clearness.=--next in importance to accuracy comes interest. a story must be interesting to be read. every paragraph must be clear. its relation to every other paragraph must be evident, and the story as a whole must be presented so that it may be understood and enjoyed by the reader with as small expenditure of mental effort as possible. ideas that are connected in thought, either by virtue of their sequence in time or for other reasons, must be kept together, and ideas that are separated in thought must be kept apart. if the story is one covering considerable length of time, care must be taken to keep the different incidents separated in point of time so that the reader may understand readily the relation of the different events to each other. the tenses of the verbs, too, must be kept consistent, logical. one cannot shift at will from past time to the present, and vice versa. if the story is a follow-up of an event that occurred before to-day and has been written up before, the body of the story should contain a sufficient summary of the preceding events to make the details readily clear to all readers,--even though the lead may already have included a connecting link. the summary of events in the lead must necessarily have been brief; the review in the body of the story may be presented at greater length. = . coherence.=--a valuable aid in gaining clearness is a proper regard for coherence, for obtaining which there are four ways within a story: ( ) by arrangement of the facts and statements in a natural sequence of ideas; ( ) by use of pronouns; ( ) by repetition; and ( ) by use of relation words, phrases, and clauses. discussion has already been given, in chapter viii, on the organization of material, of the necessity of logical arrangement of the story. if one has made a proper grouping there, one will have taken the first step, and the surest, toward adequate coherence. of the three remaining methods, probably the greatest newspaper men are strongest in their use of pronouns, such as _these_, _those_, _that_, _them_, etc. they also avail themselves freely of a skillful repetition of words,--the third method, which stands almost, but not quite equal to the use of pronouns in effectiveness and frequency. the following fire story exhibits a happy repetition of words for holding the ideas in easy sequence. note in it the skillful repetition of _firemen_, _fire_, _whiskey_, _building_, _casks_, _canal_. | =$ , worth of whiskey burns= | | | |firemen had to fight a canal full of blazing whiskey| |here to-day when a fire broke out in the building of| |the distillery company, ltd. twelve thousand casks | |of liquor were stored in the building. the | |conflagration spread rapidly and the explosion of | |the casks released the whiskey, which made a burning| |stream of the canal. | | | |firemen pumped water from the bottom of the canal | |and played it on the blazing surface. the loss is | |estimated at $ , . | = . relation words.=--in other kinds of writing there is a tendency to use relation words, phrases, and clauses freely between sentences and paragraphs. but in news writing the paucity of such expressions for subconnection--_moreover_, _finally_, _on the other hand_, _in the next place_, _now that we have mentioned the cause of the divorce_--is noteworthy. editors and the news-reading public demand that the ideas follow each other so closely and that the style be so compressed in thought that there shall be small need of connectives between sentences. it is this demand, plus a desire for emphasis, that is responsible for the so-called bing-bing-bing style of writing, of which the following is a fair illustration: |after killing mrs. benton, wallace, and the weston | |boy, carlton set fire to the lewis "love bungalow." | |the wounded were unable to care for themselves. they| |narrowly escaped death in the burning building. | |arrival of rescuing parties attracted by the fire | |alone saved their lives. | | | |a hatchet was the weapon used by carlton. | | | |the slayer escaped after the wholesale murder. he is| |thought to be headed for chicago. a posse under | |command of sheriff bauer of spring green is hunting | |the man. | | | |the story of the terrible tragedy enacted in the | |lewis "love bungalow," where for some years the | |celebrated sculptor and the former mrs. cross had | |been living in open defiance of the | |conventionalities, was a gruesome one as it came to | |light to-day. | | | |carlton is twenty-eight years old. he is married. | |his wife lived with him at the lewis home. he had | |been employed by lewis for six months. he was | |formerly employed by john z. hobart, proprietor of | |hobart's restaurant. he is five feet eight inches | |tall, of medium build and light in color. | | | |what caused the trouble or the fury of carlton is | |not known. | | | |who first fell is not known. | | | |what is known of the tragedy is this: | | | |shortly after noon to-day villagers in the little | |village of spring valley, where the lewis bungalow | |is and always has been something of a mystery as | |well as a wonder to the residents, saw smoke coming | |from the "love bungalow" on the hills. villagers ran| |to the place. the fire department responded to the | |alarm. | | | |the bungalow was rapidly being consumed. some one | |entered the house. it was a shambles. mrs. benton | |was found dead. wallace was dead. both had been | |literally chopped to pieces by the infuriated negro.| | | |the bungalow was barricaded before entrance was | |forced. after the dead had been discovered the | |wounded were found. they were dragged out. the | |conscious told disjointed stories of the tragedy and| |of the awful fury that seemed to possess carlton, | |the cook. | | | |the latter was not to be found. he was at first | |thought to have taken to the hills. later it was | |thought he might be hiding in the underground root | |cellar but no search lights were available. | | | |men with guns surrounded the house. | | | |the negro will be lynched if he is found, it was | |thought this afternoon.[ ] | [ ] _chicago american._ = . bing-bing-bing style.=--on the whole, this bing-bing-bing style of writing cannot be commended. its value in rapid narrative, where excitement prevails and the reader's emotions are greatly aroused, is evident. but the style, indulged in too freely, produces a fitful, choppy effect that is not good. the sentences should be longer and more varied in construction. examination of the preceding illustration shows that it has only three words or phrases used for subconnection, and only four complex sentences. = . emphasis.=--next to clearness in holding the interest of the reader comes emphasis, which may be had by avoidance of vague literary phrasing, by a due regard for tone in the story, and by condensation of expression. the first two overlap, since the whole tone of a story may easily be destroyed by an affectation of literary phraseology. these two, therefore, may be considered together. = . vague literary phrasing.=--many cub reporters feel, when they begin to write, that they must express themselves in a literary style, and to gain that style they affect sonorous, grandiloquent phrases that sound well but mean little. in nine cases out of ten these phrases are the inventions of others and meant much as used in their original connection. but as adopted now by a novice, they are vague, only hazily expressive, lacking in that sharp precision necessary for forceful presentation of news. = . tone.=--it is this vagueness of expression that as often as not destroys the tone of the story. one may be aiming at portraying the dignity and simplicity of a wedding or the unmarred happiness of the occasion, but if one attempts to equal the joy of the event with the bigness of his words, one will produce upon the reader an effect of revulsion rather than interest. an ignorant, but well-meaning, reporter on an eastern weekly concluded a wedding story with the following sentences: |after the union of miss petty and mr. meydam in the | |holy bonds of wedlock, the beautiful bride and | |handsome groom and all the knights and ladies | |present repaired to the dining-room, where a | |bounteous supper interspersed with mirth and song | |awaited them. after which they tripped the light | |fantastic toe until the wee small hours of the | |morning, when all repaired to their beds of rest and| |wrapt themselves in the arms of morpheus. | this selection happens to be a conglomeration mainly of worn-out expressions current in literature for the past two or three centuries. but any use of phrases too large or too emotional for the thought to be conveyed will result in an equally dismal failure. all the words, phrases, and ideas in the following are the writer's own, but the effect is practically the same as in the preceding story: |the scene and the occasion were both inspiring. the | |music was furnished by the birds, which were at | |their best on this bridal day. a meadowlark called | |to his mate across the lake, asking if he might come| |and join her. a brown thrush in a tree on the hill | |near by sent forth across the water a carol full of | |love and melody such as a beethoven or a chopin | |would strive in vain to imitate. the hills were | |dressed in their prettiest robes of green. the water| |was quiet. nature was at her best. and the bride and| |groom, both in tastiness of dress and in spirits, | |were in harmony with nature. | the writer, too, in striving after a definite tone must be equally apprehensive of unintended suggestions caused by an unfortunate closeness of unrelated ideas. this fault was illustrated in a story by an iowa reporter who wrote that "lon stegle took mrs. humphrey and a load of hogs to santo monday," and of an unwitting pennsylvania humorist who said, "audry richardson, while visiting his sweetheart in freedonia last sunday sprained his arm severely and won't be able to use it for ten days or two weeks." if the tone of the story is meant to be dignified, unintended humor may make the presentation absurd. = . varied sentence length.=--the story tone is greatly affected also by the length of the sentences. if one's sentences are unnecessarily long, the effect will be heavy and tiresome. if they are markedly short, the result will be a monotonous, choppy, jolting effect, like a flat wheel on a street-car. the bing-bing-bing style just discussed is an illustration of the latter. the writer should aim at a happy medium, with simple constructions and a tendency toward shorter sentences than in other kinds of writing. twenty words make a good average sentence length. it is necessary to remember that one's stories are read not only by the literati, but by the uneducated as well. one must make one's style, therefore, so fluent, so easy, that a man with a speaking vocabulary of five hundred words can read and enjoy all one writes. = . condensation.=--the value of condensation of expression need not be discussed at length here as it is taken up fully in the next chapter. suffice it to say now, however, that a diffuse style is never forceful. the reporter must condense his ideas into the smallest space possible. often that space is designated by the city editor when the reporter, on his return to the office, asks for instructions, and nearly always it is only about half enough. but he must follow directions to the letter. woe to the novice who presents a thousand words, or even six hundred, when the city editor calls for five hundred. sometimes, however, he will find that the city editor has allotted him more space than he can easily fill. in such a case, let him give length by introducing additional details. mere words will not suffice. they do not make a story. = . final test of a story.=--the two cares for the reporter, then, in writing the body of the story are accuracy and interest. accuracy is worth most, and is attained by strict adherence to truth, with plenty of proof for the truth in case it is questioned after publication. interest may be had by making all statements clear, coherent, forceful. but there is no precise form or method by which accuracy and interest may be obtained. the reporter is given unlimited range in selecting, organizing, and writing his news. he may follow or disregard at will the standard types of other newspaper men's stories, which should be taken as models only, never as laws. for the final test of the goodness of a story is its effect upon the reader. if it attains the desired result without conforming to the patterns given by other writers, it will become a new pattern for itself and for similar stories. get accuracy and interest, then, no matter what the method. xi. the paragraph = . paragraph a mark of punctuation.=--discussion of the paragraph really belongs under the head of punctuation, since its purpose is to set off the larger divisions of the story in the same way that the period and the comma mark sentences and phrases. the indention of the first line catches the eye of the reader and notifies him silently to stop for a summary of his impressions before starting a somewhat different phase of the story. its purpose, like that of the other marks of punctuation, is clearness and emphasis. yet since its very lax laws are much the same as those of the story, it must be noticed independently. = . clearness.=--the first requirement of the paragraph is that it shall be clear. its relation to the paragraphs preceding and following must be evident at a glance. if transitional phrases and sentences or relation words are necessary for making the relation clear, use them; but as a rule, as stated concerning the story as a whole, reliance for clearness in and between paragraphs is placed mainly on the natural and close sequence of ideas. = . emphasis.=--next to clearness, the important thing to strive for in the news paragraph is emphasis. proper emphasis is not a virtue; it is a necessity, because the eye of the rapid reader, as he glances down the columns of the paper, catches only the first words and phrases at each paragraph indention. and according as those words and phrases interest him, so will he take sufficient interest in the paragraph as a whole to read it. for this reason the beginning of each paragraph especially should be emphasized by placing there the most important details. the reporter should guard against putting even dependent clauses and phrases used for subconnection at the beginning of a paragraph, but should envelop them, rather, within the sentence. he should not begin successive paragraphs with the same words or phrases or with the same construction. it is remarkable how unfavorably such small details influence readers. all this does not mean that the paragraph should end lamely. it cannot conclude with the emphasis of the beginning, it is true, but it may be well rounded at the end and its lack of emphasis in details may be compensated with vigor and deftness of expression. = . paragraph length.=--the length of one's paragraphs should also be a matter of due consideration. they must be not only brief, but brief looking. the modern reader will not brook long ones. single-sentence paragraphs are frequent, particularly in the lead. two- or three-sentence paragraphs are common. half-column paragraphs are unendurable. the average newspaper column permits lines of about seven words each, so that twenty lines, or words, should be the limit of a paragraph. eight or ten lines is a good average length. because of this necessary brevity, the newspaper paragraph allows no topics and subtopics within its limited space, but throws every subtopic into an individual paragraph. this the reporter may follow as a safe rule in paragraphing: whenever in doubt about the advisability of a new paragraph, make one. xii. the sentence[ ] [ ] teachers having classes sufficiently advanced may find it advisable to pass hastily over this chapter, or may omit it entirely. = . requisites.=--the same laws of accuracy and interest hold for the sentence as for the story as a whole. but in the sentence they are more rigid,--due in the main to the fact that the sentence is briefer and more readily analyzable. and while one sympathizes with the overworked reporter who served notice upon critical college professors that "when the hands of the clock are near on to press time, and i have a million things to write in a few minutes, i don't give a whoop if i do end a few sentences with prepositions," and concluded by saying, "if i had as much time as the average college professor has, i probably could write good grammar, too";--while one sympathizes with the time-driven newspaper man who never has sufficient leisure to polish a story as he would like, the fact still remains that the reader cannot tell from looking at a story, nor should he be allowed to tell, how much rushed the reporter was. the only thing the reader is interested in is the story, whether it is good or not; and if he does not regard it as worth while, if the sentences are faulty, ungrammatical, weak, he will read another story or another paper. = . grammar.=--the first point to regard in seeking accuracy in the sentence is good grammar. this may seem a trivial injunction to offer a coming star reporter on a great metropolitan daily; but the city editor's assistants have to correct more grammatical errors in cub copy than any other kind of mistake except spelling and punctuation. the main violations of grammar may be classified conveniently under four heads: faulty reference, incorrect verb forms, failures in coördinating and subordinating different parts of a sentence, and poor ellipsis. = . pronouns referring to ideas.=--probably the most prolific cause of bad grammar and of obscurity of meaning in news writing may be found in the use of unclear pronouns. one or more instances may be found in almost every paper a reader examines. a reporter should assure himself that every pronoun he uses refers to a particular word in the sentence and that it agrees with that word in gender and number. the use of a pronoun to refer to a general idea not expressed in a particular word is one of the commonest causes of ambiguity and obscurity in newspaper work. in the following sentence note what a ludicrous turn is given the sentence by the use of _which_ referring to an idea: |a card from c. a. laird, son of harry laird, informs| |the _democrat_ that his father is slightly improved | |and that they now have hopes of his recovery, | |although he suffers much pain from his fractured | |jaw, which will be good news to his many lock haven | |friends. | = . agreement of pronouns in number.=--a second prime cause of incorrect reference is found in a writer's failure to make a reference word agree in number with the noun to which it refers. such faulty reference occurs most frequently after collective nouns, such as _mob_, _crowd_, _council_, _jury_, _assembly_; after distributive pronouns, such as _everyone_, _anybody_, _nobody_; and after two or more singular and plural nouns, where the reporter forgets momentarily to which he is referring. in the following sentences note that each of the italicized pronouns violates one or more of these principles, thereby polluting the clearness of the meaning: |the mob was already surrounding the attorney's home,| |but _they_ moved so slowly that we got in ahead. | |we have heard more than one express _themselves_ | |that next year merrillan should have the biggest | |celebration of the century. | |everyone who had any interest in the boat was | |inquiring about _their_ friends and relatives. | |a peculiar thing about each one was that _they_ | |chose a husband with a given name that rhymed much | |the same with _their_ own. mrs. baker was josephine | |ramp and secured joe as her husband; arnie hallauer | |and annie ramp, gust lumblad and gusta ramp, and | |eugene carver and ella ramp. the _latter_ is a | |widow. the given name of each one commences with the| |same letter in each instance. | = . ambiguous antecedents.=--then there is a use of the pronoun with an unclear antecedent buried somewhere in the sentence, so that the pronoun seems to refer to an intervening word. such a misuse really is a matter of clearness rather than of grammar, and should come under the next section of this chapter, but it will be discussed here for the sake of including all misuses of the pronoun at once. the ambiguous use of pronouns is the most common error of faulty reference. the following are typical illustrations: |the rev. mr. tomlinson states that he wants a | |steady, religious young man to look after his garden| |and care for his cow who has a good voice and is | |accustomed to singing in the choir. | |atkinson telephoned that he was at zeibski's corners| |in his machine and had his wife with him. she had | |died on him and he wanted the garage company to come| |out and pull her in. | = . split infinitive.=--next to faulty reference in frequency comes the use of incorrect verb forms. of these probably the most common error among cub reporters is the employment of the split infinitive,--_to quickly run_ instead of _to run quickly_. the split infinitive is not necessarily an error. there are times when one's precise meaning can be expressed only by the use of an adverb between _to_ and its infinitive. but as a rule one should avoid the construction. certainly there was no excuse for the following in a chicago paper: |president yuan shi kai declared he was willing to | |permit professor frank johnson goodnow of brooklyn, | |legal adviser to the chinese government, to in | |august accept the presidency of johns hopkins | |university. | = . infinitive and participle with verbs.=--the use of the infinitive and the participle with the past tense of verbs is also a cause of frequent error. our english rule regarding these parts of the verb is mainly a matter of usage, accuracy in which may be attained only by habits of correct speech. but if the reporter will bear in mind that the infinitive and the participle have no finite tense of their own, that they always express time relative to the time of the main verb, he will have taken a real precaution toward preventing confusion. for example, the newspaper man who wrote, |detective mcguire had intended to have arrested him | |when he began blowing the safe, | did not say what he meant, because the past infinitive here makes the writer say that detective mcguire had intended to have the yeggman already under arrest when he began blowing the safe. what the writer meant to say was: |detective mcguire had intended to arrest him when he| |began blowing the safe. | likewise the reporter was inaccurate who wrote: |going into the basement, they found the cocaine | |stored beneath a heap of rags. | he was not accurate, unless he meant that they found the cocaine while on the way to the basement. the cause of his inaccuracy lies in the fact that the time expressed by the participle _going_ varies from that of the main verb. what he should have said was, having gone into the basement, ... or better, |after going into the basement, they found the | |cocaine stored beneath a heap of rags. | = . dangling participles.=--another detail for careful attention in the use of the participle is the necessity of having a definite noun or pronoun in the sentence for the participle to modify. it is wrong to write, |having arrived at the county jail, the door was | |forced open, | because the sentence seems to say that the door did the arriving. the sentence should be written, |having arrived at the county jail, the mob forced | |open the door. | = . agreement of verbs.=--one should watch one's verbs carefully, too, to see that they agree in number with their subjects. one is sometimes tempted to make the verb agree with the predicate, as in the following: |the weakest section of the course are the ninth, | |tenth, and eleventh holes. | but english usage requires agreement of the verb with the subject. if the subject is a collective noun, one may regard it as either singular or plural. but when the writer has made his choice, he must maintain a consistent point of view. one may say, |the mob were now gathering in the northeast corner | |of the yard and yelling themselves hoarse, | or |the mob was now gathering in the northeast corner of| |the yard and yelling itself hoarse. | but the two points of view may not be mixed in the same sentence or the same paragraph. that the following sentence is wrong should be evident at a glance: |the kellog-haines singing party has been on the | |lyceum and chautauqua platform for eight years and | |have toured together the entire united states. | confusion is often caused also by qualifying phrases intervening between subjects and their verbs. thus: |the number of the strikers and of the members of the | |employment associations do not agree with the report | |made by the commission. | and sometimes one finds a plural verb wrongly used after the correlative terms _either ... or_ and _neither ... nor_, as in the following: |neither the mother of the children nor the aunt were| |held responsible for the accident. | finally, one often finds reporters consistently using a singular verb after the expletive _there_. in fifty per cent of the cases the writers are wrong. thus: |the briefest glance at the yard and premises would | |have shown that there was more than one in the | |conspiracy. | here _was_ should be _were_. = . coördination and subordination.=--the third error in grammatical construction, failure to coördinate or subordinate sentences and parts of sentences properly, cannot be treated with so much sureness as the two preceding faults; yet certain definite instruction may be given. _and_, _but_, _for_, _or_, and _nor_ are called coördinating conjunctions; that is, they are used to connect words, phrases, and clauses of equal rank. if one uses _and_ to connect a noun with a verb, or a past participle with a present participle, or a verb in the indicative mood with one in the subjunctive, he perverts the conjunction and produces a consequent effect of awkwardness or lack of clearness in the sentence. look at the following: |the sister residing in albany, and who is said to | |have struck one of the visiting sisters, followed | |them into the sick room. | in this sentence _and_ is used to connect the participle _residing_ with the pronoun _who_, and the consequent awkwardness results. this is the much condemned _and who_ construction. likewise, in the next sentence: |five hundred persons saw two boys washed from the | |end of winter's pier and drowning in twenty feet of | |water at noon to-day. | _and_ is here used to connect the past participle _washed_ with the present participle _drowning_, and the sentence is thereby rendered clumsy. = . clauses unequal in thought.=--an equally great inaccuracy is the attempt to connect with a coördinate conjunction clauses equivalent in grammatical construction, but unequal in thought value. other things being equal, the ideas of greatest value should be put into independent clauses, the ideas of least value into dependent clauses or phrases. _other things being equal_, be it understood, for by a too strict observance of this rule one may easily make the sentence ludicrous. take the following as an illustration: |we were to raid the hall precisely at midnight, and | |we set our watches to the second. | here the thought-value of the two clauses is not equal, no matter how the writer may attempt to make it seem so by expressing the ideas in clauses grammatically equal. the second clause contains the main idea; so the first should be subservient. thus: |as we were to raid the hall precisely at midnight, | |we set our watches to the second. | in the corrected form the sentence is given greater force by having the reader's attention directed specifically to the thought of prime importance, the setting of the watches. and so with the following sentences. note that the second in each case is made more forceful by centering the attention on what is most important in thought. |the saloons were not allowed after january to keep| |open on sunday, and half of them gave up their | |licenses. | |as the saloons were not allowed after january to | |keep open on sunday, half of them gave up their | |licenses. | * * * * * |he fell from the sixth story and was able to walk | |away without assistance. | |though he fell from the sixth story, he was able to | |walk away without assistance. | = . ellipsis.=--ellipsis is the omission of a word or phrase necessary to the meaning of a sentence. an ellipsis is poor when the words omitted cannot readily be understood from the context. pope's line, to err is human; to forgive, divine. is an illustration of good ellipsis because the word _is_ can readily be substituted from the context. the following ellipses, however, are not good: |louis flanagan is helping his brother silas cut wood| |and numerous other things. | |he shadowed laux longer than o'rourke. | |standing on each side of the door, a fat and tall | |man looked suspiciously at them. | ellipsis is often desirable for the sake of brevity, but one must be sure never to omit a word or phrase unless precisely that word or phrase may be readily supplied from the context. = . clearness in the sentence.=--after correct grammar, the next points to seek in writing the sentence are clearness and force, which together give a sentence its interest. of the two, clearness is the more important. a reporter should never write a sentence that must be read twice to be understood. as has been said once or twice already, but may be repeated for emphasis, news stories to-day are read rapidly, and rapid reading is possible only when sentences yield their ideas with small effort on the part of the reader. consider the following: |the assembly on thursday refused to pass the grell | |bill, permitting the sale of intoxicating liquors, | |after the close of the polls on election days, over | |the governor's veto. | this sentence is clear if one will stop to read it twice; but there is the trouble: one must read it twice--a task few will perform. = . grammatically connected phrases.=--the lack of entire clearness in the sentence just quoted is due to a difficulty over which the best writers often stumble,--failure to keep grammatically connected words, phrases, and clauses as close together as possible. in the sentence quoted, for instance, if the phrase _over the governor's veto_ were placed immediately after _pass_, the whole sentence would be clear at once to the reader. the same fault exists in the following: |the witness said she had a furnished bedroom for a | |gentleman feet long by feet wide. | = . correlative conjunctions.=--the correlative conjunctions, _either ... or_, _neither ... nor_, _whether ... or_, and _not only ... but also_, are also particularly liable to trip a writer. each should come immediately before the word or phrase it modifies. for example: |either the prisoner will be hanged or sentenced to | |life imprisonment. | this sentence obviously is wrong. _either_ here should come immediately before _hanged_, making the sentence read: |the prisoner will be either hanged or sentenced to | |life imprisonment. | = . "only" and "alone."=--_only_ and _alone_ belong in the same class of modifiers that demand close watching. _only_ comes immediately before the word or phrase it modifies, _alone_ immediately after. one should avoid using _only_ when _alone_ may be used instead, and should not place either of the two words between emphatic words or phrases. the following illustrates an inaccurate placing of _only_: |the evidence seemed to show that a man could only | |obtain advancement in the hall by submitting wholly | |to the dictates of the leaders. | _only_ here should come immediately before the phrase by _submitting_. = . parenthetic expressions.=--the use of long parenthetic expressions within a sentence is also a frequent cause of lack of clearness. in general, sentences within parentheses should be avoided in news articles. two short terse sentences are clearer--hence far more effective--than one long one containing a doubtfully clear parenthetic phrase or clause. the prime fault with the following sentence, for instance, is the inclusion of the two parenthetic clauses, necessitating a close reading to get the meaning: |even if the allies shall be able to force the | |dardanelles, and present indications are that they | |will, the wheat crop in russia will not be up to the| |average from that country on account of the | |withdrawal of so many millions of men for purely | |military purposes, either in the fields of battle or| |in the factories getting munitions of war ready. | put into two sentences, the illustration becomes: |even if the allies shall be able to fulfil their | |present expectations of forcing the dardanelles, the| |russian wheat will not be up to the average. too | |many millions of men have been withdrawn from the | |field to the trenches and the munition factories to | |enable the country to produce a full crop. | = . shifted subject.=--a shifted subject within a sentence is also usually a hindrance to clearness. indeed, one can aid clearness in successive sentences by retaining as far as possible the same subject. certainly one should not shift subjects within the sentence without good reason. the two following sentences exhibit the weakness of the shifted subject: |the british ambassador to norway has offered $ , | |reward for his capture, and he bears a special | |passport from the kaiser. | |witter was standing near the curb, but the death-car| |passed without his seeing it. | improved, these sentences become: |the british ambassador to norway has offered $ , | |reward for the capture of benson, who bears a | |special passport from the kaiser. | |witter was standing near the curb, but failed to see| |the death-car pass. | = . coherence.=--clearness frequently is destroyed or greatly lessened through lack of proper coherence. writers often forget that every sentence has a double purpose: to convey a meaning itself and to make clearer the meaning of preceding and succeeding sentences. the reporter should watch closely to see not only that the phrases of his sentences follow each other in natural sequence, but also that the relation of those phrases to adjacent ones in the same or other sentences is clearly shown. here is a notice made ludicrous because the reporter used a connective indicating a wrong relation between two clauses: |mrs. alpheus white is on the sick list this week. | |dr. anderson has been with her, but we hope she may | |soon recover. | the connective that the writer should have used, of course, was _and_, or else none at all. substitute the _and_ or merely omit the _but_ and the coherence is perfect. = . coherence and unity.=--many sentences that appear to lack unity are really wanting in proper coherence. for instance, |dr. alvers was called as soon as the accident was | |discovered, and it is feared now she will not | |recover, | is a sentence lacking in unity, but one that may be unified properly if the coherence is made good. thus: |dr. alvers was called as soon as the accident was | |discovered, and though he gave all the aid that | |medical science could render, it is feared now she | |will not recover. | = . sentence emphasis.=--sentence emphasis is gained in five ways: by form, position, proportion, repetition, and delicacy of expression. sentence form--putting into an independent clause what is most important--has already been discussed under clearness. the use of position for emphasis is the placing at the beginning or end of the sentence the ideas that are most important and the enclosure within of the less important thoughts. the following sentence illustrates a writer's failure to avail himself of position for emphasis: |this afternoon reports that she was still missing | |from home were being circulated. | but _this afternoon_ and _circulated_ are not the important concepts. _reports_ and _still missing from home_ are the emphatic ideas and should be put first and last respectively. thus: |reports were being circulated this afternoon that | |she was still missing from home. | so with the following: |this morning fifty convicts of the kansas state | |penitentiary were placed in solitary confinement, | |accused of being leaders in a mutiny yesterday in | |the coal mines operated by the penitentiary. | _this morning_ and _mines operated by the penitentiary_ are not, however, the important ideas. a better arrangement of the sentence reads: |accused of being leaders in a mutiny yesterday in | |the penitentiary coal mines, fifty convicts of the | |kansas state penitentiary were placed this morning | |in solitary confinement. | similarly, a phrase or clause transferred from its normal position in the sentence will attract attention to itself. note the increased emphasis upon _the matter was purely political_ in the following sentence by transference of it from its normal position at the end: |simpson, who was in the uniform of a lieutenant when| |arrested at new orleans, said the matter was purely | |political. | |that the matter was purely political was the | |statement made by simpson, who was in the uniform of| |a lieutenant when arrested at new orleans. | = . proportion for emphasis.=--the emphasis of a sentence in a news story varies in inverse proportion to its length. emphasis is gained by brevity. a prolix style tires the reader; and newspaper space is valuable. the reporter, therefore, must make his sentences short and pointed. he must condense, must reduce predication to a minimum. as few verbs as possible and all verbs active is a slogan in the news room. it is an error from a newspaper standpoint to include in a sentence any word that may be omitted without altering or obscuring the sense. one of the first requisites for success in journalism is ability to present facts with a minimum of words. note the added emphasis given the following sentences by mere reduction in the number of words: |it is well to understand that a high temperature of | |heat, boiling or more, destroys the germs of | |disease. | |it is well understood that a high temperature, | |boiling or more, destroys germs. | * * * * * |a pioneer living west of solon blew his head off | |to-day with a shotgun. death followed the deed | |instantly. | |a pioneer living west of solon killed himself | |instantly to-day by blowing his head off with a | |shotgun. | * * * * * |miss helen goodrich, who is an aviatrix of note, was| |arrested in bremen this morning charged with | |kidnapping. | |miss helen goodrich, an aviatrix of note, was | |arrested in bremen this morning charged with | |kidnapping. | note that in the last illustration, in particular, the condensation consists in reducing predication, in merely removing a verb and a pronoun from the sentence. = . repetition.=--the worth of repetition as a means of obtaining coherence has been discussed in a preceding chapter. its value as an effective means of gaining emphasis is also noteworthy. consider the effect of the repetition of the word _blithe_ in the following two sentences: |a blithe young man met a blithe young woman at state| |and adams streets friday. michael hurley, a blithe | |plain-clothes policeman, met them both. | great care must be exercised, however, in repeating a word for emphasis. the usage may easily be a handicap rather than a help. more often than not, repetition of the same word or phrase is the result of laziness or paucity of vocabulary, and destroys the force of the sentence. an instance of too frequent use of the same word--the adjective _beautiful_--appears in the following: |the bride was elaborately gowned in a beautiful | |sky-blue messaline dress, with silk over lace, and | |carried a beautiful bouquet of gladiolis, besides | |having a beautiful bouquet of flowers at the waist. | |the groom wore the usual blue worsted suit, with a | |beautiful buttonhole bouquet, while the bridesmaid | |was beautifully gowned in a white french serge | |trimmed with a light blue silk girdle and a blue | |silk tango cord at the throat, and also had a | |beautiful bouquet at the waist. the best man wore a | |rich dark gray suit and also had a beautiful | |buttonhole bouquet. the room was beautifully | |decorated with green foliage and roses, formed into | |a beautiful arch, under which the couple stood | |during the ceremony, which was performed by rev. | |wells of this city. | = . delicacy of expression.=--delicacy of expression is that quality in news writing which distinguishes the star reporter from the cub. it may be learned, but never taught. it is this elusive element in writing and the inability of instructors to impart it that make many journalists say news writing cannot be taught. delicacy of expression is not effeminacy. it is originality; it is cleverness; it is nimbleness of wit and beauty of phrase; it is grace; it is simplicity; it is restraint; it is tact. it is all these, and more. it is that intuition in a star man which forbids his beginning the same kind of story day after day with a fixed, hackneyed type of sentence, which makes him avoid triteness of expression. it is that something in him which compels him to avoid affectation, to love beauty and grace, born of simplicity, unadornedness. it is that inborn sense of good taste that restrains the writer from indelicate, personal allusions so offensive to men and women of refinement. all this and more is delicacy of expression, and blest is the journalist who has it. the reporter who wrote the following had not yet learned the art: | =the havens-merrill wedding= | | | |at : the sounds of the wedding march scintillated| |through the havens house like tired waves laving the| |shores of a mighty lake. seldom if ever has such a | |scene been witnessed in this place. the smell of | |spring flowers was everywhere coming to all | |nostrils. presently there was a slight disturbance | |at the right hand entrance, and then the bride | |entered on the arm of her father, william havens, | |the well-known merchant. simultaneous at the | |opposite door was another disturbance, and the | |bridegroom entered attended by henry merrill of des | |moines. then the two parties proceeded down the | |middle aisles, meeting under a beautiful marriage | |bell where the two hearts were beautifully made as | |one, which was followed by congratulations all along| |the aisles. | | =mr. craig weds miss schell= | | | |mr. joe craig and miss cora schell, both of mena, | |were quietly married at the hotel main, durant, | |okla., monday, and are boarding at this hotel. mr. | |craig is well known as a skilful bricklayer, honest | |and industrious. the bride is well known in this | |city and proved her worth by the years she served | |the lochridge dry goods company as cashier. she is a| |member of the woodmen circle and carries a large | |insurance. we regret that she must leave, but like | |rebekah of old, she leaves home, family, and friends| |to travel the journey of life with her "isaac" (joe)| |in a distant land. we feel that the expression of | |all her friends is that the best this world affords | |will be theirs to the end of their journey and that | |a new life awaits them in another and higher sphere.| = . essentials of the sentence.=--if a reporter can write grammatically correct sentences,--if he can coördinate and subordinate accurately the different parts; if he can give all the pronouns definite antecedents; if he can keep his verbs consistent, having them agree in person and number with their subjects; if he can make effective use of ellipsis,--his sentences will possess the first essentials of a good sentence,--accuracy. if he can make his sentences clear and forceful,--if he can keep grammatically connected words, phrases, and clauses close together; if he can eliminate lengthy parenthetic expressions; if he can avoid unnecessary shifts of subjects within sentences; if he can make readily clear the relation of every phrase in a sentence to every other phrase in it and adjoining sentences; if he can put important ideas at the beginning and the end of the sentence; if he can make his sentences short and concise; if he can acquire delicacy of expression,--his sentences will possess the second requisite of a good sentence,--interest. accuracy and interest, these are the elements that make a sentence good. and the greater of these is accuracy. xiii. words = . accuracy and interest.=--for words, as for sentences and stories, the same law holds,--accuracy and interest. if one's words are accurate and stimulate interest in the reader, they are good. = . accuracy.=--accuracy comes first. it is necessary always to write with a nice regard for exact shades of meaning. as flaubert declared, "whatever one wishes to say, there is only one noun to express it, only one verb to give it life, only one adjective to qualify it. search then till that noun, that verb, that adjective is discovered. never be content with very nearly; never have recourse to tricks, however happy, or to buffoonery of language to avoid a difficulty. this is the way to become original." an accurate writer avoids looseness of thinking and inexactness of expression as he avoids libel. the adjective _lurid_ is an illustration of a word over which careless reporters have stumbled for generations. when the casualties of the war against inaccuracy are recorded, _lurid_ will be among the missing. as used by ignorant scribblers, the word means something like bright or brilliant, or perhaps towering; yet its precise meaning is pale yellow, wan, ghastly. journalists of the last quarter of the nineteenth century will remember a long list of such sins against precision, recorded by charles a. dana, editor of the _new york sun_. a few additions have been made to his list, and the whole is given below. the reader should distinguish keenly between each pair of words and should be careful never to misuse one of them. do not use: above _or_ over _for_ more than administered _for_ dealt affect _for_ effect aggravate _for_ irritate allude _for_ refer and _for_ to audience _for_ spectators avocation _for_ vocation awfully _for_ very _or_ exceedingly balance _for_ remainder banquet _for_ dinner beside _for_ besides call attention _for_ direct attention can _for_ may claim _for_ assert conscious _for_ aware couple _for_ two date back to _for_ date from deceased _for_ died dock _for_ pier _or_ wharf dove _for_ dived emigrate _for_ immigrate endorse _for_ approve exposition _for_ exhibition farther _for_ further favor _for_ resemble groom _for_ bridegroom happen _for_ occur hung _for_ hanged infinite _for_ great, vast in our midst _for_ among us in spite of _for_ despite last _for_ latest less _for_ fewer like _for_ as if materially _for_ largely notice _for_ observe murderous _for_ dangerous onto _for_ on _or_ upon partially _for_ partly pants _for_ trousers past two years _for_ last two years perform _for_ play posted _for_ informed practically _for_ virtually prior to _for_ before propose _for_ purpose proven _for_ proved raise _for_ rear quite _for_ very section _for_ region spend _for_ pass standpoint _for_ point of view suicide _as_ a verb suspicion _for_ suspect sustain _for_ receive transpire _for_ occur universal _for_ general vest _for_ waistcoat vicinity _for_ neighborhood viewpoint _for_ point of view witness _for_ see would seem _for_ seems = . clearness.=--to secure interest, a word must be clear and forceful. it should not be technical or big, but simple. the biggest words in the average newspapers are the handiwork and pride of the cub reporters. yet clearness, force, brevity all demand little words,--simplicity. and the simplest words are those of everyday speech,--anglo-saxon words generally,--such as _home_ rather than _residence_, _begin_ rather than _commence_, _coffin_ rather than _casket_. the reporter who uses ornate, technical, or little-known words does so at his own peril and to the injury of his story; for the average newspaper reader, without the benefits of a college education and having a limited vocabulary of one to two thousand words, does not know and has no time to look up the meaning of unfamiliar words and phrases. this is why many city editors prefer to employ high-school students and break them in as cubs rather than take college graduates who, proud of their education and vocabularies, attempt to display their learning in every story they write. simple, familiar, everyday words, those that every reader knows, are always the most forceful and clear, and hence the most fitting. the following is a list of words which young writers are most commonly tempted to use: accord _for_ give aggregate _for_ total appertains _for_ pertains apprehend _for_ arrest calculate _for_ think, expect canine _for_ dog casket _for_ coffin commence _for_ begin conflagration _for_ fire construction _for_ building contribute _for_ give cortège _for_ procession destroyed by fire _for_ burned donate _for_ give elicit _for_ draw hymeneal altar _for_ chancel inaugurate _for_ begin individual _for_ person obsequies _for_ funeral participate _for_ take part per diem _for_ a day perform _for_ play purchase _for_ buy recuperate _for_ recover remains _for_ body, corpse render _for_ sing reside _for_ live retire _for_ go to bed rodent _for_ rat subsequently _for_ later tonsorial artist _for_ barber via _for_ by way of = . force.=--force demands that one's words be emphatic. unfortunately a reporter cannot have readers always eager to read what he writes. if he had, his readers would be satisfied with having his words merely accurate and clear. instead, they demand that their attention be attracted, compelled. the words must be fitting, apt, fresh, unhackneyed, specific rather than general. the spectators gathered in the field must not be _a vast concourse_, but _ten thousand persons_. nor must it be _about_ ten thousand. the _about_ should be omitted. a specific _ten thousand persons present_ is much more effective and, being a round number, is a sufficient indication that no actual count has been made. in all cases where there is a choice between a specific and a general term, the specific one should be used. = . trite phrases.=--interest requires one also to seek originality of expression, to avoid trite phrases and hackneyed words. embalmed meats and kyanized sentences are never good. yet one of the most difficult acquirements in reporting is the ability to find day after day a new way to tell of some obscure person dying of pneumonia or heart disease. only reporters who have fought and overcome the arctic drowsiness of trite phraseology know the difficulty of fighting on day after day, seeking a new, a different way to tell the same old story of suicide or marriage or theft or drowning. yet one is no longer permitted to say that the bridegroom wore the conventional black, or the bride was elegantly gowned, or the bride's mother presided at the punch bowl, or the assembled guests tripped the light fantastic. the reporter must find new words for everything and must tell all with the same zest and the same sparkling freshness of expression with which he wrote on his first day in the news office. = . figures of speech.=--in his search for freshness, variety of expression, the reporter often may avail himself of figures of speech. these add suggestiveness to writing and increase its meaning by interpretation in a figurative rather than a literal sense. to say, "oldfield flew round the bowl like a ruined soul on the rim of hades," is more effective than "oldfield ran his car round the course at a -mile rate of speed." but the writer must be careful not to mix his figures, or he may easily make himself ridiculous. an apt illustration of such mixing of figures is the following: |it seemed as if the governor were hurling his glove | |into the teeth of the advancing wave that was | |sounding the clarion call of equal suffrage. | in particular, one must not personify names of ships, cities, states, and countries. note, for example, the incongruity in the following: |especially does the man of discriminating taste | |appreciate her when he compares her with the | |ordinary tubs sailing the great lakes. | = . elegance.=--force also requires that one heed what may sometimes seem trivialities of good usage. for instance, a minister may not be referred to as _rev. anderson_, but as _the rev. mr. anderson_. coinage of titles, too, is not permitted: as _railway inspector brown_ for _john brown, a railway inspector_. and the overused "editorial we" has now passed entirely from the news article. in an unsigned story, even the pronoun _i_ should not be used, nor such circumlocutions as _the writer_, _the reporter_, or _the correspondent_. in a signed story, however, the pronoun _i_ is used somewhat freely, while such stilted phrases as _the scribe_, _your humble servant_, etc., are absolutely taboo. = . slang.=--finally, mention must be made of slang, the uncouth relative in every respectable household. it is used freely on the sporting page, but is barred from other columns, its debarment being due to its lack of elegance and clearness. on the sporting page slang has been accepted because there one is writing to a narrow circle of masculine goths who understand the patois of the gridiron, the diamond, and the padded ropes and prefer it to the language of civilization. but such diction is always limited in its range of acquaintances and followers. a current bit of slang in memphis may be unintelligible in pittsburg. a colloquial ephemeralism in a city may be undecipherable in the country districts twenty-five miles away. a large percentage of the athletic jargon of the sporting club and field is enigmatical to the uninitiated. and since a newspaper man writes for the world at large rather than for any specific class or group, he cannot afford to take chances on muddying his sentences by the use of slang. the best test of a good journalist is the instinct for writing for heterogeneous masses of people. that word is not a good one which is clear only to select readers, whether select in ignorance or select in intelligence. the news story permits no such selection. it is written, not for the few, not for the many as distinct from the few, but for all. no other kind of reading matter is so cosmopolitan in its freedom from class or provincial limitations as is the news story, and none is more unwavering in its elimination of slang. newly coined words, it is true, are admitted more readily into news stories than into magazine articles, but slang itself is barred. one may not write of the "glad rags" of the debutante, or the "bagging" of the criminal, or the "swiping" of the messenger boy's "bike." one may not even employ such colloquialisms as "enthuse," "swell" (delightful), "bunch" (group). but one may use such new coinages as _burglarize_, _home-run_, and _diner_ rather freely. when in doubt about the reputability of a word, however, one should consult a standard dictionary, which should be kept continually on one's desk. part iii types of stories types of stories xiv. interviews, speeches, courts = . four types of stories.=--to the casual newspaper reader the various patterns of stories seem all but limitless. to the experienced newspaper man, however, they reduce themselves to seven or eight, and even this number may be further limited. the popular impression comes from the fact that the average reader places an automobile collision and a fire under different heads. yet for the newspaper's purposes both may be classed under the head of accidents. for the sake of convenience in this study, therefore, we may group under four heads all the news stories that a beginner need be acquainted with in the first year or so of his work: interviews; accidents, society, and sports, to which may be added for separate treatment, rewrites, feature stories, and correspondence stories. = . the interview type.=--in the present chapter will be discussed the interview type of story, in which are included not only personal interviews, but speeches, sermons, toasts, courts, trials, meetings, conventions, banquets, official reports, and stories about current magazine articles and books. these are all grouped under one head because they derive their interest to the public from the fact that in them men and women present their opinions concerning topics of current interest, and that for newspaper purposes the method of handling interviews is much the same as for the other ten. = . lead to an interview.=--the lead to a news story of a personal interview may feature any one of the following: ( ) the name of the person interviewed, ( ) a direct statement from him, ( ) an indirect statement, ( ) the general topic of the interview, ( ) the occasion, or even ( ) the time. probably it is the name of the man or a direct statement that is played up most often. if the former is featured, the lead should begin with the speaker's name and should locate the conversation in time and place. such a lead may well include also either a direct or an indirect statement, or a general summary of the interview. thus: |professor george trumbull ladd of yale, in an | |interview for the herald to-day, declared there | |never had been a time in the history of the world | |when there was a greater need for the enforcement of| |international law, nor one when international law | |was so much in the making as at present. | if a significant statement is of most importance in the interview, the lead should begin with the statement, directly or indirectly expressed, and continue with the speaker's name, the time, place, and occasion of the interview. thus: |"what has happened in mexico is an appalling | |international crime," declared theodore roosevelt | |last evening at his home on sagamore hill, oyster | |bay, l.i. he had been out all the afternoon in the | |woods chopping wood, and was sitting well back from | |the great log fire in the big hall filled with | |trophies of his hunting trips, as he talked of the | |recent massacre of american mining men in chihuahua.| |the most damnable act ever passed by congress or | |conceived by a congressman, was the way in which | |william j. conners of buffalo to-day characterized | |the la follette seamen's law. mr. conners is in new | |york on business connected with the magnus beck | |brewing company, of which he is president. | = . statements of local interest.=--almost always it is well, if possible, to lead the person interviewed to an expression of his opinion about a topic of local interest, then feature that statement,--particularly if the statement agrees with a declared policy of the paper. usually a problem of civic, state, or national interest may be broached most easily. if the city is interested in commission government or prohibition, if the state is fighting the short ballot or the income tax question, the visitor may be asked for his opinion. if the guest happens to be a national or international personage and the nation is solving the problem of preparedness, or universal military service, or the tariff question, he may be questioned on those subjects and his opinions featured prominently in the lead. note the following lead to an interview published by a paper opposing the policies of president wilson: |declaring that the national administration's foreign| |policy has made him almost ashamed of being an | |american citizen, henry b. joy, of detroit, mich., | |president of the packard motor company, a governor | |of the aero club of america and vice president of | |the navy league, said yesterday that our heritage of| |national honor from the days of washington, lincoln,| |and mckinley is slipping through our fingers. | = . inquiring about the feature.=--often the feature to be developed in an interview lead may be had by asking the one interviewed if he has anything he would like brought out or developed. when the interview has been granted freely, such a question is no more than a courtesy due the prominent man. but only under extraordinary circumstances should a reporter agree to submit his copy for criticism before publication. many a good story has had all the piquancy taken out of it by giving the one interviewed an opportunity to change his mind or to see in cold print just what he said,--a fact that accounts for so many repudiated interviews. in nine cases out of ten the newspaper man has reported the distinguished visitor exactly, but the write-up looks different from what the speaker expected. then he denies the whole thing, and the reporter is made the scapegoat, because the man quoted is a public personage and the reporter is not. = . fairness in the interview.=--the first aim of the interviewer, however, must always be fairness, accuracy, and absence of personal bias. no other journalistic tool can be so greatly abused or made so unfair a weapon as the interview. one should make no attempt to color a man's opinions as expressed in an interview, no matter how much one may disagree, nor should one "editorialize" on those ideas. if the paper cares to discuss their truth or saneness, it will entrust that matter to the editorial writers. this caution does not mean that a writer may not break into the paragraphs of quotation to explain the speaker's meaning or to elaborate upon a possible effect of his position. such interruptions are regularly made and are entirely legitimate, and it will be noted in the bryan story on page that most of that article consists of such explanation and elaboration. if, however, the reporter feels that the utterances of the speaker are such that they should not go unchallenged, he should obtain and quote a reply from a local man of prominence. = . coherence and proportion.=--next to accuracy there should be kept in view the intent to make the sequence and proportion of the ideas logical, no matter in what order or at what length they may have been given by the one interviewed. often in conversation a man will give more time to an idea than is its due, and often the most important part of an interview will not be introduced until the last. or, again, a person may drift away from the immediate topic and not return to it for some minutes. in all such cases it is the duty of the reporter to regroup and develop the ideas so that they shall follow each other logically in the printed interview and shall present the thought and the real spirit of what the man wanted to say. = . identifying the one interviewed.=--probably the most used and the easiest method of gaining coherence between the lead and the body of the interview is by a paragraph of explanation regarding the person, and how he came to give the interview. it is remarkable how many readers do not remember or have never heard the name of the governor of new york or the senior senator from california or the secretary of the navy, and it is therefore necessary to make entirely clear the position or rank of the person and his right to be heard and believed. in the following story, note how the writer dwells on the rank of the oxford university professor as a lecturer and so inspires the reader with confidence in his statements: | =modern dress called a joke= | | | |"look at our modern dress. both men's and women's | |costumes are, on the whole, as bad as they can be." | | | |prof. i. b. stoughton holborn of oxford university | |is in chicago to deliver a series of lectures on art| |for the university of chicago lecture association. | |in an interview saturday afternoon he vigorously | |ridiculed modern dress. | | | |prof. holborn is perhaps the most widely known of | |the oxford and cambridge university extension | |lecturers and has the reputation of being one of the| |most successful art lecturers in the world. he is | |the hero of an adventure on the sinking lusitania. | |he saved avis dolphin, a -year-old child who was | |being sent to england to be educated. the two women | |in whose charge mrs. dolphin had sent her daughters | |were lost, and prof. holborn has adopted the | |child.... | = . handling conversation.=--it should not be necessary to caution a newspaper man against attempting to report all a man says. "condense as often as possible" is the interviewer's watchword,--"cut to the bone," as the reporters express it. much of what a man says in conversation is prolix. in that part of the interview that is dull or wordy, give the pith of what is said in one or two brief sentences, then fall into direct quotation again when his words become interesting. as a rule, however, it is well as far as possible to quote his exact language all through the interview, since the interest of an interview frequently rests not only in what a man says, but in the way he says it. this does not mean a cut-and-dried story consisting of a series of questions and answers, but a succession of sparkling, personal paragraphs containing the direct statements of the speaker. = . mannerisms.=--the report may be livened up greatly with bits of description portraying the speaker and his surroundings, particularly when they harmonize or contrast with his character or the ideas expressed. an excellent device for presenting the spirit of an interview--giving an atmosphere, as it were--is to interpolate at intervals in the story personal eccentricities or little mannerisms of speech of the one interviewed. mention of pet phrases, characteristic gestures, sudden display of anger, unexplainable reticence in answering questions, etc., will sometimes be more effective than columns of what the speaker actually said. indeed, it is often of as much importance to pay as close attention to incidentals as to the remarks of the one talking. = . persons refusing to talk.=--in nine cases out of ten it is the reporter's duty both to keep himself out of the story and to suppress the questions by which the man interviewed has been induced to talk. but when he has failed entirely in gaining admission to one he wishes to interview, or, having gained admission, has not succeeded in making him talk, the would-be interviewer may still present a good story by narrating his foiled efforts or by quoting the questions which the great man refused to answer. one of the most brilliant examples that the present writer has seen of the foiled interview was one by mr. john edwin nevin the day before mr. william jennings bryan surrendered his portfolio as secretary of state in president wilson's cabinet. the nation was at white heat over the contents of the prospective note to germany and the possibility of the united states being drawn into the war. not a word of what the note contained had leaked from any source and there had been no hint of a break in the wilson cabinet. supposedly, all was harmony. yet this correspondent, judging from the excited manner of the secretary of state, the sharpness of his noncommittal replies, and his preoccupied air as he emerged from the cabinet room, scented the trouble and published the following story hours before other correspondents had their eyes opened to the history-making events occurring about them: | =bryan balks at german note= | | | |washington, d. c., june .--president wilson at : | |this afternoon announced, through secretary tumulty,| |that at the cabinet meeting to-day the note to | |germany "was gone over and discussed and put in | |final shape, and it is hoped that it will go | |to-morrow," but secretary of state bryan is | |determined to fight for a modification right up to | |the minute that the note is cabled to berlin. | | | |bryan believes the united states is on record for | |arbitration and that it would be a mockery to send | |germany a document which, he considers, savors of an| |ultimatum. although the majority of the cabinet was | |against him to-day, he carried his persuasive powers| |from the cabinet meeting to the university club, | |where he and his fellow members had lunch. | | | |bryan's attitude came as a complete surprise to the | |president. in previous notes mr. bryan took the | |position that the united states should invite | |arbitration. he called attention to the fact that | |this country is on record as unalterably opposed to | |war and pledged to every honorable means to prevent | |it. | | | |but in every instance he has stopped short of any | |further fight when the note has been approved by the| |majority of the cabinet. and the president expected | |that he would do this to-day. in fact, before the | |cabinet meeting it was stated that the note would | |have the approval of all members of the cabinet. | | | |the first intimation that anything was wrong came | |when the secretary did not show up at the executive | |offices with the other cabinet members. his absence | |was not at first commented upon because count von | |bernstorff, the german ambassador, was at the state | |department. however, it was soon ascertained that | |the ambassador was conferring with counselor | |lansing. | | | |then it was rumored that secretary bryan had sent | |word to president wilson that he would not stand for| |the note as framed. inquiry at the white house | |revealed the fact that secretary bryan had sent word| |that he would be in his office, working on an | |important paper, and would be late. at the state | |department, eddie savoy, the secretary's colored | |messenger, refused to take any cards in to bryan. he| |said he did not know whether his chief actually | |intended attending the meeting. | | | |"he is very busy, and i cannot disturb him," eddie | |stated. | | | |at the white house a distinct air of tension was | |manifested. all inquiries as to what secretary bryan| |was going to do were ignored. | | | |finally, about o'clock, secretary bryan left his | |office and came across the street. his face was | |flushed and his features hard set. he responded to | |inquiries addressed to him with negative shakes of | |the head. he swung into the cabinet room with the | |set stride with which he mounted the steps of the | |baltimore platform to deliver his famous speech | |attacking charles f. murphy and tammany hall, and | |precipitating his break with champ clark, whose | |nomination for the presidency up to that time seemed| |assured. | | | |for more than an hour after he reached the cabinet | |room the doors were closed. across the hall the | |president's personal messenger had erected a screen | |to keep the curious at a distance. | | | |at last the door was thrown open with a bang. first | |to emerge were secretaries mcadoo and redfield, who | |brushed through the crowd of newspaper | |representatives. they referred all inquiries to the | |president. secretary of war garrison came out alone.| |he refused to say a word regarding the note. there | |was an interval of nearly ten minutes. then | |secretaries daniels and wilson came out. behind them| |was attorney general gregory, and, bringing up the | |rear, was secretary bryan. bryan's face was still | |set. his turned-down collar was damp and his face | |was beaded with perspiration. | | | |"was the note to germany completed?" he was asked. | | | |"i cannot discuss what transpired at the cabinet | |meeting," was his sharp reply. | | | |"can you clear up the mystery and tell us when the | |note will go forward to berlin?" persisted | |inquirers. | | | |"that i would not care to discuss," said the | |secretary, as he joined secretary lane. "i am not in| |a position to make any announcement of any sort now.| |i will tell you when the note actually has started."| | | |ordinarily, secretary bryan goes from a cabinet | |meeting to his office, drinks a bottle of milk and | |eats a sandwich. to-day he entered secretary lane's | |carriage and, with lane and secretary daniels, | |proceeded to the university club for luncheon. | | | |it is understood that secretary bryan took to the | |cabinet meeting a memorandum in which he justified | |his views that the proposed note is not of a | |character that the united states should send to | |germany. he took the position that the united | |states, in executing arbitration treaties with most | |of the countries of the world, took a direct | |position against war. as he put it, on great | |questions of national honor, the sort that make for | |welfare, arbitration is the only remedy. | | | |secretary bryan is understood to have urged that the| |united states could stand firmly for its rights and | |not close the doors to any explanation that | |germany--or any other belligerent--might make. it is| |understood that bryan pointed out that germany had | |accepted the principles of the arbitration treaties | |as a general proposition, but failed to execute the | |treaty because of the european war breaking out. her| |opponents enjoy the advantages under such a treaty, | |and secretary bryan insisted that germany should not| |be denied the same rights.... | | | |although secretary bryan will continue his efforts | |to modify the note, persons close to the president | |insist that he will fail. the president is said to | |have decided, after hearing all arguments, that the | |safest course is to remain firm in the demand that | |american rights under international law be | |preserved. and it is expected that when the note is | |finally o. k.'d by counselor lansing, it will be | |sent to germany. | | | |there is speculation as to whether secretary bryan | |will sign the note as secretary of state. he has | |angrily refused to take any positive position on the| |subject. if he should refuse, his retirement from | |the cabinet would be certain. bryan's friends insist| |that he has been loyal to the president and has made| |many concessions to meet the latter's wishes. they | |believe that he will content himself with a protest | |and again bow to the will of his chief. but there | |was no way of getting any confirmation of this | |opinion from bryan. | | | |this is the first serious friction that has | |developed in president wilson's cabinet. politicians| |declare it will have far-reaching effect. bryan has | |fought consistently for arbitration principles. and | |he now considers, some of his friends think, that | |they have been ridden over rough-shod.[ ]... | [ ] john edwin nevin in _the omaha news_, june , . the next morning president wilson announced his acceptance of mr. bryan's resignation as secretary of state. = . value of inference in the foiled interview.=--the reporter who would attain success in his profession should not fail to study with care this story by mr. nevin, to learn not so much what the story contains as what the person who wrote it had to know and had to be able to do before he could turn out such a piece of work. one should analyze it to see how startlingly few new facts the correspondent had in his possession at the time he was writing, and how he played up those lonesome details with a premonition of coming events that was uncanny. above all, the prospective reporter should observe with what rare judgment and accuracy the writer noted in mr. bryan's demeanor a few distinctive incidents which were at once both trivial and yet laden with suggestions of events to come. to produce this story the writer had to know not only a man, but men. a cub would have got nothing; this man scooped the best correspondents of the nation. = . series of interviews.=--in a story containing a number of interviews, let the lead feature the consensus of opinion expressed in the interviews. then follow in the body with the individual quotations, each man's name being placed prominently at the beginning of the paragraph containing his interview, so that in a rapid reading of the story the eye may catch readily the change from the words of one man to another. when there is a large number of such interviews, the name may even be set in display type at the beginning of the paragraph. if, however, the persons interviewed are not at all prominent, but their statements are worth while, the quotations may be given successively and the names buried within the paragraph. = . leads for speeches.=--in comparison with handling an interview, a report of a speech is an easy task. in the case of the sermon or the lecture, typewritten copies are almost always available and the thoughts are presented in orderly sequence. so if the reporter has followed the advice given in part ii, chapter vii, and taken longhand notes of a speech, or has not been so engrossed in mere note-taking that he has been unable to follow the trend of the speaker's thought, he will experience comparatively little trouble in writing up the speech. he may begin in any one of a half-dozen or more ways. he may feature: ( ) the speaker's theme; ( ) the title of the address, which may or may not be the theme; ( ) a sentence or a paragraph of forceful direct quotation; ( ) an indirect quotation of one or more dynamic statements; ( ) the speaker's name; ( ) the occasion of the speech; or ( ) the time or the place of delivery. any one of these may be played up according to its importance in the address. = . featuring a single sentence.=--of the seven or eight different kinds of lead, a quotation of a single sentence or a single paragraph is happiest if one can be found that will give the keynote of the speech or will harmonize with a declared policy of the paper. thus: |"it is the traitor god love that makes men tell | |foolish lies and women tell the fool truth," said | |prof. henry acheson last night in his lecture on | |"flirts." | |"the devil has gone out of fashion. after a long and| |honorable career as truant officer, he has finally | |been buried with his fathers. that is why twentieth | |century men and women don't attend church." such was| |dr. amos buckwin's explanation yesterday of the | |church-going problem. | = . random statements.=--emphasis should be laid on the value of playing up in the lead even a random statement if it chances to agree with a specific policy or campaign to which the paper has committed itself. in a non-political address or sermon an unwary statement touching national, state, or city politics makes an excellent feature if it favors the policies of the paper. its worth lies in the fact that it is manifestly unprejudiced and advanced by the speaker with no ulterior motive. on the other hand, such a statement may well be ignored if opposed to the paper's political or civic views. for example, note in the following lead a feature played up solely because the paper was democratic in its politics: |"i was a student in one of the classes taught by | |woodrow wilson. anyone who has ever seen the lower | |part of his facial anatomy knows that when he says | |'no' he does not mean 'yes,'" said bishop theodore | |henderson at the methodist church yesterday morning.| | | |it was not a political sermon. aside from what | |political significance the above quotation might | |have, there was nothing political about his | |discourse. he brought it out in referring to the | |president doing away with the inaugural ball in | | , which he nearly classed as a drunken orgy run | |by politicians. he was emphasizing the president's | |"no," that his family would not be present even if | |he himself had to attend. | as in this story, however, the writer must be careful always to make clear the precise relation of the featured quotation to the speech as a whole. = . indirect quotation.=--the chief reason for quoting indirectly in the lead a single statement of a speaker is the need of shifting an important point to the very first. |that an inordinate indulgence in mere amusement is | |softening the fiber of the american nation and | |sapping its vitality, was the statement of allen a. | |pendel, president of the southwest press company, at| |the monthly meeting of the crust breakers, saturday.| = . title featured.=--the use of the subject of the speech as a feature is advisable when it is particularly happy or when it expresses the theme of the address. |"the national importance of woman's health" was the | |subject of dr. a. t. schofield's lecture at the | |institute of hygiene, wednesday. | |taking as his subject, "the tragedy of the | |unprepared," the rev. otis colleman delivered a | |powerful attack in grace church sunday against | |unpreparedness in one's personal life and in the | |home, the state, and the nation. | = . theme featured.=--the theme may be featured when a single-sentence quotation cannot readily be found and the subject does not indicate the nature of the address. |condemnation of the twentieth-century woman's dress | |was voiced at the ninth international purity | |congress by rev. albion smith, madison, wis., who | |spoke on "spirit rule vs. animal rule for men and | |women." | = . summary lead.=--oftentimes the theme lead shades into a summarizing lead and the two become one of indirect quotation. long summarizing leads of speeches are to be avoided as a rule, since they are liable to become overloaded and cumbersome. when using this lead, the writer must be particularly careful to see that the individual clauses are relatively short and simple in structure and that the relation of each to the other and to the sentence as a whole is absolutely clear. |stating that the public schools are the greatest | |instrument for the development of socialism in this | |country, that the socialists must get control of the| |courts, that the party is not developing as rapidly | |at present as it did a few years ago, and that the | |opportunity that exists in this country for the | |individual has been largely to blame for the slow | |development of the socialist party in america, john | |c. kennedy, socialist speaker and member of the | |chicago common council, spoke on "the outlook for | |socialism in america" at the social democratic | |picnic held in pabst park on sunday. | = . speaker's name featured.=--the speaker's name comes first, of course, only when he is sufficiently prominent locally or nationally to justify featuring him. |billy sunday made the devil tuck his tail between | |his legs and skedaddle friday night. | |justice charles e. hughes, of the supreme court of | |the united states, came to new york yesterday as the| |guest of the new york state bar association, which | |is holding its thirty-ninth annual meeting in this | |city. in the evening at the astor hotel he delivered| |a scholarly address before that body on the topic, | |"some aspects of the development of american law." | |then he shook hands with several hundreds of the | |members of the association and their friends, turned| |around and went right back again to the seclusion of| |the supreme court chamber in washington. | = . featuring the occasion.=--featuring the occasion of a speech or the auspices under which it was given is justifiable only when the speech and the speaker are of minor importance. |before the first hobo congress ever held in the | |world william eads howe, millionaire president of | |the convention, spoke monday on the need of closer | |union among passengers on the t. p. and w. | = . featuring time and place.=--only rarely is the time or the place featured. but either may be played up when sufficiently important. |speaking from the door of col. henry cook's chicken | |house on ansley road to an audience of colored | |brethren in a neighboring barn, the rev. ezekiel | |butler, colored, began in a pouring rain sunday | |night the first service of the annual holly springs | |open-air meetings. | = . featuring several details.=--when the speaker, the subject, the occasion, and the place are all important, it may be needful to make a long summarizing lead of several paragraphs, explaining all these features in detail. in such a case a quarter- or a half-column may be required before one can get to the address itself. the following story of president wilson's first campaign speech for reëlection, delivered at pittsburgh on january , , is an illustration: =wilson begins campaign= _name first_ |president wilson as "trustee of the ideals of | |america," to employ his own phrase, has taken his | |case to the people. | _occasion_ |he opened here to-day the most momentous | |speech-making tour perhaps made by a president | |within a generation with an appeal to keep national | |preparedness out of partisan politics and to give it| |no place as a possible campaign issue. | _effect on audience_ |the nonpartisanship urged by the president was | |reflected in pittsburg's greeting to the executive. | _circumstances and place_ |a republican ex-congressman, james francis burke, | |presided at the meeting under the auspices of the | |chamber of commerce in soldiers' memorial hall. | |"preparedness is a matter of patriotism, not of | |party," he said. | _story backtracks here_ _audience_ |pittsburg's welcome to the president and mrs. wilson| |was warm, but not demonstrative. when the | |speechmaking began, memorial hall was packed with an| |audience of , , while on the steps and plaza | |outside some , or , men and women surged, | |unable to get admission, but eager to get a glimpse | |of the executive and his bride. | _reception by audience_ |when the presidential party, mrs. wilson in front, | |filed on the platform there was a demonstration, | |brief but spontaneous, the first lady of the land | |drawing as prolonged applause as her husband on his | |appearance. | _attitude of audience_ |the audience was an intent one. its pose was one of | |keen attention to the president's utterances. | _applause_ |occasionally a particularly facile phrase, such as | |when the president spoke of the need of "spiritual | |efficiency" as a basis for military efficiency, | |started the hand-clapping and gusts of applause | |swept through the hall. | _general effect of the visit_ |for pennsylvania, republican stronghold, which gave | |roosevelt a plurality of , over wilson in ,| |the reception accorded the president is regarded as | |quite satisfactory. downtown in the business | |district there was hardly a ripple. | _inquisitive crowds_ |but in the neighborhood of the hotel schenley, out | |by the carnegie institute, a large crowd turned out | |a few hours after the president's arrival and kept | |their glances on the seventh floor, which was banked| |in roses and orchids. | _beginning of the speech_ |"as your servant and representative, i should come | |and report to you on our public affairs," the | |president began. "it is the duty of every public man| |to hold frank counsel with the people he | |represents."[ ] ... | [ ] arthur m. evans in _the chicago herald_, january , . = . body of the story.=--in writing the body of the story, the first thing to strive for is proper coherence with the lead. this caution is worth particular heed when the lead contains a single-sentence quotation, an indirect question, or a paragraph of direct statement from somewhere in the body of the speech. few things are more incongruous in a story than a clever epigrammatic lead and a succession of quoted statements following, none of which exhibits a definite bearing on the lead. oftentimes this incongruity is produced by the reporter's attempt to follow the precise order adopted by the speaker. such an order, however, should be manifestly impossible in a news report when the writer has dug out for use in the lead a lone sentence or paragraph from the middle of the speech. rather, one should continue such a lead with a paragraph or so of development, then follow with paragraphs of direct quotation which originally may or may not have preceded the idea featured in the lead. = . accuracy.=--the second consideration must be the same accuracy and fairness that was emphasized in the discussion of the interview. some reporters, for instance, take the liberty of putting within quotation marks, as though quoted directly, whole paragraphs that they know are not given verbatim, their grounds for the liberty being that they know they are reporting the speaker with entire accuracy, and the use of "quotes" gives the story greater emphasis and intimacy of appeal. this liberty is to be condemned. when a reporter puts quotation marks about a phrase or clause, he declares to his readers that the other man, not he, is responsible for the statement exactly as printed. and even though a man may think he is reporting a speaker with absolute precision, there is always the possibility that he may have misunderstood. indeed, it is just these chance misunderstandings that trip reporters and frequently necessitate speakers' denying published accounts of their lectures. only what one has taken down verbatim should be put within quotation marks. all else should be reported indirectly with an unwavering determination to convey the real spirit of the lecture or sermon, not to play up an isolated or random subtopic that has little bearing on the speech as a whole. any reporter can find in any lecture statements which, taken without the accompanying qualifications, may be adroitly warped to make the story good and the speaker ridiculous in the eyes of the reading public. = . speech story as a whole.=--the story as a whole should be a little speech in itself. whole topics may be omitted. others that possibly occupied pages of manuscript and took several minutes to present may be cut down to a single sentence. still others may be presented in full. but the quotation marks and the cohering phrases, such as "said he," "continued the speaker," "mr. wilson said in part," etc., should be carefully inserted so as to make it entirely clear to the reader when the statements are a condensation of the speaker's remarks and when they are direct quotations. such connecting phrases, however, should be placed in unemphatic positions within the paragraph and should have their form so varied as not to attract undue attention. and as in the interview, the report as a whole should be livened up at intervals with phrases and paragraphs calling attention to characteristic gestures, facial expressions, and individual eccentricities of the speaker's person, manner, or dress. = . series of speeches.=--when reporting a series of speeches, as at a banquet, convention, political picnic, or a holiday celebration, it generally is the best policy to play up at length the strongest address, or else the speech of the most important personage, then summarize the remaining talks in a paragraph or so at the end of the story. if all are of about equal importance, the lead may feature the general trend of thought of the different speakers or else some single startling statement setting forth the character and spirit of the meeting. the story may then proceed with summarizing quotations or indirect statements of the individual speakers, giving each space according to the value of his address. where the body of the story is made up of direct and indirect quotations from several speeches, the speaker's name should come first in the paragraph in which he is quoted, so that the eye of the reader running rapidly down the column may catch readily that portion of the story given to each person quoted. = . banquets, conventions, etc.=--not always, however, are speeches important, or even delivered, on these social, political, and holiday occasions. if not, the reporter must devote his attention to the occasion, to any unusual incidents or events, or to the persons attending. in reporting banquets, it may be the persons present, the novelty of the favors, the originality of the menu, or the occasion itself that must be featured. in conventions it may be the purpose or expected results, certain effects on national or state legislation, or any departures or new ideas in evidence. in reporting conventions of milliners, tailors, jewelers, and the like, one can always find excellent features in the incoming styles. the public is greedy for stories of advance styles. in political picnics the feature is practically always the speeches, though sometimes there are athletic contests that provide good copy and may be presented in accordance with part iii, chapter xvi. in holiday celebrations also the feature may be speeches or athletic contests, or else parades of floats, fraternal orders, soldiers, etc. usually, however, the occurrence of some untoward accident that mars the occasion itself furnishes a story feature of greater importance than the monotony of the parade and the contests. = . current magazine articles, etc.=--news stories of articles appearing in current magazines, books, government publications, educational journals, and the like are of the same type as stories of addresses. the lead may feature the theme, the title, the author, a single sentence, an entire paragraph, the society or organization publishing the article or report, or even the motive back of the article. and the body follows usually with direct quotations summarizing the whole. such news stories generally are very readable, particularly if they are timely. but the reporter must be careful to avoid extended analysis or learned comment. a long catalogue of errors with the page on which each may be found is good in scholarly magazines, but worthless in news columns. the reporter's office is to write for the entertainment and enlightenment of the public, not for the instruction of the author about whose article he is writing. hence he should report only those details that are of interest to the readers of his journal. = . courts.=--court, trial, and inquest stories are but a combination of the methods of handling interviews and speeches, the questions and answers of the attorneys and witnesses being the interviews, the arguments of the lawyers and the decisions of the court being the speeches. the writing of the court story as a whole follows closely the method already outlined for interviews and speeches. the lead, however, varies greatly accordingly to the stage of the court proceedings. if a verdict has been brought in, the guilt or innocence of the defendant, the penalty imposed, or an application for a rehearing may be featured, and the body of the story continues with a statement from the prisoner, quotations from the speeches of the opposing attorneys, and the judge's charge to the jury. if the trial has reached only an intermediate stage, the lead may feature the cause of the court proceedings, a significant bit of testimony, the name of an important witness, the point reached in the day's work, the probable length of the trial, any unusual clash of the attorneys over the admission of certain testimony, or possibly the prisoner's changed attitude resulting from the long nervous strain. then the body, as in reports of speeches, may follow with interesting bits of quotation from the testimony or from the arguments of the attorneys, with summarizing paragraphs of the evidence and the proceedings as a whole. occasionally, in order to bring out significant points in the depositions, it may become necessary to quote verbatim questions and answers in the cross-examination, but generally a more readable story may be had by reporting the testimony continuously and omitting the questions altogether. even when playing up a court decision, it is rarely wise to quote large extracts verbatim, owing to the heaviness of legal expression and the frequent use of technical terms. only when the form of the decision, as well as the facts, is vital, should the language of the decree be quoted at length. and even then it is better, as a rule, to print the entire decision separately and write an independent summarizing story. when writing up trials continued from preceding days, one must be careful to connect the story with what has gone before, explaining who the persons are, the cause of their appearance in court, and where the trial is being conducted. only in this way can readers who have not kept up with the trial understand the present story. = . humorous court stories.=--a word of caution must be given against the temptation to write court stories humorously at the expense of accuracy and the feelings of those unfortunate ones drawn into public notice by some one's transgression of law or ethics. the law of libel and its far-reaching power has been dwelt on in part ii, chapter x, and it need not be emphasized here that libel lurks in wrong street numbers, misspelled names, misplaced words and phrases, and even in accidental resemblance between names and between personal descriptions. but the reporter should be cautioned against warping facts for the sake of making a good story. those who stand before the bar of justice, no matter for what cause, how wrong or how right, are keenly sensitive about even the publication of their names. indeed, it is fear of newspaper notoriety that keeps many a man from seeking and obtaining that justice which is due every individual at the hands of the law. the present writer has seen many an innocent person in a state of nervous collapse over a barbed thrust made by a satirizing humorist in the columns of a paper. no criticism is made of true reports; objection is made only to those warped for the sake merely of producing a good story. in a leading southern paper appeared the following: | =frogeye had a rival= | | | | come er lef'! come er right! come er rag an' | | shawl! | | come to yo' honey-bunch straight down de hall! | | up towa'd de front do', back towa'd de wall, | | gimme room to scramble at de potlicker ball! | | | |"what's this?" demanded the judge ferociously. | |"another potlicker row? i'm going to have to do | |something about you folks. you're always in hot | |water." | | | |the defendants--a weird assortment of the youth and | |beauty of the black belt, their finery somewhat | |damaged after a night behind the bars--shifted | |uneasily on their respective number nines. a | |cross-eyed mulatto had the courage to speak, albeit | |a trifle morosely. | | | |"us ain't in no hot water, jedge," she drawled. "us | |ain't been doin' nothin' but dancin'." | | | |"what's your name, girl?" inquired the clerk. | | | |he was answered by frogeye, who celebrated his | |latest release from gaol by attending the potlicker | |ball. "dat's three-finger fanny," stated frogeye in | |a voice of authority. "she done start de hull | |rucus." | | | |three-finger fanny bridled. before she could open | |her mouth, frogeye plunged into the tale: "ef it | |hadn't er been fo' dat three-fingered, cross-eyed, | |blistered-footed gal we'd er been dar dancin' yit. | |but she an bugabear spill de beans. she come up ter | |me an' say, 'mister frogeye, kin you ball de jack?' | |i tells her she don't see no chains on me, do she? | |an' we whirl right in. hoccome i knowed she promise | |dat dance ter bugabear? we ain't ball de jack twice | |'roun' fo' heah he come wid er beer bottle shoutin' | |dat i done tuk his gal erway. i'se 'bleeged ter | |'fend mahse'f, ain't i, jedge? well, den!" | | | |the conclusion of frogeye's story lacked climax, but| |apparently the judge got the gist of it, for he | |said: "it seems to me all of you dancers need a | |summer vacation. they say there's nothing like a | |little arm work to improve the grip. thirty days, | |everybody!" | but every reader knows that in one round-up of negro malefactors, characters such as frogeye, three-finger fanny, and bugabear are not going to be arrested at one "potlicker ball." the story is a good one if the reader will suspend his sense of realism sufficiently to enjoy it. but in its purport to be a true account of an arrest and a trial of certain persons, it makes one doubt first the story, then the newspaper that printed it, and finally newspapers in general. and so develops one of the main causes of criticism of the modern newspaper. a reporter must resolve to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. a journal loses its power the moment it is wrong. xv. accident, crime = . accident and crime stories.=--accident and crime stories are grouped together because they are handled alike and because they differ from each other only in point of view, or in the fact that in the one some one is guilty of lawbreaking, while in the other the participants are merely unfortunate. the two, of course, frequently overlap, since a death or a wreck which at first may seem purely accidental may later prove to have been the result of a criminal act. in this chapter, however, accident stories will be taken to include fires, street-car smash-ups, railroad wrecks, automobile collisions, runaways, explosions, mine disasters, strokes of lightning, drownings, floods, storms, shipwrecks, etc. in the list of crime will be placed murders, assaults, suicides, suspicious deaths, robberies, embezzlements, arson, etc. of the accident class, the method of writing a fire story may be taken as a type for the whole group. = . lead to a fire story.=--ordinarily the lead to a story of a fire should tell what was destroyed, the location of the property, the extent of the damage, the occupants or owners, the time, the cause, and what made the loss possible,--answering, in other words, the questions _who_, _what_, _when_, _where_, _why_, _how_, and _how much_. thus: |fire originating in a pile of shavings crawled | |across a -yard stretch of dry bermuda grass at an| |early hour this morning, destroying the cotton | |warehouse at railroad street, owned by j. o. | |hunnicut, president of the first national bank. the | |loss is $ , with no insurance. | = . lives lost or endangered.=--the fire lead may feature any one or more of a dozen individual incidents. loss of, or danger to, life, unless other features are exceptional, should take precedence over every other particular. |six women are dead and ten seriously injured as a | |result of the destruction by fire, tuesday morning, | |of the gold and green club, chestnut street, | |entailing a loss of $ , . | = . lists of killed or wounded.=--in writing a story where a number of persons have been killed or injured, the reporter should observe the following directions: . separate the names of the dead from those of the injured, putting the list of dead first. . record the names in alphabetical order, placing surnames first. . put each name, with the age, address, occupation or business, nature and extent of the injury, and any care given, in a separate paragraph. . underscore the names with wave lines so that they shall be printed in display type. | =boys smoke in hayloft= | | | |three boys borrowed their father's pipes and took | |their first lesson in smoking yesterday in john | |cadie's hayloft on the anton road. | | | | =the dead= | | | |=heinie pindle, years old, charred body found in | |ashes of the barn.= | | | | =the injured= | | | |=olin swendson, years old, burned about face and | |arms while trying to save heinie pindle.= | | | |=ben adams, years old, leg broken in jump from the| |hayloft.= | = . acts of heroism.=--acts of heroism involving danger to or loss of life are always good for features. |remaining at her post through the thick of the fire | |that destroyed the heart of necedah to-day, | |wisconsin's only woman telephone magnate, miss hazel| |bulgar, proved the heroine of the day. while the | |flames threatened her building, she took the | |switchboard herself, called the fire departments of | |all neighboring cities, and transmitted calls for | |help. | = . remarkable escapes.=--remarkable escapes from burning buildings, in their appeal to the elemental struggle for life, make valuable features. |using a window blind and a single thread of | |telephone wire as a means of escape, carl hardiman, | | , northcliff avenue, swung himself into space | |four stories above the level of the street at : | |o'clock this morning and crawled hand over hand from| |the burning wax factory to a telephone pole across | |the street. | = . humorous, pathetic, or daring incidents.=--humorous, pathetic, or daring incidents are worth featuring strongly, particularly when they involve children, aged persons, or animals. |tige, aged , was only a collie dog, but he will | |have the biggest funeral to-morrow ever given a | |member of the lilliman family. he dragged two of the| |children out of the blazing kitchen at | |birmingham avenue and was so badly burned trying to | |save the nine months baby, dan, that he died this | |morning. every hair was burned from his body. | |just inside the front entrance, within six inches of| |god's fresh air and life, the bodies of girls, | |ranging in age from to years, were found this | |morning after the fire that destroyed the st. | |patrick's girls' school. | = . cause of fire.=--the cause of the fire, if unusual or mysterious, may be featured. |a set of cotton santa claus whiskers and a christmas| |candle caused the death wednesday night of allen | |palmer, , magnolia avenue, and the | |destruction by fire of the lake mills methodist | |church. | = . buildings or property.=--the particular buildings, if especially valuable by reason of their age, location, or cost of construction, may be features. |historic grace episcopal church in south wabash | |avenue, considered one of the finest examples of | |french gothic architecture in the city since it was | |erected nearly fifty years ago, was destroyed to-day| |in a fire that did damage estimated at $ , . | | | |the main building of the union switch and signal | |company, of the westinghouse interests, at | |swissvale, where thousands of shells have been | |manufactured for the allies, was swept by fire this | |afternoon, entailing a loss estimated at $ , , .| |officials of the company said that the origin of the| |fire had not been determined. | = . other features.=--similarly, one may feature any one of a number of other particulars: as, the occupants of the building, the owners, any prominent persons involved, the amount and character of the damage, the amount of insurance, how the fire was discovered, how it spread, when the alarm was given, the promptness or delay of the fire department, etc. any one of these particulars may be featured, provided it has unusual importance or interest. = . body of the fire story.=--the body of the fire story may continue with such of the details enumerated in the preceding paragraphs as are not used in the lead. somewhere in the story the extent of the damage and the amount of insurance should be given. those are sufficiently important particulars to be included always. greater emphasis and action can be given the story, particularly in case of loss of life or great damage, by quoting direct statements of eye-witnesses or of persons injured. a janitor's account of how the fire started, or how he discovered it, or a woman's story of how she knew the night before that something terrible was going to happen, always adds greatly to the interest. = . rumors at fires.=--in reporting a fire, however, particularly a big one, the reporter should guard against the wild rumors about the extent of the loss, the number of persons injured or burned to death, the certainty of arson, etc., which usually gain currency among the spectators. such stories are always exaggerated, and they account for the fact that first news accounts of fires are frequently overdrawn. the reporter should never take such stories at their face value, but should investigate for himself until he knows his details are accurate. or if he cannot prove them either false or true, he should omit them entirely or record them as mere rumors. above all, he must keep his head. with the hundreds--sometimes thousands--of spectators pushed beyond the fire lines, the roar of fire engines, the scream of whistles, the wild lights, and the general pandemonium, it is often difficult to remain calm. yet it is only by keeping absolutely cool that one can judge accurately the value of the information obtained and can put that information into the best news form. only the reporter who at all times retains entire possession of himself is able to write the most forceful, interesting, and readable fire stories. = . accident stories in general.=--accident stories in general follow the same constructive plans as those given for fires. the lead should play up the number of lives lost or endangered, the cause of the accident, the extent of the damage or injury, the time, and the place, answering the questions _who_, _what_, _when_, _where_, _why,_ and _how_. any one of these may be featured according to its importance. if a number of persons have been killed or hurt, and their names are obtainable, a list of the dead and the injured should be made as indicated on page . then the body of the story may continue in simple chronological order, reserving unimportant details until the last. the following is a good illustration of an accident story: | =du pont blast kills = | | | |wilmington, del., nov. .--thirty-one men were | |killed and six fatally injured to-day in an | |explosion of approximately four tons of black powder| |in a packing house at the upper hagley yard of the | |e. i. du pont de nemours & co., on brandywine creek,| |three miles north of this city. | | | |the cause of the explosion is not known. one | |official says, "there is not a thread on which to | |hang any hope that the origin will be definitely | |ascertained." | | | |after the blast, termed the worst in the last | |twenty-five years, it was recalled that notices | |recently had been tacked on trees and fences near | |the yards, and even on fences within the plant, | |warning workmen to quit the mills by jan. . at the | |time, the posting of the notices was believed to be | |an attempt by german sympathizers to intimidate the | |men. extra guards were ordered about the plants and | |the united states secret service began an | |investigation, it was reported. | | | |du pont company officials have ordered a searching | |investigation, and every employee who was near the | |destroyed building will be put through an | |examination in an effort to get some clue as to the | |cause of the explosion....[ ] | [ ] _new york world_, december , . it is worth noting, in this story, the shrewdness with which the reporter plays up the probable cause of the accident, adding to the actual facts and promising possible further developments in to-morrow's paper. = . stories of the weather.=--the weather takes its place in the accident division of news stories because of its frequent harmful effects on life and property. men's pursuits are all a gamble on the weather. usually a story about the weather depends for its value largely on the felicity of its language, though when there has been severe atmospheric disturbance, resulting in loss of life, destruction of property, or delayed traffic, a simple narrative of events is sufficient to hold the reader's attention. the following are different types of weather story, the first being of the pure accident type, the second, of the more commonplace daily routine. | =terrific storm kills = | | | |rain, hail, snow, sleet, gales, thunder and | |lightning combined in an extraordinary manner early | |yesterday to give new york one of the most peculiar | |storms the city ever experienced. four persons died | |and scores were injured. unfinished buildings were | |blown down, roofs were blown off, and signs | |demolished. | | | |the storm played havoc with the railroads, delaying | |trains and adding to the difficulty of moving | |freight. it made so much trouble for the new haven | |that the company last night issued a notice saying | |that "on account of storms and accumulation of | |loaded cars" only live stock, perishable freight, | |food products, and coal would be carried over | |portions of the line. | | | |adrift in the gale, fifteen canal barges and cargo | |scows from south amboy, n. j., went ashore at sandy | |hook after those on board, including twenty women | |and children, had suffered from exposure and one man| |washed overboard from the barge henrietta had been | |drowned. the california and the stockholm, with | |passengers on board and inbound, were delayed by the| |storm and will reach port to-day. | | | |the wind in newark unroofed the almshouse, injuring | |two aged women, blew down buildings, smashed | |windows, and crippled the entire wire service of the| |city....[ ] | | | |(then follows a detailed account of the dead, the | |injured, and the delay of traffic.) | [ ] _new york herald_, december , . | =cold wave on way here= | | | |indianapolis to-day stands on the brink between rain| |and snow. before to-morrow dawns it may bend | |slightly one way or the other, meteorologically | |speaking, and the result will be little flakes of | |snow or little drops of water. it is forecast that | |to-morrow its feet will slip entirely and it will be| |plunged into the abyss of cold weather. the forecast| |is the work of the weather man, who has some | |reputation locally and elsewhere as a forecaster of | |questionable accuracy. | | | |cold weather is drifting this way on northwest | |winds, says the weather man, and soon will be hard | |by in the offing, ready to pounce on indianapolis. | |the fate of indianapolis is to be the fate of | |indiana also, and of the entire middle west, for the| |weather man is no respecter of localities, and when | |he once gets started forecasts with utter | |abandon.... | | | |the northwest has experienced a drop of degrees | |in temperature and the cold wave is rapidly sweeping| |this way. it is due to reach indianapolis to-morrow | |morning. the local forecast is for cloudy to-night | |and wednesday, with probabilities of rain or snow, | |and colder wednesday. it was the same for the state,| |but rain was predicted for the south part and snow | |for the north. | | | |the temperature in indianapolis at o'clock this | |morning was degrees, a drop of degrees being | |recorded in the last twenty-four hours. the coming | |cold wave is expected to give this part of the | |country its first real touch of winter. the | |temperature hovered near the zero mark in the | |northwest. the weather bureau reported snow in | |wyoming, colorado, nebraska, iowa, and minnesota.[ |] [ ] _indianapolis news_, october , . to write this second type of story interestingly means that the reporter must exert himself especially, since the daily routine of weather reports soon becomes wearing in its monotony,--so much so that one finds it exceedingly difficult to present with any degree of originality the same old little-varying facts from day to day. yet one's readers are always interested in just this item of news, and one can be sure of more expectant readers for this particular story than perhaps for any other single item in the paper. = . deaths and funerals.=--stories of deaths and funerals may be included in the monotonous class of accident news. there is this additional difficulty in writing death and funeral stories, however, that in attempting to write sympathetically, appreciatively, of the person who has died, and so meet the expectations of surviving friends and relatives, one is running always on the border line of bathos. it is probably easier to make oneself ridiculous in such stories than in any other kind of news article. as a result, most newspapers require their reporters to confine themselves to bare statements of facts concerning the dead person's life. = . content of death stories.=--there are a few facts which all death stories should contain. the person's name, age, street address, and position or business should normally be included in the lead, with possibly a statement of the cause of his death. the duration of his illness may well follow. then may come the names of surviving relatives and any relationships with persons well known, locally or nationally. if the person is married, the date of the marriage, the maiden name of the wife, and any interesting circumstances connected with the marriage may be recalled. the length of residence in the city should also be included, with possibly a statement of the person's birthplace and the occasion of his settlement in the city. if the person is a man or a woman of wealth, an account of his or her holdings and how they were acquired is always interesting. the story may close with the names of the pallbearers, the time and place of the funeral, the name of the minister officiating, and the place of burial. the following story of the death of justice lamar, while not observing the order of events just given, is an excellent illustration of a dignified presentation of the facts in a man's life. (the article has necessarily been abbreviated because of its length.) | =justice j. r. lamar dies= | | | |washington, d. c., sunday.--mr. joseph rucker lamar,| |associate justice of the supreme court of the united| |states, died to-night at his home in this city after| |an intermittent illness of several months. the | |immediate cause of his death was a severe cold, | |which he contracted ten days ago, and which proved | |too great a strain for his weakened heart. | | | |justice lamar's health began to fail early last | |summer and he was obliged to absent himself from his| |duties on the bench. his physicians advised a long | |period of rest, as they feared that over-work would | |seriously affect the action of his heart. | |accordingly, he spent the greater part of the summer| |at white sulphur springs and returned to washington | |about two months ago feeling much improved. | | | |his condition was not such, however, that it | |permitted him to attend the sessions of the court, | |although he was able to take outdoor exercise. two | |days before christmas he contracted a heavy cold and| |was obliged to go to bed. specialists were | |consulted, but he gradually grew weaker until this | |afternoon, when he sank into unconsciousness and | |passed away peacefully just before nine o'clock. | | | |at his bedside when the end came were mrs. lamar and| |their two sons. chief justice white arrived at the | |lamar home within a few minutes after the death of | |his colleague. | | | |the funeral ceremonies will be in accordance with | |the custom of the court. it is probable that the | |services will be held on tuesday and that interment | |will be at the family home in ruckersville, ga. | | | |justice lamar was born at ruckersville, elbert | |county, ga., on october , , the son of the | |rev. james s. and mary rucker lamar. he attended the| |university of georgia. he was graduated from bethany| |college, west virginia, in . after a year in the| |washington and lee university law school, he was | |admitted to the bar at augusta, ga. there he lived | |until appointed to the supreme court. | | | |he was a cousin of the late associate justice l. q. | |c. lamar, of mississippi, who was a member of the | |united states supreme court from to . | | | |when justice lamar went on the supreme court bench | |he was little known beyond the borders of his own | |state. mr. taft became acquainted with him a short | |time before his inauguration when the | |president-elect was playing golf at augusta. justice| |lamar had been a member of the supreme court only a | |few months, however, when his ability was | |recognized. his opinions were regarded as | |masterpieces of logical reasoning and applications | |for rehearings were made in few cases he helped to | |decide. | | | |justice lamar was selected by president wilson as | |the principal commissioner for the united states in | |the abc mediation at niagara falls in between | |this country and mexico over conditions in the | |neighboring republic. | | | |justice lamar made many notable contributions to the| |legal literature of his state. among them were | |"georgia's contribution to law reforms," "a history | |of the organization of the supreme court," "life of | |judge nesbit" and "a century's progress in law." | |more than two hundred of his opinions are embraced | |in six volumes of georgia reports. | | | |justice lamar married, on january , , miss | |clarinda pendleton, a daughter of dr. w. k. | |pendleton, president of bethany college. he is | |survived by his wife and two children, philip rucker| |lamar and william pendleton lamar.[ ] | [ ] _new york herald_, january , . = . obtaining the information.=--the gaining of information about a man who has just died is not difficult. one should be cautioned, however, against seeking details from members of the family. if the person is of little prominence, one should go first to the undertaker. he will have all the details about the funeral--the names of the pallbearers and of the minister, the time and place of the funeral, the place of burial--and probably all the facts about the person's life that the family wishes made public. if the undertaker does not have this information, he will be able to tell the reporter from whom it may be obtained. additional facts may sometimes be had from the county and state directories, and even from the city directory. old residents or close friends, too, often are able to give interesting details about the person's life, his failures and his successes, and in this way a reporter can publish an appreciative account without editorializing on the man's accomplishments. if the one who has died is of decided prominence, the reporter can find accounts of him in the various _who's who_ volumes and probably a rather full obituary all ready in the morgue. one must be careful in using the morgue write-up, however, to bridge naturally and easily the gap between the new and the old material, so that the reader shall not suspect he is reading a story partly written years ago. the following is an illustration of poor coherence between the two parts: |paris, august .--pol plancon, the opera singer, | |died to-day. he had been ill since june. | | ------- | |pol plancon was a bass singer and made his paris | |debut in the part of mephistopheles in . he came| |to the metropolitan opera house in new york in ,| |where he sang with melba, calve, eames, nordica and | |jean and edouard de reszke. plancon sang for many | |years at covent garden, london.... | in this case it is too obvious that the first two sentences constitute the bare cable bulletin and that the second paragraph is the beginning of the morgue story. = . crime lead.=--in the lead to a crime story, one may feature either the names of the persons involved, the number of lives lost or endangered, the motive of the criminal, the nature of the crime, clues leading to the identification and arrest of the criminal, possible effects of the crime, or even public sentiment resulting from the deed. of the possible leads, probably the names of the persons involved, either of the criminal or of those whose rights were infringed, are most often played up. thus: |leo m. frank was lynched two miles outside of | |marietta, the home of mary phagan, at an early hour | |this morning. | |mrs. allie detmann, broad st., was shot and | |killed yesterday by stanley mouldan, | |philadelphia ave. the man then shot himself in the | |right temple, dying an hour later in st. elizabeth's| |hospital. | the other features, however, may be found at random in any paper. illustrations are: _number of lives lost_ |two women are dead at the good shepherd's rest | |because pat nicke kept the back door of his saloon | |open on election day. | _motive_ |to get money to pay for his grandmother's funeral, | |robert hollyburd, , monaco st., yesterday | |robbed the cash register of the lengerke brothers, | |sporting goods dealers, at bradley st. | _nature of the crime_ |the most brutal murder ever committed in calloway | |county was discovered at an early hour this morning | |when the body of dr. otis bennett, literally hacked | |to pieces, was found in the basement of his home. | _clues_ |the davenport police have in their possession a | |large bone-handled knife which has been identified | |as the property of hugo o'neal, colored, of cushman.| |the knife was found under col. andrew alton's | |bedroom window after an attempted robbery of his | |home at an early hour this morning. o'neal has not | |been seen since yesterday. | _results_ |tim atkins is probably dying at his shanty on davis | |street as a result of a difficulty between him and | |isom werner over a woman they met on their way home | |from the circus last night. | = . body of the crime story.=--the body of the crime story, like that of the accident, follows the lead in a simple chronological narration of events. interest may be added by quoting direct statements from persons immediately connected with the crime,--how it feels to be held up, how the robber gained entrance to the building, how the bandits escaped. in stories of burglaries and robberies the value of the stolen goods and any ingenious devices for gaining entrance to the house, stopping the train, or halting the robbed party should always be given. it may be added that, unless the purpose is entirely obvious, as in robberies and burglaries, due emphasis should be given to the motive for the crime. one should be on one's guard, however, against accepting readily any motive assigned. the star reporter never takes anybody at his word--the police, the detectives, or even the victims--in any statement where crime is involved. he investigates for himself and draws his own conclusions. = . caution against libel.=--an additional caution should be added here against libel, because of the strong temptation always to make an accused person guilty before he has been adjudged so. according to american law, a person suspected of or charged with crime is innocent until he has been proved guilty. in writing crime stories, therefore, the reporter must be doubly careful to have a supposed criminal merely "suspected" of misappropriating funds, or "alleged" to have made the assault, or "said by the police" to have entered the house. and in order to present an unbiased story, the side of the supposed malefactor should be given. in the intense excitement resulting from a newly committed crime, or in the squalid surroundings of a prison cell, an accused person does not appear to his best advantage, and it is easy for the reporter to let prejudice sway him, perhaps causing irreparable injury to innocent persons. the race riot in atlanta, in , in which numbers of innocent negroes were murdered, was a direct result of exaggerated and sensational stories of crime printed by yellow newspapers. and the whole long trial and verdict against leo m. frank were directly affected by the same papers. if the opinion of readers is to be appealed to, the reporter should leave such appeals to the editorial writers, whose duty it is to interpret the news and sway the public whenever they will or can. the reporter's duty, as far as possible, is to present mere facts. xvi. sports = . slang.=--in writing stories of athletic meets and games the reporter will find that in matters of language he has almost complete freedom. for this there are two reasons: the fact that it is necessary half the time to get final results of contests into print within a few seconds or minutes after the outcome has been decided, and the fact that athletic devotees--"fans" in american slang--are not naturally critical. time is the all-important element with them. the results of a baseball game are wanted within a few seconds after the last man has been put out in the final inning. whether the writer says the red sox defeated the tigers, or nosed them out in the ninth, or handed them a lemon, means little to the followers of the game provided the information is specifically conveyed that boston beat detroit. slang is freely used,--so much so that the uninitiated frequently cannot understand an account of a game. the "fans" can, however, and they constitute the public for whom reporters on the sporting pages maintain they are writing. if, then, one can brighten up his sporting stories--make them sparkling, electric, galvanic--by using slang, he will find them acceptable to any editor. the only caution to the beginner is that he must be sure every detail is clear to the "fans." slang can easily be overdone,--much more easily than one would suppose,--with the result that an otherwise good story is choked with near humorous, foggy jargon. better no slang than a story cloyed with it.[ ] [ ] it is the belief of the author that the sporting page has not yet reached its highest level of language and that the younger of us will live to see as pure english used on the sporting page as in the other news columns. the purpose of this volume, however, is not to present the work of the reporter as it ought to be, but as it is--a fact which accounts for the above paragraph and its recommendation of the use of slang in sporting news stories. = . four kinds.=--an examination of sporting news stories shows four kinds: ( ) those dealing with athletic events before their occurrence; ( ) those reporting the events; ( ) those analyzing and explaining the events and their results; and ( ) those dealing with the sport in general. the second of these, the story reporting an athletic event, is not unlike the types of news stories examined in the two preceding chapters and may be discussed first, reserving for later analysis the other three because of their divergence from the normal type of news article. = . the lead.=--the lead to a story reporting an athletic event follows with few exceptions the same general principles as the leads already examined. unlike those studied in the preceding chapters, however, the lead to such a story often is written last, because of the necessity of writing a running account of the game as it progresses, yet of giving final results in the lead. the feature most frequently played up is the final result, with additional mention of the causes of victory or defeat, the equality or inequality of the opposing players, and any important incidents. always too, of course, the names of the teams, the time, and the place are given. but the score is regularly the feature,--so much so that if one is in doubt about what to feature in an athletic contest, one can always play a trump card by featuring the results. thus: |one hit and one score was all the senators could | |make off the yankees at washington this afternoon, | |but that was enough. joe gedeon made the hit, a | |three bagger, and milan passed him home when he | |dropped nunamacher's high fly to center. | |a tie score was the best the maroons could do for | |the hoosiers saturday on marshall field. the count | |was - when umpire hanson called the game in the | |eleventh inning on account of darkness. | = . names of the teams.=--almost as frequent is the featuring of the names of the opposing teams, with the final score included at the end of the lead. |cornell's football team wrote its name in | |football history in blazing letters on franklin | |field this afternoon when at the end of one of the | |most stirring contests ever seen on that gridiron | |the scoreboard read: cornell, ; pennsylvania, . | = . cause of victory or defeat.=--the cause of a team's victory or defeat often makes an effective feature for the lead. |with the aid of a bewildering assortment of plays, | |the syracuse university football team defeated the | |oregon agricultural college here to-day, to . | |inability to hit, coupled with poor fielding at | |critical moments, caused the defeat of the new york | |university nine by the stevens institute of | |technology yesterday on ohio field. the score was | |to . | = . individual players.=--stellar work by individual players--even poor work when responsible for the loss of the game--often makes necessary the featuring of their names. |jim thorpe and george kelly led an assault on the | |dallas pitchers this afternoon while pol perritt and| |fred schupp were baffling the local talent at home | |plate. the net result was a shutout for dallas and | |five runs for new york. | |wildness on the part of foster and timely hitting by| |oldring and strunk enabled philadelphia to defeat | |boston again to-day, the score being to . | = . other features.=--even the kind of weather, the condition of the grounds, the size of the crowd, or the effect of the play on the crowd may be featured: _the weather_ |high winds and bad light made the marksmanship poor | |at the local shoot yesterday, the best score being a| | , made by lawrence bowen. | _condition of grounds_ |the annual football game between lawrence and beloit| |yesterday, resulting in a to victory for | |lawrence, might better have been called an aquatic | |meet. the best swimmers won. | _size of the crowd_ |fifty-nine thousand football fans saw the warriors | |of old eli take the tiger's pelt yesterday at new | |haven. the count was to . | _effect on the crowd_ |a disgusted crowd of , sunday baseball fans saw | |the brewers lose to the colonels yesterday, to .| it will be noted in these leads that the final score, while not always featured, is nevertheless always included. = . the body.=--the bodies of stories reporting athletic contests are all but unlimited in their methods of handling, depending on the nature of the sport and the length of the story. if the sporting editor has limited the reporter to two sticks, the body may contain the lineup, the names of the officials, mention of those starring or playing particularly poorly, when and how the scoring was made, the condition of the field and the weather, and the size of the crowd. if the editor wants a fuller report, the more important plays, told chronologically, may be added. if he wishes a detailed account, all the plays should be given, the reporter following the chronological order after a full, summarizing lead. in big athletic events, the sporting editor often assigns two men, one to write a general account, the other a detailed story. in such stories it is the reporter writing the general summary who compiles the summarizing figures boxed at the beginning, giving the total attendance and receipts and making comparison with preceding events. a typical baseball story is the following: | =yanks beat the senators= | | | |through some change of policy on the part of the | |concern which is conducting the weather this spring,| |the sun, which has not been at large much in recent | |days, was permitted to shine on the polo grounds | |yesterday. the yankees reveled in the sunlight and | |chalked up their first victory of the season, | |beating washington by a score of to . a crowd of | |more than , people left their umbrellas and | |raincoats at home and sat in at the yankee jubilee. | | | |charley mullen, one of the yanks' utility men, was | |rushed into the fray in the sixth inning as a pinch | |hitter for wallie pipp. two runners were riding the | |bases at the time, and when mullen flayed a single | |to left he also propelled baker and gedeon over the | |plate with the two units which marked the margin of | |the new york victory. the yankees played just the | |kind of baseball everybody hoped they would and that| |was just a bit better than the best washington had | |to offer. | | | |a lot of people from the edison company who know | |first baseman judge of the washington club well | |enough to call him joe, presented him with a diamond| |ring. judge used to play with the edison team before| |he took to the merry life of a professional. judge | |shattered baseball tradition after modestly taking | |the gift by going in and playing a fine game, | |fielding well and knocking out a clean hit. most | |players after receiving a present at a ball game can| |be counted on to strike out. | | | |among the more or less prominent people present was | |the man for whom diogenes, a former resident of | |greece, has long been looking. there was no doubt | |about his being the object of the quest of diogenes | |because when a ball was fouled into the grand stand | |and he caught it, he threw it back into the field | |instead of hiding it in his pocket. | | | |ray fisher, who gave up his life unselfishly to | |teaching school up in vermont until he found how | |much money there was in tossing a curved ball, did | |the twirling for the yankees and on the few | |occasions when he was in trouble his teammates came | |to his support like a rich uncle. in the fourth | |inning it looked as if fisher was about to take the | |elevator for the thirty-sixth floor, but frank baker| |came to his aid and yanked him out of trouble. | | | |it was this way: judge, first man up in the fourth, | |singled to center. shanks was hit on the wrist and | |jamieson laid a bunt half an inch from the third | |base line, filling the bases. henry spun a teaser | |right in front of the plate and nunamacher made a | |quick play by grabbing the ball and forcing judge | |out as he was about to score. the base line circuit | |was still playing to s. r. o. mcbride rapped a | |hopper down back of third base. baker reached out | |his bare hand, nabbed the ball, touched third and | |forced jamieson. he relayed the ball over to first | |in time to double up mcbride, and fisher was saved | |from a serious attack of heart failure. that was | |only one of three double plays the yankees staged | |for fisher's welfare. | | | |harry harper, a southpaw from hackensack, n. j., | |pitched for washington until the yankees went to the| |front in the sixth, and then he was succeeded by | |francesco gallia, who hails from mexico or | |thereabouts. | | | |the yankees threatened damage in the first inning. | |after maisel had fanned, gilhooley was safe on | |morgan's fumble and magee sent him to second with a | |single. baker lifted a high fly to right field, and | |after the catch gilhooley raced to third and was | |safe by half an inch. gedeon fouled to first for the| |third out. | | | |the senators got their run in the second. with one | |down, jamieson was safe on baker's high throw over | |first, the runner traveling to second. henry died at| |first, and mcbride punched a two-bagger to right | |center, which sent jamieson home. the yankees tied | |the score in the next inning, when, with two out, | |magee walked. baker and gedeon started a double | |steal. it looked as if gedeon would be a sure out at| |second, but he got back to first safely. pipp ended | |the fun by fanning. | | | |in the sixth baker singled to left, and gedeon | |placed a texas leaguer back of first, which none of | |the senator fielders reached. baker was late in | |starting for second, and jamieson made a bad throw | |to catch him, so both runners advanced a cushion. | |mullen, batting for pipp, cudgeled the ball to left,| |and baker and gedeon counted. that was all, and it | |was plenty to win. the score: | | | | new york washington | | ab r h po a | ab r h po a| |maisel, cf. | morg'n, b. | |gil'hy, rf. | fost'r, b. | |magee, lf. | milan, cf. | |baker, b. | judge, b. | |ged'n, b. | sh'nks, lf. | |pipp, b. | jam's'n rf. | |mul'n, b. | henry, c. | |p'k'gh, ss. | m'b'de, ss. | |nu'ker, c. | harper, p. | |fisher, p. | wil'ms, c. | | ----------- | johnson[ ] | | | -----------| | total | total | | | | [ ] batted for gallia in ninth inning. | | errors--morgan, milan, jamieson, baker. | | | |washington -- | |new york -- | | | |two-base hits--mcbride, harper, foster. stolen | |base--gedeon. double plays--gedeon and pipp; baker | |and pipp; peckinpaugh and gedeon. left on bases--new| |york, ; washington, . first base on errors--new | |york, ; washington, . bases on balls--off fisher, | | ; off harper, ; off gallia, . hits and earned | |runs--off harper, hits, runs in six innings; off| |gallia, hit in two innings. hit by | |pitcher--fisher, (shanks). struck out--by fisher, ;| |by harper, ; by gallia, . umpires--messrs. owens | |and connolly. time of game--two hours and eleven | |minutes.[ ] | [ ] _new york times_, april , . worth noting particularly in this story is the regulation style of indicating the lineup and the score at the end. the writer's originality of expression and his happy choice of individual incidents also add greatly to the interest of the story. the lead, for instance, is unusually good. = . football.=--the following is a typical football story: | =army defeats navy= | | | |it was just as the gray cloaked lads from west point| |chanted in lugubrious measure before the game: | | | | go-oo-od night, nayvee! | | go-oo-od night, navy! | | go-oo-od night--na-ay-ve-ee! | | the army wins to-day! | | | |they put into the chorus all the pathos, all the | |long-sustained notes, all the tonsorial-parlor | |chords of which it is capable, and those, as you | |know, are many. | | | |and the army boys, sitting in a fog which in hue | |just about matched their capes and caps, called the | |turn correctly with their vocal prediction. | | | |it was "good night, navy!" to the tune of points | |to . | | | |the youngsters from the west bank of the upper | |hudson were triumphant in their twentieth annual | |battle with the midshipmen from annapolis by two | |touchdowns and their concomitant goals, one in the | |first period of play, the other in the third. the | |count of games now stands ten for the army, nine for| |the navy, and one tie. | | | |president wilson, in a topper that got wet, and with| |a beaming face that was sprinkled with mist and | |raindrops, watched the fight and stayed until the | |final wild whoop from the last departing cadet had | |sounded through the semi-darkness that fell upon the| |polo grounds along toward : p.m. | | | |mrs. edith bolling galt, who soon is to be mrs. | |wilson, was present with her winsome smile and her | |white furs and her lavender orchids--fortunately, | |you could see her even through the haze--by the | |president's side. | | | |and then there were some forty thousand others, | |whose ranks in life ranged down from cabinet | |officers and generals and admirals to ordinary | |civilians, who dug as deep--some of them--as $ a | |seat for the privilege. | | | |yet, do you suppose that president wilson or any | |official was the hero of the day? | | | |we are as loyal a democrat as anybody else, but no. | | | |or do you fancy that the former belle of wytheville,| |va., who is within the month to be the first lady of| |the land, was the person toward whom all eyes were | |directed during most of the afternoon? | | | |there were considerable numbers of field glasses | |focused upon the white furs and the lavender | |orchids and winsome smile. but again the reply | |is emphatically no. | | | |the leading character, the person who ought to | |figure away up in the top of the headlines, the one | |whose name was spoken more frequently than any | |other, was a rough, rugged, short, stocky, right | |half-back named elmer oliphant, who, according to | |army statistics, is twenty-two years old, stands | |feet inches in altitude, weighs pounds, and | |hails from indiana. | | | |ollie was the boy. before the first period of the | |game was more than half over, there was a fumble by | |a navy back and an army man fell upon the ball only | |eight yards away from the goal line of the | |midshipmen. | | | |there was the crash of an army back against the navy| |line, and just a little weakening. there was another| |impact of a cadet against a wall that was almost but| |not quite solid. there remained about two or three | |yards to go. | | | |ollie was hurled in. he took the ball, sought coolly| |for the weakest spot he might find in a line that | |was almost impregnable at the moment, and then, | |instantly finding what he wanted, twisted his way | |backward through left tackle and fell across the | |chalk mark for a touchdown. | | | |the way the rest of the army boys sank their fists | |into ollie's broad back when he got up, you'd have | |thought he'd be in no shape for any other position | |than lying flat upon a stretcher. but he came calmly| |away from the tumult of congratulation, and as soon | |as he could kick the mud from between his | |shoe-cleats he booted the ball over the cross-bar | |for a goal. | | | |throughout the rest of that period, and throughout | |all the next, we may skip ollie. all he did was run | |around ends for distances varying from five to | |twenty yards, and plunge through the annapolis line | |with from two to four men attached to his neck, | |arms, legs and back, and tear up, despite these | |handicaps, more earth than one of those tractor | |ploughs the flivver man is going to put on the | |market after he settles the european war. | | | |jump to the third session of the game. this was | |scarcely under way before a long forward pass from | |the navy was grabbed on the annapolis -yard line | |by mcewen, the agile west point center. he ran it | |back twenty-five yards and when the ball finally | |came to rest on the muddy field with half a dozen | |middies piled atop of mac, it reposed just back of | |the navy goal-line. | | | |gray dominated throughout the day, physically as | |well as sentimentally. if ever there was a sodden, | |cheerless, disheartening afternoon for the battle of| |the two arms of the service, yesterday was the one. | | | |luck is with the boys, usually. the golden sunshine | |usually glints off the gold of braid and buttons. | |the nicest looking girls that ever assembled within | |the confines of any particular area of space turn | |out and smile and put lofty notes into the | |atmosphere with their giddy gowns and hats. there's | |snap and verve and pepperino in the very air. | | | |but for the first time in a long while the weather | |forbade all this sort of thing yesterday. from early| |morning a fog-blanket, wafted in from the atlantic, | |hung over the town. now and then it rained. and when| |you thought maybe it would clear off it rained | |again. the good old golosh was brought out of the | |spare bedroom closet and placed upon even the | |fairest of feet. the old brown raincoat was dragged | |forth into the light of day and placed above the | |gayest of garments. | | | |no girl was so foolish as to take a chance on the | |ruin of her apparel by doing without a moisture | |shedder of some sort. and not a general or admiral | |or member of a governor's staff or other person | |holding the right to wear a uniform was so | |intensely proud as to expose his ornamentation | |uncovered and take a risk at pneumonia. | | | |it was, as a matter of fact, a pretty drab-looking | |crowd that began to file into the polo grounds a | |little after noon. you can't get much local color | |out of a gum shoe and a mackintosh.... | | | | =the game play by play= | | | |it was . when the navy squad ploughed through the| |mud to the center of the gridiron. the navy stands | |upheaved and the midshipmen sent their battle cry | |ringing across the field. almost on the heels of the| |navy squad came the army players and a great shout | |went up from the army stands. each team ran through | |signals for a few minutes and then the navy won the | |toss and chose the east goal. | | | |coffin put the ball into play at : when he kicked| |off to the navy. craig caught the ball on his | | -yard line and ran it back ten yards before he was| |hurled into the mud. davis tore off seven yards | |through the right side of the army line and westphal| |skirted the army's left end for ten yards and a | |first down. | | | |here the army forwards held and crushed the navy | |back a yard. on the next down the midshipmen punted,| |but gained only five yards. oliphant tried an end | |run from a kick formation, but failed to gain, and | |the army punted, coffin driving the ball to the | |navy's -yard line. | | | |westphal fought a path for five yards, but then the | |army defense held, and von heimberg kicked to | |gerhardt on the army's -yard line. the cadet | |quarterback flashed back thirty yards before he was | |driven out of bounds and brought to earth. a stab at| |the line failed to gain for the cadets and coffin | |punted to craig. | | | |the ball sailed far down the field and the navy | |quarterback had to run back a few yards to get under| |it. but he did not get back quite far enough. as the| |ball dropped he saw he had misjudged it and threw | |his arms up to grasp the pigskin. his fingers | |clutched at it, slipped off, and the ball dropped to| |the gridiron as the army forwards swooped down the | |field. | | | |capt. weyand was in the lead and his greedy fingers | |snatched the ball before craig could get his | |bearings. it was the army's ball and only eight | |yards from a touchdown. the midshipmen chorused to | |the navy line to hold. and the line did its best, | |but its best was not good enough to throw back the | |army's battering attack. oliphant jammed his way two| |yards and on the next play drove through the | |desperately fighting navy line within a few feet of | |the goal line. | | | |here the navy showed a flash of power that sent the | |midshipmen to frenzied shouting. oliphant on his | |third smash into the line was hurled back for a yard| |loss. the next try made the fourth down and with the| |cadet band blaring and the cadets shouting | |themselves hoarse oliphant made his fourth drive | |against the navy forwards. | | | |it was a lunge that carried the concentrated power | |of the army eleven yards behind it and it spelled a | |touchdown for the cadets. oliphant with several navy| |players clutching him stormed well over the line for| |the first score of the game. he promptly kicked the | |goal from touchdown and the scoreboard read: army ,| |navy . | | | |this was the signal for the army to break into the | |song, "good night, navy." they were still singing | |when coffin kicked off for the army....[ ] | [ ] joseph j. o'neil in the _new york world_, november , . this story may be examined critically--and imitated--for its excellence in centering the reader's interest upon the football hero, oliphant,--a stroke which gives the article almost a short story unity of impression. the writer's shift from the game and the crowd to oliphant is somewhat rough--note, for instance, "we are as loyal a democrat as anybody else, but no,"--but otherwise the story is good. = . getting players' names.=--when reporting a football game, one can best follow and take notes on the plays by knowing the players by number. in big games this is made easy by the numerals on the football men's backs. on the smaller elevens this is not done, a difficulty which the reporter can overcome, however, by numbering the positions according to the regulation lineup. thus: .le re. .lhb .lt rt. rhb. .lg rg. .fb .qb . c c. qb. fb. .rg lg. .rhb .rt lt. lhb. .re le. then in taking running notes during the game, one has to write only, " around yds.," " through - to -yd. line," etc., filling in the names of the players after each half. = . basket-ball.=--the accepted method of reporting a basket-ball game is much like that of football. because in basket-ball the scores run high and the relative standings of the opposing teams are constantly shifting, it is customary in detailed accounts to give the exact score of each team at the end of every quarter. the following is a terse story of a game: | =boys' high wins city title= | | | |the boys' high school captured the city basketball | |championship of the public schools athletic league | |by defeating the bushwick high school on the | |former's court yesterday by a score of to . it | |was the second defeat sustained by bushwick, the | |other reverse being administered by eastern | |district, which, however, was downed by boys' high. | |the ending was a sad one for the bushwick team. | | | |the bushwick team showed good sportsmanship by | |failing to enter a protest when it was alleged that | |the final whistle was blown ten seconds too soon. | |the matter was put before mr. aldinger, the referee,| |who decided the game officially ended. | | | |boys' high came through with a strong finish. at the| |opening of the game it scored four points before | |bushwick finally entered the scoring column. the | |game was bitterly fought until the end of the first | |half, which found boys' high holding an average of | |to . | | | |in the second half bushwick launched an attack that | |soon placed it in front by a score of to . boys'| |high then carried the fight into the enemy | |territory, and, with successive field goals by | |bolotovsky, gindee and bonoff, the score was tied at| | -all. | | | |the score then seesawed until bolotovsky shot the | |winning point with a free goal from the foul line. | | | |the line-up follows: | | | | boys' high bushwick | | fd.g fl.g. p. | fd.g fl.g. p.| |bolotovsky, rf | robinson, rf | |gindee, lf | edelstein, lf | |bonoff, c | cherry, c | |brown, rg | dorff, rg | |ratner, lg | billig, lg | | ---------- | ----------| | totals | totals | | | |referee--aldinger, h. s. of commerce. time of | |halves, minutes each.[ ] | [ ] _new york tribune_, march , . in reporting a basket-ball game it is difficult to record the plays accurately unless one knows the contestants or they are numbered. the men shift their positions too quickly and constantly. to be accurate, the reporter should have a seat next to the scorer or else between two students or friends of the opposing players, so that whichever side makes a basket or an error, the reporter can get the player's name instantly. = . track.=--reporting a track meet is easier than baseball, football, or basket-ball since the events are run off slowly and all the results are announced to the grandstand. the following story of the meet of the intercollegiate association of america at philadelphia is a good illustration: | =records made at indoor meet= | | | |cornell and yale, as usual, shared the top honors at| |the third annual indoor track and field meet of the | |intercollegiate association of america, held last | |night before a crowd of , persons at the | |commercial museum in this city. the feature event of| |the early part of the program was a three-lap relay | |race between the ithacans, pennsylvania and state | |college. crim, who ran anchor for cornell over the | |last yards, beat scudder, of penn, by an inch, | |the quaker falling under the tape exhausted. in this| |event cornell hung up a new record for the | |collegiate indoor meets by covering the three laps | |in four minutes, twenty seconds, two seconds better | |than last year, when penn won. | | | |in the six-lap relay race, where each of the men ran| | yards, yale romped home an easy winner, john | |overton beating marion shields, of penn state, with | |yards to spare. pennsylvania, the third team | |entered, finished in that position. | | | |yale sent an army of star timber-toppers down for | |the fifty-yard high hurdle event. john v. farwell, | |captain of the eli's track team, equaled the | |american amateur indoor record by covering the | |distance in seven seconds. | | | |richards, of cornell, won individual honors in the | |sixteen-pound shot-put with a throw of feet, | | - / inches, while cornell's team average was | |feet, - / inches. | | | |the cornell entries in the late events swept | |everything before them. coach jack moakley's | |long-distance runners won the twelve-lap relay in | |the fast time of minutes, - / seconds, beating | |last year's record of minutes, - / seconds. | |the ithacans also cleaned up in the running broad | |jump with a team average of feet, and / | |inches. culbertson carried off the individual honors| |with a leap of feet, and / inches. | | | |the graduate relay race proved the most interesting | |event on the card. when the anchor men of penn, | |dartmouth, and cornell started on the last four laps| |riley, of dartmouth, was leading "ted" meredith by | |fifteen yards, with caldwell, the former ithacan, | |trailing five yards in the rear of meredith. penn's | |former captain brought the crowd to its feet by | |overtaking riley in the last ten yards. no time was | |taken. summaries: | | | |three-lap relay race--won by cornell (shelton, | |windnagle, acheson, crim); second, penn (lennon, | |walker, dorsey, scudder); third, penn state | |(whiting, krall, enoch, cottom). time, min., | |sec. (new indoor collegiate record). | | | | -yard hurdles--won by yale (rodman, davis, offutt | |and farwell), points; second, cornell (j. m. | |watt, cleminshaw, pratt and elsas), points; | |third, princeton (crawford, h. r. watt, erdman, and | |buzby), points. | | | |six-lap relay--won by yale (rolfe, ireland, cooper | |and overton); second, penn state (shea, foster, | |whiting and shields); third, pennsylvania (norriss, | |price, scudder and humphreys). time, min., - / | |sec. | | | | -pound shot-put--won by cornell (richards, ft. | | - / in.; gillies, ft. - / in.; howell, | |ft. in.; schoof, ft. - / in.), team average,| | ft. - / in.; second, princeton (sinclaire, | |ft. - / in.; cleveland ft. - / in.; nourse, | | ft. in.; ginnert ft. - / in.), team | |average, ft. - / in.; third, penn (wray, | |ft. - / in.; paul, ft. - / in.; royer, | | ft. - / in.; swann, ft. - / in.), team | |average, ft. - / in. | | | |running broad jump--won by cornell (culbertson, | |ft. - / in.; richards, ft. / in.; shackelton,| | ft. - / in.; harrison, ft. - / in.), team| |average, ft. - / in.; second, pennsylvania | |(jones, ft. - / in.; bertolet, ft. in.; | |buckholtz, ft. / in.; walter ft. in.), | |team average, ft. - / in. no third team.[ ] | [ ] _philadelphia public ledger_, march , . = . golf.=--in reporting golf matches probably the best method is to lead with rather a full summary--a half-dozen paragraphs if necessary--telling the results, the character of the playing, the kind of weather, the condition of the links, and something about the competitors, then to follow with a detailed story of the game hole by hole. in the following story note that the length, the par, and the relative standing of the players is given on each hole. note too that a numerical summary is made every nine holes. | =evans wins great match= | | | |charles evans, jr., of the edgewater golf club, | |twice winner of the western amateur golf | |championship, to-day defeated ned sawyer of the | |wheaton golf club and in the semi-final match | |for the great all-western title. to-morrow evans | |will meet in the -hole finals james standish, jr.,| |of the detroit golf club, whom he defeated for the | |same title last year at the kent country club. | | | |standish won his way into the finals by defeating | |h. p. bingham, of the mayfield club, to-day in a | |lop-sided contest, the match ending on the thirtieth| |green, and . | | | |the evans-sawyer duel to-day was a grueling struggle| |and from all points one of the greatest in the | |history of the western classic. it sparkled like | |carbonated water as compared with the rather flat | |matches of yesterday. | | | |fought in balmy weather under almost perfect | |conditions, the contest afforded, from start to | |finish, plenty of thrills to the gallery of , | |followers. old timers conceded it the best match | |ever fought on ohio soil. each player had in the | |morning, while evans had approximately in the | |afternoon. | | | |fourteen of the thirty-five holes were won under par| |figures, ten were won at par, and two were ties | |under par, leaving only two holes at which both | |players were really ragged. | | | |sawyer shot remarkably fine golf in the out round of| |the morning and at the tenth hole was up, but from| |this point evans began to whittle down the lead. | |although chick got on even terms four times, it was | |not until the sixteenth hole in the afternoon that | |he led, and the next hole saw him winner. | | | |the score by holes follows: | | | | =scores by holes= | | | |=hole ( yds., par ).= sawyer pulled his drive | |into a trap from which he dug only to drop into | |another at the left of the green. his chip shot hit | |the bank and he was just on the green in . evans | |was feet from the pin on his second, but his weak| |approach putt gave him a . sawyer took three putts | |and counted a for the first hole. evans up. | | | |=hole ( yds., par ).= evans pulled his tee | |shot, but got a fair lie. his approach pitch was | |short. sawyer got yards on his drive, pitched | |eight feet short, and holed an uphill putt for a | |win, - . all square. | | | |=hole ( yds., par ).= two wonderful wooden | |shots landed sawyer eight feet from the pin, where | |he missed his putt for a and kicked the ball in | |for a , one under par. evans pulled his drive to | |the rough from which he made a woeful pull with his | |cleek to the weeds guarding the right of the | |fairway. he was yards short of the green on his | |third and lost, - . sawyer up. | | | |=hole ( yds., par ).= this hole was halved in | | , the features being sawyer's -foot, downhill | |putt and chick's miss of a two-foot putt. sawyer | |up. | | | |=hole ( yds., par ).= evans was wild again | |from the tee, his drive being sliced to the brook | |where he got a lie on the slaty bottom. he banged | |out a high shot with his niblick, but went over the | |green to the rough and was short on his return. | |sawyer was fifteen feet from the hole on his second | |and won, - . sawyer up. | | | |=hole ( yds., par ).= from the high sixth tee | |evans pulled a low drive to the trees. he made a | |great out with his mashie, being lucky in escaping | |the trees. sawyer lined out two of his regulation | |wooden shots and was twelve feet from the flag on | |his second. evans heeled his long mashie shot to the| |right of the green, from which he missed his four | |and conceded the hole, sawyer being dead in . | |sawyer up. | | | |=hole ( yds., par ).= evans left his unruly | |driver in the bag and played a cleek shot for the | |seventh hole, sawyer outdriving him forty yards. | |chick's pitch took a bad bound, but stopped eight | |feet from the hole. sawyer's pitch ran entirely | |across the green. evans's putt just trickled into | |the cup, winning for him, - . sawyer up. | | | |=hole ( yds., par ).= both pitched to the | |green. sawyer putted dead and laid evans a dead | |stymie. in attempting the five-foot slanting putt, | |chick knocked sawyer's ball into the hole, losing | | - . sawyer up. | | | |=hole ( yds., par ).= both got straight drives| |into a driving wind at the long ninth. two perfectly| |played iron shots met with unmerited punishment, | |both balls touching the top of the hill and running | |over the fast green into a trap. both missed rainbow| |putts for fours and halved in . sawyer up at the | |turn. | | | |cards: | |evans -- | |sawyer -- | = . tennis.=--in reporting tennis matches one may use the following as an acceptable guide. the summary by sets at the end of the story in all probability was obtained from the scorer. | =johnston wins championship= | | | |william m. johnston inscribed his name upon the | |classic national tennis singles championship most | |impressively yesterday, using a forehand stroke that| |left no dispute as to his right to the title. the | |young player, who two seasons ago was hailed as the | |successor to maurice e. mcloughlin, made good the | |prediction by the score of - , - , - , - , | |while thousands cheered the vanquished mcloughlin | |and the new holder of the highest honors of the | |american courts. it was a memorable battle and an | |inspiring scene at the climax on the field of the | |west side tennis club, at forest hills, l.i., when | |the two men fighting for a sporting honor, and | |fighting with all that was in them, almost collapsed| |at the end, and hoisted on the shoulders of their | |comrades, with the cheers of the , spectators | |ringing in their ears, were carried from the field. | | | |while the homage paid to johnston for winning one of| |the greatest matches the all comers' tournament has | |ever known in its thirty-five years was sincere and | |true, still on all sides there was regret that | |mcloughlin, the hero who overwhelmed norman e. | |brooks and the late anthony f. wilding in the great | |davis cup matches last year, would not have the | |permanent possession of the all comers' cup on which| |his name is twice inscribed. | | | |it was not the same mcloughlin who stood in the | |court yesterday that overwhelmed the famous | |australasians a year ago. time had taken something | |from his game, and as ever youth must be served. in | |this instance it fairly leaped to its reward. except| |for the first set and the briefest of intervals | |thereafter, johnston was always the master of his | |mighty adversary. he knew the game of his opponent, | |and as in the ancient days when greek met greek, it | |was the dynamic power, resourcefulness, and stroke | |of californian against californian, with no quarter | |asked or given. two months before the two had played| |for the exposition championship at san francisco, | |and at that time mcloughlin had carried the match | |and title after five of the hardest sets which the | |tournament produced. then "the comet" was on his old| |field of asphalt with the ball bounding so high that| |he could bring off his overhanders and where such a | |thing as ground strokes were unknown. | | | |probably never in all the years of the historic all | |comers has a player displayed such phenomenal | |command of the ball with a forehand stroke. there | |were many competent judges present yesterday who | |declared that its equal was not to be found on the | |courts anywhere.... | | | |it was a stroke that stood the test, for no less | |than eight times in the fourth set was johnston | |within a point of claiming the all comers as his own| |when mcloughlin made thrilling stands as of old, and| |pushed the victory on a little further. when he | |moved up to the net in the ever-flashing rallies all| |the power and certainty of johnston's forehand came | |into action. alert, with the eye of an eagle that | |saw every move and the flight of the ball as | |mcloughlin drove it at him with all his might, the | |younger player whipped the returns into the corners.| |he was like a cat on his feet, quick and sure, never| |making a false move. there were times when he | |nipped the best drives that the comet sent over, and| |turned them back for passes. repeatedly mcloughlin | |overhanded the ball for what to him seemed a certain| |ace, so that he relaxed and dropped his racquet to | |rest, as if the point were finished. johnston made | |his recovery, however, and sending the ball back | |found mcloughlin off his guard and so scored the | |point. | | | |the cross volleys into the corners, the spots that | |had proved so profitable against williams on the | |previous day, were the chief bit of manoeuvring | |that electrified the crowd. as johnston played it, | |it was as irresistible as trying to check the march | |of time. he sent the ball into the left-hand corner | |of mcloughlin's court like a bolt of chain | |lightning. in order to play the ball with any | |success mcloughlin usually danced around it for a | |forehand shot, which put him wide of the court. | |calmly stepping in to meet it, johnston crossed with| |ever-increasing pace into the opposite corner. it | |was run, run, run for mcloughlin if he wanted the | |ball. he was on the defensive, and it was a | |position, as in all of his matches, in which he does| |not scintillate. so relentlessly was the younger | |player forcing the former champion and veteran that,| |even when he had glowing opportunities to make the | |point, mcloughlin put his racquet to the ball too | |soon, and so piled up a total of nets and | |outs, as compared to nets and outs for his | |rival. that was chiefly where the difference stood, | |for on actual earned points by placement johnston | |only had a tally of to for the comet.... | | | | =first set= | | points games | |johnston -- | |mcloughlin -- | | | | double | | aces places nets outs faults | |johnston | |mcloughlin | | | | =second set= | | points games | |johnston -- | |mcloughlin -- | | | | double | | aces places nets outs faults | |johnston | |mcloughlin[ ] | [ ] _new york times_, september , . = . boxing matches.=--news stories of boxing matches are but a combination of the methods of writing football games and golf matches. the first part of the story of a boxing contest should be a full general account of the fight, the fighters, the character of the boxing, the weight, height, and reach of the pugilists, their methods of attack and defense, the crowd, total and individual receipts, the exact time of the beginning and end of the fight, etc. the second part, like the golf report, should be a detailed running story of the fight by rounds. the following story of the willard-moran match at new york in may be examined as an example: | =willard wins on points= | | | |jess willard, the heavyweight champion pugilist of | |the world, hammered and pounded frank moran of | |pittsburgh for ten rounds in crowded madison square | |garden last night, but with his advantage of fifty | |pounds in weight, six inches in height, and six | |inches in reach, the herculean kansan could not | |knock out the courageous pittsburgh boxer. | | | |willard had every advantage throughout the bout | |except one flash in the seventh round, when moran, | |with teeth set and the fire of anger in his eye, | |made a wonderful rally and showered willard's jaw | |with hard blows just before the bell sounded. | | | |the champion hit moran hard enough and often enough | |to knock out half a dozen men, and after the bout he| |said that the only reason he was forced to let up | |and not use his famous righthand punch was because | |he broke his right hand in the second round and was | |afraid to hit hard after that. it was in whipping a | |vicious uppercut for the chin that willard smashed | |the hand against moran's elbow. at the time, moran | |was groggy, and although the seconds in the | |champion's corner yelled for him to tear in, willard| |had to stand back. | | | |when the champion's glove was removed after the | |bout, the hand was badly swollen, and he was rushed | |away from the garden to be attended by a surgeon. | | | |the crowd that witnessed the bout was the largest | |ever seen at a glove contest here. the garden from | |the floor to the upper gallery was jammed until | |there was hardly room to stand. although women | |spectators were encouraged to see the bout, few | |responded, not more than being seen in the arena| |boxes. well-known men in all walks of new york life,| |however, were grouped about in evening clothes, and | |gave the boxing match as much tone as a night at the| |opera. a few of the women spectators wore evening | |clothes, but the greater part of them were clad in | |the smart new spring suits which fill all the city's| |finery shops. | | | |financially the bout was a huge success and a | |tribute to the enterprise of the western promoter, | |tex rickard. the receipts amounted to $ , . of | |this willard got $ , , including $ , for his | |share of the motion pictures. moran got $ , for | |his share. it was an enormous remuneration for both | |men for their forty minutes in the ring. | | | |this first appearance of the new champion in the | |ring since his defeat of johnson in havana a year | |ago had set the town talking, and prominent men in | |new york and other cities did not hesitate to pay | |$ a seat to see the bout. as willard was such an | |over-ruling favorite the betting was perhaps the | |lightest ever known in a bout in which a champion | |has taken part.... | | | |it was : o'clock when willard hopped into the | |ring and got a big cheer. he was soon followed by | |moran, who had even a greater reception. while the | |two contestants were waiting nervously in their | |corners the announcer, joe humphries, had the | |proudest moment of his career when he gathered the | |great figures of the fistic world into the same | |ring. jim corbett, bob fitzsimmons, kid mccoy, and | |john l. sullivan all stood together and shook hands.| |the reception to john l. must have made the | |white-haired old man's heart warm, for the old | |timers in the crowd who remembered when he could | |beat anything in the ring cheered him until they | |were hoarse. | | | |in the champion's corner were tom jones, walter | |monahan, and jack hemple. in moran's corner were | |willie lewis, bill mckinnon, and frank kendall. | |willard's weight was a big surprise. when he | |stripped off his green bathrobe the champion weighed| | pounds, which was ten pounds more than his | |handlers said he weighed and twenty pounds more than| |when he defeated johnson in cuba. it was just : | |when "old eagle eye" charley white called the men to| |the center of the ring and said, "be good, boys, and| |break when i tell you." ... | | | | =the fight by rounds= | | | | =first round= | | | |the men met in the center of the ring. willard | |blocked moran's left to the head and they clinched. | |willard missed a right and left that slid off | |moran's shoulder. willard landed lightly with the | |left to moran's face and followed with two more. a | |left jab was all that willard used in the first few | |moments. then moran landed a left to willard's | |chest, and rushing in close tried to get to his jaw | |with two blows, but failed. moran was wary and | |covered up as he came in on willard. he also missed | |a left swing that was wild by several inches. | |willard sent a left to moran's head that jarred the | |challenger, and he tried to come back with blows to | |willard's head, but failed. moran could not reach | |the jaw of the champion. willard missed a right | |lead, moran stepping in close and evading the blow. | |one blow that willard landed clean, a left to the | |head, made moran wary. moran could not get any blows| |to willard's face. | | | | =second round= | | | |willard met moran three-quarters of the way over the| |ring and they clinched. moran landed a left to | |willard's head after they broke and then they milled| |in the center of the ring, neither doing any | |particular damage. they were chary of doing work for| |the next several seconds, willard waiting to have | |moran lead. willard pushed aside moran's guard and | |led with a left to the head which was blocked. | |willard forced moran around the ring and battered | |him on the head with rights and lefts. the | |challenger was almost pushed through the ropes. | |moran missed a left lead that was blocked by | |willard. moran feinted and made a wild hay-making | |swing that missed. he then struck one blow to | |willard's chest that had little force behind it. | |moran led with his left and reached willard's | |stomach, but the champion did not mind the blow | |seriously. two right swings by moran pounded on | |willard's shoulders and the champion retaliated with| |a light left jab to the face. both were perspiring | |from the intense heat of the big arc lights. willard| |seemed to toy with moran in this round, not exerting| |himself to take the aggressive....[ ] | [ ] _new york times_, march , . = . the unwholesome in boxing matches.=--one caution should be given in writing about boxing contests,--the need of presenting the wholesome rather than the unwholesome side. a report of a bout may be written in such a way as to appeal to the barbaric nature of one's readers, to make them revel in the mere drawing of blood rather than in the skill, the dexterity, the generalship of the contestants. the difference is in the reporter's point of view and depends not so much upon accuracy of presentation as upon his purpose to choose those wholesome details that have been successful in retaining pugilism as an american sport despite its many undoubted accompanying evils. in the following extract, for instance, the appeal is unhealthful; it savors rather of the spanish bull-ring than of a legal sport in the united states: |what a fight it was! one worthy of mars himself! the| |stage setting was complete to the minutest detail. | |there had been quite enough smashed noses in the | |preliminaries to whet the appetite for action to its| |keenest edge. and the main event was put on so | |quickly after the semi-final that this lust for | |battle had no chance to cool. moran led with a | |snappy left hook that drew blood from coffey's nose.| |with this first faint scarlet trickle the gallery | |gods went wild. a second quick jab gashed an old | |scar above jim's left cheekbone and covered his face| |with blood, to the delight of frank's friends in the| |center box. | = . automobile races.=--stories of automobile races follow closely the types of sporting news stories already examined. the following may be taken as an illustration: | =new world's record by resta= | | | | +-------------------------------+ | | | =the results= | | | | driver time average | | | | resta : . | | | | cooper : . | | | | burman : . | | | | oldfield flagged | | | +-------------------------------+ | | | |speedway park, aug. .--(special).--the world's | | -mile speed championship was won by a hood this | |afternoon--the hood of dario resta's wonderful | |peugeot. | | | |cheers from , throats drowned the roar of the | |engines as the resta peugeot and earl cooper's stutz| |wound up a race unparalleled for thrills and dashed | |side by side up the home stretch and over the finish| |line. resta won $ , . | | | |resta smashed porporato's record of . miles an | |hour on the chicago speedway by driving the | |miles at an average speed of . miles an hour. | | | |through the whole hundred miles, most of which were | |reeled off at the record breaking clip of . | |miles an hour, the two leaders were seldom separated| |by more than a car length. | | | |tire trouble early in the race put oldfield in his | |delage and burman in his peugeot out of running. | |they trailed along in a tremendous effort to | |overcome the handicap, but trailers they remained. | | | |once, on the thirty-sixth lap, it seemed that resta | |had lost. a tire went bad and he was forced to stop.| |but in just seconds he was on his way again. | | | |by that time cooper had flitted far in the lead--so | |far that had he not suffered a similar mishap | |himself a few laps later, the game italian never | |could have overtaken him. resta was again in the | |lead when cooper's bad tire was replaced. | | | |the cars lined up for the trial lap at : , | |oldfield starting first. a roar of cheers from the | |grandstand greeted earl cooper in his white stutz as| |he started on the initial parade around the track. | | | |fred j. wagner, the man with the red flag, stood | |astride the tape and started the cars on their | |flying race at : p.m. | | | |=the race by laps= | | | |=first lap.=--resta led in the first lap, cooper | |second, burman third, with oldfield trailing. | | | |=second lap.=--on the second lap resta stretched his| |lead, cooper closed up on him, only a car's length | |behind; burman came third, with oldfield fourth, a | |wide interval separating burman and oldfield from | |the leading contestants. | | | |=third lap.=--resta was leading, with cooper close | |behind, and burman third. oldfield brought up the | |rear.[ ]... | [ ] _milwaukee journal_, august , . = . billiards.=--in billiard matches the chief thing to note, in addition to points already mentioned in other sporting news stories, is the scoring of the individual runs. if it is necessary to write up the individual innings, the same style is used as indicated in golf and racing stories. | =hoppe outplays yamada= | | | |boston, oct. .--willie hoppe, the champion, led | |koji yamada, his japanese challenger, , to | |points at the close of their second night's play for| |the . balkline billiard championship at | |convention hall this evening. yamada's total | |to-night was . as was the case last night, both | |men played carefully, which accounted for the long | |time necessary to finish the game. | | | |hoppe's high run was , and came late in the | |contest, his average being - . yamada's best | |run was , and as it came soon after a run of , | |it enabled him to take the lead from the american | |for the first time in the match. his average was | | - . | | | |yamada in the first half of the game gave a pleasing| |display in which for the first time he showed | |brilliancy at the masse. hoppe was not up to form | |during the early innings and got his points only by | |hard struggle. both players had a good deal of open | |table shooting to do. the score: | | | |hoppe-- , , , , , , , , , , , , , | | , , , , , , , , , , , , -- . | |average, - . | | | |yamada-- , , , , , , , , , , , , , | | , , , , , , , , , , , -- . average, | | - .[ ] | [ ] _atlanta constitution_, october , . = . obtaining information.=--in reporting games and contests one will have little difficulty in obtaining all needed information. tickets are provided gratis and admit always to the best seats, known as the press seats, or the press-box, where all the newspaper men are grouped together. if the contest is an outdoor meet, the press-box is usually on the top of the bleachers. here are installed telegraph and telephone wires, the papers often having private wires from their offices to the field. if the wires have not been installed and it is necessary to report between quarters or halves, or inning by inning, one should have the local telegraph company provide at least two messengers to take the bulletins as fast as one writes them. and one's notes should be so taken that the bulletins may be given the messengers within a few seconds after it is possible to report. = . personal opinion in sporting stories.=--on page mention was made of four kinds of sporting news stories, and the reader's attention was called to the fact that three of the four--those dealing with athletic events before their occurrence, those dealing with the same events afterward, and those relating to sports in general--vary somewhat from the normal type of newspaper story. this variance lies in the fact that the three are hybrids, partaking of the nature of both the pure news story and the editorial. in an earlier chapter we have seen that the purpose of the news story is to present news; of the editorial, to interpret. we have seen that the avowed purpose of the editorial is to influence opinion. and so with these three types. they may be either presenters or interpreters of sporting news, or both. in the following story the writer is bent on telling the lineup of the michigan team for the game against cornell, the condition of the men, etc., but he is also bent on proving to his readers that michigan has a chance to win,--which makes his story half editorial and half news. | =michigan has a chance= | | | |ann arbor, mich., nov. .--(special).--we might lead| |this story with something original and say that both| |teams were awaiting the whistle. instead, we will be| |unique and assert that michigan has a chance to win.| | | |a victory over cornell would make a success of a | |season that has a good start toward being a failure.| |michigan's chance for victory depends on its line. | |there is grave doubt in the minds of some that | |michigan has a line. yost believes it has, because | |he has seen his center, his two guards, and his two | |tackles charge and block in practice. he hasn't seen| |them do anything in games but look sick. but he | |knows they can do something else and he is wondering| |if to-morrow will be the day when they prove it to | |the public and to cornell. | | | |if the michigan line should play tomorrow as it | |played against the aggies and against syracuse, the | |best back field in the land would be null and void. | |but if the michigan line comes to life, performs as | |it has done when assistant coaches schultz, | |almendinger and raynsford were scrimmaging against | |it and using all the words they knew as lashes to | |drive it to action, then cornell will find itself | |up against the toughest foe it has faced this year. | | | |yost admits he has a good back field. his | |combination of one senior, one junior and one | |sophomore--catlett, maulbetsch and smith--would, he | |believes, gain acres of ground against any team in | |the country if the line would give them half a | |chance. | | | |smith, to be sure, is in bad shape. he is going to | |start the game, but few expect him to last through. | |bay city gave him to michigan, and before he was | |hurt he showed enough to convince his coach that he | |has the makings of another galt. | | | |he is of the versatile type, and besides being a | |good ground gainer himself, he is of great | |assistance as an interferer and a handy man on | |defense. he backs up the line when the other side | |has the ball. at present almost everything ails him,| |save possibly barber's itch and the h. and m. | |disease that helped make niles famous. | | | |maulbetsch, yost says, is a better defensive man | |than last year. as for his plunging prowess, he is | |probably just as classy as ever, but a man can't | |plunge very far when two or three opposing linemen | |are sitting on him, as they were in the m. a. c. and| |syracuse games. | | | |catlett is a streak of speed, and since this is his | |third year of varsity football, he is playing more | |intelligently than ever. roehm, the quarterback, was| |one of hughitt's understudies last season. he is | |light, but fast and willing. | | | |thus in the back field we have a good all round man,| |a wonderful line plunger, a speed demon, and an | |agile, hard worker. all of which assets won't be | |worth a yesterday's transfer unless the line | |holds....[ ] | [ ] ring w. lardner in the _chicago tribune_, november , . = . advance stories.=--the details which one may include in advance stories of athletic meets are innumerable. some of the more important particulars, however, are predictions of the outcome, the effect of the contest on future events or on the rank of the teams, names of the players and the officials, absence of important men, opinions of the men, their trainers, or their followers, weak spots in their play, local or national interest, time and place of the contest, ways of reaching the field or grounds,--in fact, any details that will interest one's readers in the approaching game. such preliminary writeups require good reporters--men who can observe closely and analyze carefully, and hence can give their readers reasonable predictions of the success of the teams in which they are interested. the following may be taken as a typical preliminary story: | =prominent officials at game to-day= | | | | +-------------------------------------------+ | | |=facts about to-day's football game= | | | | | | | |=teams=--army and navy. | | | | | | | |=place=--polo grounds. | | | | | | | |=time=-- p.m. | | | | | | | |=corps of cadets and brigade of midshipmen | | | |march on the field=-- to . p.m. | | | | | | | |=weather forecast=--fair and warm; rain | | | |late in the afternoon or night. | | | | | | | |=routes to the grounds=--eighth and ninth | | | |avenue "l" and broadway subway. | | | | | | | |=directions for finding seats=--on the back| | | |of each ticket are printed directions for | | | |locating the seats in the various sections.| | | +-------------------------------------------+ | | | |when the referee's whistle sends the army and navy | |teams charging into each other this afternoon at the| |polo grounds, most of the united states government | |officials, army, navy and marine corps officers will| |be gathered in the seats and boxes around the | |sidelines to cheer 's football season on to its | |death in the spectacularly most brilliant game of | |the year. | | | |president wilson, doomed again to neutrality, will | |divide his time between the army and navy sides of | |the field. mrs. galt will arrive with him shortly | |before o'clock on the train which brings besides | |them one of the largest and most distinguished | |delegations of government officials, army and navy | |officers, who ever saw an army-navy game. | | | |secretary garrison will be whooping it up for the | |army on the cadets' side of the field. secretary | |daniels, reinforced by his twenty-one-year-old son, | |will be right there where the blue and gold of the | |navy waves, and take it from the navy this secretary| |is some rooter when he gets going. | | | |secretary mcadoo will be there--but why attempt to | |name all or many of the prominent folk. cabinet | |officers, admirals and generals, all take a back | |seat to-day. in the full glare of the limelight | |stand the twenty-two gridiron fighters from west | |point and annapolis. to-day there is only one firing| |line; it's the chalk-marked field at the polo | |grounds. | | | |the midshipmen arrived here thursday and went to the| |vanderbilt yesterday. the army team, coaches, | |trainers, and advance delegation of officers | |arrived, making the hotel astor their headquarters. | |every train from washington, from annapolis, from | |west point, which pulled into new york thereafter | |was packed with army and navy adherents. | | | |and broadway was ready with its usual welcome. the | |vanderbilt, astor, waldorf, mcalpin, and martinique | |were profusely decorated with the flags and with | |army and navy colors. generals met cub lieutenants | |in the cafés and dining-rooms (where seats had been | |reserved both for last night and to-night weeks in | |advance), all eager to get some late "dope" on the | |game. | | | |store fronts were gay with the navy blue and gold | |and the army black and gold and gray; street hawkers| |were disposing of the winning colors. new york was | |on its biannual football spree last night. the army | |and navy were in town.... | | | |betting? well, as a navy man put it, "we've got a | |few iron men with us." yes, they all came "heeled." | |navy men are asking to and getting it in spots. | |but as the hours slipped by and the old army-navy | |feeling grew, there was no telling the odds--each | |man bet as the impulse of the moment prompted him, | |anywhere from to to even money. | | | | probable line-up to-day | | | | army wgt. navy wgt. | | neyland l.e. von h'mb'g | | jones l.t. ward | | o'hare l.g. kercher | | mcewan c. goodstein | | meacham r.g. smith | | weyand r.t. gilman | | redfield r.e. johnson | | gerhardt q.b. craig | | ford l.h. westphal | | oliphant r.h. davis | | coffin f.b. martin | | | | t'l weight lbs. t'l weight lbs. | | avg. wgt., . lbs. avg. wgt., lbs. | | | |referee, w. s. langford, trinity; umpire, f. w. | |murphy, brown; field judge, j. a. evans, williams; | |head linesman, carl marshall, harvard.[ ] | [ ] _new york world_, november , . = . review stories.=--stories written days after a game are generally of an analytical nature, their purpose being to review the play or contest and explain why one team or contestant was successful and the other a failure, or why one method of play, attack, or defense proved better than others. sometimes, however, such stories are merely individual incidents learned late, but of interest nevertheless to the readers. an analytical story is the following: | =new rules upset teams= | | | |with the advent of october, the month which | |generally ushers in the football seasons, the defeat| |of yale by virginia was one of the most conspicuous | |cases of the old adage that history will repeat | |itself in football as well as in any other line of | |athletic endeavor. | | | |in former years supposedly stronger elevens have met| |with unexpected setbacks from teams which were | |thought to be only tools in the helpful development | |of the big elevens for the harder and more important| |contests to be played later in the season. in the | |old days of the five-yard rule and mass play, | |schedules could be outlined with so much accuracy | |that a coach or athletic director seldom made | |mistakes in his schedules. | | | |in those days the chart was framed so that each | |succeeding game would be harder to win.... the teams| |were sent into the game to test the pet plays of the| |coaches, such as the revolving mass on tackle, hard | |concentrated attacks on and off the tackles, with | |the runner being pushed and pulled by his | |teammates.... | | | |if plays as outlined by the coaches did not make the| |necessary distances, then the teams practically | |settled down to a man to man contest, and football | |history records the number of games which ended | |either in scoreless ties or knotted counts. | | | |following this old custom, the big teams select the | |opponents who in the old days were easy to beat in | |the first games. it is true some changes have been | |made in schedules, but it is only reasonable to | |assume that the coach of a large eleven would be | |foolish to schedule an opening contest with a team | |which he thought had a chance to beat his own | |aggregation. | | | |using yale as an example, the authorities at new | |haven would never have scheduled the virginia game | |unless they thought in their own minds that old eli | |would trot off the field an easy winner. on the last| |saturday in september the blue eleven had an easy | |time winning from maine, to . | | | |following the changes in the rules, coaches nowadays| |cannot afford to take a chance with any team, | |whether they have a heavy, strong team or a well | |balanced eleven. the players do not get accustomed | |to the excitement of actual combat so early in the | |season, and the least little thing which goes wrong | |in their offensive or defensive play will unbalance | |them for the remainder of the contest. | | | |harvard, last year's eastern champion, was compelled| |to play a lot of football to win from the | |massachusetts aggies by a single touchdown. had | |percy haughton, the crimson coach, thought his team | |would experience such a hard game so early in the | |season, the contest would not have been listed. the | |crimson eleven, in other words, was opposed by a | |team which had been thoroughly groomed in every | |department of the game, the aggies apparently | |realizing what a victory would mean to them.[ ]... | [ ] walter h. eckersall in the _chicago tribune_, october , . = . general stories.=--the last type of sporting news story, that relating to a sport only in a general way, may be considered briefly. in this type the actual news value is small. the interest of the story lies rather in its informative worth, the writer's purpose being to present general, but significant, facts that will interest followers of the sport. usually it is expository. its nature is well illustrated by the following subjects chosen practically at random: "batters in the american association weaker in than in "; "title holders in the ring play safety first--refuse long battles"; "tennis gaining in popularity"; "is baseball a back number?"; "any man can play par golf"; "ty cobb's place in baseball history." such stories are valuable in the sunday edition, and in addition to giving general surveys of various sports, help to interest readers when athletic news is scarce. they are the feature stories of sports. xvii. society = . what society news is.=--the society editor's work concerns itself with the social and personal news of the city and county in which the paper is published or from which it draws its patronage. it is almost entirely local, news of the state or of other cities being of value only in so far as it affects women and men of one's own town through former exchanges of courtesy or hospitality, or for similar causes. nor does it concern itself with the unconventional, the abnormal. elopements, clandestine marriages, unusual engagements, freakish parties, and similar extraordinary social and personal news do not come within the sphere of the society editor, but take regular, and usually prominent, places in the news columns. = . difficulty.=--the society editor's work is with the conventional in the local fashionable world, and for this reason probably no other kind of news demands so consistent care, discrimination, and habitual restraint. she--the society editor is practically always a woman--must recognize readily relative social distinctions, to know what names and functions to feature in her column or section, and to be able to present the details of those functions acceptably to the various social groups about which and for which she is writing. the latter requisite in particular is difficult. for in attempting to give appreciative accounts of weddings, dances, receptions, she is liable to overstep the narrow limits of conventional usage and make herself ridiculous by extravagance of statement; or else, in trying to avoid unnecessary display of enthusiasm, she is led into use of trite, colorless words and stock phrases. she must by all means take care not to say that "the handsome groom wearing the conventional black and the lovely bride arrayed in a charming creation of white satin consummated their sacred nuptial vows amid banks of fragrant lilies and beautiful, blushing roses to the melodious strains of mendelssohn's entrancing wedding march." = . illustrations.=--the following stories of engagements, weddings, dinners, dances, receptions, club meetings, and charity benefits have been selected at random to show the accepted methods of handling society write-ups. at the end are added a few personal items--_personals_, they are generally termed--and a single "society review." the restraint and dignity of tone of the stories are worth close study. | =engagements= | | | |mr. and mrs. george a. stewart, of north | |parkside avenue, announce the engagement of their | |daughter, gladys, to charles m. sailor, a son of mr.| |and mrs. samuel sailor, of south central | |boulevard. | |the first debutante of the season to become engaged | |is miss bessie allen, daughter of mr. and mrs. | |george osborne allen, whose engagement to harry o. | |best was announced saturday. mr. best is a son of | |mr. and mrs. george r. best, of east | |fifty-fourth street. he was graduated from harvard | |in and is a member of the knickerbocker club of| |this city, and also of the balustrol golf club. he | |is a member of the firm of best and flom, walker| |street. mr. best is the third in direct line to bear| |his name, being a grandson of the late george r. | |best, one of the most noted architects of this city.| |the wedding will take place in the spring. | | =wedding announcements= | | | |in the church of the heavenly rest on tuesday | |afternoon at : will be celebrated the wedding of | |miss doris ryer, daughter of mrs. fletcher ryer of | |san francisco, cal., to stanhope wood nixon, son of | |mr. and mrs. lewis nixon. the wedding ceremony will | |be witnessed by a large number of relatives and | |friends from california and several of the principal| |eastern cities where the families of both the bride | |and her fiancé are prominent. | | | |gov. charles s. whitman is to act as miss ryer's | |sponsor and will give her away. miss phyllis de | |young, daughter of mr. and mrs. michael h. de young | |of san francisco, will be the maid of honor and the | |bridesmaids will be the misses pauline disston of | |philadelphia, ray slater of boston, mary moreland of| |pittsburg, elizabeth sands of newport, frances moore| |of washington, and helen flake of this city. | | | |walbridge s. taft will be the best man. the ushers | |will be henry s. ladew, patrick calhoun, henry | |rogers benjamin, ammi wright lancashire, esmond p. | |o'brien and hugh d. cotton. | | | |following the wedding ceremony there will be a | |reception in the ballroom of the ritz-carlton. the | |engagement of miss ryer and mr. nixon was announced | |last autumn. the bride-to-be has passed the greater | |part of the last two winters in new york with her | |mother and during the summer season has been | |identified with the colony in newport, r. i.[ ] | [ ] _new york sun_, january , . | =wedding= | | | |miss celia cravis, daughter of mr. and mrs. myer | |cravis, of north thirty-second street, became | |the bride of harry cassman, of atlantic city, | |thursday. the ceremony was performed at : o'clock| |in the evening in the green room of the adelphi | |hotel by the rev. marvin nathan, assisted by the | |rev. armin rosenberg. | | | |the father of the bride gave her in marriage. her | |gown of white satin was given a frosted effect by | |crystal bead embroidery and was made with court | |train. her tulle veil was held by a bandeau of | |lilies of the valley. a white prayer book was | |carried and also a bouquet of orchids, gardenias and| |lilies of the valley. | | | |the maid of honor was miss katherine abrahams, | |wearing blue satin trimmed with silver. she carried | |a double shower bouquet of tea roses and lilies of | |the valley, and a yellow ostrich feather fan, the | |gift of the bride. | | | |the bridesmaids, miss estelle freeman, miss tillie | |greenhouse, miss estelle sacks and miss leonore | |printz, were dressed in frocks of different pastel | |shades, ranging white, pink, blue and violet. each | |carried a basket of roses and a pink feather fan. | |miss madeline cravis and miss sylvia gravan, the | |flower girls, wore pink and carried baskets of pink | |roses. | | | |herbert w. salus acted as best man. the ushers were | |lewis e. stern and walter hanstein, of atlantic | |city; i. s. cravis and henry gotlieb. | | | |a reception for about guests followed the | |ceremony. after a tour of the south, mr. and mrs. | |cassman will be at south seaside avenue, | |atlantic city.[ ] | [ ] _philadelphia public ledger_, december , . | =teas, dinners, luncheons= | | | |miss alice williams, daughter of mr. and mrs. edward| |t. williams, was presented to society yesterday | |afternoon at a tea in the home of her parents, | |eighteenth street. miss williams was born in | |shanghai, china, during her father's connection with| |the united states legation there, and she has lived | |most of her life in the orient. mr. williams was | |chargé d'affaires of the united states at the time | |of the recognition of the new chinese republic. at | |the time of the outbreak of the war in europe miss | |williams was a student in paris. mr. williams is now| |the head of the bureau of far eastern affairs in the| |state department. | | | |mrs. williams presented her daughter, with no | |assistants save three of her daughter's young | |friends, miss helen miller, miss virginia puller and| |miss ethel christiensen, who presided in the dining | |room. the drawing room and dining room were both | |transformed into bowers of blossoms, sent to the | |debutante, which were charmingly arranged. mrs. | |miller wore a graceful gown of black net and lace | |over black satin. the debutante wore a becoming | |costume of rose silk and silver trimming and carried| |sweet peas a portion of the afternoon, and the bunch| |of roses sent by mrs. lansing, wife of the secretary| |of state, the rest of the time. miss miller and miss| |christiensen were each in white net and tulle and | |miss puller wore blue and white.[ ] | [ ] _washington post_, november , . |mrs. fred enderly, who has recently returned after a| |long absence in the east, was specially honored with| |a halloween birthday dinner given by mrs. lottie | |logan, of no. ingraham street tuesday evening. | |the table was in yellow, with a floral center of | |chrysanthemums and favors of black cats, diminutive | |pumpkin people and other suggestive halloween | |conceits. the guests were whisked up to the | |dressing-rooms by a witch, and mrs. george h. | |rector, attired in somber soothsayer's robes, told | |fortunes. place-cards were written for mr. and mrs. | |enderly, mr. and mrs. archibald hart, mr. and mrs. | |george rector, mr. and mrs. henry henderson, mr. and| |mrs. george mcdaniel, mrs. fred detmer, miss | |wilhelmina rector, miss talcot, messrs. mark ellis, | |jack bushnell, l. d. maescher and o. h. logan.[ ] | [ ] _los angeles times_, november , . | =reception= | | | |mr. and mrs. henry v. black of broadway, irvington, | |gave a reception this afternoon for their debutante | |daughter, miss latjerome black. receiving with mrs. | |black were mrs. p. f. llewellyn chambers, mrs. | |frederick sayles, mrs. charles coombs, mrs. benjamin| |prince, mrs. theodosia bailey, mrs. charles hope, | |miss caramai carroll, miss dorothy brown, mrs. | |robert c. black and miss dorothy black. receiving | |with miss black were the misses marion townsend, | |helen sayles, dorothy clifford, marion becker, helen| |geer, and genevieve clendenin. miss black wore a | |dress of white silk embroidery and pink roses. the | |decorations were of autumn leaves and | |chrysanthemums. | | | |among the guests were dr. and mrs. albert shaw, mrs.| |edwin gould, mrs. howard carroll, mrs. finley j. | |shepard, miss anne depew paulding, mrs. william | |carter, miss millette, mrs. john luke, mrs. adam | |luke, mrs. h. d. eastabrook, mrs. john d. archbold, | |mrs. henry graves, and dr. and mrs. d. russell.[ ] | [ ] _new york sun_, september , . | =dance= | | | |elaboration of detail marked the oriental ball given| |by the sierra madre club at its rooms in the | |investment building last evening. more than | |members and guests attended in garb of the far | |east--costumes whose values ran far into the | |hundreds. the club rooms were draped in a | |bewildering manner with tapestry of the celestial | |empire and the land of nippon, and the rugs of | |turkey and arabia. | | | |it was a most colorful event--sultans robed in many | |colors with bejeweled turbans; chinese mandarins in | |long flowing coats; bearded moors, who danced with | |geisha girls of japan, gowned in multi-colored | |silken kimonos; petite china maids in silken | |pantaloons and bobtailed jackets; salome dancers of | |the east, in baggy bloomers and jeweled corsages, | |and harem houris in dazzling draperies. | | | |preceding the dancing, a remarkable dinner, | |featuring the choicest foods of the orient, was | |served by attendants wearing the dress of chinese | |coolies. the rare old syrups of the orient were | |enjoyed by the diners, while the fragrant odor of | |burning incense lent an air of subtle mysticism. | | | |among the guests present were:[ ] | [ ] _los angeles times_, february , . | =club meeting= | | | |at this week's meeting of the new england women's | |press association, miss helen m. winslow, chairman | |of the programme committee, presented joseph edgar | |chamberlin of _the transcript_, who spoke on "the | |work of women in journalism." mr. chamberlin gave | |many personal reminiscences of women writers whom he| |had known in his connection with various | |publications. he expressed regret that women are not| |doing more in editorial work, as in the earlier | |years of their entrance into the newspaper field, | |and the belief that it would be of advantage to | |journalism and to the public if they gave more | |attention to writing of this character rather than | |that directed almost exclusively for women's | |departments and others of superficial value. mr. | |chamberlin paid especial compliment to the work of | |margaret buchanan sullivan, jeannette gilder, jennie| |june croly and kate field. mr. chamberlin spoke in | |high praise of miss cornelia m. walter (afterward | |mrs. w. b. richards) who was editor-in-chief and had| |full charge of _the transcript_ from to . | |the executive board voted to co-operate with the | |travelers' aid society and mrs. ralph m. kirtland | |was elected chairman of the committee to formulate | |plans.[ ] | [ ] _boston transcript_, december , . | =charity benefit= | | | |on thursday afternoon at o'clock mrs. w. k. | |vanderbilt of fifth avenue will open her house | |for a benefit entertainment in aid of the appuiaux | |artistes of france. viscountess de rancougne is to | |give her talk on the work being done in the french | |and belgian hospitals and in the bombarded towns and| |villages, illustrated with colored slides from | |photographs taken by herself. an interesting musical| |program also has been arranged for the afternoon, | |with miss callish, mr. de warlich, and carlos | |salzedo appearing. mrs. kenneth frazier of east | |seventy-eighth street is receiving applications for | |tickets at $ each. on the executive committee are | |kenneth frazier, ernest peixotto, edwin h. | |blashfield, charles dana gibson, joseph h. hunt, and| |janet scudder. mrs. w. bourke cockran, mrs. howard | |cushing, mrs. e. h. harriman, mrs. philip m. lydig, | |mrs. h. p. whitney, and miss grace bigelow make up | |the committee in charge.[ ] | [ ] _new york times_, february , . | =personals= | | | |mrs. robert r. livingston and her son, robert r. | |livingston, have returned from a trip to the pacific| |coast and are at their town house, washington | |square north, until they open northwood, the | |livingston estate near cheviot-on-hudson. they spent| |about six weeks on the coast. | | | |mr. and mrs. c. oliver iselin will return to their | |country place at glen head, l. i., late in april for| |the early summer. they are now occupying hopelands, | |their place at aiken, s. c. | | | |mrs. and mr. francis de r. wissmann have returned | |from a trip of some weeks to san francisco and have | |been at the gotham for a few days before opening | |adelslea at throgs neck, westchester, for the | |summer. | | | |the rev. dr. j. nevett steele of west | |seventy-sixth street, vicar of st. paul's chapel, | |who has been ill with pneumonia since march , is | |now convalescing and will soon be able to resume his| |church duties. | | | |a son was born yesterday to mr. and mrs. theodore | |roosevelt, jr., at their home, east | |seventy-fourth street. the child is a grandson of | |col. theodore roosevelt and will be named cornelius | |van schaick roosevelt, after his | |great-great-grandfather. this is the third child of | |mr. and mrs. roosevelt. their first boy, theodore | |roosevelt, iii, was born june , . mrs. | |roosevelt was miss eleanor b. alexander, daughter of| |mrs. henry addison alexander of park avenue. | | =society in prospect and review= | | | |never has a washington season begun so early as this| |one. the middle of december finds the white house | |dinners in full sway, the president and mrs. wilson | |having dined with the vice president and mrs. | |marshall, and the first state reception of the | |season in the white house due in two days. | | | |president and mrs. wilson already have had three | |large and formal dinner parties, the first one on | |december , in honor of mr. vance mccormick, | |chairman of the democratic national committee; and | |on tuesday of last week they entertained the vice | |president and the members of the cabinet and their | |wives, with a number of other distinguished guests | |and a few young people. after this dinner a | |programme of music was given in the east room and | |the evening was a charming success. the first lady | |of the land never was more lovely than she was on | |this occasion. the president's niece, miss alice | |wilson, of baltimore, came over with her father for | |the evening. miss nataline dulles, niece of mrs. | |lansing, made her first appearance at a state | |dinner, and miss margaret wilson and miss bones were| |among the guests. on thursday evening the visiting | |governors, former governors and governors-elect here| |for the conference this week, and their wives, were | |dined, with an interesting company. friday evening | |the vice president and mrs. marshall gave their | |annual dinner to the president and his wife, and had| |a senatorial company to meet them. | | | |the debutantes are in the full splendor of their | |glory, and the next three weeks will give them a | |supreme test of endurance, for luncheons, teas, | |dinners and dances not only follow one another | |closely, but pile up, with several in a day and not | |one to be neglected. there are no diplomatic buds, | |no cabinet buds, and few army, navy and | |congressional buds. but it is a strong residential | |year, with a number of debutantes in the smartest | |and most exclusive of the substantial old families. | |during the christmas holidays the buds of the | |future, some of a year hence, others of two years, | |are vying with the older girls for busy days, and | |the social calendar shows scarcely a resting moment | |from the day they come home from school until they | |rush back to their studies in time to reach the | |first recitation class. and as for beauty sleep, | |there will be none. there will not be a night during| |the christmas vacation when this younger set will | |not be dancing. time was when dinner parties were | |composed of elderly, or at least middle-aged, people| |only, but now even the near-debutantes and their | |circle have a steady round of "dining out," with no | |fear of being considered "along in years," for there| |are dinners for all ages. | | | |washington has given three of her most | |distinguished, most beautiful and most popular girls| |to foreign lands within two months, two of them | |having become princesses and the third a baroness. | |the first to wed was miss margaret draper, heiress | |to several millions of her father's estate. she is | |now princess boncompagni of rome, and her mother is | |now just about joining her and the prince in paris, | |the three to proceed to the prince's home in rome, | |where they will spend christmas together, after | |which the prince will return to duty with his | |regiment. | | | |the second of these brides of foreigners was miss | |catherine birney, daughter of the late mr. and mrs. | |theodore v. birney, who was married december to | |baron von schoen, of the german embassy staff, and | |is just back now from the wedding trip. they | |returned for the marriage of miss catherine britton | |to the prince zu hohenlohe-schillingsfuerst, of the | |austro-hungarian embassy staff. baron and baroness | |von schoen will spend christmas with the latter's | |sister, with whom she has made her home since the | |death of her parents, and then they will proceed to | |mexico, whence the baron has been transferred. | | | |the marriage of miss britton and prince zu hohenlohe| |was not unexpected, but the wedding date was hurried| |about three months, the prince becoming an impatient| |wooer. he was assigned to duty at the | |austro-hungarian consulate in the summer and agreed | |to remain away for a year. he stood it as long as he| |could, and then returned to claim his bride. the | |consent of the prince's family has not been | |forthcoming, but the marriage has the sanction of | |the embassy, presumably by order of the new emperor,| |and it was a happy wedding scene. the bride is one | |of the famous beauties of washington society. she | |was never lovelier than in her singularly simple | |wedding gown of satin with pearl trimmings, tulle | |sleeves, and enormous wedding veil. | | | |society is dancing its way through the season. the | |fever is making inroads even upon the incessant | |auction-bridge playing, and he or she who neither | |dances nor plays auction has a dull time of it. | |washington society is rather methodical in its | |dancing. monday nights are given up to the | |subscription dances at the playhouse, and another | |set at the willard. tuesday night the army dances | |are given at the playhouse. on wednesdays are the | |regular chevy chase club dinner dances, and on | |thursdays are those at the navy club. on friday | |nights, beginning on january , will be the ten | |subscription dances at the willard, and on saturday | |nights there are dances everywhere. the private | |dances are scattered all through, afternoons and | |evenings, until there is scarcely a date left vacant| |on the calendar until ash wednesday.[ ] | [ ] _washington post_, december , . = . clubs.=--the particular attention of the prospective society editor may be called to club news. the work in literature, education, community betterment, general social relief, and kindred subjects now being undertaken by women's clubs is sometimes phenomenal and offers to live society editors a vast undeveloped field for constructive news. too frequently the society page is filled with dull six-point routine, forbidding in style and still more forbidding in content, when it might be made alive with buoyancy and interest by added attention to new studies and interests in the women's clubs. what the women are doing in their study of the garbage question, in their campaigns against flies, in their efforts to provide comforts for unprivileged slum children,--such topics, properly featured and given attractive individual heads, may be made interesting to a large percentage of the intelligent women in the community and may be made instrumental in building up a strong, constructive department in the paper. = . typographical style.=--the prospective society editor will find it well, however, to study and to follow at first the typographical style of the society column in her paper. some newspapers run each wedding, engagement, or social affair under a separate head. others group all society stories under the general head of _society_, indicating the different social functions, no matter how long the write-ups, only by new paragraphs. sometimes this necessitates paragraphs a half-column long. in preparing lists of names in society reports, the editor should group like names and titles together. that is, she should group together the married couples, then the married women whose names appear alone, then the unmarried women, and finally the men. an illustration is the following: |among the several hundred guests were mr. and mrs. | |s. bryce wing, mr. and mrs. felix d. doubleday, mr. | |and mrs. lewis gouvernour morris.... | | | |among the debutantes and other young women present | |were misses gretchen blaine damrosch, priscilla | |peabody, irene langhorne gibson, rosalie g. | |bloodgood.... | | | |the young men present included messrs. lester | |armour, edward m. mcilvaine, jr., edgar allan poe, | |william carrington stettinius, nelson doubleday, | |herbert pulitzer.... | = . spurious announcements.=--a word may be said in conclusion about getting society news. one of the first precautions to a prospective society editor is not to accept announcements of engagements, marriages, and births of children from any others than the immediate persons concerned. in particular, one should beware of such news given by telephone. too many so-called practical jokes are attempted in this way on sensitive lovers and young married couples. many newspapers have printed forms for announcements of engagements and weddings. these are mailed directly to the families concerned and require their signatures. = . sources for society news.=--in cases of important news, such as weddings and charity benefits, the editor generally has little difficulty in obtaining all the facts needed. some social leaders are naturally good about giving one details of their parties. others, however, shun publicity even to the extent of denying prospective luncheons, dinners, and card parties--particularly if they are small--after all plans have been made, and the details may be had only after they know the reporter has definite facts. to get these first facts is often one's hardest task. frequently one can acquire the friendly acquaintance of some one in society who likes to have her name appear with the real leaders. men, too,--even husbands,--often are not so reticent about their immediate social affairs and are glad to give pretty society editors advance tips of coming events. but the best sources are the caterers, the florists, and the hair-dressing parlors. the caterers are engaged weeks in advance. the florists provide the decorations. and the hair-dressing parlors are hotbeds of gossip. by visiting or calling regularly at these places one generally can keep abreast of all the society news in town. but always when getting news from such sources--or from any other for that matter--one must be sure of the absolute accuracy of all addresses, names, and initials. if one is not careful,--well, only one who has seen an irate mother talk to the city editor before the ink on the home edition is dry can appreciate the trouble that will probably result. xviii. follow-ups, rewrites = . "follow-ups."=--"rewrites" and "follow-up" stories are news stories which have appeared in print. the distinction between the two is that "follow-ups" contain news in addition to that of the story first printed, while "rewrites" are only revisions. few news stories are complete on their first appearance. new features develop; motives, causes, and unlooked-for results come to light in a way that is oftentimes amazing. sometimes these facts appear within a few hours; again they are days in developing; and occasionally, after they have developed, the story will "follow" for weeks, months, and even years without losing its interest. the thaw, becker, and charlton stories ran for years. the first item about the _titanic_ disaster was a bulletin of less than half a stick; yet the story ran for months. = . constructive side of "follow-ups."=--a reporter, therefore, must not consider a story ended until he has run to ground all the possibilities or until the new facts have ceased to be of interest to a large body of readers. indeed, it is in the "follow-up" that the reporter has one of his greatest opportunities to prove himself a constructive journalist. there is every reason, too, for believing it will be in the "follow-up" that the big newspaper of the future will find its greatest development. at present, stories often are dropped too quickly, so quickly that the really constructive news is lost. a great epidemic sweeps a city, taking an unprecedented toll of life and entailing expenditures of hundreds of thousands of dollars. all the reporters grind out pages and pages of copy about the plague, but few follow the physicians and scientists through the coming weeks and months in their unflagging determination to learn the causes of the disease, to effect cures, and to prevent a recurrence of it as an epidemic. yet such news is constructive and is of greater value probably to the readers than the somewhat sensational figures of the plague. for the scientists will conquer in the end, and all along the way their improved methods of cure and prevention will be of educational value to the public. so also with strikes, wrecks, fires, commercial panics, graft and crime exposures, etc.; the reporter is advised to follow the story through the weeks to come, not necessarily writing of it all the while, but holding it in prospect for the constructive news that is sure to follow. = . following up a story.=--the first story which the new reporter will have to follow up he will some day find stuck behind the platen of his typewriter. it will have been put there by one of the copy-readers who has read the local papers of the preceding morning or afternoon and has clipped this article as one promising further developments. the first thing to do is to read the whole story carefully. (as a matter of fact, the reporter really should have read and should be familiar with the story already. familiarity with all the news is expected of newspaper men at all times.) then he should look to see if the reporter writing the story has played up the real features. in his haste to get the news into print, the other reporter may have missed the main feature. a delightful case in point is a "follow-up" of an indifferent story appearing in a new york morning paper: |because they were penniless and hungry, charles | |ewart, years old, and his wife emily, living at | | st. nicholas avenue, were arrested yesterday in | |the grocery store of jacob bosch, st. nicholas | |avenue, charged with shoplifting. when arrested by | |detective taczhowski, who had trailed them all the | |way from a downtown department store, seven eggs and| |a box of figs were found in mrs. ewart's handsome | |blue fox muff.... | but the cause of the couple's pilfering was not poverty or hunger, as was shown by a clever writer on the _new york world_ who covered the story that afternoon. here is his write-up, in which the reader should note the entire change of tone and the happy handling of the human interest features: | =confessed shoplifters= | | | |mrs. emily ewart, slender, petite, pretty, sat in | |the police department to-day, tossed back her blue | |fox neckpiece, patted her moist eyes with a | |lace-embroidered handkerchief, carefully adjusted in| |her lap the handsome fox muff which the police say | |had but lately been the repository of seven eggs and| |a box of figs, and told how she and her husband | |happened to be arrested last evening as shoplifters.| | | |as she talked, her husband, charles ewart, | |thirty-one years old, sat disconsolately in a cell, | |his modish green overcoat somewhat wrinkled, the | |careful creases in his gray trousers a bit less | |apparent, and his up-to-the-minute gray fedora a | |trifle out of shape and dusty. nevertheless, he | |still retained the mien of dignity with which he met| |his arrest in the grocery store of jacob bosch at | |no. st. nicholas avenue. | | | |of course, you understand, it was really mrs. | |ewart's fault that she and her husband should stoop | |to pilfering from a hardworking grocer eggs worth | |cents (at their market value of cents a dozen) | |and a box of figs, net value one dime. at least, so | |she told the police. she too, she said, led him to | |appropriate a travelling bag worth $ from a | |downtown department store. | | | |if it hadn't been for her, young mr. ewart might | |have gone right along earning his so much per week | |soliciting theatre curtain advertisements for the | |bentley studios, at no. broadway, and might | |never have run afoul of the police. | | | |the ewarts, so the young woman's story ran, came | |here from chicago two weeks ago. of their life in | |the western city she refused to tell anything. but | |since coming to new york, she admitted, they had | |travelled a hard financial road. | | | |detective taczkowski's attention was first called to| |ewart in a downtown department store yesterday | |afternoon, when ewart tried to return a travelling | |bag which he said his wife had bought for $ . | |investigation of the store's records showed mrs. | |ewart had bought a bag for $ . , but that the $ | |bag had been stolen. ewart was put off on a | |technicality and the detective followed him when he | |left the store. outside ewart was met by his wife. | |into the subway taczkowski shadowed them and at last| |the trail led to the bosch grocery on st. nicholas | |avenue. | | | |in the store, taczkowski kept his eyes on mrs. | |ewart, in her modish gown and furs, while ewart | |engaged a clerk in conversation. suddenly, | |taczkowski alleges, he saw an egg worth six cents | |disappear from a crate into mrs. ewart's handsome | |fur muff. another egg followed, and another, he | |says, until, like the children of the poem, they | |were seven. when a box of figs followed the eggs, | |taczkowski says, he arrested the pair. | | | |a search of the ewarts' apartment at no. st. | |nicholas avenue, the police say, revealed a great | |quantity of men's and women's clothing of the finest| |variety. mrs. ewart, the police say, admitted she | |had stolen the blue fox furs from a downtown store | |and the police expect to identify much of the | |handsome clothing found in the apartment as stolen | |goods. | | | |"we were hungry and had no money," mrs. ewart sobbed| |at police headquarters. "we had all that clothing, | |but not a cent to buy food. i am the one to blame, | |for i encouraged my husband to steal." | | | |ewart and his wife were arraigned in yorkville court| |before magistrate harris to-day and were held in | |$ bail each for further examination.[ ] | [ ] _new york evening world_, november , . = . new facts.=--generally in the "follow-up" it is the newly learned facts that are featured. in the case of a sudden death, for instance, it would be the funeral arrangements; in a railway wreck, the investigation and the placing of blame. the following stories illustrate: | =story in a morning paper= | | | |dashing through a rain-storm with lightning flashes | |blinding him, william h. blanchard, manager for the | |wells fargo express company, drove his automobile | |off the approach of the open state street bridge | |to-night and was drowned. otto eller, teacher of | |manual training in the west side high school, | |escaped by leaping into the river. eller says the | |warning lights were not displayed at the bridge. | | | |when the automobile was recovered, it was shown that| |the car was not moving fast, as it had barely | |dropped off the abutment, a few feet from shore. the| |bridge was open because its operating equipment had | |been put out of order by a stroke of lightning. | | =the follow-up= | | | |the body of william h. blanchard, manager of the | |wells fargo express company, who lost his life when | |he drove an automobile into an open drawbridge, was | |recovered this morning about feet from where the| |accident occurred. | | | |investigations have been started by the coroner and | |friends to place the blame for the accident. the | |electrical mechanism of the bridge was out of | |commission on account of a storm and it was being | |operated by hand. spectators declare no warning | |lights were on the bridge. | = . results featured.=--frequently the lead to the follow-up features the results effected by the details of the earlier story: | =original story= | | | |the total yield of the leading cereal crops of the | |united states this year will be nearly , , , | |bushels less than last year. the government | |estimates of the crop issued to-day showed | |sensational losses in the spring wheat crop in the | |northwest, a further shrinkage in winter wheat, and | |big losses compared to a month ago and last year in | |corn and oats. | | | |both barley and rye figures also indicate greater | |losses compared to a year ago than were shown in the| |july government report. | | =the follow-up next day= | | | |american wheat pits had a day of turmoil to-day such| |as they have not seen since the stirring times when | |war was declared in europe. | | | |influenced by the startling government report | |showing enormous losses in the spring wheat crop, | |prices soared even more sharply than the wiseacres | |had anticipated. | | | |they were to cents higher when the gong struck, | |the report, released after the close of 'change | |tuesday, having had its effect over night. at the | |close they registered a gain of from - / to | | - / cents for the day. wheat had gone above $ . | |a bushel. two months ago it was around $ . . | = . probable results.=--where no more important details can be learned, it sometimes is wise to feature probable results. |a break in diplomatic relations between the united | |states and germany as a result of the torpedoing of | |the lusitania by a german submarine is the expressed| |belief to-day of high washington officials. | = . clues for identification.=--in stories of crime, when the offenders have escaped, the lead to the follow-up may begin with clues for establishing the identity of the criminals. |if a piano tuner about forty years of age, wearing a| |pair of silver spectacles and accompanied by a | |petite, brown-eyed girl twenty years his junior, | |comes to your house for work, telephone the boston | |police. they are the two, it is alleged, who robbed | |the mather apartments yesterday. | = . featuring lack of news.=--in rare cases the very fact that there is no additional news is worth featuring. |up to a late hour to-night nothing had been heard of| |henry o. mallory, prosecuting attorney in the howard| |murder case, who disappeared yesterday on his way to| |lexington. | = . opinions of prominent persons.=--an otherwise unimportant follow story may sometimes be made a good one by interviewing prominent persons and localizing the reader's interest in men or women he knows. |that the new eugenics law passed by the state | |legislature of wisconsin yesterday is doomed to | |failure from the start, is the opinion of health | |commissioner shannon, who was in madison when the | |final vote was taken. | = . summary of opinions.=--sometimes, indeed, it is well to interview a number of local persons and make the lead a summary of their views. |widely different opinions were expressed by | |prominent physicians, professors, clergymen, and | |social workers throughout this city to-day on the | |ethics of the course taken by dr. h. j. haiselden of| |chicago in allowing the defective son of a patient | |to die. | = . connecting links.=--in all these stories, the reader should note, sufficient explanatory matter has been included to connect the incidents readily with the events of the preceding days. this is important in every follow-up; for always many readers will have missed the earlier stories and consequently will need definite connection to relate the new events with preceding occurrences. it is also important for these connecting links to be included in, or to follow immediately after, the lead, because they give the reader necessary facts for understanding the new information--give him his bearings, as it were,--without which he will not read far into the story. = . "rewrites."=--while most stories are not complete on their first appearance, it sometimes happens, nevertheless, that the first publication of an item contains all the facts of interest to a paper's readers and that priority of publication has been gained by another journal. yet the story will be of interest to the readers of one's own paper and must be published. it is the duty of the rewrite man to handle such a story, and to handle it in such a way that it shall bear no resemblance to the story published by the other paper. for this reason the most skillful reporters on a daily are the rewrite men. they must find new features for old stories, or new angles of view, or new relations of some kind between the various details. = . bringing a story up to the minute.=--the first requisite in rewriting is the necessity of making old news new, of bringing it up to the minute. no matter when the events occurred, they must be presented to the reader so that they shall seem current. currency is all but a necessity to life, vigor, interest in a yesterday's event. here is an item of news in point. suppose the following story from an afternoon paper is given a reporter on a morning daily: |charged with running his car thirty miles an hour, | |dr. harry o. smith, prominent city physician with | |offices in the vincennes building, was arrested on | |kentucky street this afternoon by motorcycle | |policeman dupre. after giving bonds for his | |appearance to-morrow, dr. smith left in his machine | |for linwood, where he was going when stopped by | |policeman dupre. | | | |concerning his arrest dr. smith refused to make any | |other statement than that he was on his way to see a| |patient. | the reporter cannot see dr. smith to obtain additional facts, because the doctor is out of town. nor can he expect any more news, since the case will not come up until some hours after his paper will have been in the hands of its readers. it is also against journalistic rules to begin with "dr. smith was arrested yesterday." that _yesterday_ must be eliminated from the lead. here is the method one rewrite man used to get out of the difficulty: |even doctors will not be allowed to break the city | |speed laws if one cincinnati motorcycle policeman | |has his way. | another way in which he might have avoided the troublesome _yesterday_ would be: |one of the first cases on police docket this morning| |will be the hearing of dr. harry o. smith, prominent| |cincinnati physician with offices in the vincennes | |building, who was arrested on a charge of speeding | |yesterday by policeman dupre. | or he might have begun: |whether the life of a sick patient is worth more | |than that of a healthy pedestrian may be decided in | |police court this morning. | in each of these rewrites it will be noted that the story has been brought down to the time of the appearance of the paper. = . new features.=--the next thing to seek in the story to be rewritten is a new feature. generally this is obtained in bringing the story up to date. if not, the reporter may examine, as in the "follow-up," to see whether the first story plays up the best feature, or whether it does not contain another feature equally good, or one possibly entirely overlooked. failing here, he may look forward to probable developments, as an investigation following a wreck, a search by the police following a burglary, or an arraignment and trial following an arrest. failing again, he may consider whether some cause or motive or agency for the fire or divorce or crime may not have gone unnoticed by the other man. or best of all, he may try to relate the incident with similar events occurring recently, as in the case of a number of fires, burglaries, or explosions coming close upon each other. whatever course he chooses, he should use his imagination to good advantage, taking care always to make his rewrite truthful. here is the way a few rewrite men have presented their new old stories: _result featured_ | =defective baby dies= | | | |the question whether his life should have been | |fought for or whether it was right to let him die is| |over, so far as the tiny, unnamed, six-days-old | |defective son of mrs. anna bollinger is concerned. | |the child died at the german-american hospital, | |chicago, at : last night, with dr. h. j. | |haiselden, chief of the hospital staff, standing | |firmly to his position that he could not use his | |science to prolong the life of so piteously | |afflicted a creature. | _connection with preceding events_ | =wild man caught= | | | |the wild man who has been frightening school | |children of yonkers, scaring hunters in the woods, | |and causing hurry calls to the police from timid | |housewives, has been captured by the reserves of the| |second precinct. he was caught last night in belmont| |woods, near the empire city race track. | _entirely new feature played up_ | =twelve-year-old girl suicide= | | | |ruth camilla fisher knew a country wherein her | |beauty was specie of the realm. it was bounded by | |the ninth and twelfth birthdays. its inhabitants | |consisted of fritz, an adoring dachshund; "papa," | |who was a member of the school board and a great | |man; and innumerable gruff little boys, who, | |ostensibly ignorant of her observation, spat through| |vacant front teeth and turned gorgeous somersaults | |for her admiration. she was happy and the jealous | |green complexion of the feminine part of her world | |bothered her not at all. | | | |and unsuspectingly ruth came singing across the | |borders of her ain countree to the alien land of | |knowledge and disillusionment. though she knew she | |came from god, it was gradually borne upon her that | |her girl-mother wandered a little way on the path of| |the magdalenes. | | | |she was an interloper who had no gospel sanction in | |the world, no visible parents other than a | |foster-father and a foster-mother. perfectly | |respectable little girls began to inform her so with| |self-righteous airs and with the expertness of | |surgeons to dissect her from the social scheme that | |governs puss-wants-a-corner with the same iron rule | |that in later life determines who shall be asked to | |play bridge and who shall be outlawed. | | | |"your parents aren't your own," was the taunt that | |ruth heard from playmates. some of the little girls | |added the poison of sympathy to the information. and| |ruth camilla fisher at found herself a stranger | |in a strange land. | | | |she extradited herself tuesday night with a revolver| |shot in the temple. in the yard back of her | |foster-parents' home at west twenty-fifth | |street, cicero, with one arm around the loyal fritz,| |she put the revolver to her head and pressed the | |trigger....[ ] | [ ] _chicago tribune_, november , . | =crook lists dancers' names= | | | |the modern dance craze has brought a lot of | |informality into a heretofore very proper chicago. | | | |women whose husbands work during the daytime have | |considered it not at all improper to flock to the | |afternoon thé dansants in many downtown cafés, there| |to fox-trot and one-step with good-looking strangers| |whose introduction--if there was an | |introduction--was procured in a sort of professional| |way. | _probable effect_ |consequently there were about forty women in chicago| |who verged on total collapse yesterday if they | |chanced to read of the terrible experience of mrs. | |mercedes fullenwider of kimbark avenue. | _probable motive_ | =elsie thomas not a suicide= | | | |if a finger print can tell a story, the police may | |be able to prove by to-morrow night that pretty | |elsie thomas, whose lifeless body was found in her | |room at pennsylvania street last night, was not| |a suicide. in the opinion of her brother, wallace | |thomas, who was on his way from lindale to see her, | |hans roehm, who had promised to marry her, may have | |been responsible for her death from cyanide of | |potassium. | = . condensation in rewrites.=--it may be added in conclusion that though rewrites are made to seem fresh and new, they are nevertheless old news after all, and hence are not worth so much space as the original story. consequently, one will find that they usually run from half to a fourth the length of the original; so that in rewriting one need not hesitate--as the copy-readers tell the reporters--to "cut every story to the bone." one must be careful in rewriting, however, not merely to omit paragraphs in cutting down stories. excision is not rewriting. xix. feature stories = . what the feature story is.=--the feature, or human interest, story is the newspaper man's invention for making stories of little news value interesting. the prime difference between the feature story and the normal information story we have been studying is that its news is a little less excellent and must be made good by the writer's ingenuity. the exciting informational story on the first page claims the reader's attention by reason of the very dynamic power of its tidings, but the news of the feature story must have a touch of literary rouge on its face to make it attractive. this rouge generally is an adroit appeal to the emotions, and just as some maidens otherwise plain of feature may be made attractive, even beautiful, by a cosmetic touch accentuating a pleasing feature or concealing a defect, so the human interest story may be made fascinating by centering the interest in a single emotion and drawing the attention away from the staleness, the sameness, the lack of piquancy in the details. the emotion may be love, fear, hate, regret, curiosity, humor,--no matter what, provided it is unified about, is given the tone of, that feature. = . difficulty.=--but just as it takes artists among women to dare successfully the lure of the rouge-dish, and just as so many, having ventured, make of their faces mere caricatures of the beauty they have sought, so only artists can handle the feature story. the difficulty lies chiefly in the temptation to overemphasize. in striving to make the story humorous, one goes too far, oversteps the limits of dignity, and like the ten-twenty-thirty vaudeville actor, produces an effect of disgust. or in attempting to be pathetic, to excite a sympathetic tear, one is liable to induce mere derisive laughter. and a single misplaced word or a discordant phrase, like a mouse in a sunday-school class, will destroy the entire effect of what one would say. in no other kind of writing is restraint more needed. = . two types.=--probably entire accuracy demands the statement that these remarks about the difficulty of the feature story apply more specifically to the human interest type, the type the purpose of which is largely to entertain. certainly it is more difficult than the second, whose purpose is to instruct or inform. the one derives its interest from its appeal to the reader's curiosity, the other from its appeal to the emotions. the emotional type attracts the reader through its appeal to elemental instincts and feelings in men, as desire for food and life, vain grief for one lost, struggle for position in society, undeserved prosperity or misfortune, abnormal fear of death, stoicism in the face of danger, etc. the following is by frank ward o'malley, of the _new york sun_, a classic of this type of human interest story: | =death of happy gene sheehan= | | | |mrs. catherine sheehan stood in the darkened parlor | |of her home at west fifteenth street late | |yesterday afternoon, and told her version of the | |murder of her son gene, the youthful policeman whom | |a thug named billy morley shot in the forehead, down| |under the chatham square elevated station early | |yesterday morning. gene's mother was thankful that | |her boy hadn't killed billy morley before he died, | |"because," she said, "i can say honestly, even now, | |that i'd rather have gene's dead body brought home | |to me, as it will be to-night, than to have him come| |to me and say, 'mother, i had to kill a man this | |morning.'" | | | |"god comfort the poor wretch that killed the boy," | |the mother went on, "because he is more unhappy | |to-night than we are here. maybe he was weak-minded | |through drink. he couldn't have known gene or he | |wouldn't have killed him. did they tell you at the | |oak street station that the other policemen called | |gene happy sheehan? anything they told you about him| |is true, because no one would lie about him. he was | |always happy, and he was a fine-looking young man, | |and he always had to duck his helmet when he walked | |under the gas fixture in the hall, as he went out | |the door. | | | |"he was doing dance steps on the floor of the | |basement, after his dinner yesterday noon, for the | |girls--his sisters, i mean--and he stopped of a | |sudden when he saw the clock, and picked up his | |helmet. out on the street he made pretend to arrest | |a little boy he knows, who was standing there,--to | |see gene come, out, i suppose,--and when the little | |lad ran away laughing, i called out, 'you couldn't | |catch willie, gene; you're getting fat.' | | | |"'yes, and old, mammy,' he said, him who is--who | |was--only twenty-six--'so fat,' he said, 'that i'm | |getting a new dress coat that'll make you proud when| |you see me in it, mammy.' and he went over fifteenth| |street whistling a tune and slapping his leg with a | |folded newspaper. and he hasn't come back. | | | |"but i saw him once after that, thank god, before he| |was shot. it's strange, isn't it, that i hunted him | |up on his beat late yesterday afternoon for the | |first time in my life? i never go around where my | |children are working or studying--one i sent through| |college with what i earned at dressmaking and some | |other little money i had, and he's now a teacher; | |and the youngest i have at college now. i don't mean| |that their father wouldn't send them if he could, | |but he's an invalid, although he's got a position | |lately that isn't too hard for him. i got gene | |prepared for college, too, but he wanted to go right| |into an office in wall street. i got him in there, | |but it was too quiet and tame for him, lord have | |mercy on his soul; and then, two years ago, he | |wanted to go on the police force, and he went. | | | |"after he went down the street yesterday i found a | |little book on a chair, a little list of the streets| |or something, that gene had forgot. i knew how | |particular they are about such things, and i didn't | |want the boy to get in trouble, and so i threw on a | |shawl and walked over through chambers street toward| |the river to find him. he was standing on a corner | |some place down there near the bridge clapping time | |with his hands for a little newsy that was dancing; | |but he stopped clapping, struck, gene did, when he | |saw me. he laughed when i handed him the little book| |and told that was why i'd searched for him, patting | |me on the shoulder when he laughed--patting me on | |the shoulder. | | | |"'it's a bad place for you here, gene,' i said. | |'then it must be bad for you, too, mammy,' said he; | |and as he walked to the end of his beat with me--it | |was dark then--he said, 'they're lots of crooks | |here, mother, and they know and hate me and they're | |afraid of me'--proud, he said it--'but maybe they'll| |get me some night.' he patted me on the back and | |turned and walked east toward his death. wasn't it | |strange that gene said that? | | | |"you know how he was killed, of course, and how--now| |let me talk about it, children, if i want to. i | |promised you, didn't i, that i wouldn't cry any more| |or carry on? well, it was five o'clock this morning | |when a boy rang the bell here at the house and i | |looked out the window and said, 'is gene dead?' 'no,| |ma'am,' answered the lad, 'but they told me to tell | |you he was hurt in a fire and is in the hospital.' | |jerry, my other boy, had opened the door for the lad| |and was talking to him while i dressed a bit. and | |then i walked down stairs and saw jerry standing | |silent under the gaslight, and i said again, 'jerry,| |is gene dead?' and he said 'yes,' and he went out. | | | |"after a while i went down to the oak street station| |myself, because i couldn't wait for jerry to come | |back. the policemen all stopped talking when i came | |in, and then one of them told me it was against the | |rules to show me gene at that time. but i knew the | |policeman only thought i'd break down, but i | |promised him i wouldn't carry on, and he took me | |into a room to let me see gene. it was gene. | | | |"i know to-day how they killed him. the poor boy | |that shot him was standing in chatham square arguing| |with another man when gene told him to move on. when| |the young man wouldn't, but only answered back, gene| |shoved him, and the young man pulled a revolver and | |shot gene in the face, and he died before father | |rafferty, of st. james's, got to him, god rest his | |soul. a lot of policemen heard the shot, and they | |all came running with their pistols and clubs in | |their hands. policeman laux--i'll never forget his | |name or any of the others that ran to help | |gene--came down the bowery and ran out into the | |middle of the square where gene lay. | | | |"when the man that shot gene saw the policeman | |coming, he crouched down and shot at policeman laux,| |but, thank god, he missed him. then policemen named | |harrington and rourke and moran and kehoe chased the| |man all around the streets there, some heading him | |off when he tried to run into that street that goes | |off at an angle--east broadway, isn't it? a big | |crowd had come out of chinatown now and was chasing | |the man, too, until policemen rourke and kehoe got | |him backed up against a wall. when policeman kehoe | |came up close, the man shot his pistol right at | |kehoe and the bullet grazed kehoe's helmet. | | | |"all the policemen jumped at the man then, and one | |of them knocked the pistol out of his hand with a | |blow of a club. they beat him, this billy morley, so| |jerry says his name is, but they had to because he | |fought so hard. they told me this evening that it | |will go hard with the unfortunate murderer, because | |jerry says that when a man named frank o'hare, who | |was arrested this evening charged with stealing | |cloth or something, was being taken to headquarters,| |he told detective gegan that he and a one-armed man | |who answered to the description of morley, the young| |man who killed gene, had a drink last night in a | |saloon at twenty-second street and avenue a, and | |that when the one-armed man was leaving the saloon | |he turned and said, 'boys, i'm going out now to bang| |a guy with buttons.' | | | |"they haven't brought me gene's body yet. coroner | |shrady, so my jerry says, held billy morley, the | |murderer, without letting him get out on bail, and i| |suppose that in a case like this they have to do a | |lot of things before they can let me have the body | |here. if gene only hadn't died before father | |rafferty got to him, i'd be happier. he didn't need | |to make his confession, you know, but it would have | |been better, wouldn't it? he wasn't bad, and he went| |to mass on sunday without being told; and even in | |lent, when we always say the rosary out loud in the | |dining-room every night, gene himself said to me the| |day after ash wednesday, 'if you want to say the | |rosary at noon, mammy, before i go out, instead of | |at night when i can't be here, we'll do it.' | | | |"god will see that gene's happy to-night, won't he, | |after gene said that?" the mother asked as she | |walked out into the hallway with her black-robed | |daughters grouped behind her. "i know he will," she | |said, "and i'll--" she stopped with an arm resting | |on the banister to support her. "i--i know i | |promised you, girls," said gene's mother, "that i'd | |try not to cry any more, but i can't help it." and | |she turned toward the wall and covered her face with| |her apron.[ ] | [ ] frank ward o'malley in the _new york sun_; reprinted in _the outlook_, lxxxvii, - . = . informational type.=--the second type of feature story, the informational, is the one we find most frequently in the feature section of the editorial page and the sunday edition. it includes such subjects as, "how to jiu-jitsu a holdup man," "why hot water dissolves things," "duties of an international spy," "feminism and the baby crop," "why dogs wag their tails," "the world's highest salaried choir boy," etc. stories of new inventions and discoveries, accounts of the lives of famous and infamous men, of barbaric and court life, methods for lowering the high cost of living, explanations of the workings of the parcel post system, facts telling the effects of the european war,--these are some of the kinds of news included. timeliness is not essential, but is valuable, as in the publication of halloween, christmas, easter, and vacation stories at their appropriate seasons. = . sources.=--the sources of feature stories are everywhere,--on the street, in the club, at church, in the court room, on the athletic field, in reference books and government publications, in the journals of fashion, anywhere that an observing reporter will look. old settlers and residents, particularly on their birthdays and wedding anniversaries, are good for stories of the town or state as it used to be fifty years ago; and their photographs add to the value of their stories. travelers just returned from foreign countries or from distant sections of the united states provide good feature copy. educational journals, forestry publications, mining statistics, geological surveys, court decisions, all furnish valuable data. the only requirement in obtaining information is personal observation and investigation. = . form.=--the form of the feature story is anomalous. it has none. one is at liberty to begin in any way likely to attract the reader, and to continue in any way that will hold him. possibly informal leads are the rule rather than the exception--leads that will arrest attention by telling enough of the story to excite curiosity without giving all the details. note the suspensive effect of the following leads: | =sam dreams of robbers= | | | |two big black-bearded robbers, armed to the hat-band| |and vowing to blow his appetite away from his | |personality if he uttered a tweet, walked into the | |mind of samuel shuster on wednesday night as he lay | |snoring in his four-post bed at no. market | |street. one placed a large warty hand around | |samuel's windpipe and began to play it, and the | |other with a furtive look up and down stage reached | |into his pocket and drew forth $ . with a scream, | |two yowls, and a tiger, samuel awoke.... | | =fixes broken leg with nails= | | | |capt. patrick rogers of truck company no. found a | |man leaning against the quarters at washington and | |clinton streets early yesterday and demanded what he| |was doing. | | | |"i broke my leg getting off a car," said the | |stranger. "gimme a hammer and some nails and i'll | |fix it." ... | | =american waste= | | | |if it were not for our industrial wastefulness, it | |is a fair guess that the income of the united states| |would be sixteen times--well, do you know that | |america burns up forty thousand tons of paper a day,| |worth fifty dollars a ton? that alone is $ , , | |a day wasted.... | | =finds woman dead in barn= | | | |stephen garrity of seventy-third street stepped| |into a deserted barn at seventy-fourth street and | |ashland avenue yesterday afternoon to get out of the| |wind and light his pipe. | | | |he was just about to apply a lighted match to the | |pipe when he saw the form of a woman hanging to one | |of the rafters. a long black silk-lined coat hung so| |that garrity could see a black skirt, a white waist,| |and black shoes. the woman had a fair complexion and| |brown hair. | | | |the match burned garrity's fingers and went out.... | = . suspense story.=--in some feature stories the writers attempt to hold their readers' interest by making the narrative suspensive throughout. | ="missouri" in chicago= | | | |"missouri" perkins is sixteen and hails from kansas | |city. this morning he walked into the office of the | |postal telegraph company on dearborn street and | |asked for a job. the manager happened to want a | |messenger boy just at that moment and gave him a | |message to deliver in a hurry. | | | |"here's your chance, my boy," said the manager. | |"these people have been kicking about undelivered | |messages. now don't come back until you deliver it."| | | |a while afterward the telephone rang. on the other | |end of the wire was a building watchman, somewhat | |terrified. | | | |"have you got a boy they call 'missouri?'" inquired | |the watchman. | | | |"we did have ten minutes ago," replied the manager. | | | |the watchman continued: "that 'missouri' feller came| |over here and said he had to go to one of the | |offices. we don't allow no one up at that office at | |this hour and i told him he couldn't go." | | | |"yes, yes," said the manager. | | | |"well," said the watchman, "he said he would go, and| |i had to pull my gun on him." | | | |"but you didn't shoot my messenger," exclaimed the | |manager. | | | |"no," meekly came the response over the wire, "but i| |want my gun back." | = . uniqueness of style.=--again, a writer will resort to uniqueness of form or style to get his effect. | =his wife, she went away= | | | | =and he did a little entertaining, which | | leads up to this story= | | | |mrs. gladys i. fick visited in california. | | | |mr. fick entertained while she was away. | | | |mrs. fick found it out. | | | |and got a divorce. | | | |yesterday. | = . unity of impression.=--most frequently, however, the effort is to obtain unity of impression through close adherence to a single tone or effect. the story by frank ward o'malley on page has already been cited as an excellent story of pathos, and the following may be examined as a portrayal of childish loyalty: | =silent about bullet in brain= | | | |a tragedy of childhood featuring the loyalty of | | -year-old stephen stec to his three years younger | |brother albert, even when he felt death near, was | |brought out at kenosha hospital to-day. x-ray | |pictures showed that the older boy had a bullet from| |a revolver embedded to a distance of three inches in| |the brain matter. | | | |the boy was shot by his younger brother sunday | |afternoon, but after they had agreed to keep secret | |the story of the shooting, stephen, with the | |stoicism of a spartan, had refused to tell the | |story. when the x-ray picture revealed his secret he| |sobbed out, "he didn't mean to do it." then he told | |the story. | | | | ="just tired out," he says= | | | |the two boys had been left at home alone on sunday | |afternoon. their father, albert stec, a prosperous | |market man, had warned them never to touch a | |revolver which lay in a drawer. little albert, not | |yet years old, got the weapon, pointed it at the | |brother, and pulled the trigger. the bullet entered | |the back of the other boy's head. the mother, on her| |return home, found the boy on the floor with his | |little brother keeping a vigil. | | | |"i'm just tired out," the boy told his mother. she | |put him to bed and tucked him away under the covers.| |with the little brother playing about the bed he | |went off to sleep. | | | | =physician stumbles onto secret= | | | |monday morning he appeared sick and remained at home| |from school. in the afternoon his mother became | |worried when he failed to recover from drowsiness | |which had overtaken him and she called dr. j. n. | |pait. the physician made an examination of the boy, | |but found nothing to account for his condition. | | | |then he rubbed his hand over his head. the telltale | |blood revealed the fact that the boy had been | |injured. with the little brother holding on to his | |coat the boy walked bravely to an automobile and was| |taken to the kenosha hospital, where the x-ray | |machine revealed his secret. | | | | =all functions remain normal= | | | |this afternoon at the hospital it was declared that | |the boy showed no sign of fever and that his pulse | |was normal. | | | |"the case is a most remarkable one," declared dr. | |pait. "the boy is cheerful and every organ of the | |body is performing its functions, but at that there | |is the bullet in his brain. we expect sudden | |collapse in the case, but a boy as brave as he is | |should live." the little fellow made no complaint | |and when the smaller brother was brought to the | |hospital their greeting was of a most tender nature.| | | |"that big machine gave it away," was the way the | |injured boy broke the story of his seeming | |faithlessness to his trust.[ ] | [ ] _chicago tribune_, march , . = . feature story writers.=--feature stories in the sunday supplement are written generally by a regular staff of writers. some of the staff are office men on the pay-roll of the papers. others are regular contributors who fill certain amounts of space each week or month. still others, specialists in their lines, write only occasionally, but deal in a scholarly, exhaustive way with their subjects. the feature stories in the news columns are written generally by the stronger men on the regular staff of reporters. some papers have regular feature men on whom they rely for human interest stories. and any newspaper man who can handle such stories well may be sure of a place at an advanced salary over the ordinary reporter. feature stories are coming more and more into prominence on the large dailies because of their appeal to all classes of society, and the beginner, as soon as he becomes acquainted with his surroundings and gains dexterity in the handling of news, is advised to try his hand at the human interest type. it will pay, and success in this field will give a much desired prestige. xx. correspondence stories = . correspondence work.=--in style and construction correspondence stories are not different from the preceding types of news stories. they are taken up for separate examination because their value as news is reckoned differently, because the transmission of them by mail, telegraph, and telephone is individual, and because so many reporters have to know how to handle correspondence work. statistics show that , of the , newspapers in the united states are country papers; and it is from the reporters on these weeklies and small dailies that the big journals obtain most of their state and sectional news. in addition, every large daily has in the chief cities its representatives who, while often engaged in regular reporting, nevertheless do work of a correspondence nature. it is highly advisable, therefore, that every newspaper man, because probably some day he may have to do correspondence work, should know how to gather, write, and file such stories. = . estimating the worth of news.=--a correspondent is both like and unlike a regular reporter--like, in that in his district he is the paper's representative and upon him depends the accurate or inaccurate publication of news; unlike, in that he is comparatively free from supervision and direction, and hence must be discriminating in judging news. it is the correspondent especially who must have the proverbial "nose for news," who must know the difference between information that is nationally and merely locally interesting, who must be able to tell when a column story in a local paper is not worth a stick in a journal a hundred miles away. the best way to develop this discrimination in appreciation of news is to put oneself in imagination in the place of a resident of boston or atlanta or chicago, where the paper is published, and ask oneself if such-and-such an item of news would be interesting were one reading the paper there. for example, one has just learned that andrew jones, the local blacksmith, has had an explosion of powder in his shop, causing a loss of a hundred dollars, with no insurance. one should ask oneself if this story would be worth while to readers who know nothing of andrew jones or the town where the accident has occurred. manifestly not; and the story should not be sent. but if one learns that the accident was caused by the premature explosion of a bomb jones was making for the destruction of a bridge on the great southern and northern railway, then the information is of more than local interest and should immediately be telegraphed with full details. every correspondent should recognize such differences in news values, for papers pay, not according to the amount of copy they receive, but according to the amount they publish. and on the other hand, when correspondents telegraph too many useless items, editors sometimes reverse charges on the unwise writers. = . what not to send.=--the first thing to know in correspondence work, therefore, is what not to send. never report merely local news, such as minor accidents, burglaries, and robberies; obituaries, marriages, entertainments, and court trials of little known personages; murders of obscure persons, unless unusual in some way or involved in mystery; county fairs, fraternal meetings, high-school commencements, local picnics and celebrations; crop and weather conditions, unless markedly abnormal, as frost in june; praise of individuals, hotels, amusement gardens, business enterprises generally; in fact, any press agent stories. stories trespassing the limits of good taste or decency should of course be suppressed. local gossip affecting the reputations of women, preachers, doctors, and professional men generally should be held until it can be verified. any sensational news, indeed, should be carefully investigated before being put on the wires. but as the associated press says in a pamphlet of instructions to its employees: a rumor of sensational news should not be held too long for verification. if the rumor is not libelous it should be sent immediately as a rumor, with the addition that "the story is being investigated." should the news, however, involve persons or firms in a charge that might be libelous, a note to the editors, marked "private, not for publication," should be bulletined that "such and such a story has come to our attention and is being investigated." while accuracy in the associated press despatches is of the highest value and we would rather be beaten than send out an untruthful statement, there is such a thing as carrying the effort to secure accuracy so far as to delay the perfectly proper announcement of a rumor. so long as it is a rumor only it should be announced as a rumor. = . what to send.=--after cautioning the correspondent against sending stories containing merely local news, unfounded rumors, and details offensive to good taste, one must leave him to gather for himself what his paper wants. big news, of course, is always good; but those special types of news, those little hobbies for which individual papers have characteristic weaknesses, one can learn only by studying the columns of the paper for which one corresponds. some newspapers make specialties of freak news, such as odd actions of lightning, three-legged chickens, etc. others will not consider such stories. one daily in america wants a bulletin of every death or injury resulting from celebrations of the fourth of july. another in a middle western state wants all sporting news in its state, particularly that concerning colleges and high schools. still another, an eastern paper this time, wants educational news--what the colleges are doing. other kinds of information in which individual publications specialize are news of nationally prominent men and women, human interest love stories, odd local historical data, humorous or pathetic animal stories, golfing anecdotes, increase or decrease in liquor sales or the number of saloon licenses, etc. = . conducting a local column.=--when conducting a column giving the news of a particular locality or neighborhood, the one thing not to write is that there is little news in the community this week or to-day. the readers of a column should not be allowed to suspect that one has little information to present. all about one are unnumbered sources of news if the correspondent can only find them--humorous incidents, reminiscences of old pioneers, stories of previous extremely wet, dry, hot, or cold seasons, recollections of civil, spanish american, and european war battles, etc. such stories may be had for the asking and played up when there is "nothing doing this week." the use of good feature stories bearing directly on the life of the community will fill one's column, put money into one's pocket, and add readers to the subscription list of the paper. = . stories by mail.=--a correspondent's stories may be sent in any one of three ways--by mail, telephone, or telegraph. the mail should be used for any stories the time of publication of which is not important, such as feature stories, advance stories of speeches, elections, state celebrations, etc. one may use the mail for big stories, provided there is certainty of the letter reaching the office by : a.m. for afternoon papers and : p.m. for morning papers. if the news is big, it is best to put a special delivery stamp on the envelop and wire the paper of the story by mail. if there is doubt about mail reaching the paper promptly, use the telegraph every time. when sending photographs illustrating important news events, one should use special delivery stamps and wire the paper that the pictures are coming. in the case of advance speeches, where the manuscript is forwarded several days ahead, the reporter should specify not only the exact day, but the precise hour for release of the speech, and at the time stated he should wire definite release,--that the address has been given, the speaker beginning at such and such an hour. the necessity of keeping close future books and of keeping the state or telegraph editor in intimate touch by mail with coming events may be urged upon all correspondents. a single event properly played up by a skillful correspondent may be made productive, before its occurrence, of three or four attractive mail stories. and it is the quantity of such stories that adds to the reporter's much desired revenue. = . stories by telephone.=--the telephone is used when the mails are too slow or a telegraph office is not convenient, or when there is need of getting into personal communication with the office. in using the telephone one caution only may be given, that the correspondent should never call up the state editor with merely a jumble of facts at hand. long-distance messages are costly and editors watch all calls closely in an effort to reduce tolls to a minimum. if possible, the correspondent should have his story written--certainly he should have it sketched on paper--before calling the office, so that he may dictate his news in the shortest possible time. = . stories by telegraph.=--the telegraph is for stories demanding immediacy of print, and certain rules govern their handling that every correspondent should know. suppose at six o'clock some afternoon an automobile owned and driven by otto thomson, receiving teller for the local commercial bank, skids over a slippery, tar-covered pavement into a telegraph pole on one of the main streets of the town, killing him and severely injuring two women in the car. what should the correspondent do in such a case? the accident is good for a half-column in _the herald_, the local morning daily, but because thomson was only moderately prominent, one is doubtful if it is worth much in _the world_, the great daily a hundred miles away. after considering all the details, however,--thomson's position locally and the fact that the city may be held liable for the excess of tar at a dangerous turn in the streets,--the reporter may conclude that the story is worth four hundred words. he is still doubtful, however, whether the city paper will consider it worth publishing. his message, therefore,--technically known as a "query"--should be: otto thomson, receiving teller commercial bank, killed at six p.m. by automobile skidding into telegraph pole. two women in car injured. four hundred. : p.m. a. d. anderson this means that the correspondent is prepared to wire a -word story about the accidental death of otto thomson. it tells, too, that the query was filed at : , so that blame may be placed if delivery is delayed. there is no need to ask if the paper wants further details or how much it wants. the message itself is an inquiry. one other important point about it is that it bulletins the news. it is not a "blind" query stating that "a prominent citizen has been killed" or that "a regrettable tragedy has occurred." it gives the facts concisely, so that the editor, if he wishes, may publish them immediately and may decide whether additional details are worth while. = . waiting for the reply.=--while the correspondent is waiting for the reply, he should begin his story and, if possible, have it ready by the time the dispatch comes. the most important details should be placed first, of course, so that if the state editor asks for fewer than four hundred words, the correspondent will have to kill only the last paragraph or so and send the first part of the story as originally written. there is no need of skeletonizing the story to lessen telegraphic charges: that is, of omitting _the's_, _a's_, _an's_, _is's_, etc. the small amount saved in this way is more than offset by the additional time and cost of editing in the office. = . the reply.=--in fifteen or twenty minutes, or perhaps a half-hour, a reply will come, reading, say, "rush three hundred banker's death." this means that the correspondent must keep his story within three hundred words,--an injunction which he must observe strictly. woe to the self-confident writer who sends five hundred words when three hundred have been ordered. he will receive a prompt reprimand for his first offense and probable discharge for the second. if, however, he has used his time wisely since sending the query and has written his story rightly, he will have no trouble in lopping off the final paragraph and putting the three hundred words on the wire within a few minutes after receipt of the order. = . no reply.=--the correspondent need not be surprised or chagrined, however, if no reply comes,--the paper's silence meaning that the story is not wanted. the accident may have been covered by one of the regular news bureaus--the associated press, the united press, or possibly a local news-gathering organization. or the bulletin itself may have been all the paper wanted,--due credit and pay for which the correspondent will receive at the end of the month. or the story may have been crowded out by news of greater importance. this last reason is a very possible one, which every correspondent should consider whenever a story breaks. the space value of a paper's columns doubles and quadruples as press time approaches,--so that a story which would be given generous space if received at eight o'clock may be thrown into the wastebasket if received four hours later. = . hours for filing.=--the extreme hours for filing dispatches to catch the various editions are worth noting and remembering. for an afternoon paper the story should be in the hands of the telegraph operator not later than : a.m. for the noon edition, : m. for the three o'clock, and : p.m. for the five o'clock edition. if the news is extraordinary--big enough to justify ripping open the front page--it may be filed as late as : p.m., though the columns of an afternoon paper are practically closed to correspondents after : or : p.m. any news occurring after : p.m. should be filed as early as possible, but should be marked n. p. r. (night press rate), so that it will be sent after : p.m., when telegraphic charges are smaller. for a morning paper news may be filed as late as : a.m., though the columns are practically closed to correspondents after midnight. = . big news.=--when big or unusual news breaks,--news about which there is no doubt of the general interest,--the correspondent should bulletin a lead immediately, with the probable length of the story and the time of filing affixed. thus: marietta, ga., aug. .--leo m. frank, whom the georgia courts declared guilty of the murder of fourteen-year-old mary phagan of marietta, was lynched two miles from here at an early hour this morning. frank was brought in an automobile to marietta by a band of twenty-five masked men who stormed the milledgeville prison farm shortly after midnight. two thousand. : . sherman then--particularly if the hour is nearing press time--the correspondent should follow as rapidly as possible with instalments of the detailed story, without waiting for a reply to the bulletin lead. when there is doubt about the length, editors would rather have one not take chances on delaying the news,--would rather have too much of a story than too little. besides, a writer cannot get further than the second or third instalment before specific orders will arrive from the paper. = . the detailed story.=--after the lead, the details follow as in a normal story, the individual instalments being given the operator as fast as he can take them, each one marked "more" except the last, which is marked " ." thus the continuation of the bulletin lead of the frank lynching just given would be: not one of the armed prison guards, according to the best information now obtainable, raised a hand to prevent the mob accomplishing its purpose. frank was taken from his cell and rushed to a spot previously chosen for the lynching, about a hundred miles from the prison. not a soul, it is said, knew positively whether the men were his friends or his enemies until the lifeless body was discovered this morning. more. : p. m. sherman then the final instalment might read: the rope placed around frank's neck was tied in such a way as to reopen the wound caused some weeks ago when a fellow prisoner attempted to kill him by cutting his throat. loss of blood from the re-opened wound no doubt would have caused his death had he not strangled. thirty. : . sherman the "thirty" is the telegrapher's signal indicating the completion of the story. = . sporting news.=--in handling sporting news a few specific instructions are needful, the first being the necessity of absolute impartiality in all controversies. local rival sportsmen in their keen desire to win are continually breeding quarrels, which frequently make it difficult for the observer not to be biased; but the correspondent must be careful to present simple facts only, without editorializing. the need of filing all afternoon scores by : p.m., with : p.m. as the outside limit, should also be noted. morning papers put their sporting news on inside pages and must make up the forms early. there is need of the utmost caution in having the news correct, particularly the box scores of baseball games, which have an unhappy way of failing to balance when one compares individual scores with the totals. in all contests where a seeming new record has been made, the correspondent should be sure of the record before telegraphing it as such. if there is the slightest doubt, report it as "what is said to be a record." finally, one should be cautioned against reporting mere high-school contests, boxing bouts between local men, and other sporting news possessing limited interest only. = . general instructions.=--in conclusion, a few general instructions may be given for the guidance of correspondents: . when forwarding time stories, advance manuscript of speeches, cuts, etc., send by mail. the express companies do not deliver at night. . in telegrams spell out round numbers; and mark the beginning of speeches by the word _quote_, and the end by _end quote_. . keep the telegraph companies informed always of your street address and telephone number. it is well also to maintain friendly relations with the operators. frequently they can be of valuable service to a correspondent. . finish all incomplete stories. it sometimes happens that one will wire a dispatch of the beginning of a seeming big fire or a seeming great murder mystery, which the paper will feature as important news, but which later will prove of no worth. such stories should be cleared up and the results made known to avoid keeping the paper in a quandary over the outcome. . when reporting fires, accidents, disasters, etc., locate the scene as accurately as possible. this is sometimes accomplished by reference to well-known buildings or landmarks, in addition to the exact street location. . when a big story breaks, go after it, no matter if there is need of incurring expense. papers will stand any reasonable expense for valuable news. . never forget the worth of sending time. every minute is valuable. . until you have received your first check, clip and keep every story printed. most papers keep their own accounts with correspondents, but some require them to send in at the end of each month their "string:" that is, all their stories pasted together end to end. payment is then made on the basis of the number of columns, the rates varying from $ to $ a column of words. appendix style-book i. handling copy = . definition.=--_copy_ is any manuscript prepared for printing, and is written according to the individual style rules of each newspaper. the first thing for a reporter to do on beginning work in an office is to ask for the style-book, the manual for the guidance of reporters, copy-readers, and compositors. the chances are nine to one that the paper will not have such a book, since only the larger dailies print their rules of style, and that the reporter must study the columns of the paper and the changes made in his own stories for the individual office rules. if the paper happens to be the tenth one, however, the reporter should employ every spare moment studying the manual and should write every story, even his first one, as nearly as possible in accord with the printed rules, as the copy readers will insist on a strict observance of the regulations. many of the rules will be mere _don'ts_, embodying common errors of diction. others may be particular aversions of the editor or the head copy-reader and may have little regard for or relation to best usage. but such rules must be observed, even though they may be as absurd and contrary to all custom, as that of one metropolitan paper which makes its reporters write "farwell-av," a usage peculiar to that journal. all such requirements may be found in the style-book, which, whenever in doubt, the reporter should consult rather than the columns of the paper, as the paper is not always reliable. uncorrected matter is frequently hurried into the forms, causing variations that the rules of composition forbid. = . the typewriter.=--the first requirement in preparing copy is a knowledge of how to handle a typewriter dexterously. in all offices the reporters are furnished with typewriters, and one is helpless until one learns how to use a machine. longhand copy rarely is sent to the compositors nowadays. if such copy comes into the office, it is generally given to stenographers or reporters to type before being dispatched to the composing room. = . longhand copy.=--at times, however, when away from the office, one cannot obtain a machine and must write in longhand. in such cases, write with painstaking care for accuracy. other things being equal, it is the legible copy that survives. unusual proper names and technical words that are liable to be mistaken in copying should be printed letter by letter. if there is a possibility at any time of confusing an _o_ with an _a_, or a _u_ with an _n_, the _u_ and _a_ should be underscored and the _n_ and _o_ overscored. quotation-marks should be enclosed in half-circles--thus, \"/jag\"/--to show whether they are beginning or end marks. and instead of a period, a small cross should be used, or else the period be enclosed in a circle. = . paper.=--writing paper is always supplied in the office. even when one is a correspondent in a neighboring town, stationery, including self-addressed envelopes, is frequently furnished by the journal for which one corresponds. some newspapers, however, do not provide writing supplies. in such cases the correspondent should choose unglazed paper of a neutral tint--gray, yellow, or manila brown. the paper most commonly used is unruled print paper x or - / x inches in size and of sufficient firmness to permit use of either ink or pencil. = . margins.=--except for the writer's name in a ring at the extreme left corner of the page, the top half of the first page of copy should be left blank, so that the headlines may be written there by the headline writer. all the sheets should have a margin of an inch at the bottom and at each side of the paper, and all other sheets than the first should have a margin of an inch at the top. the side margins are necessary for the corrections of the copy editors; the margins at the bottom are for convenience in pasting the sheets together; and the top margins are necessary for paging. = . paragraph indention.=--all paragraphs, including the first, should be indented an inch, irrespective of where the preceding paragraph has ended, and should be marked with the paragraph sign, a rectangle (=l=) placed before the first word. if two paragraphs have been run together thoughtlessly and it is necessary to separate them, insert the paragraph symbol (¶) immediately before the word beginning the new paragraph and write the same symbol in the margin. if the paragraph completes the page, a paragraph sign also should be put at the end, to indicate to the compositor that he may conclude his "take" with a broken line. no other lines than the first lines of paragraphs--quotations and summaries of course excepted--should be indented. = . consolidation of paragraphs.=--when it is necessary to consolidate two paragraphs that have been written separately, draw a line from the end of the first to the beginning of the second and mark _no_ ¶ in the margin. use the same method when several lines or sentences have been canceled and the matter is meant to be continuous. or when a new sentence has been indented unnecessarily, no paragraph being needed, draw a line from the first word to the left margin and mark _no_ ¶ there. if a sentence ends at the foot of a sheet, but the paragraph continues on the next page, draw a diagonal line from the last word to the right corner at the foot of the page, and on the next sheet draw a diagonal line from the upper left corner to the first word of the new sentence. these lines indicate to the compositor that any "take" ending with the first page or beginning with the second is not complete and may not conclude with a broken line or begin with an indented one. = . crowded lines.=--do not crowd lines together. when the copy is typewritten, adjust the machine to make triple spaces between lines. when it is necessary to write the copy in longhand, leave a quarter-inch space between lines. crowded lines saddle much extra trouble upon copy-readers, compelling them to cut and paste many times to make necessary corrections. exception to the rule against crowded lines is made only when one has a paragraph a trifle too long for a page. it is better to crowd the last lines of a page a trifle than to run two or three words of a paragraph over to a new page. = . the pages.=--if a paragraph would normally begin on the last line of a page, leave the line blank and start the new paragraph on a fresh sheet of paper. one may not write on more than one side of a sheet, not even if there are only two or three words to go on the next page. in the offices of the big dailies each sheet is cut into takes, numbered consecutively, and sent to as many different compositors. irremediable confusion would be caused for a foreman who tried to handle copy written on both sides, for each take would contain a part of some other compositor's copy. the new page, too, should be numbered at the top with an arabic, not a roman, numeral. and in order to prevent the figure from being mistaken for a part of the article, it should be enclosed in a circle. = . insertions.=--the reporter should make as few corrections as possible. but where any considerable addition or insertion is found necessary on a page, instead of writing the addition in the margin or on a separate sheet, cut the page and paste in the addition. the sheet may be made the same length as its fellows by folding the lower edge forward upon the written page. if it is folded backward, the fold is liable to be unnoticed, and therefore may cause confusion. = . "add stories."=--when a story is incomplete, either by reason of the end of the page being reached or because all the story is not yet in, write the word _more_ in a circle at the foot of the page, the purpose of the circle being to prevent the compositor from mistaking the word for a part of the story. "add" stories,--stories that follow others already written or in type,--are marked with the catch line and the number of the addition. thus the first addition to a story about a saloon robbery would be marked, "add , saloon robbery"; and the second would be, "add , saloon robbery." an insert into the story would be slugged, "insert a, saloon robbery"; and the precise place of the insert would be indicated at the top of the inserted page: "insert after first paragraph of lead, saloon robbery." such directions are always enclosed in rings so that the compositor may not set them in the story. = . illustrations, clippings.=--if cuts or illustrations are to be printed with the copy, indicate as nearly as possible where they will appear in the printed story by "turn rule for cut." that says to the compositor, "make in the proofs a black ruled line for later insertion of a cut." the make-up editor may change the position of the cut to obtain a better balance of illustrations on the page or to avoid putting the picture where the paper will fold, but the direction will be worth while as an aid in placing the illustration accurately. clippings included in the story should be pasted in the copy. pins and clips slip easily and may cause loss of the clipping. = . underscoring.=--underscore once for _italics_, twice for small capitals, and three times for capitals. use wave-line underscoring to indicate =display type=. many newspapers have abandoned italic type and small capitals altogether, because their linotype machines carry only two kinds of type, and black-face type is needed for headlines, etc. because of this, where one formerly might underscore a word for emphasis, it is necessary now to reword the sentence altogether. = . corrections.=--when it is necessary to strike out letters or words from copy, run the pen or pencil through them and draw a line between those to be set up together. do not enclose in parentheses words to be erased. a printer will not omit, but will set up in type, parentheses and everything enclosed within them. when a letter or word has been wrongly stricken out, it may be restored by making a series of dots immediately beneath and writing the word _stet_ in the margin. two letters, words, or phrases that one wishes transposed may be so indicated by drawing a continuous line over the first and under the second and writing _tr_ in the margin. a capital letter that should be a small letter may be so indicated by drawing a line downward from right to left through the letter. because of the haste frequently necessary in writing copy, it has become a trick of the trade to enclose within a circle an abbreviation, a figure, or an ampersand that the writer desires the printer to spell out in full. do not "ring" a figure or a number, however, without being sure it should be spelled out. it is much easier for a copy-reader to ring a number that needs to be spelled out than to erase an unnecessary circle. if it is necessary to have the printer set up slangy, misspelled, or improperly capitalized words, or ungrammatical or poorly punctuated sentences, put in the margin, _follow copy_. for illustrations of these corrections, the reader may examine the specimen proof sheet on page . = . the end.=--mark the completion of the story with an end mark, a #, or the figure _ _ in a circle, the telegrapher's sign indicating the end of a day or a night report. then read carefully every page of the copy, correcting every error, no matter how slight. finally, give it to the city editor, unfolded if possible, but never rolled. if it is inconvenient to keep the pages flat, they may be folded lengthwise. folding crosswise makes the copy inconvenient to handle. the sheets should not be pinned together. the pin betrays the novice. = . the story in type.=--a reporter should read his story with painstaking care after it has appeared in print, to detect any errors that may have crept into it since it left his hands and to note what changes have been made at the city desk. it is told of a reporter, now a star man on a leading new york daily, that he used to keep carbon copies of all his stories and compare them word for word with the articles as they appeared in the paper. only in this way can a writer change his style for the better and learn what is expected of him. ii. punctuation = . rules.=--while every well-regulated newspaper has rules of its own governing the use of capital letters, commas, dashes, parentheses, and other marks of punctuation, and any article written by a reporter will be punctuated according to the individual style of the paper in which it is printed, no matter how it may have been punctuated originally, it is nevertheless worth while to offer the following general rules of punctuation for the guidance of news writers. and it would be well for every properly trained journalist to have these rules well in hand; for in the eyes of the editor and the printer, bad punctuation is worse than bad spelling, because the meaning of a misspelled word usually can be deciphered, while that of an improperly punctuated sentence is often hopeless. for one, therefore, who hopes to do successful journalistic work a thorough knowledge of the following rules of punctuation is practically a necessity. . capital letters = . proper names.=--capitalize all proper names. a proper name is one that designates a particular person, place, or thing. in particular: = . titles of books, etc.=--capitalize the first word and all the important words in the titles of books, newspapers, magazines, magazine articles, poems, plays, pictures, etc.: that is, the first word and all other words except articles, demonstratives, prepositions, conjunctions, auxiliary verbs, relative pronouns, and other pronouns in the possessive case. a _the_ preceding the title of a newspaper or a magazine is regarded as part of the title and is capitalized. =right.=--two copies of _the atlanta constitution_ were produced. = . names and titles of the deity.=--capitalize names and titles of the deity and of jesus christ. = . names of the bible.=--capitalize names of the bible and other sacred books, of the versions of the bible, and of the books and divisions of the bible and other sacred books. do not capitalize adjectives derived from such names. =right.=--the _koran_, the _septuagint_, the _old testament_, _psalms_; but _biblical_, _scriptural_, _apocryphal_. = . titles of respect, honor, office, or profession.=--capitalize titles of respect, honor, nobility, office, or profession when such titles immediately precede proper names. do not capitalize such titles elsewhere in the sentence. the prefix _ex-_ before a title is not capitalized and does not affect the capitalization of the title. =right.=--the rev. samuel plantz, president wilson, ex-president roosevelt, senator newlands. =right.=--the archbishop and the senator were in conference all the morning with mr. bryan, former secretary of state under president wilson. = . names indicating nationality or locality.=--capitalize names distinguishing nationality or locality: as, _yankee_, _creole_, _hoosier_, _wolverines_. = . names of athletic teams.=--capitalize names of athletic teams: as, _giants_, _cubs_, _badgers_, _tigers_, _maroons_. = . festivals and holidays.=--begin the names of festivals and holidays with capital letters: as, _easter_, _thanksgiving_, _christmas_, _labor day_. = . societies, political parties, etc.=--write with capitals the names of clubs, secret societies, religious denominations, colleges, political parties, corporations, railroads, and organizations generally: as _riverview country club_, _elks_, _baptist church_, _mills college_, _republican party_, _santa fe railroad_, etc. = . ordinal numbers.=--ordinal numbers used to denote sessions of congress, political divisions, and city wards are written with capital letters: as, _sixty-second congress_, _tenth precinct_, _third ward_, etc. = . names of buildings, squares, parks, etc.=--names of buildings, blocks, squares, parks, drives, etc., are capitalized: as, _times building_, _temple block_, _yellowstone park_, _sheridan road_, etc. = . common nouns joined with proper names.=--capitalize any common noun joined with a proper name and meaning the same thing, when the common noun precedes. do not capitalize the common noun if it follows the proper name. thus: _columbia university_, _university of chicago_, _first presbyterian church_, _church of the savior_, _national bank of north america_, _first national bank_, _memorial day_, _fourth of july_. = . boards, committees, legislative bodies, etc.=--do not capitalize names of boards, bureaus, offices, departments, committees, legal, legislative, and political bodies, etc., when standing alone: as, _school board_, _weather bureau_, _war office_, _health department_, _nominating committee_, _assembly_, _state senate_, _lower house_, _city council_. = . prefixes "von," "de," etc.=--do not capitalize the prefixes _von_, _de_, _di_, _le_, _la_, etc., except when they begin a sentence: as, _capt. von papen_. = . toasts.=--in toasts, capitalize all the important words in the phrase indicating the person, the place, or the cause to which the toast is made: as, "my country--may it always be right; but, right or wrong, my country." = . nouns followed by numerals.=--do not capitalize a noun followed by a numeral indicating position, place, or order of sequence: as, _lot _, _block _; _article iii_, _section _, _act v_, etc. = . resolutions for debate.=--in resolutions for debate, capitalize the _resolved_ and the _that_ following. =right.=--_resolved_, that missouri should establish schedules of minimum wages for workmen, constitutionality conceded. . the period = . roman numerals.=--omit the period after roman numerals: as, _louis xiv of france_. = . abbreviations.=--place a period after abbreviated words and after single or double initial letters representing single words: as, _wm._, _thos._, _ph.d._, _ll.d._, etc. = . contractions.=--do not put a period after contracted words, including nicknames: as, _bill_, _tom_, _can't_, _hadn't_, etc. = . side-heads.=--put a period after side-heads, including figures at the beginning of a paragraph. compare, for example, the period after _side-heads_ at the beginning of this paragraph. . the colon = . formal quotations.=--a colon is used to introduce a formal quotation. =right.=--the author also makes this significant statement: "there is every reason to believe that this disease plays a larger part in the production of idiocy than has hitherto been admitted by writers on insanity." = . formal enumerations.=--in lists of the dead, injured, persons present, and similar enumerations of particulars, use a colon to introduce the series. =right.=--only four patrons appeared in this morning's police matinee: chip owens, allie mcgowan, alfonso blas, and nick muskowitz. = . time indications.=--in time indications and records place a colon between hours and minutes, and minutes and seconds: as, _gates open, : _; _time, : _. = . general usage.=--in general, use a colon after any word, phrase, or clause when that which follows explains or makes clear what precedes. . the semicolon = . compound sentences.=--a semicolon is used in compound sentences to separate independent clauses that have no connective between. the semicolon in such constructions, however, is fast disappearing from newspaper columns. complex constructions are avoided. usage favors making a separate sentence of the second clause. =right.=--brown came first; johnson followed five seconds later, with jones third. =permissible.=--the murder was committed sometime before : o'clock; at : this morning the murderer was in jail. =better.=--the murder was committed sometime before : o'clock. at : this morning the murderer was in jail. = . lists.=--in lists of dead, injured, guests, etc., where the name of the town from which the persons come or the place of residence is given, separate the different names by semicolons. =right.=--among those present were: allen rogers of las vegas, n. m.; orren thomas of benton, mo.; mr. and mrs. henry barnes of sioux city, ia. = . athletic results.=--in football, baseball, and similar athletic results, use a semicolon to separate the names of the teams and their scores: as, _cornell, _; _syracuse, _. = . instead of commas.=--a semicolon may be used instead of a comma when a clause or sentence is so broken up by commas as to need some other mark of punctuation to keep the larger phrase- and clause-relations clear. . the comma = . parenthetic expressions.=--parenthetic words, phrases, and clauses, whether used at the beginning, middle, or end of a sentence, are set off by commas when they cause a marked interruption between grammatically connected parts of the sentence. if in doubt about the need of a comma, omit it. =right.=--he, like many others, believes firmly in the rightness of the new movement. = . words in apposition.=--a word in apposition with another word and meaning the same thing should be set off by commas. =right.=--henry owen, lineman for the local telegraph company, was the only witness of the accident. = . with "namely," "that is," etc.=--a comma is placed before _and_, _namely_, _viz._, _that is_, _i.e._, _as_, _to wit_, etc., when introducing an example, an illustration, or an explanation. = . contrasted words and phrases.=--set off contrasted words and phrases with commas. =right.=--hard work, not genius, was what enabled him to succeed. =right.=--the faster they work, the better they are paid. = . introductory words and phrases.=--introductory words, phrases, and clauses at the beginning of a sentence, when they modify the whole sentence and serve as a connective, are set off by commas. =right.=--yes, he had even tried to bribe the officer. =right.=--on the other hand, the prisoner had taken her for a member of the gang. = . in direct address.=--words used in direct address are set off by commas. =right.=--mark this, gentlemen of the jury, in his list of forgeries. = . explanatory dates and names.=--a date explaining a previous date or a geographical name explaining a previous name is set off by commas. =right.=--on april , , she was arrested at chicago, ill. = . phrases indicating residence, position, or title.=--omit the comma before _of_ in phrases indicating residence, position, or title. =right.=--among the out-of-town guests were miss helen hahn of gainesville, mrs. henry bushman of athens, and orren cramer of atlanta. =right.=--dwight o. conklin of the bessemer smelting company was the chief speaker. = . academic and honorary titles.=--academic and honorary titles are set off from proper names and from each other by commas: as, _president o. n. fowler, ph.d., ll.d._ = . names followed by initials.=--baptismal names or initials following a surname are set off by commas: as, _arendale, charles v._ = . words, phrases, and clauses in a series.=--the members of a series of two or more words, phrases, or clauses standing in the same relation and not connected by conjunctions, are separated by commas. when the series consists of three or more members and a conjunction is used to connect only the last two, the comma may or may not be put before the conjunction. better usage, however, favors the inclusion of the comma. =right.=--the teller was kicked, beaten, and robbed by four masked men. = . after interjections.=--interjections that are but slightly exclamatory are followed by commas. the following distinctions in the use of the interjections _o_ and _oh_ may be noted: _oh_ generally takes a comma after it, _o_ never; except at the beginning of a sentence, _oh_ is written with a small letter, _o_ always with a capital; and _oh_ is used always by itself, while _o_ properly comes only in direct address: as, _o lord of life_. =right.=--ah, the happy days and the happy city! =right.=--oh, but the way the boys splashed! = . short quotations and maxims.=--set off short informal quotations and maxims with commas. =right.=--he was last heard to say, "if i don't return in time, call up the office." = . in large numbers.=--use commas to separate large numbers into groups of three figures each: as, $ , , . omit the comma, however, in dates and in street, telephone, and automobile numbers. = . athletic scores.=--in football, baseball, and similar records, place a comma between the name of the team and its score: as, _new orleans, _; _memphis, _. = . biblical passages.=--place a comma between chapter and verse in citations of biblical passages: as, _john , _. = . resolutions for debate.=--in resolutions for debate, put a comma after _resolved_. =right.=--_resolved_, that women should be given the right of suffrage. = . general usage.=--in general, use a comma to mark any distinct pause not indicated by other marks of punctuation, and to make clear any word, phrase, or clause that may be obscure without a comma. but do not use commas except when they are a distinct necessity. omit them except when they are needful for emphasis or for the clearness of the sentence. . the dash = . sudden break in thought.=--use a dash to mark a sudden suspension of the thought or a violent break in the construction of the sentence. =right.=--"you mean to say--just what are you talking about?" he questioned awkwardly. = . date lines.=--in stories written under a date line place a dash between the date or the _special_ and the beginning of the story. thus: sylvester, ga., jan. .--five negroes were taken from the county jail and lynched at an early hour this morning. = . after "namely," "viz.," etc.=--place a dash after _namely_, _as_, _that is_, _viz._, etc., when introducing an example or an illustration. =right.=--the mob seemed to hold him responsible for two things, namely--the lost key and the barred door. = . lists of officers.=--in giving lists of officers, put a dash between the name of the office and the officer. thus: |the newly elected officers are: president--o. n. | |homer; vice president--abner king; secretary--david | |thoeder; treasurer--mark bronson. | = . dialogue, questions and answers.=--in quoting questions and answers, proceedings of public bodies or trials, and dialogue generally, put a dash between the _q._ or the _a._, or the name of the speaker, and the statement made. and make a new paragraph for each speaker. thus: _q._--are you a resident of montana? _a._--i have been for four years. = . slowness of speech.=--put a dash between words or phrases to indicate slowness or hesitancy in speech. thus: "these, he said, were his--er--wife's slippers." . parentheses = . political parties.=--in legislative or congressional reports in which the political affiliation of a member, or the state or county from which he comes, is given, enclose the party, state, or county name in parentheses: as, _mr. smith (dem., s. c.)_, _mr. harris (jefferson)_. = . general usage.=--avoid the use of parentheses within sentences. two short sentences are better than one long one containing a parenthetic expression. a sentence having a clause within marks of parentheses can generally be cut into two sentences and for newspaper purposes made more effective. . quotation-marks = . direct quotations.=--quotation-marks are used to set off direct quotations printed in the same type and style as the remainder of the story. a quotation coming within a quotation is set off by single quotation-marks; and a third quotation coming within single quotation-marks is set off by double marks again. do not fail to put "quotes" at the end of a quotation. this very common error, failure to include the "end quotes," is a source of great annoyance to printers and proof-readers. = . quoted paragraphs.=--when a quotation includes more than one paragraph set in the same type and style as the context, put quotation-marks at the beginning of each paragraph, but omit them at the end of every paragraph except the last. in this way the quotation is shown to be continuous. as a rule, a quotation of more than one sentence is written in a separate paragraph. when the quotation is to be set in smaller type than the body of the story, all quotation-marks at the beginning and end of the paragraphs are omitted. = . quotations and summaries.=--when reporting a speech or interview and alternately summarizing and quoting verbatim, do not include in the same paragraph a direct quotation and a condensed summary of what precedes or follows. make a separate paragraph for each. thus: |"shall we continue to listen to a wandering voice as| |imbecile as our condition?" said the speaker. "when | |this voice recently was removed from the counsels of| |our government, we thought, good easy souls, that we| |had got rid of it forever. has mr. bryan proved | |himself so good a prophet in the past that we can | |afford to trust him in the future? personally, i | |have never believed in mr. bryan's wisdom, and i | |grant him sincerity only because the point is not | |worth arguing." | | | |mr. eastbrook said, amid applause, that to say the | |nation is too big or too proud to fight in | |self-defense is absurd. to say that a mob of a | |million or so of untrained citizenry could leap to | |arms and put to flight the bullet-tested soldiery of| |europe is worse than puerile--is murderous | |stupidity, he declared.... | = . books, plays, etc.=--enclose in quotation-marks the titles of books, dramas, songs, poems, stories, magazine articles, toasts, and lectures. = . newspapers, vessels, etc.=--do not quote the names of newspapers, magazines, paintings, vessels, cars, or animals. = . slang and technical terms.=--enclose in quotation-marks slang and technical terms that are supposedly unfamiliar to the reader. = . nicknames.=--do not quote nicknames of persons or of characters in plays or novels: as, _ty cobb_, _t. r._, _heinie zim_, _becky sharp_, etc. . the apostrophe = . possessive case.=--use an apostrophe and an _s_ to indicate the possessive case singular, no matter whether the word ends in one or two _s's_: as, _burns's house_, _furness's hat_.[ ] use the apostrophe and _s_ to indicate the possessive case plural when the plural does not end in _s_: as, _men's meeting_, _children's shoes_. use only the apostrophe to indicate the possessive case plural when the plural ends in _s_: as, _boys' hats_, _ladies' outfitter_. in names of corporations, cases of joint authorship, etc., where two names are equally in the possessive case, put the apostrophe, or the apostrophe and _s_, only after the name nearest the thing possessed: as, _farmers and merchants' bank_, _allen and bowen's "classical mythology_." [ ] occasional exceptions to this general rule are found, where euphony would be violated by the additional _s_: as, ulysses' son, moses' staff. = . possessive pronouns.=--do not use the apostrophe before the _s_ in possessive pronouns: as, _its_, _hers_, _theirs_. = . contractions.=--use an apostrophe in contracted words to indicate the omission of letters: as, _couldn't_, _he'll_, _you're_. . the hyphen = . compound words.=--put a hyphen between the members of a compound word. words compounded with the following prefixes and suffixes are generally hyphenated: _able-_, _brother-_, _by-_, _cross-_, _-elect_, _ex-_, _father-_, _great-_, _half-_, _-hand_, _mother-_, _open-_, _public-_, _quarter-_, _-rate_, _self-_. in particular, hyphenate the following words: able-bodied attorney-general balk-line base-hit base-line basket-ball brother-in-law bucket-shop by-law by-product court-martial cross-examine ex-president father-in-law full-back goal-line goal-post good-by great-grandfather half-back half-witted home-stretch judge-elect kick-off kick-out law-abiding life-saving line-up mail-box man-of-war mother-in-law office-seeker old-fashioned post-mortem post-office president-elect quarter-back quarter-stretch second-rate shop-girl short-stop side-lines so-called (a.) son-in-law spit-ball to-day to-morrow to-night . words written solid.--words compounded of the following prefixes and suffixes are generally written solid: _a-_, _after-_, _ante-_, _anti-_, _auto-_, _bi-_, _demi-_, _-ever_, _grand-_, _-holder_, _in-_, _inter-_, _intra-_, _-less_, _mid-_, _mis-_, _off-_, _on-_, _over-_, _post-_, _re-_, _-some_, _sub-_, _super-_, _tri-_, _un-_, _under-_, _up-_, _-ward_, _-wise_, _-with_. the following should be written solid: anyone anyway (adv.) anywhere awhile baseball billboard bipartizan bondholder carload classmate corespondent downstairs everyday (a.) everyone fireproof football footlights footpad gateman holdup inasmuch infield ironclad juryman landlady lawsuit letterhead linesman midnight misprint misspell nevertheless newcomer nonunion northeast northwest oddfellows officeholder oneself outfield pallbearer paymaster postcard posthaste postmaster rewrite saloonkeeper schoolboy schoolgirl semicolon shopkeeper sidewalk skyscraper snowstorm southeast southwest taxpayer typewriter upstairs = . words written separately.=--write the following as two words: all right any time back yard every time ex officio fellow man half dollar half dozen half nelson mass meeting no one pay roll police court per cent pro tem some one some way squeeze play = . compound numbers.=--compound numbers between twenty and a hundred, when spelled out, should have a hyphen: as, _twenty-one_, _forty-three_. = . word division.=--when dividing a word at the end of a line, observe the following rules: . do not break a syllable: as, _cre-ditable_, _attemp-ted_, for _cred-itable_, _attempt-ed_. . do not divide a monosyllable: as, _mob-bed_, _tho-ugh_. . do not separate a consonant from a vowel that affects its pronunciation: as, _nec-essity_ for _ne-cessity_. . do not divide a diphthong or separate two successive vowels, one of which is silent: as, _bo-wing_, _pe-ople_, for _bow-ing_, _peo-ple_. . do not separate a syllable that has been added to a word by the addition of an _s_: as, _financ-es_. . do not divide hyphenated words except at the syllable where the regular hyphen comes: as, _pocket-book_, _fool-killer_. . do not make awkward divisions: as, _noth-ing_, _crack-le_. . do not begin a line with a hyphen. . as a rule, avoid dividing a word at the end of a line and never divide one at the end of a page. . abbreviations = . abbreviations avoided.=--abbreviations should as a rule be avoided. the coming of the typewriter into journalism has created a tendency to write out all words in full. = . personal and professional titles.=--the following personal and professional titles are abbreviated when preceding proper names: adjt. gen. brig. gen. capt. col. dr. gen. gov. gov. gen. hon. lieut. lieut. col. lieut. gen. m. maj. maj. gen. mlle. mme. mr. mrs. prof. rev. rt. rev. sergt. supt. = . use of titles.=--use personal titles under the following restrictions: . do not use _mr._ before a man's name when his baptismal name or initials are given. =not good.=--mr. a. b. crayton of belleville was a guest at the horton house to-day. =right.=--a. b. crayton of belleville was a guest at the horton house to-day. . after a person's name has been mentioned once in a story, his initials or christian names are omitted thereafter, and a _mr._ or his professional title is put before the name. =right.=--prof. o. c. bowen of atawa was a speaker at the local y. m. c. a. to-day. prof. bowen chose as his subject, "the four pillars of state." . if a person has more than one professional title, the one of highest rank should be used. if he has two titles of apparently equal rank, choose the one last received or the one by which he is best known among his friends. . _mrs._ always precedes the name of a married woman, _miss_ that of an unmarried woman, no matter whether the initials or christian names are used or not. . in giving lists of unmarried women, precede the names with _misses_, taking care always to give the full christian name of each woman. . in giving lists of married women, _mesdames_ may introduce the names, though present usage prefers _mrs._ before each name. . when mentioning a man and his wife, put it _mr. and mrs. william black_, not _william black and wife_. . do not use _master_ before the name of a boy. . before a _rev._ preceding the name of a clergyman always put a _the_: as, _the rev. t. p. frost_. if the clergyman's initials are not known, write it, _the rev. mr. frost_, not _the rev. frost_. = . names of the months.=--abbreviations of the months, except march, april, may, june, and july, are permissible when followed by a numeral indicating the day of the month, but not when used alone. =right.=--richard malone, who was injured in an automobile collision sept. , died at the county hospital to-day. =wrong.=--the time of the meet has been set for a date not later than the middle of sept. = . names of the states.=--names of states, territories, and island possessions of the united states are abbreviated when preceded by the name of a town or city: as, _pueblo, col._; _manila, p.i._ = . miscellaneous abbreviations.=--the following abbreviations are also in good usage: _esq._, _inc._, _jr._, _a.b._, _ph.d._, _m.d._, _u.s.n._, etc., when used after proper names; _a.m._, _p.m._, _a.d._, _b.c._, when preceded by numerals. = . forbidden abbreviations.=--the following abbreviations may not be used on most newspapers: . christian names: as, _chas._ for _charles_, _thos._ for _thomas_. . mount, fort, and saint: as, _mt. st. elias_ for _mount saint elias_, _ft. wayne_ for _fort wayne_. . railroad, company, brothers, etc.: as, _new haven r. r._ for _new haven railroad_, _national biscuit co._ for _national biscuit company_. . numbers = . dates.=--observe the following rules concerning dates: . write year dates always in figures: as, _ _. . write month dates in figures when preceded by the name of the month: as, _july , _. when the name of the month does not precede, spell out the date: as, _bills are due on the tenth_. . do not write the day before the name of the month: as, _the th of december_ for _dec. _. . do not put a _d_, _nd_, _st_, or _th_ after a date: as, _sept. th_ for _sept. _. = . money.=--when mentioning sums of money, use figures for all amounts over one dollar; spell out all sums below a dollar: as, _$ . _, _fifty cents_. but if in the same sentence it becomes necessary to mention sums above and below a dollar, use figures for all. = . street and district names.=--spell out street, ward, district, and precinct names designated by numbers: as, _second ward_, _tenth precinct_. = . sporting records.=--use figures for sporting records: as, _ feet, inches_; _time, : - / _; _ - balk-line_. = . beginning of sentences.=--do not begin a sentence with figures. if impossible to shift the number to a later place in the sentence, place _about_ or _more than_ before the figures: as, _more than , persons passed through the gates_. = . dimensions.=--use figures with an _x_ to express dimensions of lots, buildings, floors, boats, machinery, etc.: as, _ x feet_, _ -foot beam_, etc. = . general usage.=--observe the following general rules concerning numbers: . use figures to express dates, distances, latitude and longitude, hours of the day, degrees of temperature, percentage, street numbers, telephone numbers, automobile numbers, votes, and betting odds. in other cases spell out all numbers under , except where several numbers, some of which are above and some under , are used in the same paragraph. in such a case, use figures for all. marks used in correcting copy amb = ambiguous. and = a bad "and" sentence. make two sentences or subordinate one clause. ant = antecedent not clear. cl = not clear. cst = construction faulty. coh = coherence not good. con = wrong connective. consult = bring copy to instructor for discussion. delta = delete. dull = dull reading; put more life into the story. e = error. ed = editorializing; too much personal opinion. fw = "fine writing." gr = bad grammar. k = awkward; clumsily expressed. ld = poor lead; revise. p = punctuation wrong. pt = point of view shifted. qt = make this a direct quotation. rep = same word repeated too much. rew = rewrite. sent = use shorter sentences. sl = slang. sp = bad spelling. su = sentence lacks unity. t = wrong tense. unnec = unnecessary details; omit some of them. tr = transpose. w = wrong use of word. ? = truth of statement questioned. ¶ = begin a new paragraph. no ¶ = no ¶ needed. _| = indent. [horizontal parentheses] = put the words together as one # = separate into two words. [upward slanting equals sign] = hyphen needed. corrections [illustration: hand mark-up of copy to be corrected.] corrected proof [illustration: hand mark-up of corrections on proof.] proof-readers' marks cap capitalize. lc lower case; small letter. delta delete; omit. stet restore the words crossed out. ^ insert at the place indicated. [. in circle] insert a period. /,\ insert a comma. \"/ insert quotation-marks. =/ insert a hyphen. x imperfect letter. letter inverted; turn over. ¶ make a new paragraph. no ¶ no paragraph. # put a space between. [breve] smaller space. [horizontal parentheses] close up; no space needed. \/ /\ badly spaced; space more evenly. [breve] quad shows between the words; shove down. wf wrong font. tr transpose. __ | carry to the left. |__| lower. __ | | elevate. // straighten crooked line. lead add lead between the lines. delta lead take out lead. (?) query: is the proof correct? terminology =ad alley.=--the part of the composing room where the advertisements are set. =add.=--late news added to a story already written or printed. =a. p.=--abbreviation for associated press. =arrest sheets.=--the police record on which all arrests are entered. =assignment.=--a story that a reporter has been detailed to cover; any duty assigned by the city editor. =assignment slips.=--slips of paper containing assignments the city editor wishes a reporter to cover. these slips are made out daily and laid on the reporter's desk at the beginning of his day's work. =bank.=--( ) one of the whole divisions of the headlines, separated from the next by a blank line; called also a _deck_. ( ) a table or frame for holding type-filled galleys. =bank-man.=--a helper in the composing room whose duty it is to assemble type received from the different linotype machines, close up the galleys on the bank, and see that they are proved. =beat.=--( ) a definite place or section of town,--as the city hall, the capitol, the police court, fire stations, hotels, etc.,--regularly visited by a reporter to obtain news; also termed a _run_. ( ) see _scoop_. =b. f.=--abbreviation for =bold-face=, =black-face type=. =blind interview.=--an interview given by a man of authority on condition that his name be withheld. =blotter.=--the police record-book of crime. =box.=--a rectangular space marked off in a story, usually at the beginning, for calling attention to the news within the box. the news is often a list of dead or injured or of athletic records, printed in bold-face type. =break-line.=--a line not filled to the end with letters, as the last line of a paragraph. in a head a break-line may contain white space on each side. =bridge.=--the raised platform in front of the magistrate's desk in police court. =bull.=--a statement or a series of statements, the terms of which are manifestly inconsistent or contradictory. =bulldog edition.=--the earliest regular edition. =bulletin.=--a brief telegraphic message giving the barest results of an event, often an accident, unaccompanied by details. =catch-line.=--( ) a short line set in display type within the body of a story to catch the eye of the reader and enable him to get the striking details by a hasty glance down the column. ( ) a line at the top of each page of copy sent to the composing room one page at a time: as, "society," "state," "suicide." such lines enable the bank-men to assemble readily all the stories and parts of stories belonging together. =chase.=--a rectangular iron or steel frame into which the forms are locked for printing or stereotyping. =condensed type.=--type thin in comparison to its height; contrasted with extended type. =copy.=--any manuscript prepared for the press. _blind copy_ is copy that is difficult to read. _clean copy_ is manuscript requiring little or no editing. _time copy_ is any matter for which there is no rush,--usually held to be set up by the compositors when they would otherwise be idle, or to be used in case of a scarcity of news. the sunday paper is filled with time copy. =copy cutter.=--an assistant in the composing room who receives copy from the head copy reader, or editor, cuts it into takes, and distributes the takes to the compositors to set up. =copyholder.=--a proof-reader's assistant who, to correct errors, reads copy for comparison of it with the proof. =copy-reader.=--one who revises copy and writes the headlines. not to be confused with _proof-reader_. =cover.=--to go for the purpose of getting facts about an event or for the purpose of writing up the event: as, "jones covered the prize fight." =dead.=--a term applied to composed type that is of no further use; also sometimes applied to copy. =deck.=--see _bank_ ( ). =department men.=--reporters who seek news regularly in the same places, as the police courts, city hall, coroner's office. =display type.=--type bolder of face or more conspicuous than ordinary type. =dope.=--slang for any information or collection of facts to be used in a story; applied specifically to sporting stories, meaning a forecast of the outcome, as in a horse-race or a boxing contest. =em.=--the square of the body of any size of type; used as the unit of measurement for making indentions, indicating the length of dashes, etc. =end mark.=--a mark put at the end of a story to indicate to the compositor that the story is complete. the two end marks used are the figure enclosed in a circle and a #. =feature.=--to give prominence to; to display prominently. =feature story.=--a story, often with a whimsical turn, in which the interest lies in something else than the immediate news value; one that develops some interesting feature of the day's news for its own sake rather than for the worth of the story as a whole. also called "human interest" story. see page . =filler.=--a story of doubtful news value included for lack of better news in a column or section of a paper. the so-called "patent insides" in country weeklies and small dailies are known as fillers. =flash.=--a brief telegraphic message sandwiched between two sentences of a running story, giving the outcome before it is reached in the story: as, "flash--smith knocked out in fourteenth round," when the reporter's story has got only as far as the eleventh round; or, "flash--jury coming in; get ready for verdict," thrust into the body of a story a reporter is sending about a murder trial. =flimsy.=--thin tissue paper used in duplicating telegraphic stories as they come off the wire. =flush.=--on an even line or margin with. =follow copy.=--an instruction, written on the margin of manuscript, to the compositor that he must follow copy exactly, even though the matter may seem wrong. =folo.=--an abbreviation for _follow_, marked at the beginning of stories to indicate that they are to follow others of a similar nature: as, "folo suicide," meaning to the bank-man, "put this story in the form immediately after the one slugged 'suicide.'" see page . =form.=--an assemblage of type, usually seven or eight columns, locked in a chase preparatory to printing or stereotyping. =fudge.=--a small printing cylinder and chase that can be attached to a rotary press; used for printing late news. see page . =future book.=--the book in which the city editor records future events: as, speeches, conventions, lawsuits, etc. =galley.=--a long, shallow, metal tray for holding composed type. from the type in this tray the first or _galley proof_ is pulled for corrections. =galley proof.=--an impression made from type in a galley. =gothic.=--a heavy, black-faced type, all the strokes of which are of uniform width. =guide line.=--see _catch line_ ( ). =hanging indention.=--equal indention of all the lines of a paragraph except the first, which extends one em farther to the left than those succeeding. =head.=--abbreviation for _headline_. _drop-line head_ second year of the great war opens today _pyramid head_ clash between germany and russia occurred august , _cross-line_ end not in sight _hanging indention_ first anniversary finds little change in relative strength of the two opposing forces. =hell-box.=--the box into which waste lead is thrown for remelting in the stereotyping room. =hold.=--an instruction written at the beginning of copy or proof, instructing the make-up man in the printing room to hold the article, not print it, until he has received further orders. =human interest story.=--see _feature story_. =i.n.s.=--abbreviation for international news service. =insert.=--one or more sentences or paragraphs inserted in the body of a story already written, giving fuller or more accurate information. =jump-head.=--a headline put above the continuation of a story begun on a preceding page. =justifier.=--a short story of little or no news value inserted at the foot of a column to fill it out evenly. =justify.=--to make even or true by proper spacing, as lines of type or columns on a page. =kill.=--to destroy the whole or a part of a story, usually after it has been set in type. =lead.=--the initial sentence or paragraph of a story, into which is crammed the gist of the article. see page . =lead.=--thin strips of metal placed between lines of type to make the lines stand farther apart, and hence to make the story stand out more prominently on the printed page. =lower case.=--( ) a shallow wooden receptacle divided into compartments called boxes, for keeping separate the small letters of a font of type; distinguished from the _upper case_ which stands slantingly above the lower case and contains the capital letters; hence ( ) the letters in that case. =make-up.=--the arrangement of type into columns and pages preparatory to printing. =make-up man.=--the workman who arranges composed type in forms preparatory to printing. =morgue.=--the filing cabinet or room in which are kept stories and obituaries of prominent persons, photographs of them, their families, and their homes, clippings of various kinds about disasters, religious associations, big conventions, strikes, wars, etc. see page . =must.=--a direction put on the margin of copy to indicate that the story must be printed. =pi.=--type that has been so jumbled or disarranged that it cannot be used until reassembled. =pi line.=--a freak line set up by a compositor when he has made an error in the line and completed it by striking the keys at random until he has filled out the measure and cast the slug: etaoins =play up.=--to emphasize by writing about with unusual fullness. =police blotter.=--see _blotter_. =pony report.=--a condensed report of the day's news, sent out by news bureaus to papers that are not able or do not care to subscribe for the full service. =proof-reader.=--one whose time is given to reading and making corrections in the printer's proof; not to be confused with _copy-reader_. =prove.=--to take a proof of or from. =pull.=--to make an impression on a hand-press: as, to _pull_ a proof. =pyramid head.=--a heading of three, four, or five lines,--usually of three,--the first of which is full, the second indented at both sides, the third still more indented at both sides, all the lines being centered. see _head_. =query.=--a telegraphic request to a paper for instructions on a story that a correspondent wishes to send. see page . =quoins.=--wedges used for fastening or locking type in a galley or a form. =release.=--to permit publication of a story on or after a specified date, but not before. see page . =revise.=--a corrected proof. =rewrite.=--a story rewritten from another paper. see page . =rewrite man.=--a reporter who rewrites telegraphic, cable, and telephone stories, or who rewrites poor copy submitted by other reporters. see page . =run.=--see _beat_ ( ). =run-in.=--to omit paragraph indentions for the sake of saving space. =running story.=--a story which develops as the day advances, or from day to day. =scoop.=--publication of an important story in advance of rival papers; also called a _beat_. =sheets.=--see _arrest sheets_. =slips.=--slips of paper hung on the police bulletin board or pasted in a public ledger, announcing such crimes, misdemeanors, complaints, and the like as the police are willing to make public. see page . =slug.=--( ) a solid line of type set by a linotype machine. ( ) a strip of type metal thicker than a lead and less than type high, for widening spaces between lines, supporting the foot of a column, etc. ( ) a strip of metal bearing a type-high number inserted by a compositor at the beginning of a take to mark the type set by him. ( ) the compositor who set the type marked by a slug. see also _catch line_ ( ). =solid.=--having no leads between the lines: as, a _solid_ column of type. =space book.=--a book in which the state editor keeps a record of stories sent in by correspondents and space writers. =space writer.=--a writer who is paid for his stories according to the amount of space they occupy when printed. =special.=--a story written by a special correspondent, usually one out of town. =stick.=--( ) a small metal tray holding approximately two inches of type, used by printers in setting type by hand. ( ) the amount of type held by a stick. =stone.=--a smooth table top, once of stone, now usually of metal, on which the page forms are made up. =story.=--( ) any article, other than an editorial or an advertisement, written for a newspaper. ( ) the event about which the story is written: as, a burglar story, meaning the burglary that the reporter writes up. =streamer head.=--a head set in large type and extending across the top of the page. =string.=--a strip of clipped stories pasted together end to end to indicate the number of columns contributed by a space writer. =style book.=--the printed book of rules followed by reporters, copy-readers, and compositors. see page . =take.=--the portion of copy taken at once by a compositor for setting up. see page . = .=--a telegrapher's signal indicating the end of the message; also put at the end of a story to indicate its completion. =tip.=--secret information about an item of news valuable to a paper. =turn rule.=--a copy-reader's signal to the composing room to turn the black face of the rule, indicating thereby that the story is not yet complete and that more will be inserted at that place. =u.p.=--abbreviation for united press associations. =w.f.=--abbreviation for _wrong font_; a proof-reader's mark of correction, indicating that a letter from another font has slipped into a word: as, the _u_ in beca_u_se. exercises _chapter v_ most of the following stories held front-page positions on leading metropolitan dailies. explain their story values: . philadelphia, oct. .--with a record of eggs in days, lady eglantine, a white leghorn pullet, became to-day the champion egg layer of the world. the little hen, which weighs three and a half pounds, completed her year of an egg-laying competition at delaware college, newark, del., and beat the previous record of eggs by . the pen of five hens of which she was a member also broke the american pen record with , eggs. the average barnyard fowl produces only eggs in a year. . topeka, kan., feb. .--while president wilson was speaking here to-day a pair of new fur-lined gloves was taken from the pocket of his overcoat, which he had hung in an ante-room. it is supposed that somebody wanted a souvenir of his visit to kansas. mr. wilson missed the gloves when he started for his train. . richmond, va., feb. .--capt. w. m. myers, delegate for richmond in the general assembly, has introduced an amendment to the anti-nuisance, or "red light," measure, making it unlawful for any woman to wear a skirt the length of which is more than four inches from the ground, a bodice or shirt waist showing more than three inches of neck, or clothes of transparent texture. delegate myers said he wished to protect men. . two rivers, wis., feb. .--when the bushey business college basket-ball team scored the winning point in the last minute of play during their game with the two rivers team here last night, anton kopetsky was stricken with heart failure. he was taken to the basement of the building, where physicians started to work over him. in the meantime a dance was started in the hall where the game had been played. an hour later, with the dance on in full swing, kopetsky died. the dance was stopped and the musicians sent home. . centralia, pa., sept. .--forty men are working night and day to rescue thomas tosheski, who has been entombed hours in the continental mine here. food was given tosheski in his prison to-day by means of a two-inch gas-pipe, forced through a hole made by a diamond drill. . on the north corner of darling street and temple alley a little old woman, white-haired and shrunken in frame, has guarded all day long a bag of clothes and a feather bed, her only possessions. she was thrown out of her room at - / temple alley this morning and she has nowhere to go. . harrisburg, pa., feb. .--henry blake of this city has been arrested by state policeman curtis a. davies on charges of burglary. he confessed to a string of thefts covering months in the fashionable suburban districts of the state capital. in blake's pocket was found a much used bible. circled with red ink was the quotation: "seek and ye shall find." . new york, feb. .--the sale of peter the great, : - / , by w. e. d. stokes of this city to stoughton j. fletcher, an indianapolis banker, sets a new record for old horses. not in any country, at any period, it is believed, has a horse of any breed brought so high a price at so great an age. peter the great is years old and stokes received $ , for him. . boston, august .--another world eating record is claimed by charles w. glidden, of lawrence, who sat down at a local restaurant yesterday and devoured fifty-eight ears of corn in an hour and fifty-five minutes. the previous record is claimed by ose dugan, of new york, who ate fifty-one ears. mr. glidden is ready to meet all comers. he keeps in condition by eating sparingly of prunes, ice cream, and oranges. . grand rapids, wis., feb. .--two miles north of the city a large grey fox fought for its life this morning, and lost. conrad wittman shot and wounded him a mile south of hunter's point. the fox was trailed by the dogs past regele's creamery, when the trail came abruptly to an end. a search was begun, and a short time afterward the fox was found in a tree, dead. he had leaped to the lower branches as the dogs were overtaking him, and died from the gun-shot wound after reaching safety. . new york, feb. .--after all negotiations, counter negotiations, champagne suppers, and "rushing," it seems that charlie chaplin with his justly celebrated walk and his frequently featured kick will hereafter be exclusively shown on mutual films. such announcement was made quietly but definitely yesterday. the contracts, it is asserted, were signed saturday. they provide for a bonus of $ , to chaplin, with or without his mustache; $ , a week salary, and a percentage in the business. the money is to be paid to-morrow. chaplin is to have a special company organized for him by the mutual, and his brother, syd chaplin, also an agile figure in motion pictures, is to be a member of it. what price was paid for the brother is not stated. the mutual company already has applied for an insurance of $ , on the new star. . greencastle, ind., feb. .--fifty de pauw university students have been suspended for the present week because they violated the college rule against dancing. the students attended a ball given three weeks ago during the midyear recess. . st. joseph, mo., oct. .--until the other day a horse belonging to elias chute, years old, of no. faraon street, had not been outside of a little barn in the rear of frederick avenue for more than a year. through most of one winter, spring, summer, fall, and part of another winter the faithful old animal had stood tied in his stall. his hoofs had grown over his shoes and everything about him showed he had been neglected in everything but food and water. _chapter viii_ _a._ explain the faults in the organization of the following stories: _wilson speaks to daughters of the revolution_ washington, oct. .--the daughters of the american revolution applauded what they regarded as a gallant compliment to his fiancée uttered by president wilson in his speech on national unity at continental hall this afternoon. in that part of his speech in which he served notice that he purposes to administer the discipline of public disapproval to hyphenated americans, the president remarked: "i know of no body of persons comparable to a body of ladies for creating an atmosphere of opinion." immediately afterward he said smilingly: "i have myself in part yielded to the influence of that atmosphere." the official white house stenographer inserted a comma in his transcript of the president's speech at the foregoing utterance, but the members of the d. a. r. thought the president had come to a chivalrous period. they looked over the president's shoulders to one of the boxes where sat his fiancée, mrs. norman galt, with her mother, mrs. bolling, and they applauded tumultuously. several seconds elapsed before the president, whose face had flushed, could wedge in: "for it took me a long time to observe how i was going to vote in new jersey." the president's hearers just would not believe that he had had the suffrage issue in mind when he began his sentence, and mrs. galt herself blushed in recognition of the applause. mrs. galt, with her mother and miss helen woodrow bones, had been taken to continental hall in one of the white house automobiles. the president walked over, accompanied by his military aid, col. harte, and the secret-service men. before he left the white house he had stood for several minutes leaning over the side of the automobile having a tête-à-tête with mrs. galt. curious persons passing through the white house grounds thought it a very interesting sight to observe the president of the united states standing with one foot on the step of an automobile talking with a member of the fair sex. they got the impression from the animated character of the conversation that mrs. galt was disappointed because the president was not going to accompany her to continental hall, and that she was trying to persuade him to abandon his plan of walking over. society people are as much interested as ever in the plans of the couple, but little has been learned definitely as yet. no disclosure was made to-day of the date of the wedding, and similar secrecy has been maintained as to their honeymoon plans. it is known that the misses smith of new orleans, relatives of the president, are urging that the honeymoon be enjoyed at pass christian, miss., where mr. wilson and his family spent the christmas holidays two years ago. it is believed the president will not choose a place as far distant as pass christian. his friends predict that if he takes any trip at all it will be on the yacht mayflower. congratulations of the united states supreme court on his engagement were extended to the president this morning when the justices called formally to pay their respects on the occasion of the convening of the court for the fall sittings. the justices were received in the blue room. they were in their judicial robes and all members were present except justice lamar, whose illness prevented. president wilson's impetuosity as a prospective bridegroom is keeping the secret service on the jump nearly all the time. more frequently than he ever has done in the past, the president leaves the white house unattended and without giving warning to his bodyguard. he did this yesterday when he started for mrs. galt's residence, where he was to be a dinner guest, and again this morning when he walked down town to purchase a new travelling bag. the purchase resulted in renewed speculation whether or not the date for the wedding is imminent. _leo frank worse to-day_ milledgeville, ga., july .--physicians who examined leo m. frank in the state prison early to-day said his condition was much worse. the jagged cut in his throat, received at the hands of a fellow prisoner, william green, saturday night, was swollen and his temperature was - . physicians have succeeded in stopping the flow of blood from a jagged wound made with a butcher knife by william green, also serving a life term for murder. the blow was struck as frank slept in his bunk. an investigation of the attack probably will be made by the georgia prison commission. frank's temperature was as low as monday noon, but ran up to - monday night. the wound is an ugly, jagged one. _bryan loses temper_ dallas, texas, oct. .--william j. bryan, who formerly held a government job, has temper. he took said temper out for an airing here to-day. he was riding from the railroad station to the hotel with a reception committee, of which a reporter happened to be a member. "do you ever intend to be a candidate for public office?" asked the reporter. "i think, sir, if you had any sense you wouldn't have asked that question," replied the exponent of peace. "i meant no impertinence." "well, it was impertinent. you wouldn't want to answer that question yourself, would you?" "sure i can answer it. i never intend to be a candidate for anything." "well, i don't think any friend of mine would try to get me to promise never to be a candidate again." "i didn't ask you to promise." "well, that's all right," the ex-premier and the dove of peace returned. bryan was almost kissed again to-day. b. f. pace, a peace enthusiast, with outstretched arms and pursed-up lips, rushed upon the nebraskan in the hotel lobby. bryan blushed coyly, clapped his hand over his mouth and dodged behind a six-foot texan. "not too fast there!" he warned. friends intervened. pace has bushy whiskers. _guest at party robber_ the police are searching for a man known as "jack wallace," who is wanted for robbing w. g. gaede, west grand avenue, of jewelry valued at $ at the auditorium hotel. gaede, who was celebrating new year's eve, met wallace and took him to the auditorium. at o'clock yesterday morning wallace suggested that gaede retire. wallace took gaede to his room and soon afterward departed. when gaede awoke his diamond stud, watch, chain, and charm were gone, also $ in currency. mrs. agnes ackerman of the morrison hotel was robbed of a purse containing $ while dining at the hotel la salle saturday night. _b._ put the following details in proper sequence for a suicide story: ira hancock committed suicide (?) about a.m., monday. used to be wealthy. always gave waiters a good tip. never quit tipping even when he became poor. said tip was part of price of a meal. waiters always glad to see him. patronized cheap restaurants for the past three months. lived at washington avenue. age, . left room monday morning with only a nickel and a bunch of keys. borrowed a quarter from bob cranston, downtown friend. went together for breakfast at cozy café, main street. breakfast cost cents each. hancock gave waiter five-cent tip. cranston called him a fool. hancock unmarried. : a.m., engaged a dressing room at island bathing house. bathing beach closed at midnight; hancock's clothing still in the dressing room. only a bunch of keys in the pockets. fired from job at snyder's malt house, saturday night. taught girls' sunday-school class, west side baptist church, sunday morning. body not found. lost money dealing in war stocks three months ago. _chapter ix_ _a._ correct such of the following leads as need correction. where the age of the person, his place of residence, or similar details necessary to an effective lead are lacking, supply them (paragraphs = - =). . adam schenk fell off the runway at the fernholz lumber yard on monday forenoon and landed on his back at a point near his kidneys on a stake on the wagon, breaking the stake off. . rather than to put the tuttle press company to an unnecessary expense of appropriating $ , that would do neither the city nor any particular individual a cent's worth of material good, and assuming also that the city, by virtue of the fact that the company's original plant was erected on lines provided by the city's engineer, is in a measure responsible for present conditions, the city commissioners in conference with s. a. whedon of the tuttle press company this morning decided not to proceed further in the matter of ordering removed the walls of a big addition to the plant now in process of construction. . roaming hogs was the cause of the recent illness of mr. t. n. davis. the hogs rooted under the wire fence surrounding his residence and in his effort to get them out he exerted himself beyond his endurance. . at an early hour tuesday morning, as the beams of the rising sun were struggling to dispel the uncertainties of a winter night, the final summons came to miss ella o'harrigan, our beloved librarian, to join the innumerable caravan that moves to the pale realms of shade. . again the lure of broadway, the craving to be among expensively clad men and women, and a longing to seem of more than actual importance, have resulted in a fall from a position of responsibility and trust to one facing the possibility of a long term of imprisonment. this time it is a woman; good looking, possessing the knack of dressing smartly, capable and efficient, and less than years old. for six years she had been head bookkeeper in marbury hall, an apartment hotel of the best class, at west seventy-fourth street. for more than two years of that time, according to the prosecuting officials, she has been putting cash belonging to the hotel into her own diamond-studded purse, whence it was transferred to the coffers of expensive dressmakers, theatres, and restaurants, particularly those which maintained dance floors. yesterday afternoon she was arrested, charged with grand larceny. she raised her hand to her mouth as the detective tapped her shoulder, and a few minutes later was taken to the polyclinic hospital, to be later transferred to bellevue. she will recover from the poison and will have to face in court in four or five days the charges which she attempted to avoid by death.... . swept by a -mile gale, a fire which started in a three-story frame greek restaurant on appomattox street this afternoon quickly spread to adjoining frame buildings in hopewell, the "wonder city," at the gates of the du pont powder company's plant, twenty miles from here, and at nightfall practically every business house, hotel, and restaurant in the mushroom powder town of , had been wiped out, the loss amounting to $ , , or more. . one man, a bank messenger, was shot mortally and his assailant wounded, perhaps mortally, two other men narrowly missed death by shooting, and thousands of persons were terrorized by an attempted hold-up in the fourteenth street subway station at o'clock yesterday afternoon, and by a chase which skirted union square, continued through a theatre arcade and ended blocks away. . as a result of an old quarrel between two citizens of leroy, the melting snow-drifts on the streets of that city ran red with human blood, wednesday. john m. zellhoefer lay gasping his last breath on the sidewalk, with a fatal bullet wound through the midst of his body, while over him stood francis marion dunkin, with smoking revolver in hand. . nothing had been learned by the police last night to indicate that george de brosa, who died early yesterday morning in bellevue hospital after fatally wounding allan gardner, a bank messenger, and being shot by walter f. orleman, another bank messenger, in an attempted holdup of the two in the fourteenth street subway station friday afternoon, had an accomplice. . at all saints cathedral sunday morning, dean seldon p. delany spoke on "salvation through self-sacrifice," taking for his text mark viii, : "whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake and the gospel's, the same shall save it." . rachel green, colored, suffered a dislocated and badly sprained knee last night while she was attending religious services at main street colored baptist church and another woman began to shout and jumped into her lap. . james l. crawley of hastings is confined to his home with a broken arm and lacerated ear. his injuries were received when he stepped on the family cat and fell headlong down the cellar steps. the cat was asleep on the top step. . john radcliffe, years old, of moultrie, had never been kissed, and in trying desperately to maintain this estate, while pursued at a barn dance by mrs. winifred trice, monday night, he fell out of a door twenty feet from the ground and was picked up with one arm and three ribs fractured. . charged with having tried to obtain $ , by forgery, a handsomely gowned young woman, who gave her name as irene minnerly, and said she was a telephone operator, and a man who described himself as webster percy simpson, thirty-six, living at the hotel endicott, were arrested yesterday afternoon as they were leaving the offices of fernando w. brenner, at no. church street. . allen & co., ltd., the well-known london firm of publishers, has been prosecuted for the publication of a novel called "the raindrop," written by d. h. lawrence, on the ground that it is obscene. . interesting testimony was given before justice scudder in the supreme court to-day in the hearing of the suit for divorce brought by harry h. wiggins of floral park, a retired grocer. mr. wiggins alleged undue fondness for john burglond, a farm hand formerly employed in mrs. wiggins' cabbage patch. mrs. wiggins is years old and burglond . . s. h. brannick of this city lost a fine cow last week, the animal departing this life suddenly after the city had retired for the evening. . miss ellen peterson, a former employee of miss josie griffin's millinery, cottage grove avenue, was married tuesday by the rev. johnston myers at immanuel baptist church. the couple left immediately after the ceremony for a wedding trip through the west. . hilda is the daughter of one of the deftest colored janitors who ever kept a dumb waiter just that. with her father and mother she lives in a court apartment on the ground floor of no. main st., and last night she was slumbering blissfully, wrapped in dreams of a chocolate-colored santa claus with sweet-potato trimmings and persimmon whiskers, when she heard the window of her room open. _b._ comment on the leads to the following stories, rewriting any that need correction (paragraphs = - =): . this story dates back eight months, when mrs. elizabeth hochberger became a patient at the county hospital in chicago. she was ill of typhoid fever and in her first night at the hospital she became delirious. while in this condition she seized a ten-inch table knife from a tray and in the absence of anyone to restrain her poked it down her throat. attendants attracted by the woman's groans hurried to the bedside. then an interne appeared, made a hasty diagnosis, and attributed the patient's action to the delirium. he administered an opiate. several days later mrs. hochberger, having passed the crisis of the fever, began to recover. a week afterward she was discharged as cured. from the time she complained of internal pains and to relatives she recounted a vague story of her delirium at the hospital. she had a faint recollection of swallowing a knife, she said. to swallow a knife and survive was improbable, she was told, but she was advised to see a physician. the first doctor called in recommended an immediate operation for a tumor. another believed she had an acute case of appendicitis. "it was not until we made our discovery that mrs. hochberger told us of her delirium," said the doctor. "had i heard it before making the x-ray examination i would have hardly given it credence. i have heard of people swallowing coins and pencils, but this is the first knife ever brought to my attention." the knife was removed to-day by dr. george c. amerson at the west side hospital. . if you want a man to love you, bear in mind this plan: always keep him doubtful of you; fool him all you can! never let him know you like him; never answer, "yes," till you have him broken-hearted. make him guess, guess, guess. this is the chorus of one of the songs pearl palmer, pretty opera singer, was to have sung when she made her first broadway appearance as one of the principals of the opera, "the princess pat." now she is dead because she carried this philosophy into her own life, her friends say. herbert haeckler, who killed the young singer and himself sunday night, had been kept "guessing," they said, until his mind had given away. eva fallon will sing the song miss palmer was to have sung when the opera opens to-morrow night. it was postponed from last night because of the tragedy. . a young man by the name of tom verbeck, years old, living in freeport, who rides a motorcycle, was passing along the chicago road, friday, when he met an automobile driver who was in distress. the motorcycle man stopped, and when asked to lend a hand gave freely of his time. he was unsuccessful, however, and it was decided to have the motorcycle tow the auto into freeport. more complications presented themselves, as neither the auto driver nor the motorcycle rider had a rope to tie the two machines together. the automobile man solved this problem by taking off his wool shirt and using it for a tow-rope. the owner of the auto rode in the buzz wagon into town, and on account of the darkness it was not noticed that he was shy a shirt. the motorcyclist towed the machine to the residence of the driver by way of back streets, and here he unloaded the machine. the shirt used as a tow-rope was not dismembered by the operation. _c._ write the lead to the story the outline of which was given on page . _d._ write for friday afternoon's paper an informal lead to the following story: characters: anton kurdiana and his wife, rosa (née novak). anton's age, ; rosa's, . married three months ago. anton has a cork leg. leg cut off above the knee by a train a year ago. rosa novak a nurse in the hospital to which he was taken. rosa preparing to get a divorce. anton did not want a divorce. a friend of anton's told him if he would leave the state, rosa could not get the divorce. a friend of rosa's told her anton was preparing to leave early this (friday) morning. last night after he went to bed, rosa hid his cork leg. he called for help from his bedroom window this morning and the police came. bailiff also came and served notice of divorce proceedings. they live at faraon street, this city. cause of divorce, cruelty and non-support. _e._ explain the different tones of the following leads and the writers' methods of gaining their effects (paragraph = =): . "you have stolen my daughter! take that!" "that" was a short right jab to the face. mrs. anna la violette of south wabash avenue was the donor, and william metcalf, who had merely married her daughter elsie, aged , owned the face. . twenty grains of cocaine and morphine a day, eighty times the amount an average dope fiend uses, enough to kill forty men, fifteen years at it too,--this is the record of dopy phil harris, the human dope marvel found to-day by the california board of pharmacy in its combing of the san francisco underworld. if poison were taken away from harris for forty-eight hours, he would die within the next twenty-four. . the winds, whose treachery archie hoxsey so often defied and conquered, killed the noted aviator to-day. as if jealous of his intrepidity, they seized him and his fragile biplane, flung them out of the sky, and crushed out his life on the field from which he had risen a few minutes before with a laughing promise to pierce the heavens and soar higher than any human being had ever dared go before. . the champion lodge "jiner" is the title bestowed by mrs. jennie gehret, wife of john d. gehret, of this city, on her husband. it is not because she wants to be his wife. she is suing for divorce, and john's feats as a jiner are the reasons for her action. . and tragedy blurs out their joy again. five-year-old norman porter of wadsworth, ill., wanted a toy horse on wheels for christmas, and his nine-year-old brother, leroy, wrote santa for an automobile that would "run by itself." the wooden horse, its head broken off, lay last night in the snow at kedzie avenue and sixteenth street. a few feet away some children picked up the tin automobile bent almost beyond recognition. the toys were knocked from the arms of mrs. james r. porter, the boy's mother, when she was struck by an automobile and the same wheels which crushed out her life had passed over them. . a fair-haired boy in knickerbockers, who chewed gum with reckless insouciance and indulged in cool satirical comment on his companion's amateur efforts, yesterday directed a daring holdup of the chicago art and silver shop at lincoln parkway, from which silverware and jewelry valued at $ was carried off. . he is colored, forty-three years old, a laborer, and lives at no. west forty-fifth street, and when he was brought before lieut. fogarty at police headquarters yesterday charged with having done some fancy carving with a razor on the countenance of ira robinson of no. clinton street, he gave his name as general beauregard bivins. _chapter x_ _a._ criticize the following stories from the standpoint of accuracy of presentation. rewrite the second. (paragraphs = - =.) _future wives warned_ not since the days of the cave men has masculine assurance dared issue such an ultimatum to femininity as that just sent by an organization of students of tulane university known as "our future wives" club. the club has as its purpose the dictation of the dress selection of every woman. it is an organization of young men who have developed the stern purpose of correcting female faults and of widening the scope of choice that they may have in the choosing of wives who will be sensible. the fifteen students who are members have pledged themselves to taboo socially every young woman who does not literally adhere to the list of regulations which the organization has prescribed as dress limitations. young women who refuse to be guided by the ukase of the club will find that none of its members will ever extend any invitations to them; they will discover, it is promised, that they have been sadly and most completely "cut." at its initial meeting the club drew up and adopted a "proclamation." this document was mailed in copy to every young woman student of newcomb college. the young women recipients read the following: " . we will look upon no young woman with favor who spends more than $ a year for hats. only one hat should be worn throughout the year. we think it possible that hats may be trimmed over and worn for several years. " . no cosmetics should be used. powder might be used in the case of a sallow girl. " . perfumes are absolutely under the ban as a needless and disagreeable expense. " . additional hair should not be bought. it is an extravagance and is contrary to the purpose of nature. " . not more than $ a year should be expended for dresses and suits. " . jewelry, with the exception of a wedding ring, is no adornment, to our way of thinking. off with diamonds, rubies, and pearls, and the like. " . silk stockings are the one extravagance allowed. scientists say that silk stockings prevent the wearer from being struck by lightning. " . five dollars a year is the amount necessary for shoes. " . laces of all descriptions making for an appearance of frivolity should not be used in dress. " . all other necessaries of dress should not cost more than $ a year." _eight coin-box robbers caught_ in the arrest last night of five men and three women as they were wrapping piles of five-cent pieces into one-dollar rolls in an elaborately furnished apartment near audubon avenue and d street, the police have found the thieves who have been concerned in all the telephone slot-box robberies during the past three years and have robbed the new york telephone company of thousands of dollars. the men and women under arrest have used a powerful automobile in going about the city, robbing the slot boxes with skeleton keys and files. the men arrested gave the following names and ages:--tom morrison, ; nic marino, ; adam neeley, ; william o. cohen, ; and charles guise, . the women were della thomas, ; dorothy price, ; and dollie lewis, . for more than two years the new york telephone company has endeavored unsuccessfully to trap these thieves in their robberies of the pay stations. buzzers were affixed so that an attempt to open them would sound a warning, but, despite that, the thefts continued. acting captain jones, of the third branch, and acting captain cooper, of the fourth branch detective bureaus, who directed the arrests, declare that the women did the telephoning and opened the coin boxes, and that one of the men, coming to the booth from the telephone as if to call, reached in a hand or a small bag and took the coins. _breeze and rain producer discovered_ prof. marblenut, dopetown's imminent (correct) scientist, has arranged to furnish this city with a perpetual cool breeze and two showers a week, all next summer. the breeze is to be made by a gigantic electric fan operated by current generated in a plant on the banks of little muddy, at pigankle falls. this monster fan will be made of steel. the showers will be made by an apparatus built on the same principle as a chinese laundryman's face when he takes a mouthful of water and sprays the wash. the water will come from the river and will be filtered, then sprayed over the city from the face of a colossal chinese figure standing on the left bank of the river above the power house. prof. marblenut is the same man who attempted suicide with a bakery doughnut when his wife left him last year. a friend took the deadly thing from him and saved his life. _bob la follette still inconsistent_ senator robert m. la follette faced an audience of about men in the armory on tuesday night. he arrived rather late as if to so sharpen the appetite of curiosity that his unsavory oratorical courses might be bolted without inspection and denunciation of the chef. the senator was conducted to the stage and introduced by assemblyman ballard. his arrival was greeted with only an inkling of applause from one corner of the gallery occupied by a few college students. near the stage rested peter tubbs and senator culbertson, sphinx-like in the desert of progressivism meditating on the grandeur of past political glory abused and lost. to the men an occasional political riddle was proposed by the speaker for solution. the senator's speech lasted nearly three hours, two of which were devoted to ancient history, and one to sharp criticisms of the philipp administration. from the beginning of things in wisconsin, the senator traced the growth of democratic institutions on the one hand and that of corporations on the other. the alleged incessant struggle for mastery between them was described with stage sincerity. it appeared, from his account, that the people were losing ground up to the time of his birth a half century or more back. and there was a dearth of honest men and patriotic statesmen in the state until the senator was old enough to hold public office.... _claude olds dies from coasting injuries_ claude olds, -year-old son of mr. and mrs. george olds, wilson street, died at : o'clock yesterday afternoon at st. elizabeth hospital as a result of injuries sustained in a coasting accident, related briefly in these columns yesterday. the lad sustained a broken neck and internal injuries. dr. alvin scott of the bowman park commission, who was instrumental in providing safe toboggan slides for the children in the city park, has decided since yesterday's fatal accident to ask the city commission for an appropriation sufficient to establish a number more of toboggan slides for the accommodation of children in various parts of the city. he is proceeding on the very safe assumption that if there had been a toboggan slide in the third ward the fatality of yesterday would not have happened, for there would then have been no occasion for children coasting on the hill where the accident occurred. the unfortunate lad, with his brother, ernest olds, and chester graves and bessie lamb, were on a delivery sled owned by the barnes and scholtz grocery company, sliding down a hill that extends into the ravine just north of second street and east of mason. when about halfway down the bob capsized and the little olds boy was buried under it. coasting on hills not especially prepared for it is dangerous to life and limb. the authorities should put a stop to it in bowman, but at the same time the city should make safe provision for such sport by erecting toboggan slides similar to the ones in the city park. _mrs. dows seeking adventure_ mrs. andrews dows, whose photograph is reproduced above, says she believes she is the most adventuresome of new york's society women, but is tired of the humdrum existence of mother earth in general and new york in particular. she says she thinks she has run the entire gamut of worldly thrills, but is still on the lookout for something new. mrs. dows declares she has ridden the most fiery of steeds and taken them over the most dangerous jumps. she has driven auto racing cars at blinding speed. once she captured a burglar single-handed. she has piloted all manner of water speed craft. now she declares she is tired of flitting through the clouds in an aeroplane and is impatiently waiting to hear of some sort of dangerous adventure that she has not already experienced. _b._ what criticism may be made of the following? an even one hundred reservations have been made for the new year's eve dinner to be served at o'clock in the venetian room at the carman house, and thirty have been made for service in the café. no more can be accommodated in the venetian room, but the management will be able to take care of a few more in the café and french room. those who have reserved places are planning to make this the biggest new year's jollification ever held in avondale. the management of the carman also says that patrons will be given the very best of service. _c._ examine the following story for its excellence in keeping the time relation entirely clear. show how the writer obtains this clearness and how he avoids the possibility of libel. (paragraphs = - =.) _death note bears author's tragedy in love_ four years ago the love story of myrtle reed, the author, who had immortalized her husband, james sydney mccullough, in prose and verse, came to a tragic end when she committed suicide in "paradise flat," her kenmore avenue apartment. during the five years of her married life her "model husband," as she called mccullough, was believed to have furnished the inspiration for "lavender and old lace," "the master's violin," and other love stories from her pen. mystery shrouded her death and an effort was made to hush up the suggestion that she was convinced that her husband no longer loved her. a note addressed to her aged mother was never made public. yesterday in circuit judge windes's court her father, hiram v. reed, sought to have mccullough deposed as trustee of her estate of about $ , . negligence and misapplication of funds were charged. mr. reed's attorney planned to show that mrs. mccullough expected to change her will before she committed suicide. what purported to be the mysterious note was offered in evidence. it was typewritten and only two words of script appeared in it. judge windes ruled that it was not sufficiently identified and rejected it as evidence. the offered note reads in part: "dearest mother: after five years of torment i have set myself free. i suppose you'll think it's cowardly, but i cannot help it. i cannot bear it any longer. last night was the twelfth anniversary of our meeting. he was to come home early and bring me some flowers, and instead of that he came home at half past one so drunk he couldn't stand up. "last year my birthday and the anniversary of our engagement were the same way. this morning he went out of town without even waking me up to say goodby to me or telling me where he was going or when he would be back. all i asked of him was that he should come home sober at half past six as other men do, but he refuses to give me even this. i am crushed, overwhelmed, drowned. "i enclose two bank savings books. this is for you and father and for nobody else under any circumstances whatever, aside from the provision i have made for you in my will. i've tried my best, mother. i've tried to bear it bravely and to rise above it and not to worry, but i cannot. i loved my husband so until he made me despise him. i should have done this five years ago, only you and father needed me. "you've been the dearest father and mother that anybody ever had and my being dead won't make any difference in my loving you. my will is in mr. fowler's vault. oh, mother, i've loved so much, i've tried so hard, i've worked so hard, and i've failed, failed, failed, failed. forgive me, please. with love always, "myrtle." mccullough was out of the city at the time of his wife's death. upon his return he said that she had probably taken her life while mentally unbalanced. "have you any comment to make on the letter written by your wife to her mother?" he was asked yesterday. "oh, i could tell you a long story if i wanted to," said he, carelessly. "there's nothing to it at all. i could show you worse letters than that. i doubt if she ever wrote it anyway. there is no proof. to understand this matter you must know that my wife's father and her brother have been fighting to get control over her estate. they didn't get enough to satisfy them under the will." although judge windes refused to depose mccullough as administrator, he ordered him to make a definite report, setting forth the condition of the property, with a list of all disbursements. further, he directed that mccullough should report from time to time as the court might direct and ordered him to give a permanent bond of $ , . the court said that the trustee's conduct had been improper.[ ] [ ] _chicago tribune_, july , . _d._ indicate and correct the faults in the following stories (paragraphs = - =): . while mrs. stanley barnes was making fruit salad at the baptist parsonage thursday she lost her wedding ring in it. clark webster was sick friday morning, and for a time it was thought that he had eaten it in the salad, but a calmness was restored in these parts when it was learned that she had failed to put it on when leaving home in the morning. . hereafter it shall be written by way of simile: "as fair as a hinsdale blonde." rainwater is the answer. rainwater! rainwater, such as used to seep off the kitchen roof into the eave trough and into the barrel at the corner. but the hinsdale water barrel, that has just been completed and now is in operation, is no mere castoff sauerkraut hogshead. it cost $ , , and it gives forth rainwater at a rate of a million gallons a day. and the dingiest brunette will soon blossom out in the full glory of the spun-gold blonde. the chemist person who installed the $ , rain barrel says so, and he claims to know. it was cited to the women of hinsdale that the women of the british isles are fair, very fair, indeed. what makes them so fair? the fog. and what is fog? it is rainwater in the vapor. hence rainwater will make women fair. let us, therefore, have rainwater. the water in hinsdale heretofore has been hard. it crinkled the hair and put the complexion on the bum. it cost more money for cosmetics to set these complexions right than a couple of $ , rain barrels. but now the seediest lady in the land has only to make a pilgrimage to hinsdale and return ready to make faces at the inventor of peroxide. . last week tuesday night the henhouse of mr. rosenblot, on the standard farm, was broken open and hens taken. also at the same time five bags of grain and two bags of cattle salt were stolen. thursday night his chicken coops were visited and about little chicks taken. mr. rosenblot expects his wife and her mother from russia next week. . the feature of the evening was the dance. miss semple's grace and ease in executing the many intricate steps of the argentine tango, hesitation waltz, and other modern dances elicited great applause from the onlookers. miss sheppard of the district nurses' association gave a lecture on first aid to the injured. . "lemme see something nifty in shirts--something with a classy green stripe," said dan mckee of soho street, as he cruised into the men's furnishing store of emil de santis, in webster avenue. the lone clerk evidently did not notice all the specifications of mckee's order, and listlessly drew out at random the first box of shirts his hand touched. picking the top shirt out, he laid it before mckee. "there's something nice," he began. "oh, is it?" yelled mckee. "mckee," said magistrate sweeney at the hearing, "what on earth made you try to wreck that store?" "i asked for a green striped shirt, judge." "well?" "and that fellow handed me a bright orange one." "i see," said sweeney. "but i'll have to make it thirty days." _e._ the following stories, along with other faults, are lacking in tone. correct them in any way necessary. (paragraphs = - =.) . the wedding bells peeled joyfully at the home of mr. h. r. drake last tuesday, when their highly accomplished and beautiful daughter, melva, became the blushing bride of that sterling young farmer, henry eastman. the bride's brother, charlie, played mendelssohn's wedding march on his cornet, and considering the fact he has only had it about months it sounded good. rev. osgood, who has been working through harvest and picking up a little on the side, performed the nuptials. the bride's costume was a sort of light gauzy affair and white slippers and stockings to match. of course she wore heavier clothes when they went on their wedding trip. quite a merry crowd assembled to see them off, and as they didn't have any rice some of them got to throwing roasting ears. henry was struck under the eye by a large ear and blacked it pretty bad. they drove right to larned and stayed all night at the hotel, and then took their wedding trip to kinsley and dodge city. they have rented the old home place and will be at home next tuesday. melva expects to take charge of cooper & jones' cook shack the rest of the season. . the old must die, the young sometimes do. when a young child, sweet and gentle in temperament, lovable and full of promise, is cut down in the very hey time of youth, it is unutterably sad. there is said to be a time for all things and this would seem to be a time for mourning. sunday morning at : o'clock the death angel summoned john o. beck, jr., and bade him leave his playthings and many friends and come away. it must have been with a sigh of relief that his spirit took flight from the frail body which had been tortured for twenty-two long days with the torture of spinal meningitis. john o. beck, jr., youngest son of mr. and mrs. john o. beck, was born on the twenty-fifth day of july, , in boswell. he was the youngest of four children--william, leona, and la baron survive him. his was a most beautiful nature, he loved company, and the childish circles in which he moved were always brighter and happier for his presence. as a member of the christian sunday school he was always in his place. the little boy will be missed, not only in the home, but among his playmates and also amongst the older people of the city. the funeral will be held to-morrow afternoon at o'clock from the family home. dr. frank talmage, pastor of the christian church, will officiate. interment will be made in south park. . after the ceremony the guests repaired to the dining-room, where a wedding dinner was served, replete with the most luscious viands conceivable by the human imagination. the turkey, which had been roasted under the personal supervision of the bride, possessed delectability of flavor impossible of description. it was the unanimous verdict of the numerous assemblage of appreciative guests that never before in the annals of human history had a turkey more delicious, more savory, more ambrosial, been the object of human consumption. both the business office and the editorial rooms of the _standard_ were largely and brilliantly represented, and the collation was interspersed with highly intelligent affabilities. constant streams of sparkling repartee rippled across the table, jocund anecdotes and refined civilities of every variety abounded, the festivities in every way being characterized by vivacity, suavity, chivalry, and irreproachable respectability. . r. s. george had a narrow escape from sudden death yesterday morning. george was working on top of an electric pole on water st. and ninth ave. he was strapped to the pole. he was removing the bolts that held the cross-bars. the pole was rotten and george's weight at the top caused it to break. in falling the pole hit the supply wagon that was standing below, breaking the fall. other men working on the job rushed to his aid. dr. mitchell was called. george was taken to the sacred heart hospital. mr. george was badly shaken up but not seriously injured. he is employed by the wisconsin-minnesota light & power co. . bud lanham, the corner's miser, who has buried his money for the last six years near the big ash tree back of cary's gin, lost half of it last week. the guilty person has not been apprehended. tim snyder went to jonesville yesterday and bought himself a fine suit of clothes and a ford. . mrs. a. i. epstein, the soprano soloist from st. louis, will sing a symphony known as the "surprise symphony" at the concert by the university orchestra in the auditorium to-morrow night. the piece was written by haydn. the symphony was so named by the composer on account of the startling effects produced. the solo part is very unusual, the long pauses and unusual loud chords make it unlike other music. it has a pleasing effect on the audience, probably due to its individuality. mrs. epstein has the reputation of being able to sing this kind of a solo. the foremost critics of the largest musical world pronounce mrs. epstein as an ideal in oratorical singing. . some jealous rascal threw a stone at a buggy in which a certain young man of florala and a young lady of lockhart were riding last saturday night. the stone struck the young lady squarely in the back, and at the same time bruised the left arm of the young man very badly. . mrs. o. n. daw is confined to her bed on account of the recent injury she sustained when she fell from a chair to the floor. mrs. daw was attempting to swat a fly at hand and stood upon the chair to reach the intended victim. he was further away than at first anticipated and in an endeavor to reach him she fell as a result of becoming overbalanced. we trust her injury will soon give her no further trouble and will soon become well. she certainly is to be commended for her efforts to swat the fly, for if more of us did this we would find less disease in the world and conditions more healthful in general. besides the flies are a bothersome pest anyway. . one of the most superb affairs that the citizens of lexington have witnessed for quite a long while, was brought to bear by the uniting in holy wedlock of mrs. mary elizabeth stewart and mr. louis monroe ford. at the beginning, the day was one of gloom, but late in the morning the clouds became scattered, and at the noon hour the sun peeped out and streamed through the windows of the old historic church, adding cheer and enthusiasm to the superb occasion. each individual of the bridal party performed his or her part as perfectly as if guided by a guardian angel, and the entire performance was one of rare beauty, portraying all of the accuracy of a piece of well-oiled machinery. _f._ the following stories are good and bad. rewrite any that need correction. show why the others are good. _accident narrowly averted_ last thursday evening the people of the beautiful little village of hartford were astounded when they heard the moan and groan of one of their neighbors, dr. william waters, who had the misfortune of being capsized beneath a small building in the mad waters of pigeon river. while dr. waters was out for an evening walk enjoying the cool breezes on the banks of this beautiful stream he had occasion to enter a small building which had been erected years ago. owing to his enormous heavy weight, and without a moment's warning, the building toppled over in the river, leaving the doctor in quite an embarrassing position. the moans and groans from beneath the little building could be heard from most every home in hartford. had it not been for the never-tiring efforts of lewis johnson and andy valentine in moving the building off the doctor, rescuing him from the grasp of death, which had clutched him beneath the building in the mad waters of the river, crepe would now be dangling from the door-knob of a doctor's office in hartford. _tight shoes balk pay-day lark_ mrs. mary bogden, west th street, is nearly five feet tall and weighs pounds. yesterday she refused to go out with her husband, joe, to celebrate his pay day, because her shoes were too tight. joe went out alone. when he came home he found his wife had been arrested for drinking too much. to-day her hat is too tight. _kills girl who spurned him_ miss evelyn helm got her position as cloak model because of the trimness of her waist, because of her lithe young figure, and because of her loveliness and vivacity. when she wore a gown for a buyer, he generally said, "some skirt!" therefore she received a fair salary and was independent. the same qualities that earned her money, however, attracted the attentions of a man she did not like--and invoked a tragedy. the man was gray-haired and big and fat and unromantic, but he loved the cloak model desperately. he told her so every time he saw her, but she laughed at him. she knew him as lem willhide "of kentucky," and she tried to avoid him. he followed her one day to her room in the home of mrs. louise wendt, eddy street, and invited himself to call. he wanted to marry her, to take her home to the "blue grass" country with him, but she could not be annoyed. "i ought to be calling you 'daddy,'" she said. "why, you're more than twice as old as i. you've admitted you are . go get a nurse and let me alone." he seemed to like her spirit. she could not break his determination, he told her. he might be old, but this was his first love affair. again and again she put him off. always he followed her, spied on her, called her by phone. she could not escape him, but he couldn't persuade her to wed him. yesterday morning as usual he sent his love message over the telephone wires--and the girl hung up the receiver and she sneered in an explanation to the landlady. later she was dressing to go out, when the back door of the rooming-house opened and the man from kentucky bulged in the doorway. "you've got your nerve coming into a lady's house without asking," said the girl. "i've come to get you," said the man. "then you better go back again," and the girl turned away. the man from kentucky drew a revolver and shot her in the neck. she looked up at him from the floor, and he fired four more bullets into her body. "if we can't be wed in life, we'll marry in death," the landlady heard him say, and he shot himself in the head. miss helm died as the police were carrying her into the chicago union hospital, and the man from kentucky died later in the alexian brothers' hospital. before he went he told detective william rohan that he was a tobacco salesman and a professional card player. "i drew for a queen to fill a bobtail flush," he said, with a queer smile, "but i didn't better my hand." _chauffeur's feet burned off_ herbert t. middleton lives on anderson avenue, at palisade, n. j. while driving his automobile along the avenue he saw an overturned car burst into flame at the roadside, about half a mile south of fort lee. two men and a boy were struggling to lift the rear end of the car, and shouting for help. middleton hurried to their aid and found that the legs of the chauffeur were pinned to the ground by the back of the rear seat and flaming gasoline running over his limbs was burning him like a torch. the chauffeur, amendo alberti, years old, raised himself to a sitting posture and tried to direct the efforts of his rescuers. with the aid of another autoist and several drivers of passing wagons, they finally got alberti free. the burning gasoline had spread upward to his body. it was smothered by rolling the man in lap robes from the cars. dr. max wyley of englewood hospital, who came with an ambulance, found that the chauffeur's feet had been almost burned off, and the burning fluid had seared his limbs and body as far as his chest. at the hospital doctor proctor assisted doctor wyley in an effort to keep him alive. they decided he had one chance in five of living. if he survives he will be a cripple. _blames all on woman he killed_ "the woman thou gavest me tempted me and i did eat."--adam, thousands of centuries ago. shortly after the world began, adam sinned--and blamed a woman. what adam did in fear of god, a twentieth-century adam did yesterday in chicago--blamed a woman. here is the story: attachés of a saloon and café at north clark street were startled early yesterday afternoon by revolver shots just outside the door. rushing into an alley at the rear, they found the bodies of a man and a woman. the man was washington irving morley, son of a wealthy contractor of kansas city. the woman was mrs. may whitney, years old, cabaret singer and mother of a -year-old child. as they picked the bodies up, a letter dropped from the man's coat. it told everything that need be told about the dead man, the dead woman, and the dead man's deed. it was addressed "to anybody," and read: this is an awful deed, but this woman is and has been ten thousand times worse than the vampire of fiction, and may god have mercy on her soul and mine. yes, i guess i am crazy and have been for a year, but she has driven me to it. i left her in k. c., but she followed me to chicago and then to green bay and all over. but it is too late to cry about our mistakes. i have had my chances, but i have thrown them all away. oh, if i had only taken the advice years ago of that grandest of all men, my father. but i let the three w's get me--wine, women, and w--. but, young men, remember, do not get infatuated with a woman of doubtful character. they never can lead to anything good. i have had my fling, but now i am going to the great beyond and i'm going to take the creature with me that has caused me more bad luck, heartaches, and everything else. i cannot live with her and i cannot live without her. good-by all. w. s. morley. p. s.--my belongings are all in her trunk, which is at spangenberg's. i think her mother's address is pinckney street, somerville, mass., mrs. d. t. whitney. the bodies were taken to gavin & son's undertaking rooms. there a second letter was found in the man's pocket. it was addressed to his father, p. j. morley, in kansas city, and read as follows: you no doubt will be horrified, but i couldn't help it. i have been crazy for a year, and this woman has driven me to it. you have been the grandest father in the world to me, and if only i had taken your advice, what a change it would have made in my life! but it is too late. good-by, and may god have mercy on my soul. yours, irving. p. s.--father, if you want to do anything, take care of that boy in hamburg, iowa. he will be some boy if he doesn't inherit too many of his parents' bad faults. until recently morley was a partner in the expressing firm of ryan & morley, fifth avenue and randolph street. _slain in fight on bridge_ a horrified crowd to-day saw a fight sixty feet in the air on an arch of the new high-level bridge over the cuyahoga river in which frank wright, storekeeper for the bridge contractors, was killed by a fellow workman with an iron bar. the killing was witnessed by wright's wife, who was making her way up to him with his lunch. police have arrested jack browning in connection with the crime. the killing was preceded by a grim struggle in which the two men wrestled back and forth on the arch and both nearly fell into the river several times. after wright had been slain his assailant jumped from platform to platform until he reached the ground and then fled. _aged man gains hearts desire_ joseph stang has gained his heart's desire. he is dead. for joseph stang death drew aside its mask of horror and revealed itself the fair prize and ultimate reward of mankind, impartially awaiting the winners and losers in life. and the aged man pursued it for a year with patient resolution, undiverted by the inconsequential parade of the world's affairs. during the last year mr. stang, who was years old, and a retired real-estate man, living with an invalid wife at north paulina street, made three ineffectual attempts to commit suicide. his first effort was discovered before he had succeeded in injuring himself. on oct. he sent a bullet into his brain in his bedroom. persons in the household ran to him and found him lying on the floor, the revolver beside him. he was placed on the bed, and during the excitement of telephoning for an ambulance and a physician, the members of the household left him alone, believing him unconscious, if not dead. he got out of bed and crawled to his revolver, which had been picked up and placed on the bureau. then he fired another shot over his heart. he was taken to the hospital, where his wounds, although both in vital parts, healed rapidly, and he was soon discharged. because of his infirmities and the illness of his wife he was later taken to the german-american hospital to be cared for. saturday morning he told his nurse that he was tired of life. she cajoled him into a better humor, however, and he ate three hearty meals during the day. shortly after supper he was left alone in his room. he went to his window, which overlooks a cemented court twenty feet below, and dived out, striking on his head. he was dead within a few minutes. physicians at the hospital declare that mr. stang must have calculated his jump carefully, as a falling body would not strike head first unless by design. _dark streets make three escapes possible_ policemen on posts in the bronx have frequently complained to their superior officers because the turning off of street lights before daylight often gives burglars and other criminals an hour or more of heavy darkness in which to carry on their operations unmolested. the most emphatic of such complaints was made yesterday morning, after three burglars had escaped from pursuit at : a.m. according to the policemen who attempted to capture the men, all of the lights in the bronx were out at the time and heavy clouds made the streets black as midnight in a country village. the policemen attributed the escape of the burglars entirely to the darkness. not only did the men escape, but they fired revolvers at the policemen and narrowly missed one of them, who heard the bullet as it passed his head. sergeant hale and policeman regen of the morrisania station were standing in westchester avenue near union avenue shortly before : o'clock, when they heard the crashing of a pane of glass. they ran to union avenue in time to see the dim shadows of three men running from the corner. the two policemen shouted to the men to stop and fired their revolvers, but the fugitives, returning the fire over their shoulders, darted down union avenue, separated, and disappeared into apartment house doors. policemen rooney and o'connell, who were several blocks away, heard the shots and ran to the scene. the alarm was sent to the precinct station, and while the four policemen were following the burglars into the apartment houses, the reserves were hurrying to their assistance. hale and regen surprised one of the men on a roof and opened fire on him, but, as far as they could tell in the inky darkness, he was not hit. as he fled to the roof of an adjoining house he fired at the policemen, and hale could tell from its sound that the bullet passed within a few inches of his head. the man disappeared into the darkness, and the policemen were unable to find him again. other policemen followed the other two burglars, the reserves surrounded the block, and many of those living in the neighborhood who were aroused from sleep by the revolver shots, joined in the hunt; but the trail of none of the fugitives was picked up. it was so dark, the searchers said, that they were not able to see more than a few feet ahead of them at any time. all agreed that the burglars probably hid almost under the noses of those who were looking for them, for every roof, alley and possible hiding place in the block was searched as carefully as was practicable under the conditions. the men had thrown a brick through the window in the jewelry store of m. baldwin, at westchester and union avenues. they snatched about $ worth of novelty objects from the window, but dropped all of them in their flight. the property was later picked up from the street. many complaints have come to the _new york crescent_ from all over the city because there is often an hour or more of darkness between the time of turning out street lights and daylight. the lighting companies, it is said, are within the law of their contracts with the city. _chapter xi_ indicate the places at which paragraphs should be made in the following stories: _character indicated by the lips_ to all daughters of eve who have leap-year intentions, the vocational guide and well-known bachelor, william j. kibby, to-day offers advice concerning the habits, characteristics, and dispositions of various sorts of men, which is intended to help the girls win their hearts' desires without suffering rebuff in the process. a good deal of what kibby says is based upon phrenology. a man who has thin, straight lips is branded a cold-blooded, stony-hearted creature upon whom the dearest girl's appeal would have no effect. this sort of man will do his own proposing, run his own wedding, and rule his household; and he'll do it more with his head than with his heart. but if the man of your choice has full, well-formed lips, kibby says you may depend upon his capacity for, and inclination to, love. he also is susceptible to the right sort of feminine approach. kibby says the way to tell whether the one you love, loves you, is by the coloring of the under lip when he is with you. every human emotion gives some physical demonstration when it is aroused. the evidence that love has been aroused is given by the deep crimsoning of the under lip. if his under lip is perpetually pale when he is with you, he doesn't love you. if it is crimson and you want him, grab quick; he won't run. a man with a broad, square, massive forehead is a good business man; he can plan ahead, has good business judgment. if the crown of his head is high and round he is absolutely conscientious, too; and if the back of his head is well rounded out he will love his home, his wife, and his children and show them consideration above everything else in the world. the man whose head is flat on top, flat and almost even with his ears in the back and narrow and foreshortened on the front; whose lips are thin, whose eyes are cold, will not make a good husband in any sense of the word, says kibby. the longer a man's jaw-bone, the greater his capacity for affection, according to kibby. all these things are as applicable to women as to men, is the expert's opinion. _fashion model marries all in black_ a black wedding, one of the most remarkable ceremonies ever performed in this country and one which made even blasé new york sit up and stare, was celebrated at the church of st. vincent de paul here to-day. it was completely black, and the first wedding of its kind ever planned made the little fashion model, eleanor klinger, the bride of ora cne, a designer. from the limousine in which they threaded their way among the skyscrapers to the little church in twenty-third street to the handles on the silver service at their wedding breakfast, everything down to the most minute detail was coal black. even the serving men were black; and everyone with any part in the ceremony wore black, including black gloves. as the big black car whirled up to the curb at o'clock, the driver, who had a black mustache, twisted the black handle on the door and out popped the little bride and groom. they were dressed in black from head to foot. cne, a handsome, stocky young fellow, a little below medium height, wore a single-breasted black broadcloth suit, cut business style and fitting close. his collar was black and his string tie and black silk shirt blended into his black vest. the little bride, tripping across the sidewalk with her soon-to-be, wore black silk slippers, a black silk dress sparingly overlaid with black chiffon. her wedding veil was a broad strip of black silk edged and overlaid with black tulle, ending in large bows. this wedding veil and train are detachable, "so," as the bridegroom explained, "it can be used either for morning or evening." the bride's corsage bouquet was of black pansies. after the ceremony mr. and mrs. cne sped to their black wedding breakfast at the cne apartment in forty-third street. there cne's black valet served black coffee, black bread, black butter (dyed), black bass, black raisins, and blackberries. the breakfast room was in black and white, with ebony furniture and black rugs. the silver service, from coffee set to teaspoons, was fitted with dull finished ebony handles. the porcelain service was black with an edging of white. cne and his bride will begin a tour of the larger cities of the country with their visit to philadelphia friday, where cne will address the teachers' institute of domestic science. later they will go to fort wayne, ind., cne's home town, and to omaha, minneapolis, nashville, pittsburgh, kansas city and later to the west coast.[ ] [ ] _kansas city star_, january , . _chapter xii_ _a._ the following sentences contain pronouns incorrectly used. indicate and correct the faults in each sentence. (paragraphs = - =.) . while bill knight was riding a bucking horse at his store saturday he got beyond control and ran against the house and caused concussion of the brain and they had to kill it. . this lunchroom cookery goes on during the second and third hours of the morning, at the end of which each member of the class is expected to have their respective duties done and ready to put in the steam table for lunch. . the management of the majestic theater are preparing to put up a number of lights down to the theater. this will be a permanent fixture and will be very beautiful. it is to be known as the great white way. . one difference between a man and a mule is that when a mule turns his back on a man, he is in the most danger. . they passed through wisconsin, minnesota, and the northern parts of north dakota and south dakota, and after reaching montana they visited many different parts of it. one evening they took their suppers and ate on the rocky mountains which will never be forgotten by the parties. . each of the visitors will be requested to tell of his or her most humorous experience as a teacher; also the most important problem which they have met with since they became teachers. . it would not be right, after their work in trying to bring all nations into universal peace, for the united states, in the first case of this kind, to turn against its own policies and not listen to the appeal of the south american countries to arbitrate the dispute for them. . last night i sat in a gondola on venice's grand canal, drinking it all in, and life never seemed so full before. . tom wilkinson happened to a very serious accident this week in trying to put grease on his mule to keep off the flies. the mule became frightened and jumped, causing him a fractured rib and dislocated shoulder. . the members of kappa beta sorority attended the funeral of mrs. owen, at benton yesterday, the mother of miss anne owen of allgood college and a member of the sorority who died sunday. . driggs, our popular druggist, was covered with dirt saturday while putting up a stovepipe, some of which lodged in his eye, giving him much pain. . cornell's first touchdown was made after less than five minutes of play. they took the kick-off and with barrett and collins making long gains on every plunge through the line, the ball was carried straight to a touchdown. . miss janet hearn, who went to marquette and is going to carroll also, suggested that each girl wear a white chrysanthemum tied with blue ribbon when they go to waukesha. . the bride entered the drawing-room on the arm of her father, who wore a gown of white charmeuse satin, trimmed in venetian point lace, and with veil of the same. . either every one is traveling in italy these days or else they have much less accommodation than usual. . the du pont company is building four lines at their works near this city and more than , men are now employed. . birds with beautiful long tail feathers that had traveled hundreds of miles from the warm countries of africa sat on their perches looking homesick for their native forests. . when pulling out for glen haven with the freight wagon thursday morning, norm watriss was notified by pedestrians on the street that his nose was frozen. he gave up the trip, after explaining that it had started to freeze three times that morning. . the main street methodist church, at salisbury, n. c., has given their pastor, rev. c. f. sherrill, a hearty welcome. . it certainly will reduce the number of serious accidents in the way of people being run over, which all desire to see. . suspecting that patterson had planned his getaway, foster ran to a point on the street where he knew he would intercept him as he emerged from the alley. both met about the same time. . len french returned wednesday evening and is greatly improved since his accident. he was kicked by a horse about two weeks ago in the face. we are glad that it did not leave a scar. . besides johnson and wingers, the detectives found two half-dollars which only a little while before had been removed from the mold. when taken to central police station the two would have nothing to say. . jack murphy threatens to sue the milwaukee railroad for damages sustained when he alleges a trunk was thrown out upon him the first of the week from a milwaukee train at their station, which confined him to his bed, he avers. _b._ correct the verbs in the following sentences (paragraphs = - =): . an eighteen-year-old girl with four younger brothers and sisters were arraigned in court this morning charged with running an illicit distillery. . an elaborate series of special devotions always take place at this season in roman catholic and episcopal parishes. . all the party had expected to have got to the theater in time by starting from the house at : . . every one of the people who have been married in appleton by dr. john faville during the twenty-one years he has been pastor of the congregational church have been invited to attend services at the church next sunday. . in point of attendance it was the largest meeting the association has ever held, sixty-four members having been present, representing every part of the country. . the owners of the building wish to truly thank all the men who were good enough to so kindly give their time and means in the city's cause. . then running up main street comes the woman's entrance, woman's boudoir, lounge, men's entrance, buffet, and a shop. . suits made-to-order can be detected at a glance from the ready-made kind, and a glance at these suitings will prove that there is no such qualities to be found in ready-made suits. . obtaining a warrant two days beforehand, officer lord was ready for any emergency. . after being put to bed, the hospital notified the west lake street police of the man's presence there. . the old populistic following that has been bryan's strength in the past have been told by him over and over again that they have no quarrel with this administration. . during the first six months of this year there was exported to the united states and american possessions from hamburg, luebeck, and kiel goods to the value of $ , , . . being tried three times already for the same offense, he could not expect clemency now. . thomas admitted that he was intending to seriously propose a bill forbidding women wearing short or close-fitting skirts. . he had worked the play only four times before he had been caught the second time. . the large number of carp in the fox river this year have caused a number of local men to become interested in establishing a fish cannery at appleton. . neither the amount of the bonus or the salary were mentioned by comiskey or ban johnson. . entering the historic church a scene of havoc and ruin is presented--twisted beams and arches, panels and columns of alabaster crushed into bits and lying around in heaps, the richly carved pulpit blown to pieces with only a faint outline of its former wonders remaining. _c._ the following sentences illustrate faults in coördination and subordination. correct the errors. (mainly paragraphs = - =.) . john miller had the misfortune to fall on the ice friday and break his wooden leg. this will lay mr. miller up for some time as the limb will have to be sent away for repairs or perhaps necessitates his buying an entirely new leg. . strict attention to business, courteous treatment of those with whom he comes in contact both in a business and social way, and always mindful of the interests of his employer, are qualifications fitting mr. de baufer as the logical successor to mr. dodge. . mr. kennedy was destroying some tanglefoot fly paper that had been used by burning same near the building, and the wind had blown a spark into a rat hole and the draft brought the fire up inside the studding and was hard to get at, but was put out by the chemicals and no damage done to the building. . work of constructing a y. m. c. a. hotel costing $ , , and which will provide , rooms for young men starting a business life, was begun here to-day. . "three regrettable things were done by the legislature," said president charles b. rogers, alumni association: "one was the creation of the central board of education, dormitory appropriations were repealed, the tuition for nonresidents was raised." . while mr. william conklin was exercising his old pet horse recently, he slipped on the ice, giving the horse a chance to turn and kick him in the face, whereby a few stitches had to be taken, but now is quite comfortable. . i was on the news when donovan was on the _journal_ and in ' launched my history of the people's party, against which the entire press was arrayed, save the _staats-zeitung_, hessing's paper, and which won out against the law and order party by a majority of , . . some one entered the cellar at the o. l. paris home last week and stole about a peck of pickles. mr. paris says that if the pickles are returned or paid for he will refrain from publishing the name on an envelope found in his cellar and supposed to have been dropped by the thief. . mrs. bordy is an attractive brunette while the groom is connected with the central savings bank and trust company. . the difference in the size of the schools is another cause of the weakness, oxford being the largest and seems to want proper control. . she married pancho villa when he was a bandit and now has two automobiles, a great many diamonds, and a fine home near the palace. . uncle russ brown and wife were in town and visited the doctor and had a tooth pulled and also had one of his wife's teeth pulled. . when mrs. albert truskey of this city with her sister mrs. louise schwendlund of appleton went to visit their mother who is seriously ill at the home of her son, john beckett, in de pere last wednesday, they were greeted by another sister who, it is alleged to have started a fracas in which one sister is said to have slapped the other in the face. . mr. rounds underwent an operation upon his arm about a month ago and which physicians claim to have been perfectly successful. . albert johns upon interfering pushed the two visiting sisters out of the house, was arrested and later released upon furnishing a bond for $ to keep the peace. . he was crossing the trestle and when seeing a freight coming, and being desirous of crossing the track before it came, he hurried across, and slipped, his foot falling between one of the cross-ties. he managed to extricate his leg from the tie, but lost his balance and the other foot slipped, precipitating himself in his former dangerous predicament, and narrowly escaped being crushed to death under the train, as he finally succeeded in freeing himself and jumped across the side just as the big freight came down the track. . yesterday afternoon the ladies of st. mary's guild gave at fulrath's opera house one of the most successful dances ever held in savannah. successful not only financially but also from society and an enjoyable point of view. . people with gray eyes are superficial, frivolous, given to embrace false idols, running down blind alleys, following false prophets, thoughtless, inconsiderate, wanting in sympathy, neurotic, unstable, not firm and deliberate, but rash and impetuous. . mrs. berkinshaw was handsome in pale blue hand-embroidered crepe with a hat of black velvet trimmed with white ospreys and carried a french bouquet of violets and pink roses. . the seat sale for fiske o'hara's play at the theatre next friday evening is progressing very rapidly, nothing but $ . and $ . seats being left and a great many of the $ . seats have been sold. . grace marshall, confined a prisoner in her father's home near st. michael's, md., for twelve years, and who is being treated at the henry phipps clinic, is improving physically, but will never fully recover her mental faculties, according to dr. lewis a. sexton of the hospital. _d_. the following sentences contain errors due principally to faulty ellipsis. point out the faults in ellipsis and correct all errors. (mainly paragraph = =.) . marvin cloudt and ferdinand willie attended the dance tuesday night at mrs. jamie kanak's, and hear they enjoyed it well and caught themselves nice sweethearts. . the leyland liner armenian was torpedoed and sunk on june by a german submarine. the vessel was carrying , mules, which were consigned for the port of avonmouth. a large number of the missing are american citizens. . specimens of all our students are preserved and show remarkable results in this department of our school work. . please inform your readers there is a reward of $ for shooting pelicans, and a fine of $ for the shooter. . all veterans attending on the regular old soldiers' and settlers' day next tuesday may secure tickets for themselves, wives, or widows which will admit them free of charge on wednesday. . he complained to his physician that he stuffed him so much with drugs that he was ill a long time after he got well. . william kohasky and henry young, two young chaps, were friends, but last evening after imbibing freely from the cup that cheers forgot all about their friendliness and started to fight. . the person retaining my dog, a lewellen setter, is known and if not let at liberty at once, will be prosecuted. . daughter and granddaughter of soldiers, her father was on macmahon's staff, and the image of that tall old man stretched out before her evoked in her mind another image no less terrible. . if you do use a blank typewriter you will never be inconvenienced without one. . frank becker had a horse break its leg sunday and had to be killed. . an all university team picked from the best bowlers in school will be entered in the state tournament this winter for the first time and will bowl against nearly other teams at o'clock on jan. on the colonial alleys. . the woman's benevolent society of the fourth congregational church has been newly decorated, new lights installed, the matting donated by the philathea class in place, and all in readiness for "go to church" sunday. . on account of sickness the club meeting will be postponed from tuesday until thursday. _e._ reconstruct the following sentences in any way that will make them clear. point out the errors in the sentences as they now stand. (mainly paragraphs = - =.) . a. a. deleo, while walking with a young lady the other night, slipped on the icy pavement and sprained his arm, between grobel's corner and the crossing. . some days they only succeeded in gaining a few feet, no matter how heavy the cannonading. . mr. scherck explained that sickness in his family has caused him a great deal of expense in the last year and is sure that he can meet all his indebtedness, which by the way is not as large as was reported, by the first of the new year. . miss louise hill gave a small luncheon wednesday, at ferndale, where her parents have taken the frank bovey house in honor of miss ethel woolf of atlanta, ga., who is her guest. . mr. william waldorf astor has reached the fulfilment of the ambition which brought him from the united states to england sixteen years ago to become a british subject by his elevation to-day to the rank of a baron of the united kingdom. . the french are using the grenade as a war weapon with considerable success in trench fighting, and for guarding the men who hurl them from poisonous vapors, which are used with telling effect by the germans, a special mask is provided. . mr. moscherosch said this morning that the cap was designed particularly for chauffeurs and drivers who are obliged to travel at night and face the blinding light from automobile lamps, for farmers and factory employees. . van wie's defense is that he has no recollection of the marriage on account of an operation performed on his brain. . in these elections they are only permitted to vote for an elector and not for the man running for the office. . he finally admitted that not only the testimony was not true, but that he knew it was false. . lessons which the united states may gain from the european war comprise the major part of a letter written by tracey richardson of kansas city, a soldier of fortune, who is now serving with the princess patricia's regiment of canadians in europe, to a washington friend. . some of the other striking results that have taken place already since the adoption of this new scheme are: in the first place, there has been an increase in efficiency. the men do more work in eight hours than they did before in nine. in the second place, there is a striking effect in the development of character. . while harold green was escorting miss violet wise from the church social last saturday night a savage dog attacked them and bit mr. green several times on the public square. . one senator expressed the belief that the other outrages besides the tampico incident should be considered, such as the treatment of american citizens in mexico, and that all the mexicans should be included, and not just huerta. . musical numbers were rendered by miss findley on the violin and tom hamilton. the occasion was greatly enjoyed. . quite in keeping with the old-fashioned idea of the wedding spirit and yet managed with a delicacy and refinement that lent especial charm to the homely symbols and their significance, everything was carried out with taste and elegance that could make it prenuptial in feeling. . a burglar, in attempting to enter wright's store, was shot at by winifred rardin. the man started to run, the bullet striking him between the fence corner and front gate, inflicting a superficial wound. . the affection has interfered seriously with her singing, her talent for which has been the subject of high praise and has brought her to philadelphia for treatment before. . bacon induced barbers on the west side to advertise orally to their customers of church organizations between shaves. . when annie malone frazier, colored, was asked which she had rather have, her husband, babe frazier, or $ which she claimed he had stolen from her in police matinee wednesday afternoon, annie unhesitatingly chose the $ . . callahan declared he had only bargained for two men each day. . after two weeks fighting they had neither gained the forest nor even the outer edges of the village. . the cause of the fire was said to be the tipping over of a lamp, which had been left during the night by the family cat. . rev. and mrs. pierce have returned from the green lake assembly. the reverend will occupy his pulpit on sunday morning, and monday in company with his wife they will leave to visit their new-found relatives in picton, ontario. on sunday the nd, mr. pierce will occupy the picton pulpit in the morning by request of the pastor. . both testified that the evil effect is not alone seen in the motor races. . the committee acted last night with the relentless persistency of a steam roller and crushed out the athletic activities of two men who were members of the last olympic team without compunction. . mrs. dickenson expects soon to entertain a company of ladies at luncheon and another dinner party will be given. . mr. hailey, wife, daughter miss ida, and son will accompanied by mrs. rose hailey and master adran, motored to springfield last saturday and spent the day on business and visiting relatives, averaging eighteen miles an hour. . the young man was taken to menasha for treatment and his injury is not expected to prove serious. . wesley owen got mixed up with his horse monday and carries a bad gash in his head where he kicked him, the calk of the shoe going through his hat and making a hole in the band. he was being curried when he reared and kicked wesley. his two outside fingers on his hand were struck and badly injured. it was lucky for him he was not more seriously injured. as it was, he was knocked senseless and had to be helped to the house. lucky for him, the horse reared right up and came down on him. _f._ rewrite the following sentences in any way that will improve their coherence (mainly paragraphs = - =): . some hail fell sunday evening, but fortunately there was but little wind, besides the hail was not very solid and not very large so that the corn and other growing crops suffered but little, and fortunately there is but very little tobacco growing in the path of this storm, and which fortunately did not extend over a very wide territory, possibly not over a mile in width. . things are very quiet to-day. the justice courts are without criminal matters, and likewise the undertakers report no deaths. . some large steamers operate upon its course, carrying freight, passengers, and other commodities. . nicholas jenkins, a retired capitalist, was among the killed. william essex, president of the city railway, is still missing, and several stores were wrecked by the high winds preceding the rain, but it is thought that the benefits of the heavy rain will more than offset all losses. . simon beck sawed wood last thursday. charlie bishop did the work. . with our nose always to the ground for improvements going on in our part of the city, we are awarded this time with the beautiful and attractive appearing front of the new moving picture theater. namely, a row of incandescent lights hanging in a straight line above the entrance. . in the interests of the picture mr. cummings risks life and limb with careless disregard of his own safety. to be seen on the central plaza thursday. . this is a picturization of the famous novel and play and appeals to all classes. a gripping story all the way through and one that will set you thinking. . but even if he was possessed of quite remarkable golfing ability, i do not think there would be much prospect of his attaining to the consistent brilliancy of vardon, braid, and taylor, unless he was granted the opportunity of continually playing with these giants, or men much of their caliber, say like duncan and ray, and nowadays the amateur has but few opportunities of taking part in games with these celebrities, as they are so very fully occupied, and in their quest for the almighty dollar have not the time for the friendly encounter. . prof. c. o. bishop was marshall's english teacher and he failed to pass the rhetoric tests getting only a grade of . . i believe that the greatest present menace to the american indian is whiskey. it does more to destroy his constitution and invite the ravages of disease than anything else. it does more to demoralize him as a man and frequently as a woman. . the house was beautifully decorated in red and white hearts extending from the centers of the rooms in each direction, and in the arch to the dining-room were two large hearts, pierced by an arrow containing the words "two hearts that beat as one," where after several games were played, miss baker was seated and showered with rice from a funnel, concealed back of the hearts above, and also showered with more than fifty presents each containing a verse, which caused much merriment, after which the guests proceeded to the dining-room, where the color scheme was also carried out, hearts being extended from a large wedding bell which hung in the center of the room and the table was decorated in red and white roses. . appleton people will be interested to read the subjoined article from the grand rapids _leader_, referring to people formerly residents of this city, a. c. bennett and his son, arthur, who used to live on lawrence street between oneida and morrison streets a generation or more ago, and rev. h. c. logan received his education at lawrence college. . there is a girl, one of the longest drivers i have ever seen, and i have seen all the best women golfers play, and though she has a distance of yards or so to her credit, she is not one of the good drivers, because at the next hole she is more than likely to send the ball in a semicircle, getting into some hazard belonging to another hole. . in so far as this war is concerned, the capture of the kiel canal is almost as important, if not even more so, to england as it is to france. . it is also asserted that, as germany may ask further financial assistance from this country before long, which, naturally, she would be unable to procure in case of a break with us, and as great britain undoubtedly needs such assistance, and, through american financiers, is even, now procuring it, as germany has also done, although in a much more limited way, hence the race by these powerful belligerents for american favor. . henry fleming is being detained at his home this week. a new stone hitching post has been set in front of the fleming residence on east street. _g._ the following sentences lack emphasis. explain why and improve the emphasis in each. (paragraphs = - =.) . as we go to press, the news comes to us that doc pasley of southeast of town was instantly killed yesterday afternoon by a tree falling on him. as we are unable to learn any of the particulars about it, we are forced to leave it out this week. . william abel, who was convicted last month of the murder of thomas kane, years old, was refused a new trial by judge ormerod, who inflicted the death sentence to be hanged. . this is her third visit to shawano and she spoke of our beautiful surroundings, especially the large forest trees left by the early settlers for shade trees and she spoke in praise of them for their foresight in leaving the large pine trees and oaks standing. . when a team in a tournament contest can trim an opponent to , it shows that one team is unusually strong, or that the other is very, very much inferior. . one of e. w. bishop's fine calves was found violently ill monday evening. in its stomach was found a considerable amount of the poisonous variety of mushrooms, the stomach showing much information. . eggs of the species, like those of all its immediate relatives, are laid in water and never in deep water. . after the usual eats which received their due share of attention, numerous toasts were responded to. . billy sunday and dr. francis clark, the latter the founder of the christian endeavor league, will be unable to attend, both being ill at the present time. . warren is one of the finest little cities i know of and my travels take me through the best cities in four states, but indifference toward the appearance of the city such as is evidenced by the posting of circus ads over an entire side of a city building, such as has been done on the building opposite the city courthouse, i fear would soon cause the traveling public to change its mind regarding this beautiful little city. . much indignation has been aroused throughout this parish on account of the fatal stabbing of joseph mier, a young man and the son of a prominent planter, which occurred just before dawn sunday morning as a public ball was ending, some miles from this place. . a letter from the james b. clow and sons company, chicago, received by the city commission quotes prices on bubbler fountains such as it is planned to install at the corner of college avenue and oneida street. . wilbur grant and jack faville left the city this morning to attend the world's convention of the christian endeavor society, which is to be held in chicago. . while driving from barre sunday afternoon a tire went down on the car of burt smith causing the machine to slide around a little but after putting on a new tire he was able to continue home. the report was started that one wheel was broken but such developed to be erroneous. . do you know that if you attend the song service and christian cantata given sunday evening by the choir at the first methodist church, you will find a pleasure in spending sunday evening in a way that will give satisfaction that comes from the feeling that you attended an entertainment and have been at services on the sabbath day? . louisiana never does things by halves. it was the unanimous consensus of opinion of all that our chest of silver presented to mrs. j. m. thomson was only surpassed by the congressional diamond necklace. . she is well educated, and speaks, besides chinese and english, the languages of germany and france. . miss kathryn stinson, a lady aviatrix, will fly from grant park to the ball park, and just before the battle starts manager tinker will be presented with a watch and chain. . the recent tornado wrought havoc with the newton church, tearing off a considerable section of the roof, rafters and all, and throwing the west end gable down upon the pulpit and nearby furniture of the interior. the belfry was demolished, and the bell thrown into the yard. the house is otherwise in a fairly good condition. . a fine and costs of $ . was paid in police court yesterday afternoon for charles mccormick, who was charged by the police with creating an improper disturbance at the sherwood buffet. . others of world-wide repute will appear, and delegates and noted people from all over the world are arriving and have already arrived in the city. . an article appeared in last week's paper stating a baby boy was born to mr. and mrs. c. m. david, which is incorrect, and mrs. david wishes it published that it is not true. it must have been a joke or mistake. . committees of the passengers in general, and separate committees of clergymen, students, and newspaper men have been organized to confer with similar committees in the neutral nations, when the ship arrives, on the question of peace. . the place where the body of howe was found is the most convenient location for a body killed elsewhere and removed from another place to the lonesome spot where it was found. . the chimney still stands, although many bricks have been loosened by the heat, and fallen to the earth below. . john fouts of olena surprised his friends last friday evening by bringing home a new bride. in honor of the occasion he served an oyster stew to quite a little gathering of friends. . he has two of the prettiest homes in our beautiful city for sale. home no. is located on beach drive on our beautiful water front, where you can sit on the front porch and watch the beautiful waves. it has a lot by feet, the bungalow has eight rooms and is a two-story house, with bath and toilet on each floor, a beautiful flower garden plan, roses, royal palms, rubber trees, etc. house no. is located at no. fifth avenue, north, a beautiful location. the house is furnished up beautifully inside and has a beautiful yard. . the bride is a pleasing young woman well known in beardstown's social set, and enjoys the acquaintance of everyone who knows her. . she climbed up on the bed and tucked her feet under her, and the thoughtful forefinger began to slowly trace the pattern on the bedspread, while jane rowland studied her with speculative spectacles. . passengers are forbidden to stand on the front platform and will not be allowed to stand on the rear platform. _h._ the following sentences are unemphatic because of their crude or affected phraseology. rewrite each so that it shall be good. . he leaves nine children, eight of whom are honored and respected citizens of this state, and the other lives in missouri. . pan with his shepherd pipes, jupiter with his thunderbolts, apollo with his harp, and the songstress, sappho, appeared in spirit with the minneapolis symphony orchestra, which returned to evansville monday afternoon and night on its annual tour. the whispering winds of the reed section, the passionate love pleadings of the cellos, mixed with the blatant fury of the trumpets, the rumble and thunder of the kettle drums, and instruments portraying all the varying moods of nature, presented the whole category of human emotions. . she has a wonderful voice, full, round, and velvety, with a mature richness and at the same time the vibrant joyousness of youth. while her spring songs bring veritable visions of apple blossoms and the songs of birds, she can express with equal perfection the tragedy of grief. . processionals of lovely matrons, trailing draperies of brilliantly hued velvets, brocades and satins, drifts of adorable girls, their exquisite slimness enveloped in misty clouds of tulle or clinging lengths of accordion plaited taffetas; platoons of the brave and the gallant, the handsome and the gay of peoria's golden youth, and substantial business men, in the correctest of evening garb, lent to the jefferson hotel a stunningly pictorial effect last night when the first assembly ball of the season took place at that popular hostelry. . away, away on the pinions of the wind flew the car, the speed being dexterously regulated according to the grade and curvature of the road. many birds, traveling at their best speed, were easily overtaken and left far in the rear; horse conveyances going at a gallop appeared to be standing still; farm houses looked like hen-coops, and eholt resembled a chicken ranch. for speed, mazeppa's ride was far outclassed. it was a memorable trip to those in the car, but everyone had implicit confidence in the chauffeur and there were no white feathers visible. . his heart is of gold, pure -carat gold, all wool and a yard wide. . throughout the entire visit of the society members the prison band, stationed in the balcony over the prison entrance, dispersed sweet music. . fortunate, indeed, are the golfers of elgin and vicinity, in having for their very own such a lovely and delightful spot as the wing park golf course, where soft, sweet winds are blended with the greens below and the blue above--where the sturdy oak reaches out cool, shadowy arms to caress the tired golfer--where the last rays of the setting sun love to linger on the golf balls--where in fact all nature appears to unite into one grand combination to give the golfer a good time. . mr. and mrs. s. f. shattuck are entertaining a number of their lady and gentlemen friends at a boat ride in their launch "dion" this afternoon. . miss muriel kay, pianist, manipulated not only the keys of the instrument, but also the heart-strings of the audience. . the merry matrons' club was hostess at the home of mr. and mrs. j. e. tiger to a number of friends, as well as the husbands of the members of the club. . she is a dainty slip of a girl, with pretty, graceful presence. she resembles a canary bird just poised for flight as she faces her audience, golden haired and singing without the least effort, her high tones clear and true, trilling the bird notes and enthralling the guests. she is the best soprano ever heard in the birchwood club. . in the fullness of time (according to the laws of human nature, which draws into a juxtaposition all who would really enjoy the beauty of life) has been revealed a long looked for and also a long hoped for event. by an act of providence there has been provided two existences, two lives, two individualities in two different families in the immediate surroundings of this community. these two existences, which had heretofore traveled the pathway of life, each moving on in an independent course, passing through the various experiences of life and never once dreaming of what the end would really be, had emerged upon the common but ever blessed pathway of life to blend together into a single union the thought and intents of each other's hearts, wills, and affections, and thence plunge into the great land of utility. we are only too willing to admit that the contracting parties took to heart the words, "it is not good that the man should be alone," because last thursday evening at o'clock mr. oliver keefer and miss myrtle bowker amalgamated their earthly career into one harmonious entity when they stood before the marriage altar and agreed to the words which bound the twain as one. . mrs. maxwell of sycamore visited her daughter, mrs. h. w. smith, last week. mrs. smith ran a nail in her foot, mr. smith cut his eyeball with a piece of steel, and their son, horace, broke his arm. . bishop cadman, of the diocese of maine, surprised the congregation at st. matthias's episcopal church last sunday. the bishop preached a fine sermon. _chapter xiii_ _a._ distinguish the meanings of the words in the following groups: . abscond, avoid, decamp, elude, escape, evade. . accident, calamity, casualty, disaster, mishap, misfortune. . acquire, gain, get, obtain, procure, secure. . affect, effect, influence. . aggravate, annoy, tease, worry. . antagonize, fight, hinder, oppose, resist, restrain, thwart. . apparent, clear, evident, obvious, plain. . apt, liable, likely. . assassinate, dispatch, execute, kill, mob, murder, slay. . assert, claim, declare, maintain, state. . bearing, behavior, conduct, demeanor, deportment. . blaze, conflagration, fire, flame, holocaust. . board, register, stay, stop. . burglar, footpad, highwayman, marauder, plunderer, robber, thief. . calculate, expect, presume, reckon, suppose, think. . celebrated, eminent, distinguished, famous, noted, notorious, renowned. . compel, constrain, force, urge. . crime, delinquency, felony, guilt, misdemeanor, offense, sin, trespass, vice. . cyclone, gale, hurricane, rain, storm, tempest, tornado. . dangerous, deadly, deathly, murderous. . distracted, excited, feverish, frantic, hysterical, raging, wild. . dwelling, home, house, residence. . educated, informed, learned, posted. . healthful, healthy, nutritious, sanitary, wholesome. . party, people, person, race, tribe. _b._ give equivalents for the following phrases: acid test along the line of any way, shape, or form appeared on the scene beggars description bids fair to become blushing bride brute force burning issue checkered career cool as a cucumber contracting parties crisp dollar bill crying need dark horse dastardly deed delicious refreshments departed this life devouring element doing as well as can be expected dull thud elegantly gowned entertained lavishly fatal noose few well-chosen words first number on the program floral offering foregone conclusion fought like a tiger gala attire goes without saying hard-earned coin head over heels hotly contested hurled into eternity incontrovertible fact large and enthusiastic audience last sad rites last but not least led to the hymeneal altar madly in love marriage was consummated mooted question much interest was manifested one of the most unique popular citizen present incumbent presided at the punch bowl psychological moment put in his appearance received an ovation red-letter day sea of upturned faces select few signified his intention small but appreciative crowd steeled his nerve stern reality talented authoress the present day and generation this broad land of ours this world's goods took things into his own hands tripped the light fantastic typical westerner under existing conditions _c._ correct the following: . by his skill as a surgeon he carved out for himself a place and name such as only real human service can claim or is ever likely to attain. . borne on the shoulders of six fat policemen, the body of patrolman ferdinand traudt, drowned in lower nemahbin lake, was carried to cavalry cemetery on saturday, escorted by a platoon of twenty-six policemen in charge of sergeant edward solverson. . jim allen and silas watson were connected with the town water main saturday. . a man adapted to the use of the cigarette is immediately noticed by his nervous actions and his shallow complexion. . elizabeth dickerson and maud moore have gone east for the heated epoch, and are missing some elegant weather hereabouts. . another chicagoan fell victim of petromortis yesterday when a. w. simpson, a mechanician in a fashionable garage at sheridan road, fell unconscious in a limousine. . edward mcdonald broke through the screen door. his sleeves were rolled up and he singed both arms. . a merchants' protective association, comprising the several towns of this and adjoining counties, it seems, could be profitably organized with an object in view of detecting and locating the numerous thieves now permeating the country. . gideon did not select those who laid aside their arms and threw themselves down to drink; he took those who watched with one eye and drank with the other. . his voice is a pure baritone and the vocal organs of mr. black must be of exquisite formation as he has resources in singing which command the study of the expert who has to hear all exponents and reject most of them. for softness and power, whisper and swell of tone, mr. black possesses resources of exceptional value. . with her gift of song she beautifies church, home, charity, and society. . she was taking her folks out riding near logansport and on going down the davis hill she accidentally put her foot on the exhilarater instead of the brake. . a novel feature was a shaving contest among the employees of the company. those entered came to the picnic enshrouded with a hirsute appendage of three days' growth, and supplied with a razor and shaving cup. at a given time the unshaved began to remove the capillary adornment and after the appliance of styptics the winner was recognized by his friends. . after an hour spent in its inspection, they were taken back to the insane asylum and were made to feel perfectly at home. . like his predecessors at the convention, he proved a strong, virulent, and entertaining speaker. . mr. and mrs. christensen, with vocal solos, and nora and mabel peterson, with instrumental selections, entertained the high school and seventh and eighth grades very pleasantly last friday afternoon. the music was followed by an indignation meeting. . the fried chicken, new potatoes, sweet peas, strawberries, cottage cheese, and other vegetables, and practically everything served at the dinner was raised on the place. . unable to give bonds in the sum of $ each, mesdames mccarroll and caslin, of ponchautoula, charged with forgery, were incarcerated in the parish prison here yesterday to await the action of the grand jury, which convenes soon. . three men, ed oliver and fred and bertrand logan, met with quite a mishap recently when the boat in which they were sailing at lower bend capsized and they were drowned. . j. c. clausen still survives his terrible shot given wound and it is believed will ultimately recover, although he was more mortally wounded than reported by this paper last week. . the bullet was apparently fired during the celebration but the author of the act was not discovered. . j. w. hiner of the chicago bar delivered an address last week at berlin, germany, before the "englische sprachvereinigung im deutschnationalen handlungsgehilfen verband," a german society. . an unknown man standing on the corner of elm and superior streets was hit by a rocket which went between his legs and becoming entangled in his overcoat exploded up his back. he immediately departed for parts unknown. . mr. and mrs. wilbur liddicoat of this village are the proud and happy parents of a pair of twins, born july . . especially does the man of discriminating taste appreciate them when he compares them to the mass of cheap collars that the american manufacturers have fostered on the country. . a cow was caught in the sudden rush of water and drowned. other animals of a herd had to fly for the hills. . all then repaired to the dining-room, where the eye was not only pleased with the artistic decorations of blue and white, and pink and white carnations, but the inner man was satisfied with meats, viands, delicatessens, etc. . harry l. gill was born in toronto, canada, and is still a native of that country. . mrs. heap wore a stunning gown of emerald green satin with the bodice combined with lace. mrs. tom clayton wore a stunning gown of pink satin with a beaded tunic of purple chiffon. other stunning costumes were worn by mrs. alexander britton, who was in purple velvet with lace and brilliants; miss catherine britton, scarlet chiffon. miss mary green wore a lovely gown of blue charmeuse and chiffon with bands of skunk. . i was surprised to learn on making a round of the motorcycle factories that the motorcycle engineers have produced machines to meet the needs of men and women, too, for that matter, in every walk of life. . he has the face of a cherubim. . he was a tall man, looking even taller by reason of the long, formless overcoat he wore, known as a "duster," and by a long straight beard that depended from his chin, which he combed with two reflective fingers as he contemplated the editor. . how can we expect woman, a member of the weaker race, to work ten hours a day and still retain her health? . thomas o. allen, present minneapolis lumberman and captain of the yale eleven in , who has been summoned to new haven as a football moses to lead the elis into some new bull rushes, passed through chicago yesterday on his way east. . these exercises are said to be less striving and to have more pleasure for all contestants. . the attachés of the united states weather bureau here say that while the precipitation has been unusually heavy, the present storm and that predicted to follow it are but the usual rainy season rainfalls, for which there is no freak or extraordinary explanation. _chapter xiv_ _a._ number below is a copy of a speech delivered by george ade last night at a dinner in honor of mr. brand whitlock, united states minister to belgium. number is a new york dispatch about the dinner. write up the story for an indianapolis morning paper on which you are working. george ade's home is in indiana. . if you will go over the list of young men who wrote for chicago newspapers twenty-five years ago you will be convinced that the newspaper business is the greatest business in the world for getting out of. let us go away back to . also let us go back to chicago. i hope i am not asking too much. about twenty-five years ago in the middle west there was a restless movement toward the newspaper office. nearly every young man who could no longer board at home decided to enter journalism. chicago called him. chicago is the home of opportunity--and other things. the young man who wishes to be a book agent must have a prospectus. any solicitor must own a set of application blanks. the burglar needs a jimmy. but the journalist requires only a collection of adjectives. so i repeat that about all the by-roads led to chicago and all the young men who abhorred farm work were arranging to be editors. the period to which i refer was to chicago what the elizabethan period was to english letters. joseph medill and wilbur f. storey were just rounding their interesting careers. george harvey was flashing across our local horizon on his way to new york. m. e. stone was hacking out of one newspaper office in order to assume general supervision of all the newspapers in the world. vance thompson wrote for an evening paper. opie read was up and down the street, working as little as possible. william elroy curtis had just served a term as society editor of the _inter ocean_. paul potter was tied to an editorial desk, but already he had heard the call of the stage and was getting ready to write _trilby_. will payne, kennett harris, ray stannard baker, forrest crissy, emerson hough, and other contributors to the five- and ten-cent beacons of the present day were humbly contributing to the daily press. ben king was writing his quiet verse and peddling it around. eugene field had come on from kansas city and was trying to weave _culture's garland_, in spite of the fact that the high wind constantly disarranged his material. julian street was still operating as an amateur, while henry hutt and the leyendecker boy and pennrhyn stanlaws and other illustrators who have brought the show girl into the home life of america were students at the art institute, over on the lake front. do you recognize some of the names? most of them are now typical new yorkers--born west of kalamazoo. it was in that john t. mccutcheon came up from indiana and broke into the old _news_ office. perhaps you know that later on he became the thomas nast of the corn belt--one of the few cartoonists with a really definite influence and a loyal following. tom powers was just beginning to draw his comics. shortly before melville stone escaped from bondage he received a call at his office from a talented young woman who acted on the stage. i am not repeating any ancient scandal. i am simply telling you the facts. the young actress showed the great editor some verses which had been dedicated to her by a lad living on the west side. mr. stone sent for the young man and put him to work, and the next morning he knew the young man had written _robin hood_, and since then he has written most of the plays with music presented anywhere in america. you must have seen the name of harry b. smith on the billboards. a young person with very red hair did general hustling on the _inter ocean_ for a short time and then disappeared. years later he bobbed up in congress as a member from kansas and began to shout defiance at uncle joe cannon. the young person's name was victor murdock. it was during this same golden age that an overgrown and diffident young man came from an obscure town in illinois and was given a tryout on the _tribune_. he was steady and industrious and ever willing, and they set him to do hotel reporting. he was a failure as a hotel reporter, because the young men employed by the _herald_ and _times_ secured interviews every day with interesting visitors whom he was never able to find. he could not find them because those interesting persons did not exist. they were created by the enterprising young men of the _times_ and _herald_ who were working in combination against the _tribune_. each morning the _herald_ and _times_ would have a throbbing story told by some traveler who had shot big game in india, or penetrated the frozen north, or visited the interior of tibet, or observed the habits of the kangaroo in australia. the visitor who told the wondrous tales of adventure invariably left in the afternoon for new york, but his name was on the hotel register as a corroborative detail intended to give verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative. perhaps i should explain that the hotel clerk was a party to the conspiracy. every day the _tribune_ young man was rebuked because he had been scooped by the _times_ and the _herald_. he ran from hotel to hotel, frantically eager to do his duty, but he never could find the african explorer and the titled european and the north sea adventurer who told their breathless tales day after day in the columns of the rival papers. so the _tribune_ young man was taken off hotels and put on finance. after that he was not scooped. he came to know lyman j. gage and moved on to new york via washington. to-day the poor young man who failed as a hotel reporter because he lacked the gift of imaginative fiction is president of the national city bank of new york. perhaps you have heard of him. his name is frank vanderlip. now let us inquire as to the designing scribblers who caused him to lose his job. the _times_ man is here in new york as first aid to the tired business man. the next time you visit "chin chin" or the hippodrome you will notice the name of charles b. dillingham on the program. as for the _herald_ young man, you must know something about him if you have read _mr. dooley_. it was about that the sprightly organization known as the whitechapel club came into existence in chicago. moses p. handy was an adopted son of the same period. he had come on from philadelphia and was trying to introduce the custom of wearing evening clothes in the evening. chicago had started to build the columbian exposition and was trying hard to prove that a provincial city could be cosmopolitan while company was present. thus many influences worked together to make chicago a rather interesting preparatory school in . if you will go over the list of young men who wrote for chicago newspapers twenty-five years ago you will be convinced that the newspaper business is the greatest business in the world for getting out of. let us here resolve to treat the reporter kindly, because in a few years we may be working for him. of all that untried host standing in line to receive assignments, i don't suppose any one man was a greater disappointment to prophets than brand whitlock. when he came up from a freshwater college in ohio and quietly attached himself to the _herald_ staff he attracted attention almost immediately as a humorist. he specialized on "josh stuff." he wrote bantering, fantastic, mock-serious stories of the kind that were standardized by mr. dana's young men. he was a star reporter, pulling down his thirty-five per; but any first-class horoscoper would have allowed that whitlock was destined to contribute to _puck_ and _judge_, and probably attempt the libretto of a comic opera. he legged it on the newspaper for a while and then re-deserted, the same as most of the others, and went to springfield to resume his studies. this was his first erratic move. if he had been a true journalist there wouldn't have been anything more for him to learn. then he published _the thirteenth district_. many of his old friends bought it expecting to get something on the order of refined vaudeville, but found, instead, a true and tragic story of cheap ambitions. well, we watched him as mayor of toledo, and we have been telling everybody for the last year and a half that we did assignments together and are members of the same college fraternity and wouldn't be afraid to go right up and speak to him anywhere. to that scattered colony of twenty-five years ago i bring the assurance that we are proud of brand whitlock and are glad to call him our friend. . brand whitlock, american minister to belgium, was the principal guest at a private banquet given by the lotos club at its home, west fifty-seventh street, last night. it was described by a prominent member of the club as a "banquet that was not attended by any man prominent in politics, but one that was intended to do honor to mr. whitlock and to drink a little wine and to eat a little breast of guinea." politics and newspaper reporters were barred, and whitlock in his address made no reference to the european war or to the situation in belgium. "american ideals" was the subject of the address, and he referred to the inscription on washington arch, in washington square, which says, "let us here erect a standard to which all the wise and honest may repair." "that is a sentence of which i like to think," mr. whitlock said. "it is a standard which to be effective must be erected in the life of each citizen, and no one can erect it there but himself. in no citizen did it ever attain such beautiful and symmetrical proportions as in the life of lincoln. "once in a foreign city i happened to pick up a penny in the street. it was one of those that bear lincoln's head. looking at it and thinking of its implications, the thought of home and all that it brought up, the thought of all the hands through which it had passed--hands of workmen, the hands of little children, the hands of beggars, even; hard hands and gnarled hands and honest hands, the hands of mine own people--it seemed to me to have been made precious by the patina of democracy, and i thought that nothing could have been more beautiful and significant than that lincoln's noble head should have been engraved on our smallest coin, a token of our universal daily need in hands that humbly break the bread their toil has earned. that head to me somewhat palpably wore the people's love like purple bays--the love of all those common people whom he so wisely loved and bore in sorrow in his mighty heart. "in him, as i have tried to say, the american ideal was most perfectly exemplified, and it was exemplified in him because after the illusions of life had gone he retained his ideals and his faith in them. it was thus exemplified in him because in addition to his wisdom, his gentleness, his patience, his hope, and his faith, he had that other great american quality of humor, which saved him in every situation, and by american humor i mean that instinctive sense of human values that enables one to see all things or most things in their proper relations, and so becomes an integral part of the american ideal." four hundred fifty members of the club and their friends were at the banquet. at the table with whitlock were dr. m. woolsey stryker, president of hamilton college; m. a. van der vyede, belgian minister of finance; nathaniel c. wright, editor of the toledo _blade_; rev. dr. leighton parks, melville e. stone, george ade, and hewitt h. howland, of indiana, all of whom spoke. mr. whitlock was introduced by chester s. lord, vice president of the club, who presided in the absence of president f. r. lawrence, who was ill. lord reviewed briefly some of the work of whitlock in belgium, where he worked "with a fidelity and a fairness and a supreme regard for the interests of humanity that have won for him the praise and the admiration of the entire world." speaking to mr. whitlock, mr. lord said: "the neutral nations esteem you and love you. the belligerent nations admire and respect you. no one could have addressed himself to this task with greater loyalty, fidelity, or patriotism." _b._ do you find the following story meritorious or blameworthy? why? _mrs. paltier "not at home"_ mrs. laura paltier, who has just returned from florida, was "not at home" to reporters yesterday. they wanted to ask her several questions about the $ , exposition fund now in her charge. a maid answered the doorbell at lake erie drive. "is mrs. paltier at home?" "who is it wants to see her?" "_the tribune_." the maid closed the door, leaving the reporter on the porch. five minutes later she returned. "mrs. paltier is not at home. i don't know where she is nor when she will return." she closed the door. the reporter went to a telephone. "is mrs. paltier at home?" the maid's voice answered: "i will see." for a minute two voices could be heard at the other end of the wire. "who is this, please?" asked the maid. upon learning the identity of the inquirer she said: "no, mrs. paltier is not at home." about that time the reporter decided that mrs. paltier was not eager to see him. _c._ special assignments, such as reporting sermons, local addresses, commercial banquets, etc., may be taken as additional exercises for this chapter. _chapter xv_ _a._ from the following details write for a new york morning paper a story of the death of tom hilton: time and place of death, yesterday at the new york hospital; age, ; occupation, sexton at christ church on west thirty-sixth street; attending physician, dr. henry adair; cause of death, swallowing false teeth while at breakfast with his wife yesterday; efforts to save him: dr. adair summoned immediately, incision made in throat, silver tube inserted to allow passage of air to the lungs, and operation later at hospital. patient failed to rally after operation. survivors: wife and two children. _b._ from the following details write for a chicago evening paper a story of the fire that destroyed the plant of the w. m. welch manufacturing company, makers of college and preparatory school diplomas: date, to-day, april , at : a.m.; location, orleans street, chicago; cause of fire, supposedly crossed wires on second floor where fire started; loss $ , according to c. m. holmes, jr., manager of the scientific department; persons injured, one fireman slightly injured by falling glass; institutions whose diplomas were destroyed, george washington university, grinnell college, university of north dakota, marquette university, dakota wesleyan college; lives endangered, five firemen who were climbing a ladder on the rear wall when it fell; insurance, amount not obtainable. _c._ the following almost excellent news article has one grave weakness. rewrite the story, strengthening the weak points. earl moisley was years old. he lived with his parents, three brothers, and a sister at gale street. he was in the eighth grade at the beaubien school and a promising pupil. earl's grandmother gave him a lamb and he kept it in the basement. one day last week the animal slipped through the open door after its master and went bleating into the schoolroom behind earl. "mary had a little lamb with fleece as white as snow." some one in the back row chanted the foolish nursery rhyme. earl was sent home with the lamb. thereafter his life was made miserable. gangs of his comrades followed him, yelling in chorus the song of "mary" and "little bo-peep." earl turned on one of his tormentors yesterday and blacked his eye. his playmates say he was summoned before the principal of the school and suspended for fighting. the boys assert they saw him marching sturdily home digging one grimy fist in his eye and muttering, "they'll be sorry, all right." about o'clock last evening earl's younger brother went into the basement. he saw a pair of shoes sticking over the top of a little red wagon and ran upstairs. "mother," he said, "there's a man in the cellar. i saw his feet." mrs. moisley laid aside her washing and went downstairs with the younger son. she then told her husband, fred moisley, an under janitor at the city hall. moisley observed a piece of heavy twine tied to the water pipe. he thought some man had committed suicide and ran outside for a policeman. mrs. moisley went near the stiff, outthrust little shoes, and saw they were those of a boy. she bent over the figure and fainted. it was earl. the lamb lay asleep beside the body. _d._ correct in any way needful the following stories for a weekly paper: . susie, the four-months-old daughter of mr. and mrs. alvin konick, booneville, died last night after a few days' illness. she will be interred at the meadowland cemetery thursday. susie had the whooping-cough. . mrs. alice rice was born in jefferson county, ga., on aug. , , and passed quietly away last saturday, making her age years, months, and days. mr. and mrs. rice were married about years. one son, samuel, and husband, adam, survive her. they moved to the houghton farm, near adaville, years ago, and were just intending to move to the white farm when death overtook mrs. rice after an illness of hours, which was not considered serious until about hours before her death. mrs. rice had worked as busy as a bee all her years in adaville, and when her beautiful spirit quitted this mundane vale of tears, she was rewarded with the loving attendance and affection of all in the sorrowing neighborhood. the funeral service was conducted monday afternoon at the sorrowing home by the rev. r. o. tumlin. the remains were interred at the camp meeting cemetery. mrs. rice died of heart trouble. _e._ get the local and state weather forecast and write for to-morrow morning's paper a story of to-day's weather and to-morrow's prospects. _chapter xvi_ _a._ criticize and rewrite the following baseball story: the scribe again has a sad story to relate concerning the sox, inasmuch as the white hose have failed for the sixth straight time to win, and unfortunately it must be admitted that they in every way deserved what they got. in fact, if manager callahan had taken their bats away from them after the first inning to-day and had buried them , leagues under the sea, securely padlocked in davy jones' locker, his men would have been compelled to accept a victory over detroit instead of handing themselves a sixth straight defeat after one of the cheesiest exhibitions of the national pastime ever seen outside the walls of a state institute for the mentally feeble. the score was to , and all five of detroit's runs were donated by the white sox, a fact which seemed to rouse the subconscious generosity of the tigers to such a pitch that in the ninth inning it was all the callahan bunch could do to keep their opponents from forcing on them enough tallies to even matters up so that they could start over and let the best team win in extra innings. that ninth round saw three detroit pitchers, dame fortune, herr billiken, mr. providence and all the gods of olympus conspiring to give the white sox the game which had been thrown away, but the whole blamed bunch of good luck deities was foiled by a couple of white sox youngsters simply because callahan forgot to take their clubs away from them. it would have been a joke that would have caused a laugh all through the corridors of time if the white sox had achieved a triumph with only one base hit, but the fact remains it was their own fault they did not do so. their only safe hit was made by ray demmitt, the tiger discard, who has not yet worn a sox uniform long enough to forget the first use for a baseball bat. demmitt retains the impression that bats were made to get on with, while the rest of callahan's bunch use them solely to get out with, and that was the whole trouble in the last round. the sox entered that spasm four runs behind, having converted demmitt's lone hit in the first inning into the only genuine tally of the day. hall, who had enjoyed a breeze all the way at the expense of the sox, suddenly was seized with a generous fit and started passing batsmen. after he had filled the bases with only one man out manager jennings yanked the philanthropic hurler and sent dauss to the slab. dauss was infected with the same andrew carnegie spirit and issued another pass, forcing the sox to make a tally. there was no pity in jennings' breast, so he ordered dauss to the booby hatch for a spanking and sent coveleski to ladle out the pitch stuff. the young southpaw was equally generous in intent and would surely have forced in enough runs to give the sox the game, but two of the visitors absolutely refused to accept that kind of a gift and got out. they were tom daly and ray schalk. for a while it looked as if buck weaver would have to shoulder the blame for another defeat because he blew two runs over the pan by missing a cinch double play in the fourth inning. but weaver had plenty of partners in crime before the thing was over. harry lord and jack fournier joined him by helping to contribute three runs to the tiger total in the eighth. lord's miscue was a boot of a cobb bounder in a tight place. fournier's blunder did not appear in the error column. jack simply sat down on the grass and watched a tall fly light near him in gleeful security. by keeping his feet fournier should have caught said fly and saved the cost of lord's error to boot. fournier was in the game in an effort to bolster up the offense, not because he has anything as an outfielder on bodie, whose place he took in the batting order, but the switch did not work out just as planned. fournier made no better use of his stick than the rest of the sox, and gave way to daly, who foiled the generous efforts of the tiger pitchers in the ninth. it was a typical joe benz hard-luck game. the indiana butcher boy pitched well enough to have won with any club in the league behind him, but only once were his pals anything but dead weight around his neck. in the sixth, when the tigers made a determined attack, weaver and schalk came to benz's assistance with a remarkable play, which pinched cobb off second base and wrecked what looked like sure runs. and it is no small honor to have caught the honorable tyrus napping in a pinch like that.... _b._ take as a special assignment a local football, basketball, or baseball game, or some other athletic contest and report it for the following morning's paper. _chapter xvii_ _a._ write the story of the following for the society column in to-morrow morning's paper: the parents of elizabeth wallace, , announced her engagement to-day to parker maxwell. miss wallace's father is president of the local first national bank and lives at prospect drive. mr. maxwell, , is cashier of the first national. mr. maxwell and miss wallace have known each other from childhood. _b._ write the story of the following: the details of elizabeth wallace's wedding (see _a_) two weeks from to-day have been made public. she will be married at st. bartholomew's church at o'clock in the afternoon. rev. c. k. tanner will perform the ceremony. the bride will enter with her father. howard prentice, st. louis, a college chum of the bride-groom's, will be best man. alice wallace, a younger sister of the bride, will be maid of honor. the bride will wear on the bodice of her wedding gown an old brussels lace worn by her mother at her wedding thirty years ago. the predominating color scheme will be yellow. there will be two flower girls, jean thompson and helen orben, cousins of the bride. three hundred invitations have been issued. a luncheon to the bridal party, relations, and a few intimate friends will be served at : . _c._ write for to-day's paper an account of the marriage yesterday of elizabeth wallace and parker maxwell (see _a_ and _b_). mr. and mrs. maxwell left immediately after the wedding ceremony for a trip through yellowstone park. on their return next month they will live at east sixtieth street. _chapter xviii_ _a._ rewrite for this afternoon's paper the two following stories appearing in rival publications this morning. no additional details have been obtained. _loses money betting_ two rough and hearty farmers struck up an acquaintance at a hotel last thursday. one was john i. williams of winthrop, ia. mr. williams is now sojourning in the city waiting to see if the police can recover $ , , his savings, which he bet on a "horse race." the other introduced himself as william shaw, a farmer from near winnipeg. the police are looking for him. mr. williams reported his loss and told of meeting shaw. "we were together all thursday afternoon and evening," said he. "shaw introduced me to another young man, who proposed the racing bets. i have forgotten his name. he placed a $ bet for me and i won $ . he placed the $ and brought back $ . it was easy. "shaw and i agreed to put up $ , apiece and let him bet it. shaw put up checks, but the young man didn't know me, so i had to go back to walker, ia., and draw my $ , . "on saturday we gave him the money and checks in a hallway at north state street. "we all shook hands and agreed to meet at o'clock at state street and chicago avenue and divide the winnings. i waited more than an hour at the meeting place. i think i've been swindled." the police think so, too. _says babies boost taxes_ the mills legislative committee which is studying taxation has discovered strange things in its two weeks' sojourn in new york city, but it brought forth a real surprise yesterday in the person of prof. joseph french johnson of new york university, who disclosed himself as a disciple of the late thomas robert malthus, proponent of the theory that there can never be a happy society because population tends to increase at a much faster rate than the old earth, working overtime, can provide food, raiment, and other things. discussing yesterday the income tax, prof. johnson, who appeared as chairman of the merchant's association committee on taxation, said he wanted to nail the frequently expressed opinion that the exemption accorded to the married man should be greater than that which the bachelor enjoys. "since you are talking about exemptions," he said, "i might add this: i would not exempt the married man. i would not give any preference to the married man over the bachelor. i do not believe it is a good thing to encourage matrimony by lowering taxation. on the contrary, i would discourage matrimony by making the married man pay a higher tax. i think we should not do anything to encourage matrimony and child-bearing." "surely you are not serious, are you, professor?" inquired senator boylan. "i certainly am serious. i should have to give you quite a disquisition to explain my conclusions, and i doubt if it would be practicable for you to consider the subject now. and you would have to surrender to public opinion anyhow. if you do put in force a new system of taxation you'll have to treat the married man easily. i am still a confirmed disciple of malthus, and i believe that the awful war in europe is being fought out because the human race has deliberately refused to see the lessons of his doctrines, which were taught a hundred years ago." prof. johnson, who in addition to being professor of economics at new york university is also dean of the school of finance, explained after he had left the stand that he is not opposed to matrimony as an institution, nor as a refuge from loneliness for those who can afford it. he is himself a married man and has three children. "i believe in the malthusian theory," he said. "just consider that man is the only animal whose natural increase is not regulated. we regulate the increase in the number of cats and dogs and other domestic animals, but we let human beings go on having children without any thought of the ability of society to take care of them. i think we should regulate marriage and especially child-bearing. "in my opinion no married man ought to be allowed to have a child until he can convince some authority of his ability to provide properly for that child. we want all the increase we can get in the good elements of population, but we ought to keep down the 'riff-raff'--although you know as a matter of fact there is no human 'riff-raff'--yet we allow them to increase without any regulation. as for those who are able to take care of themselves, let them marry and have children. the more the merrier." _b._ selection ( ) below is a bulletin received some hours after the news detailed in ( ), which appeared in a morning paper. combine the bulletin with the morning story. . after confessing that he was the cause of his sweetheart, emily benton's, death, alfred barker committed suicide at : a.m. to-day by throwing himself in front of a burlington express train near the town of ashworth. in his pocket was found the following note: "dear folks: god forgive me for causing my sweetheart's death. i did not kill her. we walked out there and sat down. i tried to kiss her and she repulsed me. i asked her if she did not want to be my sweetheart any more. she wouldn't answer. i took a hold of her waist, pushed toward her, and tried to love her. she started to scream, and i went completely out of my head. "she became quiet all of a sudden. i thought i had hurt her and she was breathing heavily but was senseless. i covered her up and don't remember what happened until i awoke to find myself lying along the road, near naperville. "my mind came back. i realized what i had done and i went over to the quarry and jumped in, but could not sink. "then i went to aurora, bought some chloroform, and that night (sunday) i came back and found my darling's body, and i realized that she was really dead. i laid down beside her and took chloroform, but about : a.m. i woke up and the bottle had tipped over. "then i went to belmont and got a freight and rode to aurora, where i got more chloroform. i came back to dawson grove and went into the woods and saturated my handkerchief with chloroform, thinking i would surely die. but it failed to work also. "i could not live and know that my sweetheart emily was dead, so i have resolved in a desperate way to end my life. "the girl died of heart failure or fright, as i surely could not kill the one i thought the most of in the whole world. "i loved her more than words can tell and i would die for her and i will die for her. "i have been partly insane for the last two days. "forgive me and i pray to meet my sweetheart in heaven. "alfred." this morning at o'clock a jury impaneled by w. v. hopf, ellis county coroner, will assemble in dawson grove for an inquest into the two deaths. at the same hour the funeral of the girl will be held from the house of the widowed mother she supported. the funeral of barker will be at two o'clock to-morrow. _girl dead in mystery case_ . miss emily benton was found dead late yesterday in a patch of bushes on the outskirts of the village of dawson grove. she had disappeared saturday evening in company with alfred barker, a young man who had been paying her attention since childhood. searching parties in the field since early sunday morning were joined last night by a sheriff's posse in the quest for barker. barker is described as an athletic young man with a "johnny evers" jaw. barker was about feet inches tall and a blond. barker and the girl were "pals" in the words of their relatives, who only half guessed at times that perhaps the long friendship would become a "match." together the girl and barker often through the springtime took long walks at night--occasionally a matter of many miles--to the villages of hinman and nashville. for several years the couple rode to chicago together to work every day on the same commuters' train and often returned home together at night. while an alarm was sent out through all the surrounding towns for the apprehension of barker, no charges have been made against him. an autopsy held in secret by coroner hopf of ellis county was expected to reveal the cause of the girl's death. alfred barker, returning from his work at the general offices of the burlington railroad in chicago, dropped off a train at the station in dawson grove on saturday afternoon at : o'clock. he lingered about the station platform until the : train came in and met miss benton, home from her day's work at the parisian fashion company in chicago. together they walked to the girl's home and stood talking on the doorstep of the benton residence, just as they had most every afternoon in the last seven years. the mother says she overheard this conversation: alfred.--"let's take in a show to-night." emily.--"no, but i'll be over to-night. i want to see pauline." the girl abruptly entered the house and greeted her mother a trifle impatiently. "i'm getting awful tired of al," she said. that evening the girl went to the home of her sister, mrs. henry wallis, where barker and his aunt, mrs. fannie willis, mother-in-law of mrs. wallis, also live. at o'clock the girl and barker left together. "they said they might go to a show, and that's the last i saw of them," mrs. wallis said. late at night the two households became alarmed when neither of the young people returned. the families suggested to each other that barker and the girl had eloped, but still there were doubts and misgivings. martin whittier, the town marshal, was called and the alarm was sent to the chicago police. sunday morning came and there was no word of either of the missing. a group of high school boys volunteered to look for the couple, and soon they were joined by the whole school. no trace of the trail was found. yesterday morning the disappearance had grown into a village sensation. the schools were closed for the day and all the pupils turned out to beat over the fields and woods. carl selig, a grocery delivery man, was driving in orchard street on the south side of the village, about o'clock, when something behind a bunch of bushes and tanglewood at lyman street caught his eye. he climbed off the wagon and pushed through the brush to investigate. in a small open place half concealed by the bushes selig came upon a girl's body. the face was covered with her coat and her hands were folded across her breast. he gingerly pulled off the coat and recognized the girl as emily benton. selig gave the alarm and the body was removed to davis's undertaking rooms in the village. the ground near the death spot was closely examined without discovery of any trace of a struggle. ten feet away from the body a boy picked up an empty two-ounce bottle. it showed no trace of its contents and it bore no label. at the undertaking rooms a preliminary examination of the body disclosed a bruised splotch on the girl's neck, another on the right temple, and a third on the chin. the inside of her mouth was discolored and seared, as though she might have taken carbolic acid. there was no odor to indicate any chemical. last night sheriff kuhn and coroner hopf of ellis county went to dawson grove and assumed personal charge of the case. _chapter xix_ _a._ write a feature story on the different ways students in your college make money. get statistics of the number of students earning their way wholly or in part and the amount of money earned during a college year. _b._ the following statement was made by dr. martin frederick of the city medical staff, cleveland, ohio: "milady's dimples are defects caused by faulty construction or weaknesses of the cheek muscles." interview several ladies who have dimples and write the story. _c._ the following statements were made by colonel g. o. shields, president of the league of american sportsmen: "the cotton growers are suffering a loss of one hundred million dollars a year by reason of the ravages of the boll weevil. why? because the quails, the prairie chickens, the meadow larks and other birds which were formerly there in millions have been swept away by gunners. the grain growers are losing over one hundred million dollars a year on account of the work of the chinch bug. they are losing another two hundred million dollars a year on account of the work of the hessian fly. both of these are very small insects, almost microscopic in size. it takes over twenty-four thousand chinch bugs to weigh one ounce. a quail killed in a wheat field in ohio and examined by a government expert had in its craw the remains of over twelve hundred chinch bugs it had eaten that day. another quail killed in kansas and examined by another government expert had in its craw the remains of over two thousand hessian flies that it had eaten that day. the farmers of the northern states are paying out sixteen to seventeen million dollars a year for paris green to put on their potato vines. a quail killed in a potato field in pennsylvania and examined by a government entomologist had in its stomach the remains of one hundred twenty-six bugs. the quail is one of the most valuable insect-eating birds of its size in the world; and yet there are so-called sportsmen all over the land, thousands of them, who insist on having legal authority to kill every quail they can find during at least three months of each year. then there is a whole army of game-hogs who go out and kill them when they are half grown and when there is no game warden in sight." write a feature story about the value of birds. _d._ the following bill of fare for fifteen cents was found in a restaurant at austin avenue: two eggs cooked any style, one cup of coffee, two slices of bread, butter, potatoes, toothpicks. steak instead of eggs made the price twenty cents. pie was five cents. the proprietor, christ terss, a greek, has supported himself and wife for two years on this priced menu and in addition has put $ in the bank. make a feature story of the details. _e._ in the court of domestic relations yesterday, willie preber, , ontario street, was accused by his stepmother, mrs. john preber, of fighting her. willie pleaded not guilty, saying he could not fight with her much, as he had a weak heart and might die if he got excited. he declared he never touched her more than once a day. he was sent to the house of correction for sixty days. _f._ the _seattle star_ got a good story by interviewing a number of men and women about the book they had liked most when children. _tom sawyer_ and _robinson crusoe_ led the list. try the story in your town or in your university. _g._ a similar story to that in _f_ may be had by interviewing a number of persons about their favorite sacred hymn. "onward, christian soldiers" led the list in columbus, ohio. _h._ inquire of twelve or fifteen college men and women what favorite remedies they use for colds. their varied replies will be startling. make a feature story of their answers. _i._ question a number of persons in your town, or in your university, about their favorite hobbies, and feature the story as "riding hobby horses with _blank_ men and women." _j._ inquire of the members of the senior class what kinds of husbands or wives they expect to marry. if they do not intend marrying, get their reasons and feature them in a separate story. _k._ spend an afternoon in the kitchens of the university dormitories and write the story. _l._ how strictly is the honor system observed in colleges to-day? interview underclassmen in your college and make a feature of their replies. index abbreviations, accidents, , accuracy in news, , , , , , , , , adaptability, addresses, , "add" stories, advance copies of speeches, advance stories, , advertisement, persons seeking, advertising manager, agreement of pronouns, _alone_, ambiguous pronouns, anger, _appleton post_, quoted, , apostrophe, arrest sheets, articles, beginning stories with, assignments, associated press, quoted, _atlanta constitution_, quoted, automobile races, autoplate, bank, banks in headlines, banquets, baseball, basket-ball, beats: news runs, ; scoops, beginnings of stories, beginning work, billiards, bing-bing-bing style, blotter, police, body of the story, _boston transcript_, quoted, boxed summaries, boxing matches, bryan, w. j., bulldog edition, business department, business manager, capitalization, cards, calling, , cartoonist, cashier, charity benefits, chase, _chicago american_, quoted, _chicago herald_, quoted, _chicago tribune_, quoted, , , , , children, stories about, , circulation manager, city editor, , , , city maps, city room, clearness, , , , , climactic order, , clippings, closeness of events, clubs, , coherence, , , , , colon, comma, complex order in stories, composing room, compositors, condensation, , conjunctions, , contests, conventions, , conversation, coördination of clauses, copy, copy cutter, copy distributor, copy holder, copy readers, corrected copy, corrected proof, corrections in copy, correlative conjunctions, correspondence stories, correspondent, courtesy, courts, crime, , cuts, dana, charles a., dances, dark runs, dash, davis, r. h., quoted, dead, lists of, deaths, decisions, court, delicacy of expression, _des moines register_, quoted, dinners, dispatches, filing, dress, dullness in stories, editor: city, ; exchange, ; financial, ; literary, ; managing, ; market, ; news, ; society, , ; state, ; telegraph, editorializing, , editorial policies, editorial rooms, editorials, purpose of, editorial writers, editor-in-chief, elegance, ellipsis, emphasis, , , end-mark in copy, engagements, announcements, , exaggeration, , exchange editor, exercises, extremes in news, fake stories, falsehood, detecting, 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organization, _new york herald_, quoted, , , _new york sun_, , , , _new york times_, quoted, , , , , _new york tribune_, quoted, _new york world_, quoted, , , , nose for news, note-book in reporting, note-taking, numbers, obituaries, office, city, , _omaha news_, quoted, - o'malley, f. w., quoted, _only_, organization of a newspaper, organization of stories, ownership, influence on news, pagination, paragraph, the, paragraph indention, paragraph marks in copy, parenthetic expressions, parentheses, participles, pathos in news stories, , period, personal interests in news, personals, _philadelphia public ledger_, quoted , photographers, photographs, pitkin, w. b., quoted, places, well known, in news, plate, stereotyping, police: as news gatherers, ; blotter, ; bulletin board, ; headquarters, ; news, ; reporter, policies, newspaper, political news, presses, printing, press room, printing, speed in, printing presses, prominent persons, , , pronouns, , proof: correcting, ; specimen sheet, ; galley, ; marks used in correcting, proof-readers, proof-readers' marks, proportion, , punctuation, queries, question leads, questions in interviewing, , , quotation-marks, quotations: in leads, ; verbatim, , , receptions, record-breaking events, relation words, release stories, repetition, , reporters: duties, ; getting news, , ; requirements of, ; suppressing news, rewrite man, rewrite stories, , robberies, , rumors, , runs, news, scoops, semicolon, sentences, , , sermons, , sheets, shorthand, slang, , slips, slugging a story, slugs, society, society editor, , , sources for news, , , , , , space order in stories, speeches, , speed devices, speed, value in reporting, spencer, herbert, split infinitive, sporting editor, sports, , state editor, stereotyping process, stories: correspondence, ; getting, , , , , , , ; starting for, string, correspondent's, style book, subjects, shifted, subordination of clauses, suicides, summaries, boxed, suppression of news, , suspensive leads, , takes, , , teas, technical news stories, telegraph copy, , telegraph editor, telegraph news, , telephone, use of, , tennis, terminology, testimony, reporting, timeliness, time order in stories, tone, , track meets, trials, trite phrases, typewriter, underscoring, under-statement, value of, unity in sentences, unity of impression, , , unusual, the, value in news, vagueness of phrasing, verbs, , verse in leads, _washington post_, quoted, , weather stories, weddings, witnesses, statements from, , women's clubs, , words, writing paper, advertisements =government and economics= boutwell's the constitution of the united states at the end of the first century $ . contains the organic laws of the united states, with references to the decisions of the supreme court from to , which elucidate the text, and an historical chapter reviewing the steps which led to the adoption of these organic laws. carlton's the history and problems of organized labor . presents the important facts in the history of organized labor in the united states, analyzes the chief problems that affect labor organizations, and attempts to evaluate the functions of organized labor. the object is not to justify or condemn, but to analyze phenomena. flickinger's civil government . traces the growth of civil liberty in england, and the development of government in the states and in the united states. an historical and analytic study of civil institutions. gide's history of economic doctrines . the scope of the work includes the period from the time of the physiocrats to the present day. especial prominence is given to the development of economic doctrine during the past twenty years. gide's political economy . the authorized translation from the third edition ( ) of the _cours d'economie politique_. the method keeps clearly in view the human element, which is at once the main difficulty and the main interest of the subject. gide's principles of political economy . the authorized translation of _principes 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well as its dependence upon the facts of history. wilson's the state . elements of historical and practical politics. a text-book on the organization and functions of government. _sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price_ d. c. heath & co., publishers, boston, new york, chicago handbook of composition _by_ edwin c. woolley this book is unique. it supplements the formal treatises on good english, grammar, sentence structure, paragraphing, manuscript arrangement, punctuation, spelling, essay writing, and letter writing, and renders the general teaching of such books effective in detail and in practice. students are taught not only that certain practices violate good usage, but also are shown exactly how to correct their errors and conform to established practice. _cloth. xxi + pages. price, cents._ mechanics of writing _by_ edwin c. woolley a companion volume to woolley's _handbook of composition_. it discusses matters of good english, technically so called, phraseology, sentence structure, the structure of compositions, spelling, the compounding of words, the use of abbreviations, the representation of numbers, syllabication, capitalization, italicizing, and is especially helpful in its treatment of punctuation and paragraphing. the rules for correcting deficiencies are explicit. _cloth. xxxi + pages. price, $ . ._ exercises in english _by_ edwin c. woolley these exercises are so grouped and classified that an instructor can assign to a student deficient in english exact lessons with principles, illustrations, and exercises covering each typical defect as it comes to light in his work. the book also furnishes an abundance of illustrative material for use in regular class work. _cloth, xxviii + pages. price, cents._ written english _by_ edwin c. woolley this new book for first-year classes in secondary schools offers a course in the main things to know in order to write english correctly. there are numerous books upon constructive composition, but this is the first book that has sought primarily to secure formal accuracy in those matters that are most seriously criticised by the world at large as defects in school training in english. the chapters treat: manuscript arrangement, grammatical correctness, punctuation, spelling, and conventional usage in letter writing, and there are abundant exercises for practice. _cloth. pages. price, $ . ._ d. c. heath & co., boston, new york, chicago transcriber's note: variations in spelling, hyphenation, and spacing in abbreviations have been retained as they appear in the original publication. changes have been made as follows: page vi greath length and to _changed to_ great length and to page viii as schools of law, medicime _changed to_ as schools of law, medicine page forget that he is a gentlemen, _changed to_ forget that he is a gentleman, page particularly $ ones, _changed to_ particularly $ ones. page =aerial torpedo boat invented= _changed to_ =aÃ�rial torpedo boat invented= page therefore, to modify the preceeding _changed to_ therefore, to modify the preceding page the defendents--a weird assortment of the _changed to_ the defendants--a weird assortment of the page the cause of the explosion in _changed to_ the cause of the explosion is page right in front of the plate and nunamaker _changed to_ right in front of the plate and nunamacher page upon the white furs and the laven-ender _changed to_ upon the white furs and the lavender page in big games this in in big games this is page paul, ft. - / in _changed to_ paul, ft. - / in. page h. p. bingham, of the mayfield club _changed to_ h. p. bingham, of the mayfield club page yamada-- , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , -- . average, _changed to_ yamada-- , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , -- . average, page in the various sections _changed to_ in the various sections. page welcome. the vandervilt, astor, waldorf, _changed to_ welcome. the vanderbilt, astor, waldorf, his twenty-one-year old son _changed to_ his twenty-one-year-old son page a box of figs followed the eggs, taczowski _changed to_ a box of figs followed the eggs, taczkowski page and i'll fi it." ... _changed to_ and i'll fix it." ... page killed at six p:m. by automobile _changed to_ killed at six p.m. by automobile page among those present were: allen rogers of los _changed to_ among those present were: allen rogers of las page and island posessions of the united states _changed to_ and island possessions of the united states page here to-day a pair of new fur-lined gloves were _changed to_ here to-day a pair of new fur-lined gloves was page for robbing w. g. gaede,. west grand avenue, _changed to_ for robbing w. g. gaede, west grand avenue, page they live at faraon street, this city, _changed to_ they live at faraon street, this city. page this. i am crushed, overwhelmed, drowned, _changed to_ this. i am crushed, overwhelmed, drowned. this is for you and and father _changed to_ this is for you and father page make a pilgrimage to hindsale _changed to_ make a pilgrimage to hinsdale page last thurdsay evening the people _changed to_ last thursday evening the people page _kansas city star_, january . . _changed to_ _kansas city star_, january , . page is even, now procuring it, as gemany _changed to_ is even, now procuring it, as germany page when there is no game warden in sight. _changed to_ when there is no game warden in sight." mightier than the sword _by the same author_ crown vo, cloth, /- the sacrifice. (also a sixpenny edition.) eve's apple. henry in search of a wife. uncle polperro. london: t. fisher unwin mightier than the sword by alphonse courlander [illustration] london t. fisher unwin adelphi terrace _first edition_ _may _ _second impression_ _july _ _third impression_ _october _ [_all rights reserved_] contents part i easterham part ii lilian part iii elizabeth part iv paris part i easterham mightier than the sword i if you had been standing on a certain cold night in january opposite the great building where _the day_ is jewelled in electric lights across the dark sky, you would have seen a little, stout man run down the steps of the entrance at the side, three at a time, land on the pavement as if he were preparing to leap the roadway, with the sheer impetus of the flight of steps behind him, and had suddenly thought better of it, glance hurriedly at the big, lighted clock whose hands, formed of the letters _t-h-e d-a-y_, in red and green electric lights, showed that it was nearly half-past twelve, and suddenly start off in a terrible hurry towards chancery lane, as though pursued by some awful thing. considering the bulkiness of the little man, he ran remarkably well. he dodged a light newspaper van that was coming recklessly round fetter lane, for there was none of the crowded traffic of daylight to be negotiated, and then, he turned the corner of chancery lane--and there you would have seen the last of him. he would have vanished from your life, a stumpy little man, with an umbrella popped under one arm, a bundle of papers grasped in his hand, a hat jammed down on his head, and the ends of a striped muffler floating in the breeze of his own making. the sight of a man running, even in these days when life itself goes with a rush, is sufficient to awaken comment in the mind of the onlooker. it suggests pursuit, the recklessness of other days; it impels, instinctively, the cry of "stop, thief," for no man runs unless he is hunted by a powerful motive. therefore it may be assumed that since i have sent a man bolting hard out of your sight up the lamp-lit avenue of chancery lane, you are wondering why the devil he's in such a hurry. well, he was hurrying because the last train to shepherd's bush goes at . , and, as he had been away from home since ten o'clock that morning, he was rather anxious to get back. he could not afford a cab fare, though only a few hours ago he had been eating oysters, bisque soup, turbot, pheasant, asparagus out of season and pêche melba at the savoy hotel with eighteenpence in his pocket--and the odd pence had gone to the waiter and the cloakroom man. so that by the time he had reached the top of chancery lane, dashed across the road and through the door of the station, where a porter would have slammed the grille in another second, and bought his ticket with an explosive, panting "bush," he had just tenpence left. the lift-man knew him, nodded affably and said: "just in time, mr pride." "a hard run," said mr pride; and then with a cheery smile, "never mind; good for the liver." there were only a few people in the lift--four men and a woman to be precise. he knew the men as casual acquaintances of the last tube train. there was denning, a sporting sub-editor on _the lantern_; another was a proof-reader on one of the afternoon papers, who finished work in the evening but never went home before the last tube; then there was harlem, the librarian of _the day_, an amazing man who spoke all the european languages, and some of the asiatic ones after his fifth glass of beer; the fourth was a friend of harlem, a moody young man who wore his hair long, smoked an evil-looking pipe, and seemed to be a little unsteady on his feet. as for the woman, pride knew her well by sight. she had hair that was of an unreal yellow, and a latch-key dangled from her little finger as though it were a new kind of ring. she always got out at tottenham court road. as the lift went down, its high complaining noise falling to a low buzzing sound seemed like the tired murmur of a weary human being glad that rest had come at last. the sound of the approaching train came rolling through the tunnel. they all rushed desperately down the short flight of steps that led to the platform, as the train came in with a rattle of doors opening and slamming, and scrambled for seats, while the uniformed men, who appeared to be the only thoroughly wide-awake people in the neighbourhood, said in the most contradictory fashion: "stand clear of the gates," "hurry on, please," and "passengers off first." pride found himself in the smoking carriage, opposite harlem, with his young friend at his side. it never occurred to him that there was anything exceptional in his dash for the last train. he did it four nights out of the week, as a matter of course. he was fifty years old, though he pretended he was ten years younger, and shaved his face clean to keep up the illusion. he used to explain to his friends that he came of a family famous for baldness in early years. "been busy?" asked harlem, filling his pipe. "nothing to speak of," said pride. "turned up at the office at eleven, but there was nothing doing until after lunch. then i had to go and see sir william darton--they're going to start the thames steamboats again. he wasn't at home, and he wasn't in his office, but i found him at six o'clock in the constitutional. got back and found they'd sent home for my dress clothes, and left a nice little envelope with the ticket of the canadian dinner.... that's why i'm so late to-night...." pride filled his own pipe, and sighed. "the old days are over!" he said. "they used to post our assignments overnight--'dear mr pride, kindly do a quarter of a column of the enclosed meeting.' why, _the sentinel_ used to allow us five shillings every time we put on evening dress." "well, _the sentinel_ was a pretty dull paper before the kelmscotts bought it and turned it into a halfpenny," said harlem. "look at it now, a nice, bright paper--oh, by the way, do you know cannock," he jerked his head to the man at his side. "he's _the sentinel's_ latest acquisition. this is tommy pride, one of the ancient bulwarks of _the sentinel_, until they fired him. now he's learning to be a halfpenny journalist." pride looked at the young man. "i don't know about being the latest acquisition," cannock said. "as a matter of fact, they've fired _me_ to-day." "it's a hobby of theirs now," harlem remarked. "you'll get a job on _the day_ if you ask for one. there's always room with us, ain't there, tommy?" pride looked wistfully at the clouds of blue smoke that rose from his lips.... yes, he thought, there was always room on _the day_--at any moment they might decide to make alterations in the staff. the fact of cannock's being sacked mattered nothing; he was a young man, and for young men, knocking at the door of fleet street, there was always an open pathway. think of the papers there were left to work for--the evenings and the dailies, and even when they were exhausted, perhaps a job on a weekly paper, or the editorship of one of the scores of penny and sixpenny magazines. and, after that, the provinces and the suburbs had their papers. pride knew: in his long experience he had wandered from one paper to another, two years here, three years here, until the halfpenny papers had brought a new type of journalist into the street. "married?" asked pride. "not me!" replied cannock, with a slight hiccough. "well, you're all right. you can free-lance if you want to." "oh, it's no good to me," cannock said. "it's a dog's life anyhow, and i've only had two months of it. i'm going back to my guv'nor's business." "ah," said pride, "there's no use wasting sympathy on you. why did you ever leave it? what's his business?" "that," cannock laughed gaily and pointed to a poster as the train stopped at tottenham court road station. it was a great picture of barrels and barrels of beer, piled one above the other, reaching away into the far distance. thousands of barrels under a vaulted roof. and in the foreground were little figures of men in white aprons with red jersey caps on their heads, rolling in more barrels, with their arms bared to the elbows. across the picture in large letters pride could read: "cannock brothers, holloway. cannock's entire." "why, your people are worth millions!" pride said. "what on earth are you doing in journalism." "i know they are. that's what i was thinking of yesterday. i wondered how on earth they got anybody to do the work." "well, you won't mind me, i'm sure," pride said, leaning over to cannock. "i'm older than you, and i belong to what they call the old school of journalism. this isn't the lovely life some people think it must be, and it's going to get worse each year. we've got to fight for our jobs every day of our life. 'making good,' they call it. i'm used to it," he said defiantly, looking at harlem, "i like it.... i couldn't do anything else. i'm not fit for anything else. it has its lazy moments, too, and its moments of excitement and thrills. no, my son, you go back to the brewery, there's more money in it for you and all the glory you want with your name plastered over every bottle and on all the walls. ask five hundred men in the street if they've ever heard of tommy pride. they've been reading things i've written every day, but they don't know who's written them. ask 'em who's cannock? why, they'll turn mechanically into the nearest public-house and call for a bottle of you." "i used to think it would be jolly to be on a newspaper," cannock said. "my guv'nor got me the job. he's something to do with the kelmscotts." "so it is if you're meant to be on a newspaper. that's the trouble of fellows like you. you come out of nowhere, or from the 'varsity, and get plunked right down in the heart of a london newspaper office--probably someone's fired to make room for you. you're friends of the editor and you think you're great men, until you find you're expected to take your turn with the rest. then you grouse, because you're not meant for it. you've got appointments to keep at dinner-time, and you must get your meals regularly. or you want to write fine stuff and be great star descriptive men at once, or go to persia and timbuctoo, and live on flam and signed articles. but, if you were meant to be a reporter, you'd hang round the news editor's room for any job that came along, you'd take any old thing that was given you, and do it without a murmur, and when you've done that for thirty years you might meet success, and stay on until they shoved you out of the office." he saw that cannock was smiling, and seemed to read his thoughts. "me?" he said. "oh, you mustn't judge by me. i belong to the old school, you know. i'm the son of my father--he was a gallery man, and died worth three hundred pounds, and that's more than i am. i'm one of the products of the last generation, and all i want is £ a week and a cottage in the country." the little man relit his pipe, and puffed contentedly. "lord! i should like that!" he said. "you're always frightened of being fired, tommy," said harlem. "you know well enough you're what we call a thoroughly reliable and experienced man, and ferrol wouldn't have you sacked." "there's always that bogy," pride answered with a laugh. "you never know what may happen. the only thing is to join the newspaper press fund and trust in the lord. none of the youngsters do either of these things to-day." cannock and harlem prepared to leave as the train slowed down before marble arch. "it's a rotten game," said cannock. "i'm glad i'm out of it. good-bye." pride took his hand. "good-bye." he saw them pass the window, and wave to him as they went under the lighted "way out" sign, and then he turned to his papers with a sigh. but somehow or other he did not read. he always carried papers about with him, through sheer force of habit, much as the under side of a tailor's coat lapel is bristling with pins. he had been with news all day; he had written some of it; he had read the same things in the different editions of the newspapers; he had left the street when they were printing more news; and the first thing he would do on waking up in the morning would be to reach out for a copy of _the day_ which was brought with the morning tea. he did not read news as the average man does--he regarded it objectively, reading it without emotion. the march of the world, the daily happenings moved him as much as a packet of loose diamonds moves the jeweller who handles them daily, and weighs them to see their worth. he was thinking of cannock, with his future all clear before him: cannock, with beer woven into the fibre of his being, as news was in his. it must be rather fine to be independent like that.... idly, he wondered what cannock's guv'nor was like: did he admire these pictures of the vast hall crowded with beer barrels, enough to last london for a whole saturday night, and ready to be filled up again for all the nights in the week.... he looked round the carriage at the faces of those who were travelling with him. five boisterous young people were making themselves a noisy nuisance at one end of the carriage. opposite him, in the seat lately occupied by harlem, a working man was staring ahead of him with an empty wide stare as if, in a moment of absent-mindedness, his actual self had slipped away, and left a hulk of shabbily-clothed body, without a spark of intelligence. others were nodding, half asleep, and there was one man, with closed eyes, and parted lips, breathing stertorously, whose head bobbled from side to side with the rocking of the train.... he woke up, suddenly, as the train stopped with a jerk, and the conductor called out "'perd's bush." tommy pride always gave his papers to the lift-man. they waited for the last passenger, who came lurching round the corner with his head still bobbling and his eyes half lost below the drooping eyelids. he steadied himself against the wall--and his hand spread over another of those glorious posters. what a picture for cannock!... somehow, pride rejoiced to think that he was not cannock. he went past the green to one of the small houses in a turning off the uxbridge road. the moon shone out of the wintry sky, white and placid, above his home. he let himself in, and turned out the flicker of gas in the hall. he walked on tiptoe into the sitting-room, and having taken off his boots went to the fireplace. here on a trivet he found a cup of cocoa, and his slippers warming before the fire. there were three slices of thin bread and butter on the table. he never went to bed without his bread and butter. during his meal he saw a copy of _the day_ on a chair, and he read bits of it mechanically, for he had read it all before. the clock struck one, and he bolted the front door and went softly upstairs. as he turned on the light his wife stirred uneasily, and he came to the bedside. she opened her eyes at his kiss, and smiled tenderly at him. "is it very late, dear?" she asked. "one o'clock." "poor sweetheart!" she murmured. "did you have your cocoa?" "yes," he said. "tired?" he laughed. "not very. i'm a bit cheerful, to tell you the truth. tell you about it in the morning. ferrol spoke to me to-day. he's a fine chap." ii that was the magic of it! ferrol had spoken to him. the conversation had been quite ordinary. "well, pride, i hope things are going all right?" and ferrol had nodded cheerfully and smiled as he passed into his room. perhaps, he had asked pride to come and see him.... it was not what ferrol said that mattered: it was the idea behind it--that ferrol knew and remembered his men individually. out of the insensate tangle of machines and lives, high above the thunderous clamour of the printing-presses, the rolling of heavy vans stacked high with cylinders of paper, the ringing of telephone bells, the ticking and clicking and buzzing, floor above floor, of the great grey building in which they all lived, ferrol rises with his masterful personality and calm voice, carving the chaos of it all into discipline and order. he looms, in the imagination, powerful and omnipresent, making his desires felt in the far corners of the continents. ferrol whispered, and berlin, vienna or san francisco gave him his needs. he was the brain and the heart of the body he had created, and his nerves and his arteries were spread over the earth. he placed his fingers on the pulse of mankind, and knew what was ailing--knew what it wanted, and found the specialist to attend to it. his influence lay over the narrow street of tall buildings, urging men onwards and upwards with the gospel of great endeavour. some men, as their pagan ancestors worshipped the sun as the god of light, placed him on a pedestal in their hearts, and bowed down to him as the god of success, for the energy of his spirit was everywhere. if you searched behind the ponderous double octuple machines, rattling and thudding, and driving the work of their world forward, you would have found it there--the motive power of the whole. it lurked in the tap-tap of the telegraph transmitter, in the quick click of the type in the slots of the linotype machines as the aproned operators touched the keyboard; it was in the heart of the reporter groping through the day for facts, and writing them with the shadow of ferrol falling across the paper. the clerks in the counting-house, the advertising men, the grimy printers' boys in the basement, the type-setters and the block-makers on the top floors near the skylights, messengers, typists--they were all bricks in the edifice which was built up for the men who wrote the paper--the edifice of which ferrol was the keystone. his enemies distorted the vision of him; they saw him, an inhuman, incredible monster, with neither soul nor heart, grimly eager for one end--the making of money. they wrote of him as an evil thing, brooding over sensationalism.... one must see him as tommy pride and all those who worked for him on _the day_ saw him, eager, keen, and large-hearted, a wonderful blend of sentiment and business, torn, sometimes, between expediency and the hidden desires of his heart. one must see him reckless and, since he was only human, making mistakes, creating, destroying, living only for what the day brought forth.... the spirit of fleet street, itself. * * * * * like a silver thread woven into the texture of his character, in which good and evil were patterned as they are in most men, a streak of the sentimental was there, shining untarnished, a survival of his days of young romance. very few people knew of this trait; ferrol hugged it to himself secretly, as though it were a weakness of which he was ashamed. it came upon him at odd, unexpected moments when he was hemmed in by the gross materialism of every day, this passionate, sudden yearning for poetry and ideals. he would try to lift the latch of the door that had locked the world of beauty and art from him. swift desires would seize him to be carried away in his motor-car, as if it were a magic carpet, to some arcadia of dreaming shadows, with the sunlight splashing through the green roofs of the forests. the sentimental in him would, at such times, find expression in many ways. he made extravagant gifts to people; he would take a sudden interest in the career of one man, and bring all that man's longings to realization by lifting him up and making his name. how glorious that power was to ferrol! the power of singling men out, finding the spark of genius that he could raise to a steady flame, fanning it with opportunity; he could make a man suddenly rich with a stroke of his pen; pack him off to arabia or south america and bid him write his best. sometimes they failed, because it was not in them to succeed, and ferrol was as merciless to failures as he was generous to those who won through. the men he made!... sometimes, when the waves of sentiment swept over him, he would try and materialize his ideals for a time. he would commission a great poet to contribute to _the day_; he would open his columns to the cult of the beautiful, and then a grisly murder or a railway disaster would happen, crushing ferrol's sentiment. away with the ideal, for, after all, the world does not want it! three columns of the murder or the railway disaster, with photographs, leaders, special articles, all turning round the news itself. that was how it was done. and now the fit was on ferrol as he sat in his room with the crimson carpet and the dark red walls, hung with contents bills of _the day_. he had been going over the morning letters with his secretary, listening to the applications for employment. he made a point of hearing them, now and again. there was one letter there that suddenly awoke his interest; the name touched a chord in his memory, a chord that responded with a low, tender note.... and, his mind marched back through the corridors of the past, until he came out upon the old, quiet, cathedral town of the days of his youth. he saw himself, a slight, eager young man, long, long before his dreams of greatness came to pass, yet feeling in his heart that the plans he was making would be followed. a young ferrol plotting within himself to wrest spoils from the world, longing intolerably for power and the wealth that could give it. well did he know, even in those far-off days, that destiny was holding out her hands, laden with roses and prizes for him.... those were the days of the young heart; the days of nineteen and twenty, and the first love, scarce understood, that comes to us, mysterious and beautiful. he saw a very different ferrol then. the lip unshaven, that was now hidden with a bushy moustache turning grey; the hair, now also grey under the touch of time, silky and black. he saw this boy walking the lanes that led out of easterham town, in the spring-time, with a girl at his side. over the abyss of the years the boy beckoned to him, and ferrol looked back on a yesterday of thirty years. her name was margaret, and she was for him the beginning of things. from her he learned much of the tenderness of life, and the love of nature that had remained with him. he was a clerk in an auctioneer's office then, with most of his dreams still undreamt. he and margaret had been children together. they were children now, laughing, and walking over the fields with the spire of the cathedral, pointing like a finger to the skies, in the distant haze of the afternoon. there was more purity in that first romance of his than in anything he had found in after years. oh! wonderful days of young unsullied hearts, and the white innocence of life. the memory of evenings came to him, of kisses in the starlight, when incomprehensible emotions surged through him, vague imaginings of what life must really be, and the torture of unrest, of something that he did not understand. her eyes were tearful, and yet she smiled, and at her smile they both laughed. and so the spell was broken, and they trudged, side by side, homeward in the silent night. she inspired him, and in that, perhaps, she fulfilled her destiny. she sowed the seeds of ambition in his soul: he would dare anything for her, yea, reach his hand upwards, and pluck the very stars from heaven to lay at her feet. and, very gradually, a dreadful nausea of easterham came over him. his desk was by the window that looked upon the high street: he almost remembered, now, the day when it first dawned on him that the place was no longer tolerable. it was mid-day and the heat quivered above the cobble-stones: two dogs were fighting with jarring yelps that could be heard all down the street; the baker's cart went by with an empty rattle, and miss martin of willow hall drove in as usual to the bank next door. an old man was herding a flock of sheep towards the market-place, and the sheep-dog ran this way and that way, barking as he ran. three sandwich-men, grotesquely hidden in boards, slouched past in frayed clothes and battered hats, with pipes in their mouths. he read their boards mechanically.... "sale at wilcox's.... ladies' undergarments.... ribbons." he had read the same thing every day in the week; he had looked out upon the same scene, every day, it seemed; the dogs had been quarrelling eternally, the shepherd passed and repassed like a never-ending silent dream; grocer, and baker, and banker, and hargrave, the farmer ... there he was again touching his hat to miss martin as she stepped from her trap.... o god! the heavy monotony of it all fell like a weight on his heart. the nostalgia grew. the chimes of the cathedral lost their music, the stillness of the town became more unbearable than the turmoil and clatter of cities. there was something to be wrought for and fought for in the world outside. this was not life; this was a mausoleum! the arguments with his father--his mother was dead--and the long time it took to persuade him.... the parting with margaret, and the whispered vows and promises, spoken breathlessly from their earnest young hearts. it seemed they could never be broken. he came to london. it was in the late seventies, at the beginning of the spread of education that has resulted in the amazing flood of periodicals: it was a flood that led ferrol on to fortune. his scope widened; he grew in his outlook, and saw that here was a way to power indeed. he shone like a new star over london, gathering lesser lights around him, developing that marvellous power of organization, that astonishing personality that drew men to him, until he seized his opportunity and bought the moribund _day_ when it was a penny paper on its last legs. in ten years' time he had become wealthy and powerful, and since then he had gone on and on until no triumph was denied him. and margaret...? the years passed, and with the passing of time, they both developed. that young love, once so irrefrangible, grew warped and misshapen, until it finally snapped. there was no quarrel; neither could reproach the other; they simply grew out of their love, as so many young people do. there was a correspondence for a time, but it slackened and presently ceased altogether. she must have felt her hold loosening on ferrol, as with a thousand new interests he came upon the wide horizon of life. she must have noticed this in his letters, and instead of seeking to bind him to her against his will, she just let him go. and ferrol must have weighed the impossibility of asking her to marry him at this point of his career, when he was striving and struggling upwards; not all men travel the fastest when they travel alone, but ferrol was one of those who could run no risk of being delayed. they had none of the pang of parting ... but years afterwards, when ferrol was a childless widower (for he married when he was thirty-five, and walked behind his wife's coffin two years afterwards), he wondered what had become of margaret, and always he cherished that memory of his one romance that had tapered away out of his life. he could never forget the sweet simplicity of margaret's face, the tears on her eyelashes, and the yielding softness of her youth when he pressed her to his heart and lips with wonderful thoughts quivering through his soul. he remembered one day in his life, a few years after the death of his wife, when a wild desire had seized him to handle his past again, as an antiquarian turns over his treasures and rejoices in some ancient relic. it was a day in summer, when the heat was heavy over london, and the city smelt of hot asphalt and tar: without a word to anybody he had left his work and taken the train, back to easterham and his youth. the old familiar landmarks rose up before him, bringing a strange feeling of age to him. so much had happened in the interval that it seemed that year upon year had piled up a wall before him, separating him for evermore from this old world that had been. the ivy still clung to the castellated walls of the cathedral close; the clock chimed as he went by, just as he had heard it chime in the long days that were gone. the very rooks seemed unchanged as they clamoured huskily in the old beeches. and yet, with it all, there was something different, and he knew that the difference lay not so much with the place as with himself. his entire perception had altered. he saw things through eyes that had grown older. the high street, with its brooding air of stillness, that had once seemed so stale and intolerable to him, now appealed to him with its wondrous peace, a magical spot far away from the turmoil of things. there were the same names over the grocers' and the drapers' and the ironmongers' shops, but old matthew bethell's quaint bookshop had gone, and in its place there stood a large green, flat-fronted establishment, with an open window stacked high with magazines and newspapers, and a great poster above it, thus: the day. one halfpenny howard slander case. full report. the sentimental in him winced, but the material business man glowed with pride as he saw the great poster, proclaiming _the day_ paramount over its rivals. there was always a conflict between the two men that made up that complex personality known as ferrol. he went to the house where he had once lived; his father was dead now, and as he looked up at the open window and saw a strange woman doing some needle-work, it seemed to him as if the people that were living there had laid sacrilegious hands upon the holy fragrance of the past; as if their prying eyes had peered into all the hidden secrets that belonged to him. he turned away resentfully towards the old inn, the red lion, whose proprietor, old hamblin, remembered him from other days when he revealed himself, and was inclined to be overcome with the importance of the visit, until ferrol put him at his ease. they chatted together, the old man, with his back to the fireplace, coat-tails lifted from habit, for the grate was empty on this hot day, ferrol sitting astride a chair, watching the blue stream of smoke that came from hamblin's lips as he puffed at his long white churchwarden.... hamblin must have stood like that during all the years that ferrol had been in london. the only change that came to the people of easterham was death. they talked of people they had known, and so the talk came naturally to margaret. he listened unmoved to the news of her marriage, and found that nothing more than conventional phrases came from his lips when hamblin told him of her death. somehow, it seemed to him so natural. he had been away seventeen years, and easterham had lost its hold upon him now. the death of his father ... the new face at the window of their house.... the death of margaret seemed to come as a natural sequence to things. hamblin went on talking about people. "she married mr quain, one of the college schoolmasters.... i expect he was after your time ... a good deal older than you, mr ferrol.... they had one child, a boy ... living with his aunt now. all her people left easterham years ago...." and so on. it was in the afternoon that ferrol came back to london, feeling that he had been prodding at wet moss-grown stones in some old decayed ruin, turning them over to see what he could find, and having them crumble apart in his hands. he never went back again. * * * * * that was thirteen years ago. ferrol's memories ended abruptly. he touched a button, and a young man, with a shiny, pink face and fair hair parted in the middle, came in with a notebook and pencil in his hand. he looked as if he spent every moment of his spare time in washing his face. there was a quiet, nervous air about him--the air of one who is never certain of what is going to happen next. ferrol's abrupt sentences always unnerved him. "trinder," he said, "there was a letter among the lot to-day. quain. written on _easterham gazette_ notepaper. asking for editorial employment." "yes, sir." trinder had long ceased to marvel at ferrol's memory for details. "write to him the usual letter asking him to call. wednesday at twelve." trinder made a note and withdrew. ferrol wondered what margaret's boy was like. iii at the age of twenty humphrey quain found himself on the threshold of a world of promise. it seemed to him that if, out of all the years of time, he could have chosen the period in which he would live, he would have picked out the dawn of this twentieth century of grace. england was just then in the throes of casting from herself the burden of old traditions. the closing years of the nineties had been years of preparation and development--years of broadening minds and new ideas, until quite suddenly, it seemed, the century turned the corner, and yesterday became old-fashioned in a day, and all eyes were fixed on the glorious sunrise of the twentieth century--the wonderful century. people, you remember, played with the fantasy of beginning a brand-new century as if it were a new toy. nobody who was living could remember the birth of the last century. it was a new emotion for everyone. there was the oddity of writing dates, discarding for ever the -- and beginning with --; old phrases, such as _fin-de-siècle_, became suddenly obsolete; new phrases were coined, among which "twencent" (an abbreviation for twentieth century, and a tribute to the snap and hustle with which the world was now expected to go) survived the longest; songs were sung at music-halls; there was a burst of cartoons on the subject; people referred jokingly to the last century, parodying the recollections of boresome centenarians; while the unhappy _nineteenth century_, as though the calendar had taken a mean advantage of its mid-victorian dignity, determined never again to risk being so hopelessly out of date, and added to its title the words "and after," thereby enabling future centuries to go for ever without ruffling its title. in the midst of this change, when the death of queen victoria seemed to snap the present from the past irrevocably, and the novelty of a king came to england again; when the first of the tubes that now honeycomb london was a twopenny wonder, and people were talking of shepherd's bush, and notting hill gate, and marvelling curiously why they had never talked of them before; when socialism was burrowing and gnawing like a rat at the old, worn fabric of society, urging the working-man to stand equal in parliament with the noblest lords in the land. in the midst of all this there arose suddenly, born with the twentieth century, the young man. he had already come, answering the call of the country in the dark disillusioning days of the boer war. people had seen the young clerks and workmen of england marching shoulder to shoulder down the streets of london, like the train-bands of elizabethan days. when the country was in peril the flower and the youth of england came to its aid, and the older men could do nothing but stay at home and look on. the young man, scorned by his elders in all the periods of the nineteenth century except those last years of development, found himself suddenly caught up on the high wave that was sweeping away the rubbish and the sentiment and the lumber of the old customs, and borne above them all. he was set on a pinnacle, as the new type; the future of the world was said to be in the hands of the young men; the old men--even forty was too old, you remember--had had their day. they were now like so much old furniture, shabby and undesirable, second-hand goods, better replaced by strong, well-made, up-to-date things. it really was a wonderful time for the young man. in the old days it had been customary for him to show respect to his elders, to call them "sir," to stand up when they came into a room, or raise his hat if they met in the streets, to offer his seat to them if there was none vacant, and generally to treat them as old ladies, with polite reverence mingled with awe. the worship of age had become a fetish; it was improper to criticize the opinions of a man older than yourself; it was heresy to think that you were as capable as the old men; youth had to wait and grow old for its chances in life; youth was ridiculed, snubbed and held in the leash. and then, quite suddenly it seemed, though ibsen had heard it knocking at the door long before, the younger generation burst upon us with an astonishing vigour, taking possession of the new century, trampling down the false gods of age and bringing in its train, like boys trooping from a nursery, hosts of new toys and new ideas in everything. it was, i think, _the day_ that finally discovered the young man. ferrol had known the bitter opposition which he had fought in his own twenties and thirties, and he shone as the apostle of youth. the young man, from a neglected embryo, became a national asset; all hands were uplifted to him in the dawn of the new century. he was enthroned in the seats from which his elders were deposed. people seeking for a symbol of the new life that was beginning, looked westwards and found a whole nation that typified the young man who was to be their salvation. they found america, eager, with strident voice, forceful and straining its muscles to the game of life--a whole nation of young men. it became the fashion to take america as a model. there was an invasion of boots and bicycles and cameras. "look," every one cried, "see how they do things better than we do. look at their magazines--how wonderful they are." phonographs, kinetoscopes, the first jumpy cinematographs, photo-buttons, chewing-gum, they came to the country, and were hailed gladly as from the land of young men. presently the young men themselves came. they came with their hair parted in the middle, and keen, clean-shaven faces with very predominant chins. they were mere boys, and they had a bounce and a boisterous assurance that took one's breath away. with them came loudly-striped shirts, multi-coloured socks, felt hats and lounge suits in city offices, and, later, soft-fronted shirts and black silk bows for evening wear. they opened london offices for new york firms, and showed us card-indexing systems, roll-top desks, dictaphones and loose-leaf ledgers. all letters were typewritten, and the firm who sent out a letter in the crabbed handwriting of its senior clerk was accounted disgracefully behind the times. the young man set the pace with a vengeance, and it was a panting business to keep abreast of him. cock-tails and quick-lunch restaurants appeared next; griddle-cakes, clam-chowder and club sandwiches were shown to us; and finally, as though having absorbed their nutriment, we had assimilated their habits, a fierce desire to speak with a nasal accent took hold of us. the man who wanted to get a job spoke with as much american accent as he could muster up; he looked american, and he affected american ways; his affirmative was "sure," and he wore his hair long and sleek, divided evenly in the middle. he was the young man, cocksure, enthusiastic and determined--the most remarkable product of his time. ferrol found him, a year or so before he arrived, with that instinct of his, almost second-sight, which never failed. he boomed him as a type; he glorified him, and gave him high posts in the office of _the day_. with the exception of neckinger, the editor, who came straight from new york, he was the native product, and ferrol was always on the look-out for more of him. and so, in the midst of all this, when the cry for the young man was at its hungriest, when "hustle" and "strenuous" were added to the vocabulary, we see humphrey quain, waiting on the outskirts, watching his opportunity, and meanwhile bending over the counter of the _easterham gazette_ office, coat off and shirt sleeves turned back to the elbow, folding up copies of the _easterham gazette_ as they came damp, with the ink wet on them, from the printing-press in the basement. * * * * * the _easterham gazette_ was, unhesitatingly, the worst paper in easterham. it was an eight-page weekly journal, with a staff of one editor, one reporter and humphrey quain. when things were slack in the reporting line, the reporter (an extraordinarily shaggy person called beaver, whose thumbs were always covered with ink) was expected to "fill up time at case"--which means that he was to assist in setting up the paper in type. the editor, whose name was worthing, walked about in a knickerbocker suit and a soft grey hat, and it was part of his business to obtain advertisements for the _gazette_. the leading articles he wrote were always composed with one eye on the advertiser. in praising the laudable action of councillor bilson in opposing the introduction of trams into the town, there was a pleasant parenthesis, something in this manner: "it needs no words of ours to echo the praise bestowed on that gallant champion of our town, our much-respected councillor bilson (in whose windows, by the way, there is a remarkable exhibit of oriental coffee-making) ..." and so on. it was beaver's duty to make the "calls" during the week. how he managed them all, i don't know; but in the intervals of attending the police-court, the council meetings, and all the meetings of local organizations, he would call at the hospital, at the mayor's parlour, on the town clerk, on the churches and cathedrals, snapping up unconsidered trifles in the shape of accidents, civic news, church services, and all the other activities of easterham life. sometimes during the week beaver would swing himself astride a bicycle, as frayed and as shabby as himself, and pedal to wimberly, or pooleham, or further afield to great huxton for local meetings, all of which were of vast interest to the _easterham gazette_, since its copies went weekly--or were supposed to go--over the whole of the county, and it had annexed to its title the names of all the best villages. its full title, by the way, was: _easterham gazette, and wimberly, pooleham, great huxton, middle huxton and little huxton chronicle; coomber, melsdom and upper thornton journal_, largest circulation in any district, weekly one penny. it was nigh upon sixty years of age, and therefore its tottering infirmity may be excused. humphrey quain came into the office ostensibly as a clerk. in the beginning he thought it was a fascinating game seeing the things that one wrote in print. therefore, all unconsciously, he started to write. he began with "cycle notes" and "theatre notes," and presently he found himself with sufficient interest to fill a whole column, which dealt mainly with local gossip, and was called "the easterham letter." it was addressed always to the editor and was signed "p and q." when he was not writing, he was addressing wrappers or making out the weekly bills for the newsagents; and every friday evening he stood by the counter, folding up the papers as they came to him, and handing them to grubby little children who were sent by the newsagents, or sold the papers for themselves in the streets. it really was a remarkable paper for the twentieth century. its advertisement space was one shilling an inch, or less if you promised not to tell any one; three men, of course, could not fill the whole of these eight great sheets, and therefore the carrier's wagon delivered every thursday to the _easterham gazette_ office, mysterious thin brown parcels the size of a column, and rather heavy. simultaneously, all over the country, like parcels were being delivered, and, if by chance you compared an issue of the _easterham gazette_ with any thirty local papers in the north, south, or east of england, you would have been amazed at the remarkable similarity of their contents. they had the same serial story of thrilling adventure, the same "cookery notes and kitchen recipes," the same "home hints to household happiness," word for word, and the same column of jokes. for these long parcels that arrived every thursday at the _easterham gazette_ office were columns of type cast from moulds, sent down from a london agency which has made a mighty business of supplying general matter, from foreign intelligence to fashion notes, ready for the printing-press, at so much a column. they call it "stereo." humphrey quain had been in the office for three years. his aunt was a friend of mr worthing, the editor, and his father thought it would be a good thing for the boy to have some association with the world of letters, however distant. shortly afterwards, quain senior had taken a master's appointment in a private boarding-school at southsea, and humphrey remained with his aunt. a year later his father died. he parted with his father with a straining heart, for daniel quain was a tremendous success as a father, though he was a failure as a man. of course this was only humphrey's point of view: what more could a boy want than a father who could fashion any kind of toy, from whistles to steamboats, out of a block of wood; who knew enough of elementary science to make a pin sail on water, by letting it rest on a cigarette paper which soaked and sank away, leaving the pin afloat; who could blow a halfpenny from one wine-glass to another, and produce whooing sounds from a hollow tube by placing it over a gas flame. wonderful father! it was daniel who fostered in humphrey's heart the love of reading: those early books were adventure stories by fenimore cooper, kingston and ballantyne. he read harrison ainsworth, too, and henty, and took in the _boy's own paper_, and, in short, did everything in the way of reading that a normal, happy, healthy-minded boy should do. "keep clear of philosophy until you are thirty," daniel said one day, as he was showing him how three matches can be made to stand upright; "then you won't understand enough of life to be miserable." later, he came to the dickens and thackeray stage, but he was pained to find he could not enjoy scott. he confided his distaste to his father, as though it were a guilty failing of which to be ashamed. "form your own likes and dislikes in reading as in everything else," said daniel. "don't be a literary snob, and pretend you enjoy the acquaintance of books merely because they belong so to speak to the 'upper ten' of the book-world." when his father died, humphrey was first brought face to face with the stern things of life. it was a chance remark of his aunt that gave him the first glimpse. "you'll have to do something for yourself, humphrey," she said one day. "that father of yours did nothing for you." she always spoke bitterly of his father. humphrey had never thought of it before. it had seemed to him that things came naturally to people from father to son: that, in some mysterious, unthought-of way, when he was about twenty or so, he would find himself with an income of sorts, or some settled employment. "you must get on," said his aunt, looking at him through her spectacles. "young men get on quickly to-day. you must grasp your opportunities." so here came a new and delightful interest into humphrey's existence. he perceived something fine in it all. from that day he had one creed in life: the creed of getting on. this determination swamped every other interest in life. it was as if his aunt had suddenly touched upon some internal button that had started off a driving-wheel within him, and set all the machinery of energy into movement. how did one "get on" in the world? he began to take an enormous interest in everything, to follow the doings of men and cities outside easterham; his knowledge widened slowly, for he had no brothers and was singularly innocent in the everyday sense of the word. and all the time, during those easterham days, he was beginning to understand things. he saw that beaver and worthing, with their small salaries and narrow capacities, had not "got on"--would never "get on." he realized too, that his father, well through life, had been little better than a man in the beginning of it. on the other hand, bilson, with his large, shining shop, might be said to have "got on," and just when he was half deciding that bilson held the secret, bilson suddenly went bankrupt, owing to the failure of some coffee plantations in ceylon. it seemed a perplexing business, this getting on. easier to talk about than to do. and, after all, the getting on-ness of bilson had been circumscribed by the narrow area of easterham. the real success meant power, and the ability to use it: wide power over the affairs of other people. these were not the thoughts of a moment: they were lingering thoughts that spread over three years, from seventeen to twenty, those three years when he was at the _easterham gazette_ office, with only beaver and worthing for his models in life. they were thoughts in the intervals of writing "notes" on local subjects--indeed, the notes were the outcome of the thoughts--of reading, and of cycling, and going to the theatre. and then one day a most amazing thing happened. beaver got on! yes, it was really incredible, but the fact was there indisputable and glaring. beaver, shaggy and unkempt, who seemed to have settled down for ever to the meetings and the calls and the police-courts ("harriet higgins, , no fixed abode, charged with being drunk and disorderly, etc."), broke through the cobwebs that had settled on him, in an unexpected and definite manner. he came to humphrey one day and remarked quite casually, "i've given old worthing the push." humphrey looked at him: he wore a norfolk jacket, with old trousers, and a tweed hat of no shape at all. beaver took his pipe out of his mouth, and humphrey noticed the short nails on his stumpy, fat fingers. beaver always bit his nails. "i've given old worthing the push," said beaver. "look at this." he showed a letter to humphrey, who saw that it was from the "special news agency" of london, employing beaver in their service at £ , s. a week. "how did you get it?" humphrey asked. "wrote in," said beaver, gnawing a finger-tip. "been writing in on the quiet for the last year. fed up with old worthing and filling up time at case." "i thought you had to know how to write well if you wanted to work in london," humphrey said. there were no illusions about beaver's style. "oh! the agency doesn't want writing--it wants a man who can take down shorthand verbatim.... i'm off next week," said beaver. humphrey looked longingly at him and his letter, and then round at the whitewashed walls of the office, with its calendars and local directories for years past on the shelf, and the pile of _gazettes_ on the corner of the counter. mr worthing passed through the office, stopped, and scowled at beaver. "kindly remove your head-gear in the front office," he said, and beaver, with the unmurmuring discipline of years which nothing could break, took off the crumpled tweed thing he called a hat. "nice pig, isn't he?" beaver said to humphrey, as worthing went out. "we had an awful row. said i ought to have given him a month's notice. a week would have been good enough for me if he was doing the sacking. pig in knickers, that's what he is," said beaver, defiantly. "this is a hole." "oh, beaver!" cried humphrey, hopelessly. "it is a hole. he _is_ a pig.... but what's going to happen to me?" "you'll do my work," beaver remarked. "i can't write shorthand. besides, i don't want to. how old are you, beaver?" "just turned thirty. why?" "thirty!" thought humphrey; fancy beaver having wasted all these years in doing nothing but local reporting. would he have to work ten years more and still achieve nothing further than beaver. there must be some way out of it. beaver had found it, and surely he could. "it's fine for you," humphrey said, admiringly now, for, in the blankness of beaver leaving the office where they had worked, he had forgotten to congratulate him. "the special news agency is the biggest in london, isn't it." "rather," said beaver, comfortably. "it's a life job." that was his ambition. "look here, young quain, i think you're too good for easterham, too. those notes of yours, you know.... i used to read 'em every week. not at all bad.... you take my tip, and do a turn at reporting for a while, and then when you've got the hang of things write in. write in to all the london papers. say you've had good provincial experience--'provincial' sounds better than local. you'll see. you're bound to get replies. say you're a good all-round man. enclose a stamped envelope." beaver sauntered to and fro, nibbling at a nail between excited sentences. "oh, and don't you forget it. write on _easterham gazette_ notepaper." and when, a week later, beaver left, worthing asked humphrey to try his hand at the police-court, humphrey accepted the inevitable, and tried to improve on the style of the police reports. worthing swore at him and rewrote them all, and told him to model his style on that of the late mr beaver. whereupon humphrey, seeing that he would never get on if he were to live in the shadow of beaver, sat down, and "wrote in." he wrote to _the day_, because he bought the paper every morning, and thought it was wonderful. the day that ferrol's reply arrived was a day of triumph for humphrey. the letter came to him with unbelievable promptness, asking him to call at the office.... never again did humphrey recapture the fine emotion that thrilled him as he read and re-read the letter. looking back on it, he saw that those moments were among the most glorious in his life; he stood on the threshold of a world of promise and enchantment, suddenly revealed to him by this scrap of paper with _the day_ in embossed blue letters, surrounded by telephone numbers and telegraphic addresses of the great newspaper. when he showed the letter to his aunt, she sighed in a tired way, and said unexpectedly: "i'm afraid you will never get on, humphrey. you are too restless. i'm sure you would do better to remain with mr worthing. however...." she very rarely finished her sentences. humphrey smiled. he saw himself marching to fortune; he was twenty, and it never occurred to him that he could fail. iv you may call fleet street what you like, but the secret of it eludes you always. it has as many moods as a woman: it is the street of laughter and of tears, of adventure and dullness, of romance and reality, of promise and lost hopes, of conquest and broken men. into its narrow neck are crammed all the hurrying life, the passions, the eager, beating hearts, the happiness and the sorrow of the broad streets east and west that lead to it. there is something in this thin, crooked street, holding in its body the essence of the world, that clutches at the imagination, something in the very atmosphere surrounding it which makes it different from all the other streets that are walked by men. the stones and the old timber of some of its buildings are like the yellow parchment of some ancient manuscript, scribbled with faded history. there are chop-houses, and taverns, where the wigged and knee-breeched puffs sat writing their tit-bits of scandal for the fashionable intelligence of the day; where addison and steele tapped their snuff-boxes and planned their letters to mr spectator; or, further back in the years, shakespeare himself went strandwards from blackfriars up the narrow street where the gabled houses leaned to one another. look, you can almost see the ghosts of fleet street pacing out of the little courts and alleys that lie athwart the street: you know that massive bulk of a man, walking ponderously, in drab-coloured coat and knee-breeches, and rather untidy stockings above his heavy, buckled shoes. he is in the street of a million words; other ghosts jostle him, and in the gallant company one sees charles dickens, dropping his manuscript stealthily into a dark letter-box, in a dark office, up a dark court; and all the dead men who have given their lives to the street, some of them foolishly wanton in wine--dead men shot in the wars, or burnt with fever, or wrecked with the struggle, come back ... come back to fleet street, to look wistfully at the lit windows, and listen to the throbbing music of the presses. it lures you like a siren, coaxing with soft promises of prizes to be wrested from it: you shall be the favoured of the gods, and you become sisyphus, rolling his stone eternally, day after day. here are the things of life that you covet, they shall be yours, says the street: and you are tantalus, reaching out everlastingly, and grasping nothing, until your heart is parched within you. you shall be strong and mighty, it says, sapping your strength like delilah, until you pull down the pillars of hope, and fall buried beneath the reckless ruins of your career. once you have answered the voice of the siren, you are taken in the magic spell. beat your breast, and exclaim in agony, but nothing will avail, for if you leave the street, the quiet world will seem void for ever, and, as the ghosts burn backwards through space, so shall you return to the old agitations and longings. * * * * * this was the street to which young humphrey quain came on a january morning, riding triumphantly on the top of an omnibus. as he passed the fantastic griffin, with its open jaws and monstrous scaly wings, like a warder guarding those who would escape, fleet street seemed to be the street of conquest. it was a rare, crisp day, with a touch of frost in the air, and the sun clear and high in the heavens, above the tangle of wires and cables that almost roofed the street. the traffic was beating up and down, with frequent blocks, here and there, as a heavy hooded van staggered up from whitefriars or bouverie street. it was nearly mid-day, and the light two-wheeled carts were pouring out of shoe lane, or coming from salisbury square with the early editions of the afternoon papers. newsboys on bicycles, with sacks of papers swung over their backs, seemed to be risking their lives every moment as they flashed into the thick of the traffic, clinging to hansoms, and sliding between drays and omnibuses, out of the press, until they could get through the narrow neck of fleet street towards the west. humphrey breathed deeply as he looked about him: the names of the newspapers were blazoned everywhere. heavens! what a world of paper and ink this was, to be sure. the doors, the windows and the letter-boxes bore the titles of newspapers--all the newspapers that were. every room, on every floor, was inhabited by the representatives of some paper or other: on the musty top windows he could read the titles of journals in canada and australia; great golden letters bulged across the buildings telling of familiar newspapers. the houses were an odd mixture of modernity and antiquity, they jostled each other in their cramped space; narrow buildings squeezed between high, red offices with plate-glass windows, and over and above the irregular roofs the wires spread thin threads against the sky, wires that gave and received news from the uttermost ends of the earth. the letters in white enamel or gold on the windows told of paris and berlin, of rotterdam and vienna; here they marked the home of a religious paper, there the office of a trade paper, and hard by it _the sportsman_, with its windows full of prize-fighters' photographs and a massive silver belt in a plush case, for the possession of which porky smith and jewey brown were coming to blows. every branch of human activity, all the intricate complexities of modern life seemed to be represented either by a room or the fifth part of a room in fleet street. and, rising out of the riot of narrow buildings, huddled closely to each other, the great homes of the daily papers stood up as landmarks. here were the london offices of the important provincial papers, which spoke nightly with birmingham, manchester, sheffield and liverpool--plate-glass windows and large letters gave them a handsome enough appearance, but they looked comparatively insignificant beside the tall red building of _the sentinel_, and the new green-glazed establishment of _the wire_, while the grey, enormous offices of _the day_ dwarfed them all. there was something solid about _the day_ as it stood four-square firmly in the street, with its great letters sprawled across the front, golden by day, and golden with electric light in the night-time. it seemed almost as if _the day_ had nudged the other great papers out of fleet street, for in the side streets, in bouverie street, and whitefriars street, and in shoe lane, the remainder of the london papers found their homes, with the exception of the high-toned _morning courier_, which found itself at the western end of the street past the law courts. but _the day_, with its arrogant dome-tower (lit up at nights), its swinging glass doors and braided commissionaires, was the most typical of the modern newspaper world. it was just such a place as humphrey quain had dreamed. the swing doors were always on the move; the people were coming and going quickly--here was action, and all the movement and the business of life. for a few moments humphrey hesitated a little nervously. he was a minute or two in advance of the time appointed for the interview, and he stood there, irresolute, filled with a wondrous sense of expectancy, among the crowd that hurried to and fro. he noticed on the other side of the road a bearded man, in a silk hat and a frayed overcoat, sitting on a doorstep at the top of whitefriars street. the man had a keen, intelligent face with blue eyes. it was the shiny silk hat that leapt to humphrey's notice, it seemed so out of keeping with the rest of the man's clothes. besides, why should a man in a silk hat sit on a doorstep.... years later the man was still there, every day, sitting sphinx-like, surveying those who passed him ... he must have marked their faces grow older. the commissionaire regarded humphrey critically. it was the business of the commissionaire in _the day_ office, especially, to be a judge of character. he divided callers into two main classes--those who wanted to see the editor, and those whom the editor wanted to see. the two classes were quite distinct, and there were few who, like humphrey quain, belonged to both. "yes, by appointment," said humphrey, a little proudly, to the commissionaire's cold question that rose like a wall to so many callers. he was shown into a little room, and made to fill up a form--name, address and business. the next minute a boy in a green uniform led him up a flight of stairs, through the ante-room where the pink-cheeked trinder sat typewriting diligently, and so to ferrol's room. humphrey had a confused impression of a broad, high room, of a man sitting at a desk miles away at the farther end of the room by the half-curtained window; of red walls hung with files of newspapers, and the contents bills of that day; of a louis xvi. clock, all scrolls and cupids, bringing a queer touch of drawing-room leisure with it; and of telephones and buttons that surrounded the man at the desk. the buttons fascinated him: he saw that thin slips of ivory labelled them with the names of the different departments--editor, news-editor, reporters, sub-editors, advertisement manager, business manager, literary editor, sporting editor, city editor, foreign editor--the whole of the building, with all its workers, seemed to be within the reach of ferrol's fingers. he was like the captain of a great ship, navigating the paper from this room, steering daily through the perilous journey. humphrey remembered afterwards how he was possessed with an odd longing; he wanted to see ferrol press all the buttons at once, to hear the bones of the paper, the framework on which it was built up each day, come clattering and rattling into the room. ferrol looked up from his papers, pushed back his round, upholstered chair that tipped slightly on its axis, and the room with its red walls and carpet suddenly faded from humphrey, and he became aware only of a face that looked at him ... a masterful, powerful face, strong in every feature, from the thick, closely-knit eyebrows below the broad forehead, to the round, large chin. there was something insistent in this face of ferrol, with its steel-coloured eyes, that hardened or softened with his moods, and its black moustache, that bulged heavily over his upper lip and gave him an appearance of rugged ferocity. humphrey felt as if he were a squirming thing under the microscope.... that was the way of ferrol--everything depended on the first impression that he received; all his being was tautened to receive that first impression. it was a narrow system of judging character, but he made few mistakes.... they were quickly corrected. he never forgave those who deceived him by wearing a mask over their true selves. there is not the slightest doubt that humphrey felt a little nervous--who would not, with ferrol's eyes boring through one?--but he knew that great issues were at stake. he carried his head high, and his eyes met ferrol's without a quiver. thus he stood by the table for five seconds, though it seemed as many minutes to him, until ferrol told him to sit down. "so you want to come on _the day_," was the way ferrol began. they were eye to eye all the while. "yes, sir," said humphrey, briskly. somehow or other, with the sound of ferrol's voice all his nervousness departed. it was the silence that had made him feel awkward. "let's see.... ah! yes; you've been on an easterham paper, haven't you?" "three years," humphrey replied. "that all the experience you've had?" humphrey smiled faintly. "that's all," he said. "what do you want to do?" here was an amazing question for which he was totally unprepared. it had never occurred to him that he would be asked to make his choice. his eyes wandered to the buttons.... what _did_ he want to do? he made an answer that sounded futile and foolish to him. "i want to get on," he stammered, hesitatingly, with a picture of his aunt rising mentally before him. ferrol's eyes twinkled. it was a magic answer if humphrey had but known. most of the others he saw wanted to do descriptive writing, they had literary kinks in them, or wanted to have roving commissions abroad.... none of them wanted to start at the bottom. "well, this is the place for young men who want to get on, you know," said ferrol. "it's hard work...." he turned away and consulted some papers. "i think i'll give you a chance," he said. the clock struck twelve, and it sounded to humphrey that a chime of joy-bells had flooded the room with triumphant music. "when can you start?" ferrol asked. "next week," humphrey said. "you can start at three pounds a week." ferrol pressed a button. trinder appeared. "ask mr rivers if he can come," said ferrol. humphrey thought only of three pounds a week ... three pounds! "i'll put you on the reporting staff," ferrol remarked. then he smiled. "we'll see how you get on...." there was a pause. (three pounds a week! three pounds a week!) he looked up as the door opened and saw an extraordinarily virile-looking person come into the room--a man with the face of a refined pugilist, with large square-shaped hands and an expression of impish perkiness in his eyes. "come in, rivers," said ferrol. "this is mr quain." mr rivers shook his hand with an air of polite restraint. "mr rivers is our news editor," explained ferrol, and then to rivers, "i have engaged mr quain for a trial month, rivers." rivers smiled whimsically. "you're not a genius, i hope," he said to humphrey. the spirit of humour that flashed across rivers's face, twinkling his eyes and the corners of his mouth and dimpling his cheeks, made humphrey laugh a negative reply. "that's all right," said rivers, his face so creased in smiles until his beady eyes threatened to disappear altogether. "the last genius we had," he said, with a nod to ferrol, "let us down horribly on the bermondsey murder story." the telephone bell rang. "i'll see him now," said ferrol through the telephone, and humphrey took that as a signal that the interview was ended. ferrol shook hands with him, and once more he felt himself the target of those steel-grey eyes that held in them the stern remorselessness of strength. * * * * * "good-looking young man," said rivers, as the door closed behind humphrey. "hope he'll shape all right." "i hope so," ferrol echoed.... and he was glad that rivers had praised humphrey, for he was pleased with the upright, manly bearing of the lad, the quick intelligence of the face, and he had noticed the frank eyes, the smooth skin and the dark hair that had belonged in the lost years to margaret. v humphrey came downstairs and out into the street again walking like one in a dream. his interview with ferrol had lasted barely five minutes, and in those few minutes the whole course of his future life had been determined. his mind was whirling with the suddenness of it all; whirling and whirling round one thought, the thought of three pounds a week. round this pivot, as a catharine-wheel spins round its pin, the thing of the greatest import revolved brilliantly, shedding its luminous light far into the dark recesses of the future ... he was on _the day_. fleet street was at his feet. in that moment a new humphrey quain was born, different from the youth who had walked a little timorously into ferrol's room; he was no longer a lost cipher in the world, he was a unit in the army that marched forwards, with progress and to-morrow for their watchwords. he felt, suddenly, a great man--humphrey quain of _the day_, cocksure, self-confident, with ambitions that appalled him when he thought of them in after years. what would beaver say? what would old worthing say...? and there was his aunt, too. that man in the silk hat, with the shabby overcoat, was still sitting on the doorstep. as humphrey passed him, his lips twisted in a haunting ironical smile. perhaps he knew of humphrey's thoughts. he went back to easterham. after all, worthing took it very well, and his aunt agreed that three pounds a week certainly showed that he was getting on, and beaver, to whom he wrote the glad news, recommended him rooms in guilford street, in the house where he was living. and there followed days of tremendous dreams. vi a week later a four-wheeler brought up outside no. a guilford street, and there, on the doorstep, was beaver, with his thumbs inkier than ever, waiting to welcome humphrey to london. the cabman, one of those red-faced, truculent individuals whom a petrol-driven nemesis has now overtaken and rendered humble, demanded two shillings more than his fare, firstly, because it was obvious that humphrey came from the country, and secondly, because he had gone by mistake to a, which was at the far end of the street. "why didn't you speak the number plainly," he growled. they compromised with an extra sixpence, on the condition that the cabman should assist in carrying humphrey's two trunks into the house, as far as the second-floor landing. "there are your rooms," beaver said, throwing open the door; "you've got a sitting-room, with a little bed-room at the side. twelve shillings a week," he said, anxiously. "not too much, i hope. breakfasts, one shilling a day." he lowered his voice mysteriously. "take my tip, quain, and open the eggs and the window at the same time." humphrey laughed. it was jolly to have beaver in the loneliness of london. this was quite another beaver, a better-groomed beaver, with a clean collar, and only one day's stubble on his chin. he made swift calculations--twelve and seven--nineteen, and coals--what of coals? coals were a shilling a scuttle. beaver confided to him that he had a regular system for checking the coal supply. it seems he made an inventory of every lump of coal in every fresh scuttleful. he kept a kind of day-book and ledger system of coal, debiting against the credit supply the lumps that he put on the fire, and balancing his books at night. in this way mrs wayzgoose, the landlady, found no opportunity for making extra capital out of the coal business. "you're better off than i am," beaver said. "i've only got the top room at eight shillings a week--a bed-sitting room. but then, i send ten shillings a week to my sister. it doesn't leave@ very much by the time i've had my meals and paid the rent." humphrey begged him to consider the sitting-room as his own, so long as he lived in the house. they began to unpack together, beaver making exclamations of surprise at the turn of things. "fancy you being on _the day_!" he said, pausing with a volume in each hand. "it all happened so quickly. i took your advice. ferrol seems a wonderful chap." "oh! i daresay ferrol's all right ... but _the day's_ got an awful reputation. they're always sacking somebody.... i'd rather be where i am. they've got to keep firing, you know. new blood, and new ideas. that's what they want." humphrey laughed. "i'm not afraid," he said. "once i get my teeth into the place, they won't shake me off." all the same, it must be confessed that beaver's words awoke a slight feeling of alarm in his heart. a king might arise who knew not humphrey, and he might go down with the rest. "we'll put the books on the mantelpiece; i'll have to get a book-shelf to-morrow." humphrey had brought up a few of his favourites--an odd collection: _the fifth form at st dominic's_; _the time machine_; _an easy outline of evolution_; _gulliver's travels_, and _captain singleton_; the poems of browning and robert buchanan, and carlyle's _french revolution_. the pictures they agreed to hang to-morrow. they were only heliogravure prints of the kind that were sold in shilling parts. watts' "hope" and "life and death," and other popular pictures, together with photographic reproductions of authors, ancient and modern, from _the bookman_. when they had finished, humphrey surveyed his new home. it looked comfortable enough in the fire-light, with the green curtains drawn over the windows. the furniture was of the heavy mahogany, mid-victorian fashion, blended with a horsehair sofa and bent-wood arm-chair, that struck a jarring note of ultra-modernity. there was a flat-topped desk in one corner by the fireplace. the mantelpiece was hideous with pink and blue vases that held dried grass and clipped bulrushes. looking round more carefully, he saw that moses himself could not have had more bulrushes to screen him than mrs wayzgoose had put for the delight of her lodgers. there were bulrushes in the mirror over the sideboard, bulrushes in a gaily-decorated stand whose paint hid its drain-pipe pedigree, bulrushes in another bloated vase on a fretted ebony stand by the window. who shall explain this extraordinary passion for bulrushes that still holds in its thrall the respectable landladies of england? "i must have them cleared away," said humphrey. beaver smiled. "you just try!" he said meaningly. "anyhow, you're better off than i am, mine's paper fans." he rang the bell, and a stout, placid-faced woman appeared at the door. she wore at her neck a large topaz-coloured stone, as large as a saucer, set in a circle of filigree gold, and heavy-looking lumps of gold dangled from her ears. her hands, with their fingers interlocked, rested on the ends of the shawl that made her appear even more ample than she was. "this is mr quain, mrs wayzgoose," said beaver. mrs wayzgoose's face fell apart in her welcoming smile--the smile that her lodgers saw only once. it was a wonderful, carefully-studied smile, beginning with the gradual creasing of the mouth, extending earwards, joyfully, and finally spreading until the nose and the eyes were brought into the scheme. "i hope you find everything you want, mr quain," she said. "everything's very comfortable," humphrey answered. "do you take tea or coffee with your breakfasts, mr quain?" humphrey was about to reply coffee, when the guardian beaver winked enormously at him, and shook his head in a manner that was quite perplexing. he had not a notion of what beaver was trying to convey--there was evidently something to beware of in the question. then, he had an inspiration. "what do i take, beaver?" he asked. "oh, tea--undoubtedly tea," beaver answered hastily. "very good." mrs wayzgoose turned to go. "oh! by the way, mrs wayzgoose," humphrey said. "these ... these bulrushes...." "_bulrushes!_" echoed mrs wayzgoose, losing her placidity all of a sudden. there was an icy silence. beaver seemed to be enjoying it. "pray, what of my bulrushes?" demanded the masterful mrs wayzgoose. "don't you think ... i mean ... wouldn't the room be lighter without them?" "without them?" the way she echoed his words, her voice rising in its scale, reminded him of the wolf's replies to red riding hood before making a meal of her. "are you aware, mr quain, that those bulrushes have been there for the last thirty years." "i was not aware of it, but i am not surprised to hear it," humphrey answered politely. "and that never a complaint has been made about them." "i _am_ surprised to hear that," he murmured. "the last gentleman who had these rooms," continued mrs wayzgoose, "he _was_ a gentleman, in spite of being coffee-coloured, was a law student. mr hilfi abbas. he took the rooms _because_ of the bulrushes. said they reminded him of the nile. i could let these rooms over and over again to egyptian gentlemen while these bulrushes are there...." and with that she flounced out of the room in a whirl of skirts, with her ear-rings rocking to the headshakes which punctuated her remarks. "there you are," said beaver, as the door closed behind her. "what did i tell you?" humphrey laughed, and shook his fist at the offending bulrushes. "they'll go somehow, you see." when all the unpacking was finished, the pipes put in the pipe-rack, the tobacco-jar on the table, and the photographs of his mother, his father and his aunt placed on the mantelpiece, the question of food came uppermost in his mind. beaver told him that he had accepted an invitation to supper. "i met a chap on a job whom i knew years ago. we were both reporters together in hull, on a weekly there. i didn't know you'd be coming up this evening or i wouldn't have arranged to go there." "well, it doesn't matter," said humphrey. "i can manage for myself. don't let me upset your arrangements." "look here," beaver said suddenly. "why shouldn't you come with me. it's only cold supper and they won't mind a bit. i'll explain things. besides," he added, as he noticed humphrey was hesitating, "tommy pride will be one of your new colleagues. he's on _the day_. you might be able to pick up a few tips from him." so humphrey agreed, and they went up into holborn. it was sunday evening and every shop was shut, except an isolated restaurant and a tobacconist here and there. the public-houses alone were wholly open, and their windows radiated brilliance into the night. the east had invaded the west for its sunday parade, and the streets were a restless procession of young people; sex called to sex without anything more evil in intention than a walk through the streets, a hand-clasp and, perhaps, a kiss in some by-way, and then to part with the memory of a gay adventure that would linger during the dull routine of the week to come, to be forgotten and replaced by another. beaver was for taking the "tube" to shepherd's bush--it was a new luxury for london then, making people wonder how they could have borne so long with the sulphurous smoke and gloom of the old underground railway--but the movement of the streets fascinated humphrey, and, though the journey took much longer, they went out by omnibus. ah! that ride.... the first ride through london, when humphrey felt the great buildings all around him, and above him, rising enormously in a long chain that seemed to stretch for miles and miles, below the sky that was copper-tinted with the glare of thousands of lamps. what did london mean to him, then? he found his mind groping forwards and backwards, and this way and that way, puzzling for the secret of the real london that was hidden in the stones of it. he was a little afraid of it all, it seemed so vast and complicated. in easterham, one knew every one, and to walk the streets was like walking the rooms of one's house--but here no man noticed another, one felt strange and outcast at first, intensely lonely, and minutely insignificant. idly, as he looked down from this omnibus, at the people as they strolled up and down, he wondered of what they were thinking. did they ever think at all, these people of the streets--did they ever have moments of meditation when they pondered the why and the wherefore of anything? it seemed so odd to humphrey, as he thought of it--here was the centre of a great civilization, here were men and women, well and decently dressed, here was london broad and mighty, and yet the minds of those who walked below him were, he felt, narrow and pinched. they might have been living in easterham for all their lives. and, now, he felt afraid for the first time, knowing that he could never conquer these people by the path he had chosen. what mattered anything to them, except that it touched the root of their lives? they cared nothing, he knew, for the greatness of things. they talked vaguely of the greatness of empire, but they never thought about it, nor understood it. they lived in a world of names--the world itself was nothing but a string of names which they had been taught. the very stars above them were just "stars," and the word meant no more to them: if you had talked to them of infinite worlds beyond worlds, of other planets with suns and moons and stars of their own, they would have winked an eye ... and how, when they could not be conquered with the mightiness of everything about them, could humphrey quain hope to conquer them. for he had nothing beyond the desire to conquer them--a desire so strong, smouldering somewhere within him, that it had burnt up almost every other interest; he could think perhaps more deeply than they could, but for the rest, he was limited by lack of great knowledge, lack of everything, except an innate gift of shrewd observation and a power of intuitive reasoning. out of the mists of his thoughts, beaver's voice came to him. "there's the marble arch," said beaver. "what have you been dreaming about? you haven't said a word all the time." humphrey laughed. "i was looking at the people," he said. "i always like looking at people." they went past hyde park, with its naked trees showing like skeletons in the moonlight. the night seemed to deepen the spaciousness of the park, with its shadows and silence; it held all the mystery and beauty of a forest. and later they passed the blue, far-reaching depths of kensington gardens, with the scent of trees and the smell of earth after rain coming to them. it was all new to humphrey, new and delightful. he promised himself glorious days and nights probing this city to its heart, and listening to the beat of its pulses. already, for so was he fashioned, he began to note his emotions, and to watch his inner self, and the impressions he was receiving, so that he could write about them. this was the journalist's sense--a sixth sense--which urges its possessor to set down everything he observes, and adds an infinite zest to life, since every experience, every thought, every new feeling, means something to write about. nor did he think of the things he saw, in the way of the average man. he thought in phrases. it did not content him to feel that a street lamp was merely a lamp. he would ask himself, almost unconsciously, "what does it look like?" and search for a simile. his thoughts ran in metaphors and symbols. they swung into notting hill high street, and here the streets were almost as crowded as those at holborn, and the lights of the public-houses flared, oases of brilliance in the desert of dark, shuttered shops. and so down the hill to shepherd's bush, with its lamps twinkling round the green, and its throng of people--more men and women thinking of nothing at all, and going up and down in herds, like cattle. vii the memory of that evening at the prides remained with humphrey. it was his first glimpse into the social life, and he saw a home that was wholly delightful. beaver had not under-estimated the hospitality of the prides. they gave him a hearty welcome that made him feel at home at once. tommy pride met them in the passage, and after the first introductions he led the way to the sitting-room, where mrs pride was waiting. she was a woman of forty, buxom and charming. he saw, within a very few minutes, that her admiration of tommy pride knew no bounds, that she thought him splendid and flawless--that much he read from the way her brown eyes lit up when she gazed upon him, and the fond smile that marked her lips when she spoke to him. the sitting-room was not a very large apartment, but it was furnished with unusual taste. there were books set in white enamelled bookcases--books that are permanent on the shelf, and not novels of a moment. there was chintz on the arm-chairs and green curtains hung over the window, and a few original black-and-white drawings and water-colours on the walls, papered in dark blue. the impression that the room gave to the visitor was one of peace and rest. humphrey was frankly disappointed in tommy pride. he had had a vague notion that everybody connected with a london newspaper was, of necessity, a person of fame. he knew the names of those who signed the articles in _the day_, and he imagined he would find himself in the company of the great immortals. somehow or other it had never crossed his mind that there were patient, toiling men--hundreds of them--who put out their best work day after day, year after year, without any hope of glory or fame, but simply for the necessities of life, as a bricklayer lays bricks--hundreds of men quite unknown outside the bounds of fleet street and the inner newspaper world. "well," mrs pride said to him; "so you're going to try your luck in london, mr quain?" humphrey nodded, and the conversation went into the channels of small talk. beaver and he amused the prides with recollections of easterham and mr worthing, and tommy pride capped their recollections with some of his own. "when i was on a little local paper once, we had a fellow named smee, who thought he could write," said tommy. "the editor was a hard, cruel sort of chap, without any sympathy for the finer side of literature--at least that was what smee said. he used to sob all round the place, because he wanted to write great throbbing prose instead of borough-council meetings. one day smee got his chance. the editor was ill, and there was a prisoner to be hanged in the county jail. smee wrote the effort of his life. it went something in this way:-- "'last tuesday, under the blue vault of heaven, when the larks were singing their rhapsodies to the roseate dawn, at a.m., like a sudden harbinger of horror, the black flag fluttered above the prison walls, showing that alfred trollop, aged forty-two, labourer, had suffered the last penalty of the law--viz., death.'" "how's that for descriptive?" asked tommy, smacking his lips. "'viz., death.' a glorious touch, eh?" he leaned towards humphrey. "don't you bother about fine writing, quain, or you'll break your heart. we keep a stableful of fine writers, and turn 'em loose when we want any high falutin' done." "don't be so depressing, tommy," mrs pride said. "never mind what he says, mr quain--there's a chance for every one to do his best in fleet street." "dear optimistress," remarked tommy, linking an arm in hers, "let's see what we have for supper." they all went into the dining-room, and humphrey was given the place of honour next to mrs pride. beaver sat opposite, and tommy was at the head of the table carving the joint of cold roast beef. "i'm a little out of form," he said, whimsically. "this is the first meal i've had at home for a week." "i sometimes wish tommy were a sub-editor," mrs pride confided to humphrey; "then we should at least have the day to ourselves. but he says he could never sit down at a desk for eight hours a night." "not me," tommy interposed, with his mouth full of beef. "if they want to make you a sub-editor, quain, take several grains of cyanide of potassium rather than yield. you've got some freedom of thought and life as a reporter, but if you're a sub you're chained down with a string of rules. they make you wear a mental uniform." "i thought a sub-editor held a more important position than a reporter," humphrey said. "so he does, only the reporters don't think so. the paper couldn't get on without the sub-editors. i should love to see _the day_ printed for just one issue with everything that the reporters wrote untouched. it would have to be a forty-two page paper. because every reporter thinks his story is the best, and writes as much of it as he can.... i like the subs, they've saved my life over and over again. next to the agency men they're the most useful people in the world, eh, beaver?... have some beer, beaver. pass him the jug, quain." beaver laughed. "it strikes me you people on the regular staff of the papers take yourselves much too seriously. you've all got swelled heads. for the sake of fine phrases you'll lose half the facts. why don't you all understand that it's simply in the day's work to do your job and forget all about it." "lord knows," tommy replied, "but we don't. we get obsessed with our jobs, and dream them, and spend hours taking trouble over them, and we know all the time that when they come cold and chilly at night through the sub's hands, they're lopped about and cut up to fit a space. we may pretend we don't care what happens to our writing, so long as we draw our money, but i think we all do in our secret hearts. we're born that way. the moment a man really doesn't care whether his story is printed or cut to shreds, he's no good in a newspaper office. it means he's lost his enthusiasm." tommy's voice fell. he knew well enough that that was the state of affairs to which he had come. all the long, long years of work had left him emotionless. he had exhausted his enthusiasm, and the whole business seemed stale to him. he felt out of place in this new world of newspaperdom, peopled with energetic, hopeful young men who came out of nowhere, and captured at once the prizes which were so hardly won in his day. he felt himself being nudged out of it all, by the pushful enthusiastic army of young men who had marched down on fleet street. all round him he saw signs of the coming change--the old penny papers were talking of changing their price to a halfpenny; the older men in journalism were being pensioned off, or dismissed, or "put on space"--which means that they were not paid a regular salary but at so much a column for what they wrote. the spirit of change was working everywhere: some of the solid writers who found that they could not comply with the modern demands of journalism, migrated back to the provinces and became editors or leader-writers on papers in manchester, birmingham or sheffield. and, at the back of all this change, the figure of ferrol hovered.... ferrol sweeping irresistibly over the old traditions of fleet street.... ferrol threatening to acquire this paper and that paper, to start weeklies and monthlies, to extend his power even to the provinces, so that everywhere the shadow brooded. and they would want young men, keen, shrewd young men, and so the day would come when he would fade away from the life of fleet street. and then--"tommy and i are going to retire soon," mrs pride said, with a fond glance at her husband, "aren't we, tommy?" "she means to the workhouse, beaver," tommy remarked, with a grin. "we're going to have a cottage in the country, and tommy's going to write his book." "no," said beaver, incredulously. "do you write books, mr pride?" humphrey asked. "i? lord, no! not now. i once had an idea of writing books. i was just about your age. i believe i've even got the first chapter somewhere. but i've never written it. whenever the missis and i get very depressed, we cheer ourselves up by talking of that book, and writing it in the country. by the way, do you know that deep down in the heart of every newspaper man there's a longing to write one book, and to live on two pounds a week in the country?" "that'll do, tommy," mrs pride interposed. "i won't have you spoil mr quain's evening any more. you're making him quite depressed. don't pay any attention to him, mr quain, and have some cheese." after supper they went back to the sitting-room, and mrs pride played to them, and beaver sang in a shaky bass voice. humphrey had never heard beaver sing before. there was something grotesque about the singing. it took humphrey by surprise. beaver was the sort of man who, somehow or other, one imagined would sing in a high treble. he sang on and on, right through the portfolio of the "world's favourite songs," including "the anchor's weighed," "john peel," "the heart bowed down," and the rest of them. pride sat in the arm-chair by the fireside, smoking a pipe, and nodding to the old melodies, while humphrey gravitated to the book-shelves, and looked at some of the books. he seemed to have left easterham and his aunt far behind him in dim ages. a new feeling of responsibility came over him, as he sat there thinking of the morrow when his battle with fleet street was to begin. the future rested with him alone, and it gave him a delicious thrill of individuality to think of it. it was as if he had suddenly become merged with some one else within him, who was constantly saying to him: "you are humphrey quain.... you are humphrey quain. take charge of yourself now.... i have finished with you." he had an odd sense of not fully knowing this strange new self with which he was faced. he wondered, too, whether beaver or pride had ever passed through the same sensation that was passing through him now. this was the beginning of that introspection when the presence of his self became dominant in his mind, shaping as something to be looked at and examined and questioned, that was to lead to much bitterness and unhappiness in the years to come. the evening came to an end, but before they left pride took humphrey aside. "beaver said you might like a few hints," he said. "i don't think i can help you much. i think you know your way about. but there are two important things to remember: don't be a genius, and don't be a fool. i'll tell you more in the morning." on the way back to guilford street beaver eulogized pride. he was one of the best reporters in fleet street--one of the safest, beaver meant. never let his paper down. worth his salary on any paper. "i suppose he gets a pretty big salary?" humphrey asked. "who? pride--no! i don't think he gets very much. he's not a show man, you see. of course, dear old tommy hasn't got a cent to spare. he's got a girl of thirteen at boarding-school, and that takes a good bit of keeping up." "why was he so discouraging?" "oh! that's his way. he pretends he's a pessimist." humphrey went to bed that night full of thoughts of the morning. and in the tumult of his thoughts he wondered how he should avoid becoming as tommy pride, with all his thirty years of work as nothing, and all the high ambitions sacrificed to fleet street. was that to be his end too--a reporter for ever, and at the finish of it, nothing but the husks of enthusiasm. he thought of pride's wistful desire for a cottage in the country and two pounds a week. and he fell asleep while thinking how he was going to find a better end to his work than that. part ii lilian i humphrey quain came into the office of _the day_ with the greatest asset a journalist can possess--enthusiasm. there is no other profession in the world that calls so continually, day after day, for enthusiasm. the bank-clerk may have his slack moment in adding up his figures--indeed the work has become so mechanical to him that he can even think of other things while making his additions; the actor, even, has his lines by heart, and can sometimes go automatically through his part, without the audience noticing he is listless; the barrister may lose his case; the artist may paint one bad picture--it is forgotten in the gallery of good ones; but the reporter must be always alert, always eager, always ready to adapt himself to circumstances and persons, and fail at the peril of his career. in large things and small things it is all alike: the man who goes to report a meeting must do it as eagerly and with as much enthusiasm as the man who journeys to egypt to interview the khedive. and, as humphrey soon found, every day and every hour there are forces conspiring to kill this eagerness and enthusiasm at the root. before he had been a week on _the day_ he began to realize the forces that were up against him. it seemed that there was a deliberate league on the part of the world to stifle his ambitions, and to make things go awry with him. before he had been a week on _the day_ he felt that he was being checked and thwarted by people. he was turned from the doorsteps by the footmen and servants of those whom he went to see on some quite trivial matters; or he could never find the man he went forth to seek. he went from private house to office, from office to club, in search of a city magnate one day, and failed in his quest, and, after hours of searching, he came back to _the day_ empty-handed, and rivers said brusquely: "you'll have to try again at dinner-time. he's sure to be home at seven. we've got to have him to-night." and so he went again at seven to the man's house, only to find that he was dining out and would not be back until eleven. whereupon he waited about patiently, and, finally, when he did return home, the city magnate declined to venture any opinion on the subject in question to humphrey (it was about the russian loan), and, after all, he came back, late and tired, to the office, to find that, as far as selsey, the chief sub-editor, was concerned, nobody cared very much about his failure or not. and, in the morning, his struggles and troubles and the difficulty of yesterday was quite forgotten, and rivers never even mentioned the matter to him. but if _the sentinel_, or any other paper, had chanced to find the city magnate in a more relenting mood, and had squeezed an interview out of him...! he was given cuttings from other papers, pasted on slips of paper, and told to inquire into them. they led him nowhere. there would be, perhaps, an interview with some well-known person of european interest visiting london, but the printed interview never said where the well-known person was to be found. and so this meant a weary round of hotels, and endless telephone calls, until the hours passed, and humphrey discovered that the man had left london the night before. even though that was no fault of his own, he could not eliminate the sense of failure from his mind. and once, rivers had told him to go and see cartwright's, the coal-merchants, in mark lane, and get from them some facts about the rise in the price of coal. and he had been shown into the office, and cartwright had talked swiftly, hurling technical facts and figures at him, as though he had been in the coal business all his life. so that when the interview was ended, humphrey reeled out of the office, his mind and memory a tangle of half-understood facts, and wholly incapable of writing anything on the matter. fortunately, when he got back, he found that other reporters had been seeing coal-merchants, and all that was wanted was just three lines from each--an expression of opinion as to whether the high price would last--and humphrey rescued from the tangle of talk cartwright's firm belief that the rise was only temporary. another day he had been sent to interview a bishop--an authority on dogma, whose views were to be asked on a startling proposition (from america) of bringing the bible up-to-date. the bishop received humphrey coldly in the hall of his house, and humphrey noticed that the halls were hung with many texts reflecting christian sentiments of love and hope and brotherhood. and the bishop, unmoved by humphrey's rather forlorn appearance, for somehow he quailed before the austere gaitered personage, curtly told him that he could not discuss the matter. when humphrey came back it so happened that he met neckinger. "well, what are you doing to-day, quain?" asked neckinger with an indulgent smile. he was a short, thick-set man, with a pear-shaped face, and brown eyes that held a quizzical look in them. it was the second time humphrey had come into touch with neckinger, who was the editor of _the day_, and rarely ventured from his room when he came to the office. humphrey told him where he had been, and with what results. "wouldn't he talk?" asked neckinger. "no," humphrey answered. neckinger paused with his hand on the door knob. his eyes twinkled, and his fingers caressed his moustache. "why didn't you make him talk?" asked neckinger with a hint of disapproval in his voice. then, without waiting for a reply, he went into his room. humphrey felt that he was faced with a new problem in life. how did one _make_ people talk? it was not enough to hunt your quarry to his lair--that was the easiest part of the business--you had to compel him to disgorge words--any words--so be they made coherent sentences. you had to come back and say that he had spoken, and write down what he said at your discretion. and if he would not speak, you had, in some mysterious manner, to force the words from his mouth. that was what puzzled humphrey in the beginning. what was the magic key that the other reporters had to unlock the conversation of those whom they went to see? they very seldom failed. humphrey went home, perplexed, disturbed with this added burden on his shoulders. he saw his life as one long effort at making unwilling people talk for publication. and yet, on the whole, this first week of his in fleet street was one of glorious happiness. the romance of the place gripped him at once, and held him a willing captive. he loved the thrill of pride that came to him, whenever he passed through the swing doors in the morning, and the commissionaire, superior person of impregnable dignity, condescended to nod to him. he loved the reporters' room, with its fire and the grate, and the half circle of chairs drawn round it, where there were always two or three of the other men sitting, and talking wonderful things about the secrets of their work. in reality, the reporters' room was the most prosaic room in the whole building. it was a broad, bare room, excessively utilitarian in appearance. there was nothing superfluous or ornamental in it. everything within its four walls was set there for a distinct purpose. the large high windows were uncurtained so as to admit the full light of day. and when the full light of day shone, it showed an incredibly untidy room, with every desk littered with writing-paper, and newspapers, and even the floor thick with a slipshod carpet of printed matter. the desks were placed against the walls and round the room. humphrey had no desk of his own. he usually came in and sat at whichever desk was empty, and more often than not the rightful owner of the desk would arrive, and humphrey would mumble apologies, gather up his papers, and depart to the next desk. in this way he sometimes made a whole tour of the room, shifting from desk to desk. there were pegs near the door, and from one of them a disreputable umbrella dangled by its crook handle. it was pale-brown with dust, and its ribs were bent and broken, and rents showed in the covering--as an umbrella its use had long since gone, yet it still hung there. nobody knew to whom it belonged. nobody threw it away--it was a respected survival of some ancient day. it remained for ever, an umbrella that had once done good and faithful work, now useless and dusty, with its gaping holes and twisted framework--perhaps, as a symbol. a telephone, a bell that rang in the commissionaire's box and told him the reporter needed a messenger-boy, and a pot of paste completed the furniture of the reporters' room. they had all they needed, and if they wished for anything they could ring for it--that was the attitude of the managerial side who were responsible for office luxuries. the manager, by the way, had a room that was, by comparison, a temple of luxury, from its soft-shaded electric lights and green wall-paper (the reporters' walls were distempered) to its wondrous carpet, and mahogany desk. nobody seemed to care very much for the reporters, humphrey found, except when one of them--or all of them--saved the paper from being beaten by its rivals, or caused the paper to beat its rivals. but in the ordinary course of events, the manager ignored the reporters; the sub-editors, in their hearts, regarded them as loafers and pitied their grammar and inaccuracy for official titles and initials of leading men; neckinger never bothered much about them unless there was trouble in the air, while those distant people, the leader-writers, sometimes looked at them curiously, as one regards strange types. and yet, the reporters were the friendliest and most human of all those in the office. they came daily into contact with life in all its forms, and it knocked the rough edges off them. they were generous, large-hearted men, whose loyalty to their paper had no limits. they lived together, herded in their big bare room, chafing always against their slavery, and yet loving their bondage, unmoved at the strange phases of life that passed through their hands; surveying, as spectators regard a stage-play, the murders, the humours, the achievements, the tragedies, and the sorrow and laughter of nations. in those days the interior of the grey building was an unexplored mystery for humphrey. he passed along the corridors by half-opened doors which gave a tantalizing glimpse into the rooms beyond where men sat writing. there were the sporting rooms, where the sporting editor and his staff worked at things quite apart from the reporters. nothing seemed to matter to them: the greatest upheavals left their room undisturbed; football, cricket, racing, coursing and the giving of tips were their main interests, and though a king died or war was declared, they still held their own page, the full seven columns of it, so that they could chronicle the sport and the pleasure. the sporting men and the reporters seldom mingled in the office; sometimes lake, the sporting editor, nodded to those he knew coming up the stairs. he was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a heavy face, and the appearance of a clubman and a man of the world. close to the sporting room was a strange room lit with an extraordinarily luminous pale blue glare. humphrey satisfying his curiosity prowled about the building one evening, and ventured to the door. the men who were there did not question his presence. they just looked at him and went on with their work. one of them, in his shirt-sleeves and a black apron, was holding a black square of glass to the light, from which something shining was dripping. a pungent smell of iodoform filled humphrey's nostrils. he knew the smell; it was intimately associated with the recollections of his youth, when he had dabbled in photography with a low-priced camera, using the cistern-room at the top of the house as a dark-room. and he saw that another man was manipulating an enormous camera, that moved along a grooved base. this, he knew, was an enlarging apparatus, and he realized that here they were making the blocks for _the day_--transferring a drawing or a photograph to copper or zinc plates. there was something real and vital about this office where each day was active with a different activity from the day before; where each room was a mirror of life itself. next door to the room where the blue light vibrated and flared intensely, he found a smaller room, where two men sat, also in their shirt-sleeves, tap-tapping at telegraph transmitters. a cigarette dangled loosely from the lip of each man, and neither of them glanced at the work of his fingers. they looked always at the printed proof, or the written copy held in a clip before them. this was the provincial wire room. they were tapping a selection of the news, letter by letter, to birmingham, where _the day_ had an office of its own. humphrey noticed with a queer thrill that one of the men was sending through something that he himself had written. downstairs, in a long room, longer than the reporters' room, and just as utilitarian, the sub-editors sat at two broad tables forming the letter t. mr selsey, the chief sub-editor, sat in the very centre of the top of the t, surrounded by baskets, and proofs, and telephones, and, at about seven o'clock every evening, his dinner. he was a gentle-mannered man, whose face told the time as clearly as a clock. from six to eight it was cheerful; when he began to frown it was nine o'clock; when he grew restless and spoke brusquely it was eleven; and when his hair was dishevelled and his eyes became anxious it was eleven-thirty, and the struggle of pruning down and rejecting the masses of copy that passed through his hands was at its climax. at one o'clock he was normal again, and became gentle over a cup of cocoa. humphrey was never certain whether mr selsey approved of him or not. he had to go through the ordeal every evening of bringing that which he had written to him, and to stand by while it was read. it reminded him of his school-days, when he used to bring his exercise-book up to the schoolmaster. selsey seldom made any comment--he read it, marked it with a capital letter indicating whether its fate would be three lines, a paragraph, or its full length, and tossed it into a basket, whence it would be rescued by one of the sub-editors, who saw that the paragraphs, the punctuation and the sense of it were right, cut out whole sentences if it were necessary to compress it, and added a heading to it. then, it was taken back to selsey, who glanced at it quickly, and threw it into another basket, whence it was removed by a boy and shot through a pneumatic tube to the composing-room. the sub-editors' room was the heart of the organism of _the day_ between the hours of six in the evening and one the next morning. it throbbed with persistent business. the tape machines clicked out the news of the world in long strips, and boys stood by them, cutting up the slips into convenient sizes, and pasting them on paper. the telephone bells rang, and every night at nine-thirty, westgate, the leather-lunged sub-editor, disappeared into a telephone-box with a glass door. humphrey saw him one night when he happened to be in the room. he looked like a man about to be electrocuted, with a band over the top of his skull, ending in two receivers that fitted closely over his ears. his hands were free so that he could write, and through the glass humphrey watched his mouth working violently until his face was wet with perspiration. he was shouting through a mouthpiece, and his words were carried under the sea to paris, though no one in the sub-editors' room could hear them, since the telephone-box was padded and noise-proof. and humphrey could see his pencil moving swiftly over the paper, with an occasional pause, as his mouth opened widely to articulate a question, and again he felt that delightful and mighty sensation of being in touch with the bones of life, as he realized that somewhere, far away in paris, the correspondent of _the day_, invisible but audible, was hailing the sub-editors' room across space and time. he saw no longer the strained, taut face of westgate, his unkempt moustache bobbing up and down with the movement of his upper lip, the big vein down his forehead bulging like a thick piece of string with his perspiring exertions. he saw a miracle, and it filled his heart with a strange exultation. he wanted to say to selsey, "isn't that splendid!" six other men sat at the long table that ran at right angles to the top table, and selsey was flanked by westgate, who dealt with paris, and tothill, who did the police-court news,--the stub of a cigarette stuck on his lower lip as though it were some strange growth. these men, in the first few days of humphrey's life in the office of _the day_, were incomprehensible people to him. he could not understand why they should elect, out of all the work in the world, to sit down at a table from six until one; to leave their homes--he assumed that they were comfortable--their firesides and their wives. they did not meet life as the reporters did; they had none of the glamour and the adventure of it, the work seemed to him to be unutterably stale and destructive. one or two of them wore green shades over their eyes to protect them from the glare of white paper under electric light. and the green shades gave their faces an appearance of pallor. they looked at him curiously whenever he came into the room: he divined at once, rightly or wrongly, that their interests clashed with his. they were one of their forces which he knew he would have to fight. the remembrance of tommy pride's words echoed in his ears as he stood by selsey's table. yet this room held him spell-bound as none other did. it was the main artery through which the life-blood of _the day_ flowed. he saw the boys ripping open the russet-coloured envelopes that disgorged telegrams from islands and continents afar off; he saw them sorting out stacks of tissue paper covered with writing, "flimsy"--manifolded copy--from all the people who lived by recording the happenings of the moment--men like beaver, who were lost if people did not do things--the stories of people who brought law-suits, who were born, married, divorced; who went bankrupt; who died; who left wills; stories of actors who played parts; of books that were written; of men who made speeches; of banquets; of funerals--the little, grubby boys were handling the epitome of existence, and this great volume of throbbing life was merely paper with words scrawled over it to them.... it was only in after years that humphrey himself perceived the significance and the meaning of the emotions which swelled within him during those early days. at the time, as he glanced left and right, down the long table, where the sub-editors bent their heads to their work, and he saw this man dealing with the city news, making out lists of the prices of stocks and shares, and that man handling the doings of parliament, something moved him inwardly to smile with a great, unbounded pride. he was like a recruit who has been blooded. "i, too, am part of this," he thought. "and this is part of me." * * * * * yet another glimpse he had into the mysteries of the grey building, and then he marvelled, not that the small things he wrote were cut down, but that they ever got into print at all. it was one night when he had been sent out on a late inquiry. a "runner"--one of those tattered men, who run panting into newspaper offices at night with news of accidents or fires--had brought in some story of an omnibus wreck in whitehall. humphrey was given a crumpled piece of paper, with wretchedly scrawled details on it, and told to go forth and investigate. had he not been so new to the game, he would have known that it was wise to telephone to charing cross or westminster hospitals, for the deductive mind of a reporter used to such things would have told him that where there is an omnibus wreck, there must be injury to life and limb, and the nearest hospitals would be able to verify the bald fact of an accident. but there was nobody who had sufficient leisure or inclination to teach humphrey his business, and, perhaps it was all the better for him that he should buy his lessons with experience. for he found that "runners'" tales, though they must be investigated, seldom pay for the investigation. the "runner" exaggerates manfully for the sake of his half-crown. thus, when he arrived at whitehall, he found, by the simple expedient of asking the policeman on point duty, that there had been an accident--most decidedly there had been an accident; one wheel had come off an omnibus. when? "oh, about three hours ago, but nobody was hurt as i know on. you can go back and tell 'em there's nothing in it for the noosepaper." humphrey had never said that he was a reporter: how did the policeman know? he was a good-natured, red-faced man, and his attitude towards humphrey was one of easy-going familiarity and gentle tolerance. he spoke kindly as equal to equal; it might almost be said that, from his great height, he bent down, as it were, to meet humphrey, with the air of a patron conferring benefits. he was not like the easterham policemen who touched their hats to humphrey, and called him "sir," because they knew whenever anything happened, the _gazette_ would refer to the plucky action of p.c. coles, who was on point duty at the time. "nobody hurt at all!" humphrey repeated, looking vaguely round in the darkness, as though he expected to see the wooden streets of whitehall littered with bleeding corpses to give the constable the lie. "you go 'ome," said the policeman, kindly. "i should be the first to know of anything like that if it was serious. i'd have to put in my report. i ain't got no mention of no one injured seriously." he said it with an air of finality, as though he were taking upon himself the credit of having saved life and limb by not using his notebook. and with that, he eased the chin-strap of his helmet with his forefinger, nodded smilingly, repeated, "you go 'ome," and padded riverwards in his rubber-soled boots. when humphrey got back to the office and into the sub-editors' room to tell his news, he found that their work was slackening. two or three of them were hard at it, but the rest were having their supper. a tall, spidery-looking man, with neatly parted fair hair and a singularly high forehead, was tossing for pennies with westgate--and winning. it was midnight. one of the sub-editors said to humphrey: "you'd better tell selsey; he's in the composing-room." humphrey hesitated. "it's across the corridor," his informant added. he went across the corridor, and into a new world. the room was alive with noise; row upon row the aproned linotype operators sat before the key-boards translating the written words of the "copy" before them into leaden letters. their machines were almost human. they touched the keys, as if they were typewriting, and little brass letters slipped down into a line, and then mechanically an iron hand gripped the line, plunged it into a box of molten lead, and lifted it out again with a solid line of lead cast from the mould, while the little brass letters were hoisted upwards and distributed automatically into their places, and all the time the same business was being repeated again and again. the lines of type were set up in columns, seven of them to a page, and locked in an iron frame, and then they were taken to an inner room, where men pressed papier mâché over the pages of type, so that every letter was moulded clearly on this substance. then this "flong" was placed in a curved receptacle, and boiling lead was poured upon it, as on a mould, so that one had the page curved to fit the cylinder of the printing machine. the curved sheet went through various phases of trimming and making ready, until it was finally taken to the basement.... very many brains were working together that the words written by humphrey should be repeated hundreds and thousands of times. all these men were part of the mighty scheme. they had their homes and their separate lives outside the big building, but here they were all merged into one disciplined body, for so many hours at night, carrying on the work which the men on the other side did during the day. in one corner of the room selsey was busy with hargreave, the assistant night editor, and as humphrey went up he saw that they were still cutting out things from printed proofs, and altering headings. and on an iron-topped table great squares of type rested--the forms just as he had seen them in the _easterham gazette_ office--only they were bigger, and the "furniture"--the odd wedge-shaped pieces of wood which they used in easterham to lock the type firmly in between the frames, was abandoned for a simpler contrivance in iron. and there were selsey and hargreave peering at the first pages of _the day_ in solid type, reading it from right to left, as one reads hebrew, and suddenly hargreave would say: "well we'd better take out the last ten lines of that, and shift this half-way down the column, and put this reuter message at the top with a splash heading," or else, putting a finger on a square of type, "take that out altogether, that'll give us room." and he would glance up at the clock, with the anxiety of a man who knows there are trains to catch. no question of writing here.... no time for sentiment.... no time to think, "poor devil, those ten lines cost, perhaps, hours of work," or, "those ten lines were thought by their writer to be literature." literature be hanged! it was only cold type, leaden letters squeezed into square frames--leaden letters that will be melted down on the morrow--type, and the whole paper to be printed, and trains for the delivery carts to catch, if people would have papers before breakfast. and the aproned men brought other squares of type, and printed rough impressions of them, so that humphrey caught a glimpse of one of the pages at shortly after midnight of a paper that would be new to people at eight o'clock the next morning. he felt the pride of a privileged person. selsey caught sight of him. "hullo, quain ... what are you doing here?" "bus accident--" began humphrey. hargreave pounced upon him. "any good? is it worth a contents bill?" he asked, excitedly. "there hasn't been any accident worth speaking of. no one hurt, i mean." "all right. let it go," said selsey, calmly. hargreave went away to haggle with the foreman over something. nobody was relieved to hear that the accident had not been serious. humphrey lingered a little longer: he saw rooms leading out of the composing-room, where there was a noise of hammering on metal, and the smell of molten lead, ... and men running to and fro in aprons, taking surreptitious pinches of snuff, banging with mallets, carrying squares of type, proofs, battered tins of tea, ... running to and fro, terribly serious and earnest, just as scene-shifters in the theatre rush and bustle and carry things that the audience never sees, when the curtain hides the stage. "better get home," said selsey, noticing him again. humphrey went downstairs. the reporters' room was empty; the fire was low in the grate. he went downstairs, and as he reached the bottom step, the grey building shivered and trembled as if in agony, and there came up from the very roots of its being a deep roar, at first irregular, and menacing, but gradually settling down to a steady, rhythmical beat, like the throbbing of thousands of human hearts. ii the man whom humphrey feared most, in those early days, was rivers, the news-editor. his personality was a riddle. you were never certain when you were summoned to his room in the morning, whether good or ill would result from it. in his hands lay the ordering of your day. you had no more control over your liberty from the time you came into rivers' room than a prisoner serving his sentence,--no longer a man with a soul, but a reporter. you could be raised into the highest heaven or dropped down to the deepest hell by the wish of rivers. he could bid you go forth--and you would have to tramp wretchedly the streets of the most unlovely spots in outer london in an interminable search for some elusive news: or perhaps you would be given five pounds for expenses and told to catch the next train for a far county, and spend the day among the hedgerows of the country-side. he had power absolute, like the taskmasters of old. he sat in his room, with the map of england on the wall with its red flags marking the towns where _the day_ had correspondents, surrounded by telephones and cuttings from papers. he was in the office all day and night. at least that was how it appeared to humphrey, who met him often and at all times on the stairs. when he was not, by any chance, there, his place was taken by o'brien, an excitable irishman, whose tie worked itself gradually up his collar, marking the time when his excitement was at fever-heat like a barometer. rivers had a home, of course, and a wife and a family. he was domesticated somewhere out in herne hill, from the hours of eight until ten-thirty in the morning; and except once a week no more was seen of him at home. o'brien generally took the desk on sundays. but for the rest of his life rivers lived and breathed with _the day_ more than any one else. from the time the door closed on him after breakfast, to the time when it closed on him late at night, when he went home, worn-out and tired, he worked for _the day_. he was bought as surely as any slave was bought in the days of bondage. and his price was a magnificent one of four figures. he expected his men to do as he did, in the service of the paper. for his goodwill, nothing sufficed but the complete subservience of all other interests to the work of _the day_. not until you did that, were you worthy to be on the paper and serve him.... and many hearts were broken in that room, with its hopeless gospel of materialism, where ideals were withered and nothing spiritual could survive. rivers was one of the young men who had won himself to power by the brute force of his intellect. he knew his own business to the tips of his fingers, and, beyond that, nothing mattered. art and literature and the finer qualities of life could not enter into the practical range of his vision. they were not news. the great halfpenny public cared for nothing but news--a murder mystery, for choice; and the only chance art or literature had of awaking his interest was for the artist to commit suicide in extraordinary circumstances, or for the novelist to murder his publisher. ("by george!" i can hear rivers saying, "here's a ripping story.... here's an author murdered his publisher ... 'm ... 'm ... i suppose it's justifiable homicide.") but on news--red-hot news--he was splendid. he might be sitting in his chair, joking idly with anybody who happened to be in the room, and suddenly the boy would bring in a slip from the tape machine: a submarine wreck! immediately, the listless, joking man would become swiftly serious and grim. he would decide instantly on the choice of reporters--two should be sent to the scene. "boy, bring the a.b.c. no train. damn it, why didn't that kid bring the news in at once. he dawdled five minutes. we could have caught the . . well, look up the trains to southampton. four o'clock. o'brien, telephone up southampton and tell them to have a car to take _the day_ reporters on. boy, ask mr wratten and mr pride to come up. o'brien, send a wire to the local chaps--tell 'em to weigh in all they can. notify the post-office five thousand words from portsmouth. too late for photographs to-night--ring through to the artists, we'll have a diagram and a map. off southsea, eh? shove in a picture of southsea...." and in an hour it would all be over, and rivers, a new man with news stirring in the world, would playfully punch o'brien in the chest, and gather about him a reporter or two for company, and bestow wonderful largesse in the shape of steaks and champagne. that was the human thing about rivers. he was master absolute, and yet there was no sharp dividing line between him and the men under him. the discipline was there, but it was never obtruded. they drank, and joked, and scored off each other, and rivers, when things were slack, would tell them some of his early adventures, but whenever it came to the test, his authority in his sphere was supreme. he knew how to get the best work out of his men; and, i think, sometimes, he was sorry for the men who had not, and never would get, a salary of four figures. humphrey could not understand him. at times he would be brutally cruel, and morose, scarcely speaking a word to anybody except wratten, who was generally in his good books; at other times he would come to the office as light-hearted as a child, and urge them all into good-humour, and make them feel that there was no life in the world equal to theirs. since that day when humphrey had first met him in ferrol's room, and he had laughed and said, "you're not a genius, are you?" rivers had not taken any particular notice of him. when he came into rivers' room, halting and nervous, he envied the easy freedom of the other reporters who chanced to be there. wratten sitting on a table, dangling his legs, and tommy pride, with his hat on the back of his head, and a pipe in his mouth, while a third man might be looking over the diary of the day's events. "hullo, quain...." "good-morning, mr rivers." "o'brien, what have you got for quain. eh? nothing yet. go downstairs and wait." or else: "nothing doing this morning. you'd better do this lecture at seven o'clock. give him the ticket, o'brien." and, as humphrey left the room, he heard wratten say casually, "i'll do that guildhall luncheon to-day, rivers, eh?" and rivers replied, "right-o. we shall want a column." splendid wratten, he thought! how long would it be before he acquired such ease, such sure familiarity--how long before he should prove himself worthy to dangle his legs freely in the presence of rivers. within a few days something happened that made humphrey the celebrity of a day in the reporters' room. it was a fluke, a happy chance, as most of the good things in life are. a man had killed himself in a london street under most peculiar circumstances. he had dressed himself in woman's clothes, and only, after death, when they took him to the hospital, did they find that the dead body was that of a man. he was employed in a solicitor's office near charing cross road. his name was bellowes, and he was married, and lived at surbiton. these facts were published briefly in the afternoon papers. rivers, scenting a mystery, threw his interest into the story. there is nothing like a mystery for selling the paper. he sent for willoughby. humphrey had found willoughby one of the most astonishing individuals of the reporters' room. he was a tall, slim man, with a hollow-cheeked face and a forehead that was always frowning. his hair fell in disorder almost over his eyebrows, and whenever he wrote he pulled his hair about with his left hand, and mumbled the sentences as he wrote them. his speciality was crime: he knew more of the dark underside of human nature than any one humphrey had met. he knew the intimate byways of crime, and its motives; every detective in the criminal investigation department was his friend, and though by the rigid law of scotland yard they were forbidden to give information, he could chat with them, make his own deductions as well as any detective, and sometimes accompany them when an arrest was expected. he drew his information from unknown sources, and he was always bringing the exclusive news of some crime or other to _the day_. he was a bundle of nerves, for he lived always in a world of expectancy. at any moment, any hour, day and night, something would be brought to light. murder and sudden death and mystery formed the horizon of his thoughts. humphrey had found a friend in willoughby. in very contrast to the work in which he was engaged, he kept the room alive with merriment. he could relate stories as well as he could write them, and he spoke always with the set phrases of old-time journalism that had a ludicrous effect on his listeners. his character was a strange mixture of shrewdness, worldly-wisdom, and ingenuousness, and this was reflected in the books he carried always with him. in one pocket there would be an untranslatable french novel, and, in the other, by way of counterblast, a meredith or a stevenson. he and humphrey had often talked about books, and willoughby showed the temperament of a cultured scholar and a philosopher when he discussed literature. willoughby went up to rivers' room. "here you are, my son," said rivers, tossing him over the cuttings on the affair of the strange suicide. "get down to surbiton and see if you can nose out anything. i'll get some one else to look after the london end." the some one else chanced to be humphrey, for there was nobody but him left in the reporters' room. thus it came about that, a few minutes after willoughby had set out for surbiton, humphrey came out on fleet street with instructions to look after the "london end" of the tragedy. rivers' parting words were ringing in his ears. they had a sinister meaning in them. "... and don't you fall down, young man," he had said, using the vivid journalistic metaphor for failure. the busy people of the street surged about him, as he stood still for a moment trying to think where he should begin on the london end. he felt extraordinarily inexperienced and helpless.... he thought how wratten would have known at once where to go, or how easily tommy pride, with his years of training, could do the job. he did not dare ask rivers to teach him his business--he had enough common sense to know that, at any cost, his ignorance must be hidden under a mask of wisdom. the reporter thrust suddenly face to face with a mystery that must be unravelled in a few hours is a fit subject for tragedy. he is a social outlaw. he has not the authority of the detective, and none of the secret information of a department at his hand. he is a trespasser in private places, a peeping tom, with his eye to a chink in the shuttered lives of others. his inner self wrenches both ways; he loathes and loves his duty. the human man in him says, "this is a shocking tragedy!" the journalist subconsciously murmurs, "this will be a column at least." tears, and broken hearts, and the dismal tragedy of it all pass like a picture before him, and leave him unmoved. the public stones him for obeying their desires. he would gladly give up all this sorry business ... and perhaps his salvation lies in his own hand if he becomes sufficiently strong and bold to cry "enough!" and this is the tragedy of it--he is neither strong nor bold; and so we may appreciate the picture of humphrey quain faced for the first time with the crisis that comes into every journalist's life, when his work revolts his finer senses. he went blindly up the street, and newsboys ran towards him with raucous shouts, offering the latest news of the suicide. he bought a copy, and read through the story. it occurred to him that the best thing he could do was to go to the offices near charing cross road, where the dead man had worked. he took an omnibus. it was five o'clock in the evening, and most of the passengers were city men going home. lucky people--their work was finished, and his was not yet begun. when he came to the building he wanted, he paused outside. it was a ghastly business. what on earth should he say? what right had he to go and ask questions--there would be an inquest. surely the public could wait till then for the sordid story. it was ghoulish. he went into the office and asked the young man at the counter whether mr parfitt (the name of the partner) was in. the young man must have guessed his business in a moment. humphrey felt as if he had a placard hanging round his neck, "i am a newspaper man." "no," snapped the young man, curtly, "he's out." "when will he be back?" asked humphrey. "i don't know," the young man answered, obstinately. "who are you from?" that was a form of insult reserved for special occasions: it implied, you see, that the caller was obviously not of such appearance as to suggest that he was anything but a paid servant. humphrey said: "i wanted to talk about this sad tragedy of--" the young man looked him up and down, and said, "we've nothing to say." "but--" began humphrey. "we've nothing to say." the young man's lips closed tightly together with a grimace of absolute finality. humphrey hesitated: he knew that the whole mystery lay within the knowledge of this spiteful person, if only he could be overcome. "look here," said the young man, threateningly. "why don't you damn reporters mind your own business. you're the seventh we've 'ad up 'ere. we've nothing to say. see?" his voice rose to a shriller key. he was a very unpleasant young man, but fortunately he dropped his "h's," which modified, in some strange way, in humphrey's mind the effect of his onslaught. the young man who had at first seemed somebody of importance, faded away now merely to an underbred nonentity. humphrey laughed at him. "you might keep your h's if you can't keep your temper," he said. then he left the office, feeling sorry for himself. it was nearly six o'clock, and he was no further. a hall-porter sat reading a paper in front of the fireplace. humphrey tried diplomacy. he remarked on the tragedy: the hall-porter agreed it was very tragic. there had been seven other reporters before him (marvellous how policemen and hall-porters seemed to know him at once). humphrey felt in his pocket for half-a-crown and slipped it into the porter's hand. the porter thanked him with genuine gratitude. "well," said humphrey, "what sort of a chap was this mr bellowes?" "can't say as how i ever saw him," said the porter; "this is my first day here." "o lord!" groaned humphrey. he was in the street again, pondering what he should do. and suddenly that intuitive reasoning power of his began to work. a man who worked in the neighbourhood would conceivably be known to the shopkeepers round about. he visited the shops adjoining the building where the dead man worked, but none of them yielded any information, not even the pawnbrokers. the men whom he asked seemed quite willing to help, but they knew nothing. finally, he went into the green lion public-house which stands at the corner by a court. hitherto public-houses had not interested him very much: he went into them rarely, because in easterham, where every one's doings were noted, it was considered the first step downwards to be seen going into a public-house. thus, he had grown up without acquiring the habit of promiscuous drinking. there were a good many people in the bar, and the briskness of business was marked by the frequent pinging noise of the bell in the patent cash till, as a particularly plain-looking young woman pulled the drawer open to drop money in. humphrey asked for bottled beer. "cannock's?" the barmaid asked. "please." she gave him the drink. he said "thank you." she said "thank you." she gave him the change, and said "thank you" again. whereupon, in accordance with our polite custom, he murmured a final "'kyou." then she went away with an airy greeting to some fresh customer. presently she came back to where humphrey was standing. he plunged boldly. "sad business this of mr bellowes?" he ventured, taking a gulp at his beer. she raised her eyebrows in inquiry. "haven't you read about--" he held a crumpled evening paper in his hand. "the tragedy, i mean." "oh yes," she said. "very sad, isn't it?" a man came between them. "'ullo, polly, lovely weather, don't it?" he said, cheerfully, counting out six coppers, and making them into a neat pile on the table. "same as usual." "now then, mister smart!" said polly, facetiously, bringing him a glass of whisky. "all the soda." "up to the pretty, please," he said, adding "whoa-er" as the soda-water bubbled to the level of the fluted decorations round the glass. small talk followed, frequently interrupted by fresh arrivals. a quarter of an hour passed. the cheerful man had one more drink, and finally departed, with polly admonishing him to "be good," to which he replied, "i always am." humphrey ordered another cannock. "did he often come here?" "who?" asked polly. "mr jobling--the man who's gone out?" "no. i mean mr bellowes." "i'm sure i don't know," she said a little distantly. "those gentlemen over there"--nodding to a corner of the bar where two men stood in the shadows--"can tell you all about him. they were telling me something about him just before you came in. fourpence, please." humphrey took with him his glass of beer, and went to the two men. they were both drinking whisky, and they seemed to be in a good humour. they turned at humphrey's wavering "excuse me...." "eh?" said one of the men. "excuse me..." humphrey repeated. "i'm told you knew mr bellowes." "well," said the other man, a little truculently. "what if we did?" it seemed to humphrey that the most absolute frankness was desirable here. "look here," he said, "i wish you'd help me by telling me something about him. here's my card.... i'm on _the day_." the younger of the two men smiled, and winked. "you've got a nerve," he said. "why, you couldn't print it if we told you." "couldn't i? well, never mind. let's have a drink on it anyway." humphrey began his third cannock, and the others drank whisky. one of them, in drinking, spilt a good deal of the liquor over his coat lapel, and did not bother to wipe it off: he was slightly drunk. "it's bringing a bad reputation on the firm," said the elder man. "name in all the papers." humphrey was seized with an idea. he knew now that the whole secret of the mystery was within his grasp. one of the men, at least, was from the solicitor's office. the instinct of the journalist made him courageous: he would never leave the bar until he got the story. "i'll tell you what," he said, "i'll promise to keep the name of the firm out of _the day_; i'll just refer to it as a firm of solicitors!" "that's not a bad notion," said the younger man. he drew the elder man aside and they talked quietly for a few minutes. then more drinks were ordered. humphrey tackled his fourth cannock. his head was just beginning to ache. a tantalizing half-hour passed. the younger man seemed more friendly to humphrey--he had some friends in fleet street; did humphrey know them, and so on. the elder man was growing more drunk. he swayed a little now. humphrey's ears buzzed, and his vision was not so acute. the outlines of people were blurred and indistinct. "good lord," he murmured to himself, "i'm getting drunk too." he was pleasantly happy, and smiled into his sixth glass of beer. he confided to the elder man that he admired him for his constancy to the dead man, and they began to talk over the bad business as friends. the elder man even called him "ol' chap." they really were very affectionate. "but why did he do it?" said humphrey; "that's what beats me." "oh, well, you see he was in love with this girl ..." "which girl?" "why, miss sycamore ... you know the little girl that sings, 'come round and see me in the evening,' in the _pompadour girl_." "no. was he?" "was he not," said the elder man, with a hiccough. "why, he used to be talking to me all day about her.... and the letters. my word, you should see the letters ... he used to show them to me before he sent them off. full of high thinking and all that." and gradually the whole story came out, in scattered pieces, that humphrey saw he could put together into a real-life drama. never once did he think of the dead man, or the dead man's wife in surbiton (willoughby was probably doing his best there). he only saw the secret drama unfolding itself like a novelist's plot. the meetings, the letters, the double life of bellowes, a respectable churchwarden in surbiton; a libertine in london--and then she threw him over; declined to see him when he called at the stage door; he had dressed himself as a woman, hoping to pass the stage-door keeper. perhaps if he had got as far as the dressing-room, maddened by the breakage of his love, and the waste of his intrigue, there might have been a double tragedy. and so to the final grotesque death in the street. it was eight o'clock when humphrey had the whole story in his mind, and by that time, though he knew he had drunk far too much, he was not so drunk as the other two men. "there you are, old boy," said the elder man, affectionately. "you can print it all, and keep my name and the name of the firm out of the papers." "so long," said the younger man, as they parted at the door of the bar. "you won't have another." "i'd better get back now," humphrey replied. "thanks awfully. you've done me a good turn." he walked back to the office; the late evening papers still bore on their posters the word "mystery"--but he alone of all the people hurrying to and fro knew the key of the mystery. he had set forth a few hours ago--it seemed years--ignorant of everything, and, behold, he had put a finger into the tragedy of three lives. all that feeling of revolt and hatred of his business passed away from him, and left in its place nothing but a great joy that he had succeeded, where he never dreamt success was possible. after this he knew he must be a journalist for ever, a licensed meddler in the affairs of other people. and so, with his head throbbing, and his legs a little unsteady, he came back to the office of _the day_. it was nine o'clock; rivers had left the office for the night, and o'brien was out at dinner. he went to mr selsey, and told him briefly all he knew. "where did you get it from?" selsey asked. "from some friends of his; i promised i wouldn't mention the name of the firm of solicitors he worked in." "what about miss sycamore?" "miss sycamore?" echoed humphrey, blankly. "yes. haven't you got her? we must know what she says. it mayn't be true." humphrey's head swam. he was appalled at the idea of having to go out again, and face the woman in the sordid case. selsey looked at the clock. "i'll send somebody else up to see her--she's at the hilarity theatre, isn't she? you'd better get on with the main story. write all you can." he went to the reporters' room; nobody was there except wratten, just finishing his work. humphrey sat down at a desk, and began to write. his brain was whirling with the facts he had learnt; they tumbled over one another, until he did not know how to tell them all. he started to write, and he found that he could not even begin the story. he tore up sheet after sheet in despair. the clock went past the quarter and humphrey was still staring helplessly at the blank paper. wratten finished his work and dashed out with his copy to the sub-editor's room. "i'm drunk," he said to himself. "that's what's the matter." and later: "what a fool i was to drink so much." and then, as if in excuse: "but i shouldn't have got the story if i hadn't drunk with them." a boy came to him. "mr selsey says have you got the first sheets of your story." "tell him he'll have them in a few minutes," humphrey said. and when wratten came into the room he found humphrey with his head on his outstretched arms, and his shoulders shaken with his sobbing. "hullo! what's up, old man?" asked wratten, bending over him. "not well?" humphrey lifted a red-eyed face to wratten. "i'm drunk," he said. "my head's awful." "bosh!" wratten said cheerfully, "you're sober enough. selsey's delighted you've got your story. i suppose it was a hard story to get." humphrey groaned. "i can't write it.... i can't get even the beginning of it." "that happens to all of us. i have to begin my story half a dozen times before i get the right one. look here, let me help you. tell me as much as you can." he touched the bell, and a boy appeared. "go and get a cup of black coffee--a large cup, napoleon," he said jovially to the boy, giving him a sixpenny piece. by the time the coffee had arrived, humphrey had told wratten the story. "by george!" said wratten, "that's fine! now, let's do it between ourselves. don't bother about plans. start right in with the main facts and put them at the top. always begin with the fact, and tell the story in the first two paragraphs--then you've got the rest of the column to play about in." the coffee woke humphrey up. in a quarter of an hour, with wratten's help, the story was well advanced, and selsey's boy had gone away with the first slips. whenever he came to a dead stop, wratten told him how to continue. "wrap it up carefully," wratten said. "talk about the dead man's pure love for anything that was artistic: say that he was a slave to art, and that miss sycamore typified art for him. that'll please her. say that she never encouraged his attentions, and that realizing life was empty without her, he killed himself. make it the psychological tragedy of a man in love with an ideal that he could never attain. and don't gloat." the story was finished. "that's all right," wratten said. "look here--" humphrey began, but something choked his throat. he felt as if wratten had rescued him from the terror of failure: his glimpse of brotherhood overwhelmed him. "stow it!" said wratten, unconcernedly. "it's the paper i was thinking of. well, i'm off. don't say a word about it in the morning." * * * * * and there it was, in the morning, the whole story with glaring headlines, an exclusive story for _the day_. humphrey, riding down gray's inn road, saw the bills in the shop-windows, and two men in the omnibus were discussing it: his head was dull with the drink of last night, but he felt exhilarated when he thought of it all. he wanted to tell the two men in the omnibus that he had written the story in _the day_. he came to the office and the fellows in the reporters' room seemed as glad as he was. willoughby told him of his surbiton adventure, and how mrs bellowes declined to see anybody. and when he went into rivers' room, the great man smiled and said facetiously, "well, young man, i suppose you're pleased with yourself." he winked at wratten. "you'll be editor one day, eh?" "it's a jolly good story," said wratten, "the best _the day's_ had for a long time." humphrey smiled weakly. he would have told rivers just how it came to be such a jolly good story, if wratten had not frowned meaningly at him. and not until rivers said: "come off that desk, young man, and see what you can do with this--" handing him a job, did humphrey realize that he was at ease, dangling his legs with the great ones. iii not everything that humphrey did was difficult, nor undesirable. there were times when his card with _the day_ on it opened the doors of high places, magically: there were many people who welcomed him, actors and playwrights and people to whom publicity such as the reporter can give is necessary. he was received by countesses who were engaged in propaganda work, and by lordlings who were interested in schemes for the alleged welfare of the people: these people wanted to be interviewed, many of them even prepared their statements beforehand. but, in spite of the advantage they gained, they always treated him with that polite restraint which the english aristocracy adopt towards the inferior classes. he obtained wonderful peeps into grand houses, with huge staircases, and enormous rooms with panelled walls and candelabra and rare pictures; into government offices, too, when an inquiry was necessary, where permanent officials worked, heedless of the change of ministers that went on with each new government; and once he went into the dressing-room of sir wimborne johns, that very famous actor, who shook him by the hand, and treated humphrey as one of his best friends, and told him two funny stories while the dresser was adjusting his make-up for act ii. then there were the meetings--amazingly futile gatherings of people who met in the rooms of hotels, the caxton hall at westminster or the memorial hall in farringdon street. these meetings gave young humphrey an insight into the petty little vanities of life. they were hot-beds of mutual admiration. what was their business and what did they achieve? heaven only knows! they had been in existence for years; this was perhaps the seventh or eighth or twenty-sixth annual meeting of the anti-noise society, and the world was not yet silent. yet here were the old ladies and the old gentlemen and the secretary (in a frock coat) congratulating themselves on an excellent year's work, and passing votes of thanks to each other, as though they were giving lollipops to children. these meetings were all built on one scheme. they always began half an hour late, because there were so few people in the room. the reporters (and here humphrey sometimes met beaver) sat at a green baize-covered table near the speakers, and were given all sorts of printed matter--enough to fill the papers they represented, and, occasionally, men and women would sidle up to them, and give their visiting-cards, and say, "be sure and get the initials right," or, "would you like to interview me on slavery in cochin-china?" then the chairman (sir simon sloper) arrived, whiskered and florid-faced, and every one clapped their hands; and the secretary read letters and telegrams of regret which he passed to the reporters' table; and then they read the balance-sheet and the annual report, and miss heggie petty, with the clipped accent of forfarshire, gave her district report, and w. black-smith, esq. ("please don't forget the hyphen in _the day_"), delivered _his_ district report, and then the secretary spoke again, and the treasurer reminded them with a sternly humorous manner, that the annual subscriptions were overdue, and, finally, came the great event of the afternoon: sir simon sloper rose to address the meeting. everybody was hugely interested, except the reporters, to whom it was platitudinous and tediously stale: they had heard it all before, times without number, at all the silly little meetings of foolish people the sir simon slopers had their moments of adulation and their reward of a paragraph in the papers. nothing vital, nothing of great and lasting importance, was ever done at these meetings, yet every day six or seven of them were held. there were societies and counter societies: there was a society for the suppression of this, and a society for the encouragement of that; there was the society for sunday entertainment, and the society for sunday rest; every one seemed to be pulling in opposite directions, and every one imagined that his or her views were best for the people. humphrey found the reflection of all this in the advertisement columns of _the day_, where there were advertisements of lotions that grew hair on bald heads, or ointment that took away superfluous hair; medicines that made fat people thin, or pills that made thin people fat; tonics that toned down nervous, high-strung people, and phosphates that exhilarated those who were depressed. life was a terribly ailing thing viewed through the advertisement columns; one seemed to be living in an invalid world, suffering from lumbago and nervous debility. it was a nightmare of a world, where people were either too florid or too pale, too fat or too thin, too bald or too hairy, too tall or too short ... and yet the world went on unchangingly, just as it did after the meetings of all the little societies of men or women who met together to give moral medicine to the world. it is necessary that you should see these things from the same point of view as humphrey, to realize the effect of it all on the development of his character. for after a dose of such meetings, when the careful reports of speeches that seemed important enough at the time, were either cut down by the sub-editors to three lines, or left out of the paper altogether, he asked himself the question: why? why do all these people hold meetings? and the answer came to him with a shock: "they are doing it all for _me_. everything that is going on is being done for _me_." and as he realized that he was only an onlooker, a creature apart, something almost inhuman without a soul for pity or gladness, a dweller on the outskirts of life, a great longing came over him to join in it all himself. it seemed that this gigantic game of love and passion and sudden death and great achievement, was worth learning, and those who did not learn it, and only looked on while the tumult was whirling about them, were but shadows that faded away with the sunset of years. he wanted to join in. he saw, now, that he was drifting nowhere. he, too, wanted to share in the great game, playing a part that was not to be ignored, that was needful to the success of the game. alone he brooded on it. beaver chaffed him and asked him what was up. impossible to explain the perplexities of his inmost mind to beaver. "i don't know," he said, "i've got the hump." they were having breakfast in the common sitting-room. "haven't they printed your stuff?" "it isn't that," humphrey said. "well, what's up?" demanded the insistent beaver. "everything!" said humphrey, gloomily, looking round the room. the bulrushes were still there. "everything. this ... i feel as we used to feel at easterham!" "i know what's the matter with you," said beaver, folding his napkin, and pushing back his chair from the table. he regarded humphrey with tremendous wisdom, and bit his nails. "you've got the hump," he said smiling at his inspiration. "too many late hours." "i suppose so." "well, look here, don't you get brooding. you want company. i vote we have lunch together to-day. you come and call for me at the office, at one." "right you are, i will if i can," humphrey replied. all the morning he remained in the same mood, grappling with the new aspect of things that had come to him. alone he brooded on it: he heard rivers running through the programme of the day's events--the king going to windsor, a new battleship being launched, a murderer to be tried at the old bailey, a society scandal in the law courts--the usual panorama of every day, at which rivers told his men to look. and it was a great thing for the people of windsor that the king was coming; there would be flags and guards of honour, and the national anthem; and the reputation of a ship-building firm, and the anxiety of thousands rested on the successful launch of the battleship, and a weary woman in a squalid slum was waiting tremblingly for the issue of the murder trial; but all these things, of such great import to those who played in the game, were not shared by those who looked on. and as humphrey listened to rivers, he realized that though they all moved with life, they were not of it. he remembered a story that willoughby told of a salvation army meeting in the albert hall, when general booth had walked up and down the platform speaking of the glories of salvation, and, suddenly, he pointed a finger at the table below. "are you saved?" he asked, with his finger shaking at a man who was looking up at him. "me?" said the man, looking about him confusedly, and then, with a touch of indignation at being suddenly dragged into the game, "me? i'm a reporter!" he remembered that story now, and all that it expressed. at the time willoughby told it, he thought it was a good joke, but now he saw the cruel irony of it. and, in this frame of mind, as he was at grips with himself, he went to call for beaver. a light glimmered in the darkness of his mind, and the joy and spirit of life itself, playing, instead of the pipes of pan, the keys of a typewriter, smiled upon him, and gave him the vision of a girlish face in a halo of fair hair that seemed threaded with gold as the sunlight touched it. iv he went into the office of the special news agency and found himself in a room where half-a-dozen girls were typewriting. they were making manifold copies of the hundred and one events that the special news agency "covered" with its beavers, and supplied at a fixed annual rate to the newspapers. the special news agency were, so to speak, wholesale dealers in news. you bought the reports of ministers' speeches or out-of-the-way lawsuits by the column. it was the same principle that governed the _easterham gazette_ and its columns of stereo. no newspaper could afford a sufficiently large staff of reporters to cover everything. so the special news agency had its corps of verbatim shorthand writers, its representatives in every small village, and in every police-court. there was, of course, no room for the play of imagination or fantasy or style in these special news agency reports, and it was because of their rather stilted writing that the reporters on papers like _the day_ and _the sentinel_ and _the herald_ were sent sometimes over the same ground that the news agency men had covered, to see if they could infuse some fresh interest into the story, or at all events to rewrite it, so that instead of each paper being uniform, it would strike its individual note in the presentation of news. the special news agency did for london and england what reuter does for the world. there was among the cluster of girls working at their typewriters one who looked up at humphrey and smiled, as he waited for beaver. she was not a particularly pretty girl, but there was a quality in her hair and eyes and in the expression of her face that lifted it out of the commonplace. the mere fact that out of all the girls who were at work in the office, she alone left the memory of her face to humphrey, is sufficient tribute to her personality. she smiled--and humphrey remembered that smile, and the hair, that was dull brown in shadow and gleaming with golden threads in the sunlight, and the eyes, that were either grey or blue, and very large. and then, beaver came and took him to lunch. they went to a fleet street public-house, and lunched off steak and bubble-and-squeak for a shilling, and all through the lunch humphrey was thinking of other things--especially a smile. "well," said beaver, "got over your hump?" "i suppose so," humphrey answered. ("i wonder what her name is?") "life's not so bad when you get used to it?" beaver remarked, contemplating his inky thumbs. "the trouble is that just as you're getting used to it, it's time to die. eh?" humphrey's thoughts were wandering again. ("i believe those eyes were saying something to me?") beaver continued in his chatter, and occasionally humphrey, catching the sense of his last few words, agreed with a mechanical "yes," or a nod ("why did she smile at me?"), and at last he blurted out, "i say, beaver, what's the name of the girl that sits nearest the door in your office?" "o lord! i don't know their names," said beaver; "i've got other things to think about. what d'you want to know for?" "she's like some one i knew in easterham," humphrey replied, glibly. "i'll find out for you, if you like." "no--don't bother. it doesn't matter at all." the next day he was walking down fleet street when he perceived her looming through the crowd. he was conscious of a queer emotion that attacked him, a sudden dryness of the throat, and a quickening of all the pulses of his body. his whole being became swiftly taut: he almost stood still. and, as she bore down upon him, he saw that she was not so tall as he had imagined, but her face looked divinely attractive under the shadow of the spreading hat, and because the sun was shining her hair glittered like a halo. now, she was close to him, and he found himself praying to god that she would look at him, and smile again; and the next moment he felt that the ground would sink beneath him if she did so, and he longed to look the other way, but could not. the people passing to and fro knew nothing of the terrific disturbance that was going on in the mind of the young man walking down fleet street. now they were level--he raised his hat--it was over, and the memory of her smile had sunk yet deeper within him. yes, she had remembered him, and nodded to him, and that smile--what did it mean? it was not an enticing smile, it was an almost imperceptible movement of the closed lips, yet it held some magic in it. it seemed to him that though they had never spoken, she knew all about him; she came across his life, smiling in silence, and he was aware that something triumphant and fresh had come into his life, with her passing, just as he knew for a certainty that, before long, he would learn the secret of her smile, when he spoke to her. he went back to work, curiously elated and happy for no reason at all that he could understand. things were unaltered, and yet, somehow or other, they were different. he felt, suddenly, as if years had been added to his age; he felt that he had met something real in life at last, and, when he came to analyse it, it was nothing but an intangible smile, and the glance of two grey eyes. that night, as he was on his way home, he chanced to meet wratten. this tall man with the high forehead and curly hair was one of the puzzles of the office. he was a man who held aloof from his fellows, and because of that, they thought he was morose. humphrey had a tremendous admiration for him, since the night when wratten had helped him. he seemed so very splendid: he did daring things, and he never failed. the secret of his success was a brutality that stultified all his better feelings when he was on business. and he was a man who never left his quarry, though it meant waiting hours and hours for him. "hullo," said wratten, "where are you off to?" "home," said humphrey; "where are you?" "i'm going home too. i live at the hampden club at king's cross." they were near guilford street "won't you come up, wratten, and have a drink in my rooms--i live here, you know." "i don't take anything stronger than lemonade," said wratten. humphrey laughed, and unlocked the door. he felt it an honour to have wratten as a guest, if only for a few minutes. they went upstairs, and humphrey apologized for the bulrushes. wratten laughed: "why don't you suggest to rivers that you should write a story about the dangers of bulrushes in sitting-rooms: interview a doctor or two, and make 'em say that bulrushes accumulate dust. invent a new disease, 'bulrush throat.' that'll make your landlady nervous." "by george," humphrey said, "i will; that's a fine idea." doubtless, you remember the scare that was raised a few years ago when _the day_ discovered the terror that lurked in the sitting-room bulrush; you remember, perhaps, the correspondence, and the symposium of doctors' views that followed, and _the day's_ leading article on the mighty matter. humphrey quain set the ball rolling, and was careful to leave marked copies of _the day_ in places where mrs wayzgoose was certain to see them, and the bulrushes disappeared very soon afterwards. thus is history made. "i owe you a lot of thanks," humphrey said, "for the way you helped me the other night." it was the first time they had referred to the matter of the street suicide. "i didn't want you to be let down," said wratten. "the life's rough enough as it is, a little help goes a long way. but you steer clear of too much drink, quain. that's the ruin of so many good men...." "i couldn't help it." "of course you couldn't--most men are drunkards from habit and not from choice. but you can take it from me, there's no room in fleet street for a man who drinks too much. they used to think it was fine bohemianism in the old days, when a man wasn't a genius unless he was drunk half the time. don't you believe it. it's the sober men who do the work and win through." "it depends on what you mean by winning through." "well, there are many ways.... i suppose we've all got different ideas and ideals. i want to rear a family and keep a wife." "you aren't married then?" "not yet. i'm going to be married ... soon," said wratten, simply. "i think marriage is the best thing for us. we want something to humanize our lives. it is the only chance of happiness for most of us ... the knowledge that whatever happens, however hard the work may be, we come home ... and there's a wife waiting. i know plenty of journalists who would have gone under if it were not for the wives. splendid wives! they sit at home patiently, knowing all our troubles, comforting us, and keeping us cheerful. by god! quain, the journalists' wives are the most beautiful and loyal women in the world...." humphrey smiled--and this was the man they thought was morose! "i get maudlin and sentimental when i think of 'em. they know our weaknesses, and our mistakes, and they bear with us. they smooth our hair and touch our faces, and all the misery of the day goes away with the magic of their fingers. they make little dinners for us, that we never eat, and they never let us see how unhappy they are, too ... i know, i know ... i've seen so many journalists' homes, and they're all the same ... they're simply overgrown children who let themselves be mothered by their wives." humphrey thought of the girl he had passed that day in the street.... "i wish i were you," he said. "it must be rather fine to have some one pegging away at you always to do your best: it must be rather fine to have a smile waiting for you at the end of the long day's work." "fine!" said wratten, "it's the only thing that's left to us. we're robbed of everything else that matters. we haven't a soul to call our own, and we can't even rule our lives. time, that precious heritage of every one else, doesn't belong to us. we're supposed to have no hearts, we're just machines that have always to be working at top speed ... but, thank god, there's one woman who believes in us, and who is waiting for us always." "it's funny you should talk like this," humphrey said, "to-night, of all nights...." he was thinking again of himself and the girl who had crossed the path of his life. wratten knocked out the ashes of his pipe, and coughed with that little dry cough that was characteristic of him. "oh! i don't know," he said. "nothing funny when you come to think about it. i thought you might have heard it in the office. i'm being married to-morrow. by the way, i wish you'd come along and be best man: i haven't had time to fix up for one." v it was just an incident of almost less importance than the daily work, this business of getting married. but it was an incident that left a singular impression on humphrey. wratten's marriage was a prosaic affair, in a registry office, horribly formal, without the idealizing surroundings of a church and the grand solemnity of the marriage service. it took place at ten o'clock on a rather cold morning in june. wratten himself was extremely nervous, and it was his nervousness that made his manner almost brusque; he must have been a gloomy lover, and yet, as humphrey saw the dark-eyed bride he was wedding, and marked the pride in her eyes as she looked up to him, and the fluttering of her lips as she whispered things to him, he knew that somewhere in this rugged blunt nature of wratten there was a vein of golden tenderness and beauty. the marriage was oddly depressing: perhaps it was that the shadow of coming disaster hovered over them; perhaps humphrey heard wratten's words echoing in his ears, "they sit at home patiently ... knowing all our troubles, and they never let us see that they, too, are unhappy." humphrey did his duty as best man: there was a girl friend of the bride there, and he looked after them all, and cracked jokes, and made them sign their names in the right places, and wratten had half a dozen little commissions for him to carry out. he had been so busy yesterday, that there had not been time to clear up everything. when it was all over, and wratten stood on the threshold of a new life, with his wife at his side, and a glad, proud smile on his handsome face, they came out of the registry office, and the girl friend emptied a bag of confetti over them, as they stepped into the cab that was to take them to waterloo--they were going to weymouth for a honeymoon. some of the coloured pieces of paper fell on humphrey's coat collar. "good-bye, good luck," humphrey said. wratten clasped his hand very tightly. once again he smiled, and gave his little dry, nervous cough. "good-bye, old man," he said affectionately. "thanks awfully for coming. i think i'm going to be happy at last," and the cab drove away. humphrey saw the girl friend into an omnibus. "didn't maisie look splendid." he noticed that the girl friend wore an engagement-ring on her finger, and thenceforth he lost all interest in her. he went to the office as usual, but he did not tell any one that he had been to wratten's wedding. now, he could feel quite at home in the reporters' room, and he even had a desk which, by custom, had become his own. he was more sure of himself than he had been a few months ago, though, in his inmost heart, he was still a little afraid of rivers. it was ferrol who gave humphrey confidence in himself. he called him into his room, and asked him bluntly how he liked the work. "very much," humphrey replied, his eyes glistening brightly, and again ferrol was reminded of the long years that had passed, when romantic days were his. the boy was shaping well. that was fine, thought ferrol. he meant humphrey to have every chance; he wanted to see what stuff was in him. "that's good," said ferrol, stroking his moustache. "mr rivers gives a satisfactory account of you." the passion that ruled him, the passion for making men and reputations, was strong upon him just then. he saw humphrey as raw material, and he meant to mould him into a finished article after his own heart. he would make no mistakes, it should be done slowly, step by step; he would leave humphrey to fight his own battles, and only if he fell bloody and wounded, would he come forward and succour the boy. "i hope you'll keep it up," he said. "don't get into trouble, but come to me if you do." he smiled and still caressed that fierce moustache. "i suppose you've heard i'm an ogre--don't believe any tale you hear. just come straight to me when you are in any difficulty." humphrey came out of the room, exhilarated, and almost drunk with pride and happiness. it was ferrol's magic again: a few words from him were like drops of oil to creaking machinery--they instilled fresh energy and desire into men, and made their hearts ardent for conquest. it was worth working night and day to have smooth words of praise from ferrol himself, to know that he was watching you, powerful in his invisibility. * * * * * that afternoon, as he was returning from some engagement, he saw the girl with the smile coming towards him again. afar off, it seemed, he was aware of her coming. it was as if her presence sent silent messages to him, vibrating through the air. long before she appeared he had looked expectantly before him, knowing that she would approach him. something in his mind linked up this neat blue-clad figure with the episode of the morning, and the little registry office, and wratten saying, with that radiant smile of his, "i think i am going to be happy at last." and, quite on the impulse of the moment, he made up his mind. she passed him, and left him all a-quiver with excitement, and then he turned and overtook her. his heart was beating quickly in the rhapsody of it all. she stopped, noticing him at her side, hesitating, nervous. "i say...." "oh!" she smiled, and he saw her cheeks flush with colour, and at once he noted her wonderfully slender throat and the mysterious beauty of her breathing. he was tongue-tied for a moment. she had stopped and he was speaking to her, and he was lost in the miracle of those few seconds, when he realized that in all the loneliness of this vast london, they had met and spoken at last. they stood in a little island of their own making, while people coming and going broke in a hurried surge all about them. the newsboys ran up fleet street calling the hour of the latest race, and, above all, came the noise and restlessness of the traffic beating up and down the street. "i say..." humphrey began, "it's awfully rude of me to stop you like this...." she smiled again. "not at all," she said, in a gentle voice. "could you tell me if mr beaver happens to be in the office now?" he asked. "i don't think he is," she said. "why not come up and see?" "n--no--it doesn't really matter." humphrey laughed nervously. "i shall see him this evening. we dig together, you know." "then it doesn't matter...?" she said. "it doesn't matter," humphrey agreed. he waited forlornly: now she would pass away again, always elusive, just flitting in and out of his life like this, a disturbing factor. but still she waited, and humphrey was emboldened. "i say ..." he stammered. "won't you come and have a cup of tea?" she glanced upwards at the clock. "do come," he said, half turning to lead the way. "there's a lyons just near here." "oh, well ..." she laughed and followed him. * * * * * "my name's quain," he said, as they were drinking their cups of tea. "humphrey quain." he waited longingly, hoping that she would understand why he had told her his name. she drooped her eyes; everything she did was exaggerated in humphrey's imagination. she gave him her name as if she were yielding up part of herself to him. "mine is filmer." it was terribly unsatisfactory just to know that. "i suppose you'll think me rude ..." he began. "oh! you must guess...." "i never could. i should guess wrong." "try," she coaxed. "it begins with l." he guessed lily the second time, and she corrected him. "you're nearly right," she said, "it's lilian." "lilian," he echoed, admiringly. "it's a hateful name," she pouted. "it's a lovely name," he said. "do you really think so?" "rather!" "why?" she smiled again. what an absurd question to ask. why, because--but how could humphrey tell her, when they had hardly known each other for a quarter of an hour. "i hope you didn't think it rude of me stopping you like that," he ventured, after a pause. "oh no ... though i suppose you think it's dreadful of me to be sitting with you like this." to tell the truth, humphrey considered the whole thing was extraordinarily dashing--that he should be sitting facing her over a cup of tea; to have learnt her name--lilian filmer--lilian, beautiful name!--and to be carrying it off so calmly. "not at all," he said. her next words fell like a shower of cold water over him. "you're such a boy," she said, with her eyes smiling indulgently at him. he resented that, of course. "i'm twenty-one," he said loudly. "you're not more than twenty-one, i'm sure." "perhaps i'm not," she answered, taking a tiny watch from her bosom. she sighed. "i must go." "look here," said humphrey, "are we going to meet again?" "what do you want to see me again for?" "i just want to," humphrey said. "i'm all alone." "alone in london," she laughed. "tragic boy ... oh, how miserable you look. don't you like being called a boy?" "i don't mind what you call me, so long as you'll let me see you again. to-morrow's saturday...." "oh! i can't manage to-morrow." "well, on sunday, then." "i never go out on sundays." "on monday," said humphrey, desperately. she considered the matter. "i know i'm engaged on monday evening." "we'll have lunch together." "very well," she said. and, after that, they shook hands quite formally, and parted in fleet street. he had been in heaven for twenty minutes. there were three days to monday. lilian! vi out of this period of his career, humphrey rescued memories of moments of ineffable happiness. they came intermittently, between long blanks of doubt and painful uncertainty, when his mind was troubled with unsatisfied yearnings and half-understood desires. he was able one day to look back upon it all, with an air of detached interest, like a man looking at a cinematograph picture, and he saw meetings, and partings, and all the ferment of his wooing of lilian. there was something intimate and secret about their meetings that pleased his palate, hungry for adventure, and this was a part of life that belonged wholly to them; he was indeed taking a part in the great game. they met on the monday at the hour appointed, and it seemed extraordinarily unreal, like a dream within a dream, that she should be wonderfully alive and smiling by his side. fleet street, the office, rivers, and the long toil of the day were forgotten in a moment, such was the miracle of her being. it seemed impossible to him, on that day, that unhappiness and failure could darken his world. there was something eternal about her that moved him with strong, unquenchable desires for triumph and conquest. her voice vibrated through him like the throb of a war-march, urging him to great endeavour. so commonplace their greeting; so utterly inadequate to express the prodigious flutterings of his heart! they should have met alone in some solitary forest, when all the colours of the world were rushing to the clouds, in the hours of the sunset. he could have led her to a resting-place of moss and fern, and whispered to her all the thoughts that were in his mind.... but here in the world of everyday, what romance could survive the prosy clamour of it all. there was nothing to say but "good-morning," and halting, nervous things about the weather, and the theatre, and each other's work. anything of deeper import must be told by sighs and silences. and thus, they parted again, after their lunch in a dingy italian restaurant in the strand, he with all his longings unfulfilled, and with a deeper sense of something that had been lacking in his life. why could he not have told her all that he had felt? why was it necessary for him to mask and screen his emotions with absurd talk that only seemed to waste precious opportunities? she rose before him in his imagination, amazingly distinct and real, no longer a shadow, but a real person. he conjured her presence at will before him, and she appeared as he liked to see her best, with her eyes grey and thoughtful, and the sunlight gilding her hair where it swept up from her white brow. thus, when she was not there, he lived with her, and told her all the things he dared not say to her. and nobody knew of these exquisite moments but himself. to mention her to beaver, now, would be sacrilege. there was but one man who, he thought, would understand what was passing through him, and that was wratten, who was away on his honeymoon. they met several times during the next few weeks; it seemed to him that she would not consent to meet him if her heart did not echo his own. and yet, she gave no sign. there was always an air of chastened constraint about them both. he helped her adjust her fluffy feather boa once, and his hand brushed her cheek, and he remembered the feel of it, smooth and soft, like the touch of the downy skin of a peach. all the time, of course, in the intervals of these meetings, there was the same breathless round of work to be done. sometimes he would have to cancel their arrangements because he was given an assignment just at the very hour they had set apart for themselves--it was done by a hurried scrawl on office paper--"dear miss filmer, i'm so sorry," and so forth. once he had written "dearest," but he tore it up, fearing he might lose her for ever. he could not risk offending her. he knew that she was rigorously strict in certain conventions. "i say ... may i call you lilian?" he had asked one day, and she had glanced at him with a stricken look, and said, "oh--please, please don't, mr quain." she had even laid her hand upon his, with a persuasive gesture. it was a distinct pat--the sort of pat one bestows when a child is to be coaxed into goodness. she was very perplexing. her manner could alter in the most unexpected and unaccountable manner. one day she might be quite gay, and he would feel that now it was merely a question of moments before he could storm her heart and carry it: and the next time he saw her she would be strangely distant, as though she regretted the progress they had made. or else, she would be provokingly casual, and wound him deliberately in his weakest spot. she would call him a boy, with a little smile and play of the eyebrows. ah! that rankled more than anything she said or did, for the whole happiness of his life depended on his being taken seriously, and at his own valuation--and he valued himself as a man of the world, with the experience of double his years. it was, perhaps, this attitude of hers towards him that made him tell her of his work, which, in these days, became so magnified in importance to him. when by virtue of _the day_ he got behind the scenes of any phase of london life, he used to make a point of telling her just how it was done, in a rather cock-a-whoop manner. "do you know," she said, "we have in our office thirty men who are doing the same thing, and, in all london, there are hundreds more?" that crushed him entirely. she thought him vain. they very nearly quarrelled seriously. one day jamieson, the dramatic critic of _the day_, met him in the office. jamieson was a tubby little man with a high shakespearean forehead, who exuded cheeriness. he was a professional optimist. he used to depress the reporters' room with his boisterous happiness: he was so glad that the flowers were blooming, and the grass was green, and that there were children, and the joy of life, and so forth. he accosted humphrey with twinkling eyes. "glorious day, quain," he said; "makes you feel glad that you're alive, doesn't it? ah! my boy, it's fine to see the streets on a day like this--full of pretty girls in their spring dresses." "i don't get time to think about the weather, unless i'm writing about it," said humphrey, with a laugh. "buck up, my boy," said jamieson, patting him on the back. "you want to look on the bright side of things on a day like this.... by the way, would you like to have two stalls for the garrick to-morrow. it's the same old play they've had for two hundred nights--they only want a paragraph for _the day_. i've got a first night on at his majesty's." humphrey accepted the tickets gladly, for he had a vision of an evening at the theatre with lilian, and jamieson went on his way, leaving in his wake a trail of chuckling optimism. it happened to be a saturday night, when he was quite free, and so he arranged with lilian to meet her at victoria--she lived at battersea park--and then they would have some dinner before they went to the theatre. * * * * * in those days humphrey had not risen to the luxury of an opera hat; he wore a bowler hat, and his coat-collar buttoned up over the white tie of his evening-dress. he thrust his hands into his pockets and waited at victoria station for her. she was to meet him at a quarter to seven, and it was now five minutes to the hour and she had not come. he stood there, absolutely white with the tension of the passing moments. it seemed that he had been waiting an eternity, and he had lived through a thousand moments of disappointed expectation. others who had been waiting there when he came had long since claimed those whom they had come to meet, and walked them off with smiles and laughter. he was still waiting. * * * * * seven o'clock! what on earth could have happened? visions of possible disasters crossed his mind: a train wreck and a cab accident; or perhaps she was ill and was not coming. there would be no way of communicating with him, and he would have to go on waiting. or, perhaps, she had repented of her consent to make the evening glorious for him. the suspense was really terrible. there was nothing to do except to watch the newsboys cheerily gathering the magazines and papers together into piles, and shuttering the bookstall. he saw people running for trains, and whenever the hiss of steam announced the arrival of another train, he hurried to the wicket-gate to peer into the recesses of the crowd that struggled through it, in the hope of seeing her face a second before she actually appeared in person. at five past seven he was still moodily waiting. it was cruel of her to keep him dallying with patience like this. she must have known that he would be waiting for her on the moment. how little she cared if she could not even be punctual to the time they had arranged. he began to feel stale and dusty, as if he had been in his evening-dress for years. he made up his mind to be very angry with her when she came. and lo! she was at his side: more wonderful than ever, so wonderful that he scarcely recognized her. she had come through the crowd at the wicket-gate, floating towards him, it seemed, like a cloud of filmy, fluffy white. her face was radiantly flushed and smiling, and he sprang towards her with a cry of relief and gladness. "here i am," she announced. "i wondered if you'd be here." (as if he had not been waiting heart in mouth, for all that time.) she wore no hat, but her hair was done in a way that he had never seen before. it seemed to change her strangely. if anything, it made her look more beautiful, as it rose in little waves from her forehead and fell about her ears in wayward threads of sparkling brown. and there was a black velvet ribbon that went in and out among the glory of her hair. he slipped his hand beneath her white cloak that was fastened tightly to her chin, to guide her through the clumsy throng of station people. her arm was warm and bare, as soft as satin, and there was something sacred in the very touch of it. it was an occasion for a cab. they chattered on the way of everyday things, though all the time, with her by his side, so close, so beautiful, he could only think of paradise. "i thought you were never coming," he said, with a dry throat. "was i so late?" she asked, with a laugh. "i couldn't help it. i ran like mad, and just saw the train going out of the station." he wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked, but just then they arrived at the little restaurant in soho where they were going to have dinner. he went in with her, supremely conscious that every one was staring at them. there was a stuffy smell of hot food, and the tables were crowded with diners--very few of them in evening-dress. he was passed on from waiter to waiter until a table was found, and then lilian unfastened her white cloak, and he helped her to take it off, with a queer sensation of awe and wonder. she stood before him transformed, another lilian from the one he had known in the street where they worked. he was amazed that she did not realize how this white display of her neck and arms and gently breathing throat was dazzling him with its splendour. he was amazed that she could sit there, revealing her richest beauty for the first time, and be totally unembarrassed--as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.... the dinner was no doubt excellent, but humphrey could not eat. he made a pretence of it, but he felt it was violating the ecstasy of these moments to eat before her. he only wanted to sit and look at her. he drank quite a lot of wine, almost a whole bottle in fact, for she took just half a glassful with water. it was cheap stuff, masquerading under the vague label of "margaux," and it sent his imagination rioting. he was conscious of being deliciously extravagant when he ordered coffees and liqueurs, though the whole bill came to little more than twelve and six. then they went to the theatre, and he bought her chocolates, and they sat in the stalls, side by side, for nearly three hours. he tried to appear normal--impossible! he knew what was coming: he fought against it for quite a long time, but some primeval instinct in him was stronger than his will--his hand sought hers, when the lights were low, and closed upon it. if she had withdrawn her hand, the whole castle of his dream would have come crashing about his ears. but she did not: she let it rest there. once or twice he glanced at her sidewise, but she seemed oblivious of him. her gaze was fixed on the players, her lips parted with pleasure; the pendant that hung from her neck stirring gently with the movement of her bosom. she was enjoying the play, but humphrey could pay no attention to it. he could only think of her. how real was all this: how every moment counted as a moment of pure, throbbing enjoyment. and he thought of rivers, and the office, and selsey and the sub-editors' room, messenger boys and the tape machines--what did it all matter beside the incomparable happiness of these moments. knowledge came to him subconsciously: it was for this that one worked and suffered. * * * * * as they were going in the cab together to victoria through st. james's park, where the lamps make a necklet of yellow round the dark shadows of the trees, and the moon was white in her face, he leaned towards her and kissed her on the lips. she gave a little dry sob, and her head drooped on his shoulder, so that he could bend over her and kiss her with all the impetuous longing of youth. and suddenly she shook herself free with an extraordinary melting look of tenderness and pity in her eyes. he thought she was angry, but she only smiled and patted his cheek. and he felt as if he had passed through the portals of a new world, whose music beat gloriously on his ears, and whose colours leapt before his eyes in flashes of brilliance. "lilian.... lilian," he whispered, calling her by her name for the first time. "it's only for to-night," she said.... "why did you kiss me?" "lilian," he said again. they came out into the glare of the streets near victoria: romance dropped away from her as the park was left behind. she sat upright and fumbled with her hair. "you oughtn't to have kissed me.... i oughtn't to have...." the discussion of it was horrible to him. it jarred. he, too, came suddenly back to reality. "it was only for to-night, of course," she said, with a nervous laugh. "it's not!" he said, positively. "it's for to-morrow and for all time." they drew up at the station. it was all over. the idyll ended in a clatter of horses' hoofs and hissing of steam, and engines whistling, and the hurrying to catch the last train. "look here ..." said humphrey, as he stood by the carriage door. "i'm not angry," she whispered. "it was my fault." the guard blew his whistle and waved his flag. humphrey's heart was bursting with the hideous intrusion of modernity. "good-night," she said. "good-night and thank you. it's been beautiful." there was just a second left to him, and he made use of it. she was leaning out of the window, and he swung himself on to the footboard and whispered-- "lilian--i love you. i'll write to you to-night." before she could reply, there were cries of "stand away there," and the train swung out of the station. that night humphrey wrote his first love-letter, and told her all the things he had been wanting to say for weeks. vii they became engaged. it was a secret, furtive affair, for lilian desired it. he gave her his signet ring--a present from his father--and she wore it, though not on her engagement finger, in case people should ask questions. she gave humphrey a photograph of herself--in evening-dress--which he carried about in his pocket-book, to take out and look at frequently. he wrote to her every night--even when they had met during the day--long, long letters full of very high-sounding sentiments and praise of her. heavens! the pages he covered with great promises. her letters were not of the same quality: they were rather snappy and business-like, and held in them no romance or sentiment. now and again she called him "dear" in her letters, and sometimes "dearest," but they were for the most part inadequate letters, that made him feel as if he were being cheated out of the full measure of his love-affair. she told him that she was five years older than he was, and it only puffed him with greater pride, to think that he had conquered her in spite of his youth. in very truth, it was a conquest! for days and days she had withstood the eager battery of his assault on her heart. "no," she had said gently, "you're a dear boy and i like you ... but let's be friends." he went through all the phases of anger, sulkiness, despair and gloom, pleading with her daily, until the final exultation came. he used to see her home as far as battersea, whenever his work allowed him freedom. there was a narrow, dark lane through which they walked, so that he could talk in the darkness of his love for her. always, before they parted, she allowed him to kiss her. she kissed him too, and often they stood, with beating hearts, and lips met in one long kiss. he drew her to him, yielding and supple, and told her that she must marry him. she could resist no more, she let her head sink on his shoulder, and his finger caressed her chin and neck, and they stayed thus fettered with the exquisite moments of love. "i will be so good to you," humphrey murmured. "yes ... yes ..." she whispered, her last resistance gone. and that was how they became engaged. but out of the glamour of their love and kisses there emerged the grey talk of practical things. "we don't know anything about each other," she cried. "i know you.... i feel that i have known you all my life!" he insisted. "don't you feel like that towards me?" he asked, anxiously. "perhaps i do," she said, and humphrey went into raptures over it. "isn't it wonderful," he said, "to think that only a few weeks ago we were really strangers, and now you have been in my arms--how can we be strangers, lilian, and kiss as we do?" "have you told your mother yet?" he asked, one day. "no--not yet," she said. "oughtn't i to meet her?" "i suppose so--wait a little longer," she pleaded. "have you told your aunt?" "you asked me not to. i'd love to take you down to her--she'd like you, i'm certain. it wouldn't matter if she didn't." they made plans, of course: nothing was settled about the day of their marriage. it was a question whether life was possible for them both on three pounds a week. "i'm sure to get a rise, soon," said humphrey. "i'll go and ask for one, and tell ferrol i'm going to be married. we can live splendidly on four pounds a week. heaps of people live on less." "i don't know.... it's mother i'm thinking of," she confessed. "what about mother?" he asked. "i'm wondering what she'll do without me." "there are your sisters," he said. "how many are there, let me see"--he ticked them off--"mabel, florence and edith. that's enough for her to go on with." her face grew wistful. "yes--that's enough," she echoed, her eyes not looking at him. "i ought to have told you, humphrey, long before this, but mother's rather dependent on me and edith. there's harry, of course, but he's still at the technical institute--he'll be able to help some day. florence is still at school--and mabel--mabel's got something the matter with her hip." "well, what about your father?" she winced. "father--father doesn't help much. he's--he's an invalid." humphrey was young, and this was his first love, and the more obstacles there were to overcome, the greater seemed the prize to him. "we could send your mother a little money each week ..." he said. "it won't cost so much when you're not there." "yes, we could do that. and i could still go on with my work." "what," he cried, horrified, "you go to the special news agency after we're married?" "yes, why not?" "oh, lilian dear, i don't want you to do that. i want you to have a home of your own, just to sit there and arrange it as you like, and do nothing but loll in an arm-chair all day until i come home in the evening, and then we'll loll together." she laughed. "you are a funny boy," she said. "i suppose you think a house doesn't want looking after. it's much harder work than typewriting." "but don't you want a _home_," he persisted, mournful disappointment in his voice. "of course i do, dear; i know what you mean--i was only teasing you. but, i do think, for the beginning, i ought to go on with my work. it's so much safer. supposing you get out of work, then i could keep things going for a time." "i'm hanged if i'm going to live on you," he said indignantly. they compromised by agreeing to the purchase of a typewriter--lilian was to found a little business of her own that could be done at home. plenty of people wanted typewriting, and she could earn almost a pound a week, she said, that would be enough for mother.... these practical discussions were very bitter to humphrey: they robbed the whole thing of the last vestige of beauty; they depressed him, he knew not why. she did not mean it, but everything she said, that had nothing to do with endearment and love, made him feel hopeless. he was only really happy when they rested as children in one another's arms, talking delightful nonsense between their kisses, and not thinking at all of the plans of their lives that puzzled them so much when they came to talk about them. it was about this period that wratten came back from his honeymoon, and asked humphrey to come and dine with him at home, always assuming that neither of them would be kept by work. "tommy pride is coming if he can, and i've asked willoughby." it happened that humphrey was the only one of the invited guests from the office who was able to come. the news of a regent street burglary published in the afternoon papers, made willoughby champ his false teeth--a habit of his when he was excited--run his hand through his tangled hair, and depart in mysterious ways. tommy pride was sent to a lecture that began at eight. "just my luck," he said to humphrey, with a wry smile. "the missis will be disappointed." so wratten and humphrey went out together. "i say," said humphrey, on the way, "don't tell any one, but i'm engaged to be married." "no--are you?" wratten said. "congratulations. when did that happen?" "quite recently." out came the photograph. "you're a lucky fellow. when are you going to get married?" "i don't know yet--we haven't decided. do you think we can live on three pounds a week?" "is that all you get, old man--you're worth more: it's a bit of a tight fit." humphrey wondered what wratten's salary was. perhaps wratten guessed his thoughts, for he said: "i don't like telling people what i get--there's a sort of secrecy about it--but, if you don't let it go any further, i'll tell you--i get ten pounds a week." humphrey felt himself shrink into insignificance before that mighty sum. ten pounds seemed a tremendous salary to earn--no wonder wratten had married. it was too much for one man's needs. "i say, that's pretty good," he said, admiringly. "oh! you'll be worth more than that, some day," wratten said. "you're the kind of chap that gets on, i can see.... that's why i shouldn't be in a hurry to marry if i were you," he added; "i've seen lots of fellows stick in the mud by marrying too early. it doesn't give them a chance. marriage helps in some ways, and holds back in others ... a man is not so independent when he marries. he has to think of others besides himself. unless, of course, his wife has a little means of her own." he has to think of others besides himself! that point of view had never come to humphrey before. why, he was marrying solely to please himself. marriage seemed to him, then, necessary to the fulfilment of his dreams. lilian was a mere excuse. he told her that he wanted to make her happy, blinding himself to the fact that he wanted to make himself happy. he was going to use her as a motive for his life, that was all. she would urge him on to success, encourage him, look after him, comfort him when he was in need of it--he had never thought of her at all, except as an accessory to his life. of course, if anybody had told humphrey this, at the time, he would have denied it, vehemently; protested his eternal love; sworn that she was always uppermost in his mind; and that it was his most ardent desire to work for her happiness. love not only blinds us to the imperfections of others, but twists the vision we have always held of ourselves. wratten had taken a flat at hampstead--a little box of a flat--at a ridiculously high rent, but to humphrey, as he came into the sitting-room, it appeared as an ideal home. there was an air of repose and rest about it, the walls papered in a soft green, chintz curtains drawn over the windows, a carpet of a shade of green deeper than the walls, and old furniture about the room. the artistic nature is always hidden below the practical journalist, and it comes to light in different ways. with some men it shows itself in a love of old books; with others, it bursts out in the form of writing other things than ephemeral newspaper "copy"; and with nearly all, the artist in them shakes itself free from its hiding-place and shines clear and strong in the home. there is no time for art during the day; no need for it, indeed. the standard of what is good is not made by the reporter, but by the paper for which he writes. and here, in wratten's home, humphrey found the vein of the artist in him, in his perception and appreciation of old furniture. he fondled his pieces. "here's a nice little rocking-chair," he said. "don't see many of these now." "i like this," said humphrey, touching another old chair. "ah! yes, that's a beauty," wratten replied. "i picked that up in ipswich frightfully cheap. it's an old dutch back chair of the seventeenth century." he tilted it up and ran his palm over the perfect curve of the cabriole legs, entirely absorbed in the pleasure of touching the chair. "i didn't know you went in for this sort of thing," humphrey said. "i've been getting things like this together for years ... they're so restful, these old things. can you imagine anything more peaceful than that book-case?" and he pointed to a beautiful empire book-case, with rows of books showing through the latticed glass and brass rosettes for handles to the drawers that rested on claw feet. the change in wratten was really remarkable. although he was still serious, and his face in repose was gloomy, he seemed to have lost his brusque manner. marriage had undoubtedly softened him. mrs wratten came into the room and welcomed humphrey. wratten slipped his arm through his wife's, and she looked up at him and smiled at him.... humphrey saw himself standing thus, in his own home, with lilian close to him, his companion for ever. it all seemed so very desirable. this little home was very compact and peaceful, thousands of miles removed from the restlessness of fleet street.... while they were talking, a young man and a woman were ushered into the room by the little maid-servant. the likeness between the two was unmistakable--they were obviously brother and sister. the young man was the taller of the two, very slender, with the thin and delicate hands of a woman. humphrey noticed the long fingers tapering to the well-kept nails. the face was the face of an ascetic, thin-lipped and refined. the eyes were peculiarly glowing, and set deeply beneath the overhanging eyebrows; the nose was finely chiselled; the nostrils sensitive and curling, with a faint suspicion of superciliousness. he was introduced to humphrey as kenneth carr, and humphrey knew the name at once. kenneth carr had the reputation of being a brilliant descriptive writer; he was on the staff of _the herald_, but, besides that, he had written several historical biographies, many novels, and was at work on a play. he belonged to a type which is a little apart from fleet street, with its wear and tear--a shy, scholarly man, who found that historical biographies and novels did not yield sufficient income, and, therefore, the grinding work of everyday journalism was preferable to pot boiling. fleet street was, to him, a stepping-stone. he would have been happier in the editorial chair of a weekly paper, or writing essays for _the spectator_ and the _saturday review_, but, as it was, he threw in his lot with fleet street, and did his work so well that he stood at the top of the ladder. but fleet street had left its mark on his face--it was pale and thin, and the eyes had a strained, nervous look in them. "awfully good of you to ask us," he said to mrs wratten. "elizabeth and i don't go out much, she gets so tired from her slumming." his sister smiled--humphrey saw that the handsome features of kenneth carr became beautiful in his sister's face. the sharp lines about the nose and mouth were softened, her eyes were bluer and larger, her face rounded more fully, and devoid of the hollows which made the face of kenneth so intellectual. the likeness between brother and sister finished with the lips--hers were very red, and were faintly parted, so that one had a glimpse of her teeth, like a string of white pearls. she wore her hair in two loops from a parting in the centre, and she had a habit of carrying her head a little forward, so that the outward curve of her neck was emphasized in its perfect grace. "what does your brother mean by slumming, miss carr?" humphrey asked as they sat at dinner. "he calls it slumming," elizabeth carr laughed, "but it isn't exactly that. i'm rather fond of the people who have no chance in life. i want to make a chance for them." she spoke banteringly, but her eyes had a curious way of growing large and earnest as if they were anxious to counteract the lack of seriousness in her voice. "i'm trying to make a thoroughfare through the blind alley," she said. "isn't it dramatic? can't you imagine me with pick and shovel, mr quain." "what do you mean by the blind alley?" he asked. she suddenly became grave. "of course, you've never thought of that--have you? it's just a phrase.... some day i'll explain to you fully. it's where the people who have no chance live." "how do you help them?" "we don't help them much, at present--we're only beginning. it's a life's work," she said, earnestly, "and it's a work for which a life would be gladly given. you've asked me the question i'm always asking myself--how is it to be done?" "does your brother help?" "kenneth--oh, as best he can. it's the apathy that we want to overcome. that's what makes the blind alley." she laughed. "we'll do it some day--i don't know how--but we'll do it." kenneth carr's voice drawled across the table. "look out, mr quain, or elizabeth will have you in her toils. i'll bet she's talking slumming to you. you can't be a social reformer and a reporter, you know, nowadays. the two don't hang together." "kenneth!" his sister said, with pretended indignation. "look at me! she's making me compile a book about poverty that'll be nothing but statistics--who wants them outside blue books. she's got me in her toils." the phrase amused humphrey: he thought of lilian, and began comparing her with the woman next to him. of course, they were not alike; the comparison irritated him, why compare people so entirely different. one might know elizabeth carr for years, and yet never _know_ her; lilian was different. she seemed simpler, and yet.... he wondered if lilian had ever heard of the blind alley, or bothered about the people who have no chance. when the dinner was finished, and they were all settling down to chatter, the telephone bell rang. wratten went to answer it. "it's the office," mrs wratten said, with disappointment in her voice. wratten came back. "i'm frightfully sorry," he said. "the office wants me ... collard's arrested." he went over to his wife. "i shall be late, dear, don't sit up," he said. "who's collard?" she asked. "oh! the company promoter--reg'lar crook--but he might have waited until the morning to be arrested." "filthy luck!" he grumbled, as he reappeared, shouldering himself into his overcoat. "having to leave all you people like this.... can't be helped." the maid came in with coffee. wratten gulped a thimbleful, kissed his wife, and went out. the evening seemed to have lost something of its pleasure with his sudden departure. they fell to talking over the ways of work and the calls of the office. it was as if fleet street had suddenly asserted itself, and shown the futility of trying to escape from it even for a few hours. "poor mr wratten," elizabeth carr sighed, "i do think they're heartless." "why don't you help us, miss carr?" humphrey said, with a laugh. "we're in the blind alley too." viii the weeks passed into august, and humphrey took eagerly all the work that was given to him by rivers. he became a mental ostrich, assimilating all sorts of knowledge. one day, perhaps, he would have to describe a cat show at the crystal palace, the next he might be attending a technical exhibition at the agricultural hall and olympia, and have his head stuffed with facts and figures of this and that industry. he was acquiring knowledge all day long, but it was only superficial; there was no time to go deeply into any subject, and indeed, his one object was to unburden his mind of all the superfluous things he learnt during the day. if reporters were to keep a book of cuttings of everything they wrote--and they know the value of their work sufficiently not to do that--they would be amazed, looking back over ten years (those cuttings would fill several mighty volumes), at the vast range of subjects they touched upon, at the inside knowledge they had of the little--and even big--things of life; of the great men with whom they had come into contact, perhaps for a few minutes, perhaps for a day; of the men they had even helped to make great by the magic of publicity--they would be astounded at the broadness of their lives, at the things they had forgotten long ago, and perhaps they would pity themselves, looking over their cuttings, for the splendid futility of it all. you remember kipling's poem of "the files," bound volumes of past years; which are repositories of all lost endeavours and dead enthusiasm. heaven help us when we can write and achieve no more, and the only work of our youth and manhood lies buried, forgotten, in the faded yellow sheets of the files. but humphrey quain at this period, just like every other young man, whether he be a haberdasher or a reporter, did not contemplate the remote future. he was young, and his brain was clear and fresh, and he wrote everything with a pulsing eagerness, as though it were his final appeal to posterity. he found his style improving, as he read, and his understanding broadened. he wrote in the crisp style that suited _the day_; he had what they call the "human touch"--that was a phrase which ferrol was very fond of using. rivers began to entrust him with better things to do: now and again he was sent out of london on country assignments. that was a delightful business, to escape for a day or so from the office routine, and be more or less independent in some far-away town or village. you were given money for expenses, and told to go to cornwall, where something extraordinary was about to happen, or some one had a grievance, or else there was some one to interview, and you packed a handbag, and went in a cab to paddington, and had lunch on the train, and stopped at the best hotel, and generally tried to pretend that you were holiday making. but, more often than not, the idea of a holiday fell away when you got to the place, and you had to bustle and bother and worry to get what you wanted. then you had to write your message, and that meant generally being late for dinner, or perhaps it was the kind of story that kept you hanging about and made it necessary to telephone news late at night. but going out of town held a wonderful charm for humphrey--it gave him a sense of responsibility. it made him feel that the office trusted him; somehow or other he felt more important on these country jobs, as if he bore the burden of _the day_ on his own shoulders. there was the charm, too, of writing the story in the first person, instead of adopting the impersonal attitude that was the rule with london work; and the charm of fixing the little telegraph pass to the message, which franked it at press rates to _the day_ without pre-payment. sometimes there were other men on the same story, and they forgathered after work, and as all journalists do, talked shop, because they cannot talk of anything without it touches the fringe of their work. the men he met were, for the most part, thoroughly experienced and capable, they were tremendously enthusiastic, though they tried to appear blasé, because it was considered the correct thing among themselves. they never discussed each other's work, nor told of what they had written. even when they met in the morning, though they had all read their colleagues' messages in the papers, and compared them with their own, they kept aloof from all reference to the merits or demerits of these messages. but it used to rejoice humphrey's heart to see, sometimes, how older men who were inclined to patronize him as a beginner and a junior the night before, treated him as one of themselves in the morning at the breakfast-table. and he nearly burst with pride when he first saw his messages headed: "from _the day_ special correspondent." even though he were no further afield than manchester or birmingham, it seemed to place him in the gallant band of great ones just as if he were a steevens, a billy russell, or an archibald forbes. and all the time he was learning,--learning more swiftly than any one else can learn, in the school of journalism, where every hour brings its short cut to knowledge and worldly wisdom. the occasional separations from lilian, however, modified a little the charm of going away. these orders to go out of town had a habit of coming at the most undesirable moments, generally upsetting any plans they had made together for spending an enjoyable evening somewhere. "when we are married," said humphrey, on the eve of a departure for canterbury to describe the visit of a party of priests from france and italy who were making a pilgrimage to the cathedral, "when we are married, you shall come away with me. it's not bad fun, if the job isn't hard." "i wish you didn't have to go away so often," she pouted. there was a hint of conflict, but humphrey was too blind to see it. he only wished he had to go away more often, for the measure of his success on _the day_ was in proportion to the frequency of special work they gave to him. "all will be well when we are married," he said, comforting her. his love-story wove in and out of his daily work. the date of their marriage had not yet been fixed, because ferrol was away somewhere in the south of france, and that business of the extra pound a week on his salary could not, of course, be settled until ferrol came back. it seemed, too, that lilian was in no hurry to be married; she loved these days of his wooing to linger, with their idyllic moments, and rapturous embraces, and the wistfulness of all too insufficient kisses. for the period of engagement was to them a period of licensed kissing. nor was it always possible to meet beneath the moon. humphrey grew cunningly expert in finding places where they could kiss in broad daylight. there was an italian restaurant in the strand (now pulled down for improvement), which had an upstairs dining-room where nobody but themselves ever seemed to go, and then there was the national gallery, surprisingly empty, where the screens holding the etchings gave them their desired privacy, and on saturday afternoon they went in the upper circles of theatres, sometimes, on purpose not to see the play, but to sit in the deserted lounges during the acting, and enjoy each other's company. their love-affair was tangled by circumstance; scamped and impeded--they made the best of it, and lived many hours of happiness. and then, one day, when he least expected it, she said: "i suppose you ought to come down and see mother." humphrey went out to battersea to the home of his betrothed. the circumstances of his visit were not happy. it was raining, and there is no city in the world so miserable as london when it rains. the house was in a rather dreary side-street, a long distance from battersea park, a mere unit in the army of similar houses, that were joined to one another in a straight row, fronted by railings that had once been newly painted, but were now grimed and blackened. these houses appalled one: they were absolutely devoid of any kind of beauty, never could they have been deemed beautiful by their architect. they were as flat-fronted and as hideously symmetrical as a doll's-house; nor, apparently, did the people who dwelt in them take any pains to lessen the hideousness of their exteriors: ghastly curtains were at every window, curtains of mid-victorian ugliness, leaving a cone-shaped vacancy bounded by lace. in the windows of the lower floors one caught a glimpse of a table, with a vase on it, and dried grass in the vase, and behind the glass panes above the front doors there was, in house after house, as humphrey walked down the street, a trumpery piece of crockery or some worthless china statuette, or the blue vase of the front window, with more grass in it, or a worse abomination in the shape of a circular fan of coloured paper. number twenty-three, to be sure, where lilian lived, was, as far as the outside view was concerned, different from the other houses, in that there were real flowers in the window, instead of dried grass. humphrey felt wet and miserable when he reached it; the rain had dripped through a hole in his umbrella, and had soaked the shoulder of his coat. he went up the steps and pulled the bell. he waited a little while, and happening to glance over the railings into the area, he saw a girl of rather untidy appearance look up at him, and quickly vanish, as if she had been detected in something that she had been forbidden to do. the girl, he noticed, had the same features, on a smaller scale, as lilian: he supposed she was florence. then he heard footsteps in the passage, and through the ground-glass panels of the door he could see a vague form approaching. the next moment all memory of ugliness and squalor and the dismal day departed from him, as lilian, the embodiment of all the beautiful in his life, stood before him, smiling a welcome. how she seemed to change her personality with every fresh environment in which they met! she was the same lilian, yet vaguely a different one here, with her brown hair done just as charmingly yet not in the same way as she did it when they went to theatres in the evening. she wore a white muslin blouse, without a collar, and round her neck was a thin gold chain necklace which he had given her. though he did not realize it at the time, his joy in her was purely physical; the mere sight of her bared neck and throat and the warm softness of her body was sufficient to make him believe that he loved her as he could never love anybody else; he sought no further than the surface; she was pretty, and she was agreeable to be his wife. he did not stop to think of anything else. "so it's really you!" she said, with a laugh. as though she had not been expecting him! he murmured something about the weather as he shook his dripping umbrella. she could invest commonplaces, courtesy phrases, with reality. her eyes were tender as she said, "you poor thing." it was really fine to have some one so interested in your welfare that her eyes could show pity over a few rain-spots. "you must come in and dry yourself over the fire. we had a fire because it is so wet." she closed the door. he took off his coat and hat, and suddenly he caught her silently to him (her eyes spoke of caution, and looked towards the door, leading from the passage), and they kissed hurriedly and passionately. she disengaged herself, and began to talk about trivialities in a high tone. "i have not told any one yet," she whispered. "it is still a secret--so you needn't be afraid of mother." she led the way into the room. somebody was sitting on the sofa, against the light. "mother," said lilian, "this is mr quain." "oh," said mrs filmer, rising and coming forward to shake hands with him, "how do you do?" humphrey sat down in a gloomy, black horsehair chair by mrs filmer, who returned to a sofa that belonged to the same family. they began to talk. it was plain that lilian's mother had been coached by her. she seemed to pay him a deference altogether disproportionate to the occasion, if he were to be considered as a mere casual visitor, a friend of lilian. she was a faded woman of fifty years or so, the personification of the room itself, for everything within those four walls was irrevocably lost and faded--the photographs in their ugly frames were yellow and old-fashioned; the pictures on the walls, chiefly engravings of thirty years ago, in bevelled frames of walnut wood, were spotted with damp; the furniture was absolutely without taste, a mixture of horsehair and mahogany, and the piano had one of those frilled red satin fronts behind a fretted framework. there was a blue plush _portière_, with a fringe of pom-poms down one side of it, hanging from a brass rod over the door. it was difficult for him to believe that she was lilian's mother: that she had actually brought into the world that beautiful, supple being whom he loved. had she ever been like lilian? he could trace no resemblance to her in this little thin woman who sat before him, her hands, with the skin of them warped and crinkled, crossed in her lap, her hair sparse and faded, with threads of brown showing among the grey, and the fringe of another tint altogether. she did not even talk as lilian did: she was too careful of aspirates. he saw that she was altogether inferior to lilian. she talked of nothing--nothing at all. and all the time she was talking, and he was answering her, he was aware, dimly, of lilian's presence, somewhere in the background; he was conscious of her watching him, studying him. the weather was terrible for the time of the year. they wanted to move out of this house; it was too large for them. it was so nice for lilian to have such a comfortable office to work in. but it was a long way to come home, when the weather was bad. the weather was very bad to-day. the summer, one supposed, was breaking up. after all, it was not so very out of season. mr quain must find his work very interesting. and so on. tea was brought in by a girl who was lilian on a smaller scale. "edith, this is mr quain," said lilian; and to humphrey, "this is my sister edith." she put the tray down, and shook hands limply. he noticed that she had precisely the same coloured eyes as lilian's, but they were weaker, and she did not carry herself well. she seemed but a pale shadow of the splendid reality of lilian. then florence, the other sister, came into the room; she was the young girl whom humphrey had seen over the railings as he stood on the doorstep. she was undeveloped, but her face and figure bore great promise of a beautiful womanhood. her hair was of a reddish colour, and hung in a long plait down her back. her face was quite unlike lilian's: he judged that she resembled her father. "you look dreadful, child," said lilian, with a laugh. "go and wash your face, little pig." florence made a grimace, and tossed her pigtail. "it's freckles," she said, hopelessly. "i've been scrubbing away for ten minutes." she looked at humphrey appealingly, with a smile in her eyes--they all had that smile he knew so well. "i think you're too hard on your sister, miss filmer," he said to lilian, with mock gravity. (how odd the miss filmer sounded.) "she looks radiant. i noticed it was freckles at once." florence went to lilian and put her arm round her waist. they were evidently very sisterly. edith was busy pouring out tea ("one lump or two, mr quain"); mrs filmer sat with her hands crossed in her lap looking out of the window into the garden beyond. humphrey took a cup of tea across to her; she was too effusive in her thanks; begged him to sit down, and urged florence to look after mr quain. just then the front door clicked. "there's harry," said edith, putting down the teapot, and running to the door. a short, well-built young man appeared. his hair was the reddish colour of florence's hair, and his face was frank and boyish. he was about nineteen years old, just the age of discrimination in ties and socks, and the flaunting of well-filled cigarette cases. he and edith were apparently the greatest friends, doubtless because there was only two years' interval in their ages. nevertheless, he pulled florence's pigtail affectionately and gave her a brotherly kiss; pecked lilian on the cheek ("what a horrid collar you're wearing, harry," she said, "and you simply reek of tobacco"), and kissed his mother on her forehead. then lilian introduced him to humphrey quain, and they shook hands and regarded each other furtively, with a constrained silence. humphrey felt that the whole family must know of the relations between lilian and himself, though not one of them spoke about it. but they all treated him with a certain deference, and gave him a status in the house, which invested him with a superiority that seemed to match lilian's. for there was no doubt of her superiority in this household, now that they were all gathered together. she seemed so stalwart and broad beside them; a creature apart from them all. she did not appear to belong to them, and yet she was, indisputably, of them. they were so commonplace, and she was so rare--at least, that was what humphrey thought. he watched her as she moved about the room bearing plates and cups, noiselessly, gracefully; she gave him a new impression of domesticity as she wandered about in her own home without the hat that he was accustomed to see her wearing. and she gave him, furthermore, an appearance of strength and character, as though she had acquired the right to rule in this household by the might of her own toil which chiefly supported it. while she was in the room, it lost some of its faded quality, and when she left it to take a cup of tea and a piece of cake to mabel, the third sister, who was an invalid lying, he understood, on a couch upstairs, the room became desolate, and the most insistent person was the faded mother with her querulous voice. they made him look at picture-postcard albums and photographs, and some of florence's drawings, while lilian was absent. florence wanted to be a fashion artist, and though her drawings were incredibly bad and scratchy, he felt it was necessary for him to say that they showed promise.... how had lilian grown to be lilian in these surroundings, he wondered--surroundings of such frank ugliness and shabby gentility? he glanced out of the window which gave a view of a narrow oblong garden at the back, where a few stunted wallflowers struggled to live. a patch of unkempt grass ran between the high walls, and there a broken wicker-work chair faced the windows. as he looked out he saw a man stumbling over the grass towards the side door: he caught a glimpse of the soiled and frayed clothes, and feet clothed in down-at-the-heel slippers, of a grey face with shrunken cheeks, and pale blue eyes that peered weakly from beneath grey wiry eyebrows. the man came across his vision like a spectre, trailing his slippered feet one after another, and swaying a little as he walked. he was fascinated by the sight, and suddenly his attention was distracted by lilian. she had come back to the room, and was standing at his side. her eyes had followed his, and she knew what he had seen. "will you have some more tea?" she said, abruptly, touching him on the shoulder. he turned away hastily: his eyes met hers; they held a challenge in them, as though she were daring him to speak of the man in the garden. it was as if he had probed into a carefully hidden secret. he knew, without being told, that this aimless, shambling man with the slippered feet was the father. he was given in a moment the explanation of this room; the mother; the invalid child; and the air of subdued failure that brooded over the house. he saw lilian as a regenerating, purifying influence, trying to lift them out of the slough. their eyes met, and though no word was passed between them, he understood everything. he wished that he had not come to this house. this family depressed him, and made him feel afraid of life. it was an odd thought that haunted him: they would be his relations when he married lilian. but when, after the leave-takings, she came to the door to help him on with his coat and let him out, he realized that she was unchanged, that she was still splendid for him, and as desirable as she had always been. he felt something of a hero, because he was going to rescue her from this dreadful home of hers.... the memory of the father dogged his thoughts as he came away. he wished he had not gone to the house. ix at eight o'clock, on a chill morning, the women in the red-brick cottages of hyde, which are built round the hyde collieries, felt the earth quiver beneath their feet, and heard a low roar, reverberating about them. their hands went up to their beating hearts; they rushed to their windows that overlooked the grey wastes where the shafts of the mines stood gaunt against the horizon; they saw a burst of flame leap from the upcast shaft of no. mine; leap vividly for a swift moment, and leave behind it a vision of a twisted cable-rope, and twisted iron, and the flame that vanished swiftly bore with it the souls of two hundred men: their husbands, their sons--their men. they gathered their shawls about them, and ran, with their clogs clattering on the cobbled streets, to the pit-mouth, joining a stream of men, whose eyeballs shone whitely from the grime and black of their faces--they ran with terror clutching at their hearts and fear at their heels, and every lip was parched and dry with the horror and dread of the moment. there had been a disaster to no. pit: an explosion; a fire--"what is it? tell us?" they crowded round the mine offices, besieged the mine manager: "for the love of heaven, for the mercy of mary, for the sake of christ--tell us! we must know ... we are the wives, the daughters, the mothers of those who went below to their work in the blackness of the coal.... no need to tell us: we know, now; we see the thin cloud of smoke, with its evil smell, floating above the shaft ... the engine-room is silent. the ventilation fan is not working. it has been shattered, with the lives of all those who matter, by this explosion. "yes, yes, we will wait. some of our men are sure to have escaped; they know the workings. they will find their way to the arden mine shaft adjoining, and come up in the cages. perhaps they all will, and no lives will be lost. we will wait...." at eleven o'clock the little tape machines in the newspaper offices printed out letter by letter the message that was sent by the hyde reporter, who overslept himself that day, and did not hear the news until ten. "an explosion occurred in the no. mine of the hyde collieries this morning. two hundred men were working at the time, and it is feared that there has been a serious loss of life." "off you pop," said rivers to wratten, who had just arrived at the office. "this looks big. i think you'd better have some one with you. boy, tell mr quain to come up." half an hour later wratten and quain were on their way in a cab to euston, humphrey thrilling with the adventure of being chosen to accompany wratten, looking forward to a new experience. "horrible things, these mine disasters," said wratten. "i hate 'em," as if any one in the world was so misguided as to like them. "are they difficult to do?" asked humphrey. "sometimes ... it depends. if there's a chance of rescue, you've got to hang about sometimes all night. they get on my nerves. this'll be your first, won't it?" "yes," humphrey said. it seemed strange to him that they should be discussing such an appalling disaster so dispassionately; considering it only from their point of view. there was no sense of tragedy, of deep gloom, in their talk. it was all part of their business--a lecture, a murder, an interview, a catastrophe--it was all the same to them. they were merely lookers-on. when they arrived at euston, a tall man, whose chief characteristics were gold-rimmed spectacles and a black moustache, came towards them. he wore a red tie and carried a heavy ash stick in his hand. "what--ho! wratten," he said, jovially, "coming up?" "hullo, grame," said wratten, "anybody else here yet?" "oh! the whole gang. we're for'rard in a reserved compartment." kenneth carr, white-faced and breathless, arrived at the last moment. "hullo!" he said, "isn't this awful.... two hundred men! i'll join you as soon as possible." "poor kenneth!" wratten remarked to quain, as they followed grame to the carriage. "he really feels this quite keenly. he realizes the immensity of the tragedy to which we're going to travel. it's a mistake. it hampers one." "i should have thought it would make you do better work," quain answered, "if you really felt the tremendous grief of it all." "not a bit. it makes you maudlin. you lose your head and go slobbering sentimental stuff about. remember, you're no one--you don't exist--you're just a reporter who's got to hustle round, find out what's happened, and tell people how it happened. never mind how it strikes you--_the day_ ain't interested in you and your sensations--it wants the story of the mine disaster." "but--" humphrey began. wratten turned on him savagely. "oh! good god! don't you think _i_ feel it too? don't you think i hate the idea of never being able to write it as i see it? by god! i wouldn't dare tell the story of a mine disaster as i see it. _the day_ would never print it--it would be rank socialism." there were five other reporters in the carriage. two of them humphrey had met before: mainham, who wore pince-nez, looked like a medical student, and spent every saturday at the zoological garden, where he discovered extraordinary stories of crocodiles, who suffered from measles; he was, in a way, the registrar of births, deaths and marriages among the animals; and chander, a thin-faced, thin-lipped young man, who wore long hair, whose conversation was entirely made up of a long chain of funny stories. chander faced the little tragedies of his work daily, but he kept himself eternally young by pretending only to see the humorous side of things. for instance, he once spent a whole morning in the rain and slush of a january, trying to verify some story. he tramped the dismal pavements of a dirty street off tottenham court road, in search of a certain man in a certain house, finally gave it up in disgust, and discovered that he should have gone to another street of the same name by king's cross. that would have disheartened the average man: but chander turned it into a funny story--it is good to have the chander point of view. the other reporters were thomas, who worked for _the courier_--a penny paper--a well-ordered, methodical, unimaginative man, who had a secret pity for the poor devils who had to work for halfpenny papers; and a big broad-shouldered man, whose name was gully. his face at a glance seemed handsome enough, until you noticed the narrow eyes and the coarseness of the heavy under lip. he had brought a pack of cards with him and wanted to play nap. "good heavens!" said kenneth carr, irritably, "try and behave as if you had some decency left. we're going to a mine disaster. there's two hundred dead men at the other end of the journey." "well, you do talk rot," gully replied. "are they relations of yours?" he sniggered at his joke, and asked mainham to play. mainham said he couldn't play in the train, but thomas was willing. chander, who knew that kenneth carr loathed gully and all that he stood for, joined the party out of sheer good-nature. he hated quarrelling. "why look on the black side of things, carr?" he said. "perhaps they're not dead at all. we needn't go into mourning until we know everything, and we don't know anything except what the early editions of the evening papers had. and newspapers are so inaccurate." "ass!" said kenneth, with a grin, for he and chander were good friends, and he understood chander's tact. gully shuffled the cards. "i hope they're dead," he said, "because then we shall be able to get back to-morrow." kenneth carr, grame and wratten looked at each other. wratten gave his head a little toss, and made a clicking noise that meant, "what can you expect, after all, from gully." "charitable soul," chander said, admiringly. "what a sweet temperament you have. won't it be sad if you find 'em all alive and ready to kick!" kenneth carr, wratten, mainham and humphrey went into the dining-car, as the express rocked northwards towards luton. the journey was full of apprehension for humphrey; he had never been on such a big story as this, and, though he knew he had to do nothing but obey wratten, there was still a doubt of success in his mind. it interfered with his appetite. he marvelled that the other men could eat their food so calmly, as though they were going on a pleasure trip, and talk of ordinary things. of course, they were thoroughly used to it. it was as common an incident in their lives as casting up columns of figures is to a bank clerk, or the measuring of dead bodies to an undertaker. after luncheon, mainham left them to go back to the carriage, and the three friends were alone over cigarettes and coffee. "i'm sorry i lost my temper with gully," carr said, after a pause. "oh, we all know gully." wratten smiled and sipped his coffee. "don't get like gully," kenneth said to humphrey, "even if you feel like him. it's bad; it's the gullys that have brought such a lot of disrespect on journalism. he's the type of journalist whom people think it necessary to give 'free' cigars to, and 'free' whiskies and sodas; 'free' dinners, even. they think it is the correct thing to give 'free' things to us, as one throws bones to a dog. it's the gullys who take everything greedily and never disillusion them." "but don't you think you're too sensitive?" humphrey ventured. "it seems to me that the work we do demands a skin thick enough to take all insults. look at the things we have to do sometimes!" "it's our business to take risks," wratten interposed. "i don't mind what i do, so long as there's a good story in it. if it's discreditable, the fault isn't with me. i'm only a humble instrument. it's _the day_ who's to blame--_the day_ and the system. i do my duty, and any complaints can be made to neckinger or ferrol, with or without horsewhip. that's my position." "you see," kenneth carr said, musingly, "there are, roughly, three classes of reporters. there's the man who is keenly alive to the human side of his work and talks about it, as i'm afraid i do; there's the man who feels just as keenly and shuts up, as you and wratten and mainham and hosts of others do; and there's the chap, like gully, who hasn't an ounce of imagination, and gloats over things like this mine disaster, because he's a ghoul. i envy people like you and wratten. you do the best work because, although you feel pity and sorrow, you never allow these feelings to hamper your instincts of the reporter." humphrey smiled. "wratten doesn't." the time passed in recounting some of wratten's audacious doings. his bullying a half-suspected murderer into a confession; his brutal exposure of a woman swindler--he had answered an advertisement for a partner in some scheme or other, found the advertiser was a woman with a questionable commercial past, pretended he was _bona fide_, and, when he had obtained all his material, ruthlessly exposed her in _the day_. there was the case of the feeble-minded millionaire, who was kept a prisoner in his house. there was the case of the gaiety girl who married a lordling, and wratten pried into their private lives, forced the lordling into an interview, and wrote a merciless story that made london snigger. he was absolutely callous in his work, yet so human and tender-hearted out of it. humphrey, since that night when he had been helped by him, had looked up to wratten as the type of the ideal reporter, with courage unlimited, who never flinched, even when the work was most unsavoury and humiliating. he was not popular with the reporters of the papers: he kept himself away from them, and restricted his friendship to one or two men. the reason of his unpopularity was simply because others feared him as a rival, and humphrey found, later, that there was merit in that sort of unpopularity. the strong men are never popular. the train had now sped past rugby, and the green valleys and chequered landscapes ran by in a never-ending panorama. the sunshine held with them as far as crewe, and then, as they came into an unlovely stretch of land bristling with factory chimneys, the clouds gathered, and the greyness settled over the day. the three friends sat silently now: wratten and carr, seated opposite, were looking out of the window, and humphrey over carr's shoulder caught glimpses of the little world to which they were journeying. he saw the great brick chimneys everywhere now, breathing clouds of foul black smoke, and then, wherever he looked, the strange-looking gearing-wheels of the coal-mine shafts came into view. some of them were quite near the railway line, and he could see the light twinkling between their spokes as the great shaft wheels moved round, hauling up invisible cages. there were tangles of iron-work, and buildings of grimy brick, and, as they rushed on, they passed gaunt sidings where coal-stained trucks waited in a long line. they were in a world of brick and iron and coal: down below them, beneath the throbbing wheels of the express, the earth was a honeycomb of burrows, where half-naked men sweated and worked in the awful heat and close darkness. this was a hard world, spread around them, a world where men lived hard, worked hard, and died hard. a world without sunshine,--all grimy iron and coal and brute strength. and again humphrey could not help feeling the pitiful artificiality of his own work, that mattered so little, compared with this real and vital business of dragging coal from the heart of the earth to warm her children. they had to change at wigan: the bookstalls were covered with placards of manchester and bolton newspapers telling of the horror of the disaster. they bought copies of every paper, and saw the whole terrible story, hastily put together, and capped with heart-rending headlines. they would have to wait thirty minutes for the train to hyde: wratten twitched humphrey's sleeve and drew him aside. "look here," he said, "i don't know what the other fellows are going to do. trains are no good to me--i mayn't be able to get back to wigan to wire, and the hyde post-office will be a one-horse show. i'm going to get a motor-car. come on." so they left the group. social friendship was at an end: there were no "good-byes," each man was concerned with himself and his own work. motor-cars were not used by newspapers at that time to the extent that they are used to-day; they were doubly expensive, and even a little uncertain, but _the day_ was always generous with expenses when it came to getting news. they went outside, and wratten hailed a dilapidated four-wheeler. "drive to a motor garage--quick," he said. "won't t' old hoss do, guv'nor?" asked the cabby, with the broad northern accent. "no, it won't, and look slippy," growled wratten. the old cab rattled over the stones and down a steep hill. "this is a pretty dull hole," humphrey said, looking out at the town, which seemed to be oozing coal from all its pores. "yes," wratten said shortly. "i'm trying to think out a plan. you'd better come with me to hyde, and after we've got some stuff for the main story, you can hang on, and i'll bump back here in the car, and put it on the wire. then i'll come back to the mine and relieve you. you'll probably have got some interviews by then, and we can run them on to the story." they arranged for the motor-car, and during a ten-minutes' wait, wratten dashed off to the post-office. "always call at the post-office when you get on a job like this, and tell them what you're going to send. besides, the office may have some instructions for you in the poste restante. and always wire your address to the office. we'd better stop at the royal. i daresay every one else will be there, but it can't be helped." they set out in the evening for the mine. the car took them through the mean streets of wigan and the outlying villages, where the shadow of disaster hung like a black curtain over the houses. the streets were strangely silent: groups of men stood at the street corners, talking in constrained voices, and women with shawls over their heads flicked across the roads, grey and ghostlike, the slap of their clogs breaking harshly into the silence. now and again they passed a beer-house, brilliantly lit, and from here came sounds of voices, and high nervous laughter. "they always get drunk on days like these," wratten said. "they have to forget that death is always sitting at their shoulders." and now there was a stretch of open country, yet even the fields had not the bright green of the southern fields. the very grass was soiled with the coal, and the mines and the tall chimneys made a ring round their horizon. humphrey moved uneasily in the car: the brooding spirit of tragedy that hovered over the place was beginning to seem intolerable. it was all so grey, so appallingly dismal and squalid. here were the houses with the blinds drawn over their windows--whole streets of them--houses where there was no man to come home now. here were women leaning over the railings of the patches of gardens, staring before them into the desolate future. fatherless babes crawling about the dusty pavements and gutters, unheedingly, knowing nothing of the disaster that had scorched and withered the mankind of their world. they turned down a side-street, and came out upon an open space filled with a mighty crowd of people. behind them was the gate that led to the colliery, and far away, above their heads, humphrey saw the winding wheel above the shaft, twisted and broken, the shaft itself jagged and castellated where the force of the explosion had torn the brickwork, and the cable-ropes shattered and tangled, as if some giant hands had wrenched it loose and made a plaything of it. the crowds before the gate parted as they heard the noise of the motor-car. they made a narrow lane, just wide enough for the car to creep through. the gate was guarded by a police-sergeant, who, overcome by the sight of the motor-car, opened the way, and saluted: wratten, bulky with rugs and wraps, touched the peak of his cap. the car drew up outside the offices, and they set out to walk up the black hill to the pit-mouth. desolation, utter and dismal; the lowering sky stained and splashed with the red of the dying sun; dark masses gathering below the purple pall of clouds; the ground barren and black with coal beneath the feet: these were humphrey's first impressions as they walked up the hill, with thousands of envious, resentful eyes regarding them from the crowds that huddled beyond the railings. nobody questioned them; nobody asked them what right they had to be there. they were part and parcel of the scheme--the literary undertakers, or, if you like, the descendants of the bards of old, the panegyrists, come to sing their elegies to the dead. the full force of the tragedy came, as a blow between the eyes, when they reached the pit-mouth. those women, waiting patiently throughout the day,--and they would wait, too, long into the night, keeping up their vigils of despair--who could forget them? who could look at their faces without feeling an overwhelming gush of pity flooding the heart; those eyes, red-rimmed and staring intensely, eyes that could weep no more, for their tears were exhausted, and nothing but a stony impassive grief was left! the shawls made some of the faces beautiful, madonna-like, framing them in oval, but others were the faces of dolorous old women, grey-haired, and mumbling of mouth. and some of them laid their forefingers to their lips, calling the world in silence to witness their stupendous sorrow. they stood there compact and pitiful: thinking of god knows what--perhaps of the last good-bye, of a quarrel before parting, of a plan for the morrow, of all the little last things that had been done by their men, before death had come. and, permeating everything, into the very nostrils of all of them, there crept a ghastly smell of gas and coal-dust--a smell that brought to the vision of the imaginative the shambles in the twisting galleries of coal below their feet; great falls of black boulders, nameless tortured hulks that once were men--living, loving, laughing--lying haphazard as they fell to the same gigantic fist that smote the iron wheel above the shaft, and crumpled the brickwork as if it were cardboard. they had to see it all: they met other reporters wandering in and out--dream-people in a world of terrible reality. their companions of the train were all there: kenneth carr, surveying that wall of women silently; mainham, talking to the mine-manager, whose black and sweating face told of many descents into the mine; gully, buttonholing a woman with a baby in her arms, and making notes in his notebook; grame, plodding to and fro in the coaly mire, for it had been raining that morning in the north: all working, all observing, all gathering facts. it was not their business to moralize, to link up dead men and disasters with the idea of these desolate women and humanity at large. that was the leader-writer's work. their business was to get the news and say how it happened. they dared not even expose criminal negligence, or inhuman cruelty, or savage conditions of work--and libel laws were there to restrain them. and they all felt--yes, i believe even the brutal gully felt it for a moment--the unspeakable horror of the tragedy, the injustice not of men dying like this, but having to live like this; great waves of sympathy and pity came over them, and they pitied themselves for their impotence. ah! if they could have told the millions that would read their writings in the morning, the thoughts that were in their minds.... humphrey saw it all. he saw the gaunt, drear shed where the flickering lamp-light played over a dozen shapeless bundles sewed up in white. a man came to the shed--this business of identification was no woman's work--the policeman in charge whispered something: they went in together; the policeman turned back the sheet--o god! is it possible that a face once human could look like that! turn down the sheet. we cannot recognize him. all we know is that the bundle of clothes seared from his body is his; that pocket-book is his too, and we recognize the bone crucifix that he bought one easter-tide in manchester. "hold up.... thanks, matey, the light's a bit dim...." an odour of carbolic mingled with the stench of the coal-dust; a blue-clad nurse with a scarlet cross on her arm moved among the white bundles, and she seemed to bring with her a promise of exquisite peace after pain, and rest and eternal sleep. outside, a grim black wagon lumbered up the hill, and, as the wind flapped its canvas doors open, one saw its load of coffins.... now the rescue party was going down again. they emerged from a brick shanty, through whose windows humphrey could see the shelves which were meant to hold the miners' lamps--there was a pathos in those empty shelves. these men were going down to dare death: they looked inhuman fantastic creatures, with goggled helmets over their heads, and great knapsack arrangements of oxygen and nitrogen to breathe, for one breath of the air in the mine below meant stupor and sleep everlasting. there were five men, and as they passed the group of dolorous women, they must have felt the tremor of hope and deep gratitude that shot through the fibre of every despairing one. here were the sexes in their elemental state, stripped of all the artificial trappings of civilization; men were doing the work of men; women giving them courage with the blessings of god that they murmured. the leader of the rescue gang carried a little canary in a cage; the little yellow bird piped and sang, and hopped about his perch. the little yellow bird was the centre of all their faith in god's mercy: for if the bird could live in the air of the mine, there was still some hope for their men. slowly the cage descended the shaft that was unbroken. the sunset blinked between the spokes of the gearing-wheel, slower and slower--they were at the bottom of the mine. now, they were in that inferno of vaporous blackness, with death stalking them, a gaunt, cloudy monster, who had but to puff out his cheeks and breathe destruction. there would be enormous falls of coal and timber to combat; they would have to crawl on their bellies, and stagger along, stooping to the broken roofs of the galleries, and always there was the startling danger of a jar knocking their knapsacks, or breaking the mouthpieces through which they breathed their precious elixir of life. up above, the night was coming, and a rain as soft as tears began to drift downwards. the women waited. salvation army officers moved among them, enticing some of them into the shelter of the silent machine-room. "of what use is tea and coffee to us? give us our men. no food or drink shall pass our lips until our men have kissed them, or we have kissed their still faces." up above, a preacher preached of the infinite mercy of god, and the gospel of pain and sorrow by which the kingdom of heaven is reached. he stood there with his arms outstretched, like a black cross silhouetted against the darkening sky, his low, mournful, dirge-like voice blending with the gloom.... down below, in the reek and the stench, the rescuers' hands are bloody with tearing their way through obstacles, and their pulses are hammering in their heads ... and they have seen sickening things. now the wheel begins to move again. doctors hurry to the door of the cage--lint, bandages, stretchers, evil and glittering instruments that kill pain with pain, all the ghastly paraphernalia of death. they are coming up!... they are coming up!... a silence, so swift and sudden, that it is as if the great multitude had whispered "hush," the tinkle of the bell marking the stages of the ascent is clearly heard by people waiting on the bank. the cage appears.... the men stagger out, one by one, helmets removed, their faces grimed and sweaty, their eyes white and staring out of the black grotesquery of their faces, their lips taut and silent. and one of them carries a cage in his hand, a cage with an empty perch, and a smother of wet and draggled feathers huddled into one corner. a world without the song of a bird--no hope! ... no hope. * * * * * "i shall have to dash back to wigan now, and get my stuff on the wires," said wratten. "will you wait here and i'll come and relieve you. pick up any stuff you can. facts." humphrey wandered about the dismal pit-mouth--sometimes he was challenged by the police, and ordered to keep within a certain area. he found a cluster of reporters by a lighted lamp. one of them had received an official communication from the mine-manager, and he was giving it to his colleagues. humphrey took it down in his note-book. then there was another flutter. a piece of flimsy paper was fixed to a board outside the lamp-house. a message from the king. now, the wires were humming with words, thousands upon thousands of words sent by the writers to all the cities of the kingdom. and in all the offices the large square sheets of the press telegraph-forms were being delivered. humphrey saw the picture of _the day_ office: selsey sitting at the top of the table, the boy handing him the pile of news from wigan, a sub-editor cutting it down, here and there--always cutting down. perhaps, you see, some great politician was making a speech at the albert hall, and space was needed for three columns, with a large introduction. it was nine o'clock. another rescue party had gone down. the women still waited, their faces yellow now in the flare of lamps. it seemed to humphrey that he had left london centuries ago ... that he had never met lilian at all. it was as if that morning his life had been uprooted, and it would have to be planted again before it could absorb the old interests and influences.... he was hungry and cold. there was no chance of getting food. if he were a miner, or had any real part in this game, the salvation army would have given him tea and bread ... but he was a reporter, an onlooker, supposed to be watching everything, and, in a sense, physically invisible. a car panted up.... it was wratten. "here i am, quain. anything happened? official communication. oh yes, and the king's telegram. better send them off. hop into the car and then send it back for me. i'll wait." "wait?" humphrey said. "what about food?" "i've got some sandwiches. i'll wait here until two. never know what will happen. rescuer might get killed. it's happened before. fellow might be brought up alive." "but it's going to rain like blazes." "is it?... off you get. you can turn in. i'll keep the deck." * * * * * it was nearly eleven when humphrey had sent his telegram to london. the post-office was open by a side door for the correspondents, and some of them were still writing. cigarettes dangled from their lips. they had an opened note-book on one side and a pile of telegraph-forms on the other--not the forms that ordinary human beings use, but large square sheets, divided up into spaces for a hundred words on a page. fifteen of them made a column in _the day_--wratten had covered thirty forms. humphrey went back to the hotel. his friends were in the coffee-room amazing the waitress with their appetites for cold meat and pickles and beer at half-past eleven. the tension was over, and the reaction was setting in. their faces were strained, and they all seemed unnaturally good-humoured. they laughed at anything, clutching at any joke that would make them forget the dismal horrors of their day. kenneth carr looked more pallid than ever. "where's wratten?" he asked, as humphrey came into the room. "still waiting up there," humphrey said. "what's the good of waiting?" gully put in. "if anything happens, the agency men will send it through, and, anyway, it's too late for the first edition." "i reckon i've done my day's work; me for the soft bed," chander remarked. "by the way, i found five separate men who've got five separate shillings out of me. each swore he was absolutely the first person to arrive on the scene and no one else there. it's a sad world. good-night." kenneth carr left shortly afterwards, and the others remained drinking and telling stories. humphrey had been chary of drinking since his adventure that evening when he was on his first murder story, but to-night he drank with the rest. they were all urged by the same motives. they wanted to forget the black pit-mouth, and the women, and the smell of the coal-dust. that night humphrey woke up suddenly and heard the rain drumming against the window. he wondered if wratten were back from the mine. he fell asleep again, and dreamed of a gaunt building, where a blue-clad nurse, with the face of lilian, hovered about white, shapeless bundles.... and in london the dawn was coming westwards over fleet street, and the vans were rattling to the stations, so that all that had been written would be read over millions of breakfast-tables everywhere in the kingdom. x since his visit to lilian's home, he had come to a definite decision about his marriage. it would have to be privately done, and the news kept from his aunt until they were wedded. in spite of the increasing breadth of his life, he had not yet shaken off the narrow influence of easterham; his aunt still remained as a factor to be considered in his scheme of things. if he told her, beforehand, she would ask all sorts of questions. who were the filmers? what did mr filmer do? (he winced at even this imagined question.) were they _really nice_ people? that was the greatest quality that anybody could have in his aunt's estimation--the quality of being _really nice_. it was a vague, impalpable quality that defied definition, though humphrey knew that, somehow or other, his aunt would arrive at the conclusion that the filmers had not that desirable attribute, if she could by any chance visit them. of lilian, of course, there could be no doubt.... she was rare and exquisite, so different altogether from the rest of her family. nobody could help loving her, and he knew that she would survive the easterham inquisition. but he saw at once that mrs filmer and his aunt would never, never blend. she would find out at once that mrs filmer was not "really nice."... he and lilian talked it over, whenever they could meet. she did not share his hurry to be married. "it is sweet like this," she said once. there was an odd, wistful note in her voice. then she looked at him fondly, and, "oh! what a boy you are, humphrey," she said. he did not object to that so much now. he smiled indulgently--he had not been many months in fleet street, but he seemed to have absorbed the experience of as many years. he was changing, so gradually, that he could not note the phases of his development himself. he felt that he was leaving all his old associations far behind. it was as if some driving power were within him, rushing him forward daily, while most of the other people round him stood still. there was beaver, for instance--he seemed to have left beaver long ago, though they were still at their old guilford street lodgings. but, somehow, beaver seemed now just a milestone, marking the passage of a brief stage in his life. soon, he knew, beaver would be out of sight altogether. there was tommy pride--another milestone; he had run on and caught up with wratten and kenneth carr, and these were the people who were influencing him now.... and there was that great ambition, growing into a steady flame: ambition burning up every other desire within him; ambition leading him by ways that mattered not so long as they led at last to conquest. lilian was to help him: she was to be a handmaiden to ambition. the picture of the journalistic homes that he had seen made him long to found one of his own. this life of lodgings and drifting was profitless--he wanted a home; permanence and peace in this life of restless insecurity. very often he dreamed of his home--where would it be?--they would have to be content with rooms at first, an upper part, perhaps, but the rooms would be their own, and they could shut the door on the world, and live monarchs of their own seclusion for a few hours, at least, every day. there were walls lined with books, too, in his picture of the home, and lilian, in an arm-chair of her own, set by the fireplace, and the blinds down, and the light glittering on the golden threads in her brown hair. he told lilian of his dreams, and she shook her head and smiled. "it's a nice picture, isn't it?" she said. "don't you see it too?" he asked. "sometimes. i used to see it quite a lot at one time. before i knew you." he showed chagrin. "oh! wasn't i in it?" "how could you have been when i hadn't met you? i forget who was the ideal for me at the moment. lewis waller, perhaps, or william gillette." she laughed. "silly humphrey, it's the picture you're in love with, and you can put anybody in the arm-chair." he protested against it, yet all the while he was wondering how she could have known that! he had not considered that point of view himself, nor would he now. it was lilian he wanted; she was just as beautiful as ever, and nobody else was within his grasp. he sighed. "i do wish we could settle about--about our marriage. let's fix it up for next week." she pretended to be horrified. "only a week to prepare in! look at the things i've got to buy. my bottom drawer isn't half full." "well!" he said, hopelessly, "when are we going to get married? do let's try and fix a day." he could not understand why, sometimes, she would seem so eager and delighted with the prospect of marriage, and at other times she would be in a mood for indefinite postponement, as though she wished to keep him for ever lingering after her with all his thirst for love unquenched. he could not know that she was beginning to realize, with that intuition which no man can fathom, that her dreams had been but dreams, and the love that they thought everlasting but the passing shadow of a moment. * * * * * when he got back to the reporters' room that evening--he had been reporting the visit of a famous actress to a home for incurables--willoughby met him with a grave face. "heard about wratten?" he asked. "no--what is it?" humphrey said, feeling that evil news was coming. "double pneumonia--they thought it was a chill at first ... he got it at that mine disaster last week. you were there, weren't you?" "yes. he would insist on staying out all night ... it was raining...." "that was wratten all over," willoughby said. humphrey winced. "don't say 'was,'" he said, almost fiercely. "wratten's going to get better. it's impossible for him to die ... why, he is only just begun to live ... and there's his wife ... and, perhaps...." he stopped short. nobody could quite understand what wratten meant to him. not even wratten himself. "i didn't know you and wratten were very thick," willoughby said. "he's a good chap, but so devilish glum." "none of you know wratten--i don't suppose i do--but i know that he's the whitest man in the street." he went out to hampstead that night, after work, but the nurse who came to the door said that he could not see mrs wratten, she was in the sick-room--mr wratten was dangerously ill; but he was going on as well as could be expected. xi ferrol was back in his room, among his buttons, after a long holiday abroad. there was always a subtle difference in the office when he returned after these occasional absences; and not only in the office, but in the whole street, where men would say to each other, "ferrol's back, i hear ... wonder what _the day_ will do next." for ferrol always returned to his paper with some new scheme, some new idea that he had planned while he was away--he seemed to be able to see weeks ahead, to know what people would be talking about, or, if he could not be certain as to that, he would "boom" something in _the day_, and its mighty circulation would make people talk about anything he wanted them to discuss. they were doing nearly a million a day--think of it! ferrol, sitting in his office, could touch a button, give some instructions, and send his influence into nearly a million homes. he could move the thoughts of hundreds of thousands; throw the weight of _the day_ into a cause and carry it through into success. he could order the lives of his readers, in large matters or small matters. that famous batter pudding campaign, for instance, is not forgotten, when _the day_ found a crank of a doctor, who declared that our national ill-health was due to eating batter pudding with roast beef. batter pudding was on every one's lips, and in no one's mouth. people stopped cooking batter pudding. ferrol touched a button and they obeyed. nor must we forget the wonderful campaign on the "bulrush throat," by which humphrey was able to oust the bulrushes from mrs wayzgoose's sitting-room. yet, sometimes, in _the day_ campaigns, there was a spark of greatness and a hint of nobler things, that seemed to reflect the complex personality of ferrol himself; ferrol groping through the web of commercial opportunism which was weaving round him, striving after something ideal and worthy. a man has been wrongly arrested and condemned--ferrol stands for justice; the columns of _the day_ are opened to powerful pens; the nation is inflamed, there are questions in the house, the case is re-opened and the conviction quashed. nameless injustices and cruel dishonesty would flourish if _the day_ were not there to expose such things. you must balance the good against the evil, and perhaps the good will outweigh the evil, for ferrol, when he touched the buttons, did many good things, and the nearest approach to evil he made was in doing those few things that were transparently foolish.... something in _the day_ had arrested his attention that morning. (he always read the paper through, page by page, from the city quotations to the last word on the sporting page.) the article in question was not an important one: it was a few hundred words about a party of american girls who were being hustled through london in one day--the quickest sight-seeing tour on record. the account of their doings was brightly written, with a flash of humour here and there; and, you know, it had the "human touch." who wrote it? the button moves; pink-faced trinder starts nervously from his desk in the ante-room, and appears shiny, and halting in speech. he is sent on a mission of investigation, while ferrol turns to other matters: the circulation department wants waking up. ferrol actually travelled in his car all the way from his house in kensington, and for every contents bill of _the day_ he saw three of _the sentinel_. gammon, the manager of the circulation department, appears, produced magically by touching a button. "this won't do, you know." there are explanations, though ferrol doesn't want explanations--he wants results; which gammon, retiring in a mood for perspiration, promises. there has been a slight drop in advertisement revenue--ferrol has a finger in every pie. "dull season be damned," says ferrol to the advertisement manager--a very great person, drawing five thousand a year, commissions and salary, and with it all dependent on ferrol. in two minutes ferrol has produced a "scheme"--an idea that may be worth thousands of pounds to the paper. "splendid," says the advertisement manager. "get ahead with it," says ferrol.... in ten minutes it is as if there had been an eruption in every department of the grey building. the fault-finding words in the red room with the buttons drop like stones in a pool, making widening rings, until they reach the humblest junior in every department--ferrol is back, and the office knows it!... trinder reappears. mr quain wrote the article ... and ferrol suddenly remembers. so the boy has been doing well. both neckinger and rivers approve of humphrey. "not a brilliant genius, thank god!" says rivers, "but a good straightforward man. very sound." thus is ferrol justified once more in his perception for the right man. his thoughts travelled back once more to easterham, to the days when he himself was humphrey's age, to the days of margaret, and the white memories of his only romance. strange that the vision of her should always stand out against the thousand complexities of his life after all these years. he saw her just as he had last seen her, eyes of a deep darkness, and black hair that seemed by contrast to heighten the dusky pallor of her skin. a child that was too frail to live, and yet she had inspired him in these long distant days. it was astonishing to think that she had had a separate life of her own; that she had married and passed out of the scheme of things. she was dead, and yet she came knocking like this at queer, irregular intervals, at the door of his life. and ferrol was drawn with a strange attraction towards this boy who was her son; he came as if he were a message from margaret, holding out her hands to him, across the unfathomable abyss of space and time. "now you can repay," she seemed to say. * * * * * "well, quain," said ferrol, as humphrey came into the room. ferrol masked his sentiments behind the crisp, hard voice that he always cultivated in the office. nobody could have guessed from his treatment of humphrey that he regarded the boy with any particular favour. ferrol knew well enough how to handle men: they must be made always to believe that they are firm and independent, and it does not do to let them see the props and supports that hold them up. humphrey was busily searching for the reason of this summons to ferrol's room. it was only the third time that he had been in this broad red room, yet already his nervousness vanished, he no longer feared his greatness, or the comprehensive power of the man with the black moustache and the strong hands that held in their grip all the fortunes of _the day_. he stood there, by ferrol's desk, so changed, so different from the timid humphrey who had felt the floor sinking beneath him when he faced, for the first time, this man whose potentiality he could not grasp. there was little outward difference, save, perhaps, the lips compressed a little tighter, and a frown that came and went, but inwardly the timid humphrey had gone, and in its place there was a bolder humphrey, whose mind was all the better for the bruises of battle. "well, quain," said ferrol, moving papers about his desk, and regarding humphrey all the time with those penetrating grey eyes. "you sent for me, sir?" humphrey asked. "yes." ferrol paused. "getting on all right?" he blurted out. humphrey smiled--getting on! the phrase had been on his lips on that day when he had first appeared in the red room. he thought of all the things that had been crowded into his life since then. of all that he had seen; of all the people he had met; of the glimpses into the greatness and the pettiness; the worthiness and the unworthiness; the virtue and the vice and the vanity of it all. as he thought thus, he saw a blurred composite picture of the past months, figures flitting to and fro, men striving in the underworld of endeavour, work, work, and a little love, and, in the background, a whimsical picture of his aunt who preached the stern gospel of getting on, without knowing what it really meant. "i'm going to have you put on better work," ferrol said. how the boy's eyes sparkled and lit up his face! "mr rivers is quite satisfied. you shall do some of the descriptive work. think you'll be able to do as well as john k. garton one day?" john k. garton!--he was the great descriptive writer of _the day_, the man who signed every article he wrote, who was never seen in the reporters' room, except when he looked in for letters; a being who seemed to humphrey to belong to quite another sphere, above wratten, above kenneth carr, above all the reporters in salary and reputation. he was one of ferrol's products: all england knew of him, and read his work as special correspondent, yet ferrol could put a finger on a button, you know.... humphrey laughed. "oh, i don't know, mr ferrol," he said, awkwardly. "my work would probably be quite different, i couldn't write in his style." "that's right," said ferrol. "try and find an individual style of your own. no room for imitators here. still, there's plenty of time to talk about that. i just wanted to let you know i've had my eye on you." ferrol nodded, humphrey turned to go. then he remembered he was going to ask ferrol for a rise in salary. he came back to the desk. "oh, mr ferrol," he said, "i ought to tell you, i'm going to be married." ferrol pushed his pad aside. what a fool he had been to think he could constitute himself the only influence in this boy's career. how was it he had overlooked the one important factor--a woman. it came so suddenly, this revelation of humphrey's intimate life, and all at once ferrol found himself swayed with an unreasoning dislike of this unknown woman--it was an absurd feeling of jealousy.--yes, he was jealous that anybody should exercise a greater influence than himself over humphrey, now that he had decided to push him forward to success. "married!" he said, harshly, "you damned young fool!" the words came as a blow in the face. humphrey flushed, and found that he could not speak. he thought of ferrol's soft words that had opened up such illimitable visions of the future, and then, quite unexpectedly--this. "somebody in easterham?" asked ferrol. "oh no! nobody in easterham. she lives in london. she's in fleet street." "a woman journalist?" "no--she's a typist." "you damned young fool!" ferrol repeated. "what do you want to get married for?" xii in the silence that followed, humphrey stood bewildered. the harsh note in ferrol's voice surprised him; what on earth could it matter to ferrol whether he married or not. and ferrol must have read his thoughts, and seen his mistake at once. "of course," he said, "it's no business of mine. your life's your own. only i think you're too young for that sort of thing. why, you haven't seen the world yet. you haven't a father, have you?" "no," said humphrey. "well"--ferrol's voice softened--"you won't mind my advising you then." "no," said humphrey again: already he seemed to feel lilian slipping from his grasp. "i'm looking at it simply from the business point of view. no man has a right to marry until his position is made--least of all a reporter." "but she would help me," humphrey pleaded. "she would be able to help me. she would ..." he broke off. ferrol completed the sentence for him. "keep you straight. yes, i know. i've heard it all before. the man who needs a woman to keep him straight is only half a man." "but," continued humphrey--and he thought of wratten and tommy pride--"we don't get much out of life--we're at work all day long, there's absolutely nobody ... i mean, there's nothing left in it all ..." he spread his hands wide. "at the end there's nothing ... emptiness." he stammered broken sentences that had a queer impressiveness in them. "i'm nothing ... it seems to me ... all this life, rushing about all day ... and everything forgotten to-morrow ... there's nothing that lasts ... nothing except...." "oh, you think you'll get happiness," ferrol said. "perhaps you will. but every moment of happiness is going to cost you years of misery. as soon as you marry, what happens? you are no longer independent. you've got to lie down and take all the kicks. you've got to submit to be ground down; to be insulted by men whom you dare not strike back, as you would, if you had only yourself to think of.... and then, you know, in a year's time, you've got to work ... double as hard, and to watch every penny, and to save.... why, you young fool, don't you see that if you're going to get on in this business, you mustn't have any other wish in life but to rise to the top. everything must be put aside for that--you must even put aside yourself. you must have only one love--the love of the game; the love of the hunter for his quarry." what made ferrol talk like this.... what had happened to humphrey that he should be there, standing up to ferrol, fighting the question of his marriage? something new and unexpected had thrust itself into their relations, and humphrey could not understand it. "but that's what i want to do," he said; "we should do it together." "yes. how?" said ferrol, a little brutally again. "shall i tell you? i know you young men who marry the moment you see a marrying wage. it's all very well for you--you may progress--you may develop--you're bound to, for men knock about and gather world experience. but what of the woman at home?--cooped up in her home with babies? eh? have you thought of that? where would your home be? you haven't got as far as that, then. the woman stands still, and you march on. she can lift you up, but you can't lift her up. and then the day comes that you're a brilliant man--the most brilliant man in the street, if you like...." ferrol smiled. "oh! you never know. think of john k. garton, and mallaby, and owers.... and you're different. you can link up the things of life. you can perceive and appreciate pictures and fine music and the meaning of everything that matters ... and for the woman who has not been able to progress, nothing but popular songs, chromographs, and ignorance of anything but the petty little things of to-day. then you hear people saying, 'how on earth did he come to marry her?' there's always an answer to that. _he_ didn't marry her. it was another man--the man he was twenty years ago--who did it. do you see?" humphrey looked about him forlornly. his dreams were crumbling before the onslaught of ferrol's remorseless less words. the powerful magnetism of this man held him: he felt sure that ferrol was right.... ferrol was only voicing the thoughts that he himself had feared to express. above the inward turmoil of his mind, he heard again the voice of ferrol, forceful and insistent: "you are not the man you will be in twenty years' time. there's no reason," he added hastily, "why i should take all this trouble over you ... no reason at all ... it's no concern of mine. other people on my staff can do as they please--for some men marriage is the best thing ... i don't interfere. i'm not interfering now. i'm only giving my point of view." "yes ... i know," humphrey said, and somehow or other he seemed to feel an extraordinary sympathy for ferrol; he seemed to understand this man. at that moment he would have stood forth for ferrol and championed him against a world of hatred! "only i thought ..." humphrey began. "you see, she supports her family...." "o lord!" ferrol groaned. "it's worse than i imagined." "besides, she's ... she's clever ... we have the same tastes." "of course you have. but your tastes will alter. you're going to progress.... and she's going to progress, too, on different lines.... a woman's line of progress is different ... and in twenty years' time!" the telephone bell rang. ferrol took up the receiver. "well, that's all," he said to humphrey. and then: "i don't take this trouble with every one." humphrey groped for words. "no ... i understand ... i see what you mean.... you don't think...." ferrol nodded. "you can do what you like, of course." he put the receiver to his ear and began talking rapidly. xiii lilian knew the letter by heart now, she had read it through and through so often. she had received it early that morning, when, as usual, she ran downstairs at the postman's knock, so as to take that precious letter, that came daily, from the floor where it lay as it had been dropped through the slit in the door. of late, the sisters and brother had noticed the hurry to capture the first post, and there had been a little good-humoured chaffing over the breakfast-table, where they all sat together--the father and mother took their breakfast upstairs in bed, in keeping with their slatternly lives. "going to be a blushing bride soon, lily?" said harry, with a wink to edith. "don't be silly!" lilian said, crumbling her letter in her pocket. "what's he like? is it that nobleman who came here a few weeks ago? if so, i don't think much of his taste in ties!" "it's better than your taste in socks," retorted lilian. "aha!--a hit, a palpable hit. guessed it at once. pass the butter, edie." "do tell us all about it," florence urged. "the family wants to know," pleaded harry. "lilian--are you really...." her hands closed over the letter which she had just read. she turned her head away and pretended to be busy at the coffee-pot. they were all joking among themselves, and they did not notice the tears glisten in her eyes. "there's nothing to tell," she said, in a hard voice. "oh, we don't believe that!" harry said. "young ladies wot gets letters in masculiferous handwritings every morning...." she rose abruptly and looked at the clock. then--wonderful lilian!--she laughed and threw them all off the scent. "you children are too talkative," she said, with pretended loftiness. "i mustn't stop chattering with you or i shall miss the eight-forty." she put on her gloves with precision, and took up her little handbag, and adjusted her hat, just as if nothing had happened to disturb the ordinary course of her life; and, then, with the usual kiss all round, she let herself out of the house. oh, she kept herself well in hand throughout the journey to town--nobody knew, and nobody must know. it was only a secret between herself and her heart. she looked out with dry eyes over the dismal plain of chimney-pots with which the train ran level, the cowls spinning in the wind ... the chimney-pots stretched row upon row, far away, until, with a hint of the open sea, adventure and wide freedom, the masts and rigging and brown sails arose from the ships lying in the docks. but when she came to the office she rushed upstairs, and in the little room where they hung their cloaks and hats, all her pent-up emotions broke loose with a torrent of tears. she wanted to empty her eyes of tears so that there should be none left, and she wept without control, silently, until she could weep no more. it was just like a short, sharp storm on a day that is oppressive and heavy; the air is all the cooler and sweeter for it, fresh breezes play gently over the streets, the world itself seems eased after its outburst. she could smile again. she bathed her red eyes in the cold water of the basin, and performed some magic with a powder-puff. nobody would have guessed, as she sat tap-tapping at her typewriter, with the sunshine touching her hair with its golden fingers, that a thunderstorm had shaken her nature a few minutes earlier. it was all over now; only the letter remained, and she knew the letter by heart, she had read it so often. a difficult letter to write! well, not really, for that which comes from the heart is easy to write. it is insincerity which presents difficulties, and in this business humphrey had not been insincere. he had not made any cold calculations as to the future; he had not weighed the pros and cons of it all. after the letter was written and posted, the vision of her reproachful face haunted his dreams, and he felt that he had lost something irretrievable--something of himself that had gone from him, never to return. he was only considering himself. he saw the sudden possibilities of the future which ferrol had opened for him; the true proportions in which he had painted that picture of the days to come. the fear of these responsibilities attacked him and made him a coward. he saw, at once, that he could not marry lilian, and he told her so in a tempestuous, passionate letter, with ill-considered phrases jumbled all together, treading on one another's heels, as fast as the ideas tumbled about in his mind. "i cannot do it, lilian, dear," he began. "we should never be happy together. i can see that. i don't know what you will think of me; you cannot think any worse of me than i think of myself. i feel a blackguard; i feel as if some one had given me a beautiful, priceless vase, and i had hurled it to the floor and smashed it. it is not that i love you any the less, but i cannot ask you to share this life of mine. when i first knew you, i thought it would be beautiful if we could be married--everything seemed so easy to accomplish. but now i see that years must pass before i win my way, and that marriage for us would be an unhappy, uphill affair. forgive me, forgive me, lilian. i cannot tell you all my thoughts on paper. but meet me just once more in the old restaurant in the strand, where i can explain to you all that i want to say, and plead for your forgiveness. oh, my sweet lilian, you will understand and help me, i know. "humphrey." this was the letter, written on the impulse of the moment, which humphrey sent to her. incredible that it should be dropped in the ordinary way into a pillar-box, to lie for hours with hundreds of other letters, to pass through many hands until it finally came into the hands of the postman at battersea park, who delivered it, without any emotion, with a score of bills and receipts and circulars. well, it was done, and, while humphrey was waiting for his work in the reporters' room of _the day_, lilian's mind was busy with the new development of affairs. now, she could review everything calmly, she felt in her heart that humphrey was right, but there was the sense of wounded pride with her. he had thrown her over! he did not even ask her to wait for him--yes! she would have waited--he was hasty to unburden himself and win his freedom again. yet she knew that she could not wait--she was older than he--she would be too old in ten years' time. the flower of her life would be full for a few years, and then she knew he would see that her glory was waning.... all this was no surprise to her. instinctively she seemed to have known that this would be the outcome of her love affair. strange! how she accepted it without any more demur than the natural outburst of tears--and what were those tears, after all, but tears of self-pity, as she looked upon herself and saw that she was poor and patient and loveless? they met in that same italian restaurant in the strand to which humphrey had first taken her on that day, months ago, when the glamour was upon him. the proprietor knew them for more or less regular customers, and they always had the upstairs room, which was invariably empty. this dreadful business of the waiter taking his hat and stick, setting the table in order, offering the menus, and recommending things, with a greasy smile, and knowing, dark eyes! they had to mask their feelings, and to play the old part, and pretend that they were going to have lunch. she noticed that humphrey's face was pale, the lines about his mouth less soft than usual. his eyes were strained, and he looked at her wistfully, not quite sure of his ground, wondering whether there would be a scene. she could read him thoroughly. she knew that he really felt mean and uncomfortable, that she had but to use her woman-wit to recapture him at once--snare him so completely that never could he escape again. she knew that the very sight of her weakened him in his resolve, a kiss on the lips, and her fingers stroking his hair and face, he was hers, and the world well lost for him. but that was not lilian's way. a strange, deep feeling of pity was in her heart as she marked the pallor of his face. she would have mothered him, but never cajoled him. "he is only a boy," she thought sorrowfully, "with a boy's destructiveness. this, that he thinks is an overwhelming tragedy, will be only a mere incident in a few years' time." and she smiled at her thoughts. her smile awoke only the faintest echoes of dying memories within him: her smile that had once thrilled him, and sent his heart beating faster, and made his throat so curiously parched--incredible that such things had happened once! "you are not angry," he said, timidly, with a touch of tragedy in his voice. "angry?" she echoed. (he feared she was going to make light of the whole affair, and trembled at the idea of her mocking him: he might have known that that also was not lilian's way.) "angry," she repeated. "no, humphrey. i'm not angry." "there's no excuse," he began, hopelessly, "i've got nothing to say for myself.... it seems to me ... it seems best that it should be ... for both of us, i mean." "i think it's better for me," she said, softly. "there's no good making a tragedy of it. things always turn out for the best." he fidgeted uneasily. "i was thinking it over last night.... oh, my head aches with thinking.... you see, what can we do, if we married. everything's up against us ... it's all fighting and risks, and uncertainty. i don't mind for myself" (and humphrey really believed this, for the moment), "it's you that i'm thinking of ... it wouldn't be fair. i could ask you to wait ..." he did not finish. now, really, humphrey's arrogance must be taught a lesson. behold, lilian gathering her forces together to crush him--ask her to wait, indeed! as if he were her last chance. and then something in his eyes checked her, something wistful and intensely pathetic. splendidly, lilian spared him. he was so easy to crush ... perhaps she still liked him a little, in spite of everything. "no," she said. "there's no need to do that. we'll each go our own ways." the waiter, after discreet knocking at the door, came between them with plates of food and clatter of knives and forks. they regarded him silently, and when he was gone, they made a feeble pretence of eating. "i ought to have known better," she said, returning to the business again with a wry smile. "i ought to have known it couldn't have lasted." "it isn't that i love you any the less," he said, unconsciously quoting a phrase in his letter. "i don't know how to explain my attitude.... i love you just the same ... but, somehow...." "don't, don't explain," she interrupted. "i understand. of course it's impossible if you think like that. and, of course, humphrey, there's no need to talk of love...." she laughed a little, and then, really, she could not spare him any more. "oh, what a boy you are!" he flushed hotly. "i know you've always looked upon me as a boy," he said. "you think i'm a child ... but it takes a man to do what i'm doing ... it takes courage to face it out ... it hurts." "oh, you _are_ a boy," she said, with a little hysterical laugh. "of course you're only a boy." she pushed her plate away from her. "don't you see what you've done--you've broken up everything." and she put her head on her arms outstretched on the table, and sobbed and sobbed again. he watched her shoulders tremble with her sobs, and heard her accusing words repeat themselves in a pitiful refrain in his ears. at that moment he touched, it seemed, the lowest depths of meanness. he felt awkward and foolish.... she was crying, and he could do nothing. "lilian ... lilian," he pleaded, touching her hand that was flat on the table. "don't--i didn't mean to." heavens! if she did not stop, he would snatch her to him, and kiss her hotly, and let ferrol and the world and all its success go by him for ever. the waiter saved the situation. his knock came as a warning, and when he entered the room with more plates and a greasier smile, he found the lady at the window flinging it open widely and complaining of the heat, the gentleman looking moodily before him, and the food barely touched. "you no like the fricassee, sare?" he said, turning the rejected food with his fork. "it's all right," humphrey said, in a voice that the waiter knew to mean "get out." "no appetite to-day." lilian turned from the window, as the door closed behind him. her eyes and lips were struggling for mastery over her emotions, and the lips conquered with a wan, watery smile. she placed her hand on humphrey's shoulder. "there," she said, wiping her eyes, destroying the tension with a prosy sniff. "it's all over--i didn't mean to be so silly." the miserable meal went on in silence. there was nothing more to be said. he was thinking of all this pitiful love-affair of his, how it ran unevenly through the fabric of work and hopes, beginning at first with a brilliant pattern--a splash of the golden sunrise--and gradually becoming worn, until now all the threads were twisted and frayed. after this, they would part, never to meet again on the old terms, never to recapture the thrill of early love. odd, how she who had lain so close to his heart, enfolded in his arms, would have to pass him in the street henceforth, perhaps with only a nod, perhaps without any recognition at all. and nobody would know, nobody would guess of their shipwrecked love. "i'm glad i never told mother," she said once, voicing her thoughts. she took a little package from her pocket: it held the few trinkets he had given her, wrapped up in tissue-paper--a brooch or two, a thin gold necklace with a heart dangling from it, and his own signet ring. "no ... no ..." he said; "for god's sake, keep those. i should be happier if you kept them." she shook her head gently. "i could not keep them," she said. "they were little tokens of your love ... they belong to you now." there was a pause. the clock chimed two. the disillusion was complete, all the fine draperies of love had been wrenched away--they were so flimsy after all--and behind them reality stood, sordid and ashamed. she tried to strike a note of cheerful fatalism. "well, what must be, must be," she said, reaching for her cloak. he sprang to his feet to help her, remembering how, in other days, his hand had touched her cheek, and he had urged her lips towards him, that he might kiss her. how calm and self-possessed she was now. how magnificently she mastered the situation--a false move from her and the moments would become chaotic. he was uneasy, awkward and embarrassed ... one moment, ready to snatch her to his arms and begin all over again; the next, alertly conscious that he was unencumbered, that henceforth there was no other interest in his life but work--free! now she was ready to go. "i won't come down with you," he said, "i'll say good-bye now." he could not face a parting in the street. he watched her gather her things together, her bag, her umbrella, her gloves ... she smiled at him, and now the smile was a riddle: he could not guess her thoughts: contempt or pity? suddenly she bent down towards him, stooped over him, with her face aglow with a divine expression, virginal and tender, the light of sacrifice in her eyes, the sweet pain of martyrdom on her lips; she bent towards him and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "good-bye, humphie dear." she had never spoken with a voice like that before, she had never shown how much she loved him, and all the misunderstandings, the torment, the doubts and uncertainties were washed away as his thoughts gushed forth in a great appreciation of his loss. the next moment she had gone. he was alone in the room, with her good-bye ringing in his ears. idly he fingered a little packet of tissue-paper, opening it and laying bare the little pieces of metal that were all that remained to him of his love. he touched the presents that he had given to lilian--each one held memories for him.... the gold signet ring had belonged to his father.... if only daniel quain had been there, with his world-wisdom and philosophy.... tears, humphrey? surely, not tears! think how splendidly free you are now; think of the moment of triumph when you can go to ferrol and tell him that you are no longer hampered; see how straight the path that leads to conquest. xiv that night, in a little box of a flat in hampstead, a man was fighting his last battle, with the fingers of death at his throat and the arm of love for his support. it was a sharp, short battle, ended when the night itself finished, and the dawn came through the chinks in the shutters, as pale and as cold as a ghost. this was the end of leonard wratten, whom so few people understood, who had always kept his own counsel, so that only he himself knew of his own struggles and ambitions--they were just like humphrey's, just like those of every other man in the street. he had not asked much of life, and all that he asked for was given him, and then snatched away. they talked about it in the pen club, and in the offices. "overwork," they whispered. "he was just married." ferrol rose to the occasion: wrote handsome cheques for mrs wratten, straightened out affairs, sent her flowers, arranged for her to take a sea-cruise ... did all that he possibly could, except bring leonard wratten striding back to life again. but there was one in fleet street who followed the coffin to the cemetery, who seemed to feel that he alone had understood wratten. ("it's always the best fellows that are taken," they said, when he was gone, as they say of every one.) and, as he came away from the cemetery in the sunshine when the coffin had been lowered into the grave, and scattered with lilies, he knew that he had lost friendship inestimable, for it had not had time fully to develop and ripen. wratten's death, and the break with lilian, came hard upon each other: he felt that the roots of his life were stirred, two influences of such potent possibilities had gone from him. he knew that a phase of his life was closed. part iii elizabeth i the pen club stands far away from clubland up a narrow court that leads from fleet street, into the maze of the little streets and courts that finally emerge on holborn. it is the hidden core of newspaper land. it lurks behind the newspaper offices with discreet ground-glass windows, unpretentious, and obscurely peaceful. no porter in brass-buttoned uniform guards its doors--indeed, it has but one, and that a door with a lustrous, black-glass panel, with a golden message of "members only" lettered upon it. strangers and messengers are requested to tap gently on the window of a little pigeon-hole at the side. oliver goldsmith once lived in the house that is now the pen club; dr johnson lived a few courts away, and strode down fleet street to the "cheshire cheese," little dreaming that americans would follow in his footsteps as pilgrims to a shrine. its courts have had their place in the history of our letters, but all that is past, for journalism affects a contempt for literature, and literature walks by with a high head. if you want literature, and art, and high-thinking, you must go further west, along the strand, where you may find a club that still clings to the traditions of bohemia: but if you want to meet good fellows, jolly, generous, foolish men, wise as patriarchs in some things, and like children in others, then you must join the pen club. all around it are the flourishing signs of the journalists' trade. here a process-block maker; there a lesser news agency; round the corner a large printing works, and almost opposite it the vibrating basements of _the day_. you can see the props of the scenery--take a stroll through the courts, and you see the back-doors of all those proud newspaper offices, great rolls of paper being hoisted up for to-morrow's issue, dismal wagons piled high with yesterday's papers, tied up in bundles, "returns"; unsold papers that will be taken back to the paper-mills and pulped: food for the philosopher here! humphrey quain joined the pen club when he had been three years in fleet street. it was willoughby, the crime enthusiast of _the day_, who put his name down; jamieson, the dramatic critic, seconded him. two years had made very little outward difference in humphrey. he had perhaps grown an inch, and his shoulders broadened in proportion, but his face was the same frank, boyish face that had gazed open-mouthed in fleet street on that january day. yet there was some slight change in the expression of the eyes; they had become charged with an eager, expectant look; observation had trained them to an alertness and a strained directness of gaze. inwardly, too, the change in him was imperceptible. he had lost a little of that cocksure way of his, and acquired, by constant mingling with men older than himself, a point of view and an understanding above his years. in worldly knowledge he had advanced with large and sudden strides: some call it vice and some call it experience. a young man, thrust into the whirlpool of london, finds it difficult to avoid such experience, and so humphrey had allowed himself to be tossed hither and thither with the underswirl of it all, learning deeper lessons than any man can teach. he had come out of this period with a sense of something lost, yet never regretting its loss. sometimes a bitter spasm of shame would overtake him when he thought of the sordid memories he was accumulating. he could have wished it all undone, and he looked back on the humphrey quain of easterham, and saw himself singularly unsmirched, and innocent--knowing nothing, absolutely nothing. after all, he thought, was this knowledge? does all this go towards the making of a man, as the steel is tempered by the fire? humphrey did not know ... he took all that life offered him: the good and the bad, the folly with the wisdom. that affair of his with lilian filmer was now nothing more than a memory. they had never spoken since their wretched meeting in the strand restaurant. it was strange, too, how rarely they had met, when in the old days scarcely a day seemed to pass without the sight of her in fleet street. she still worked in the special news agency office, and yet, during the two years that had passed since their parting, he had not seen her more than four or five times, and then only in the distance. once he found himself marching straight towards her in the crowd of the luncheon-hour walkers: panic seized him; he did not know what to do. she was walking proudly with the erect carriage of her body that he knew so well--and then, almost mysteriously, she had disappeared. perhaps she had seen him, and avoided a direct meeting by turning down a side street or by passing into a shop. for a year he always walked on the other side of the street during the luncheon hour. at the back of his mind she lived as vividly as she had lived in the days when she had been the most important factor in his existence. there were times when the thought of her rendered him uneasy; he felt he had not been true to himself, there was a reproachful blot on his escutcheon.... strange! how lasting his love had seemed that night when he had kissed her in the cab after the theatre. he could look back on it all now dispassionately. there had been progress in the office. his salary was now eight pounds a week. he remembered the day when he had gone to ferrol, and said, a little miserably, for the strain of the breaking with lilian pressed hardly on his heart in those days: "i've broken off my engagement." in these words he had dedicated himself to ferrol and _the day_. nothing more was said. ferrol nodded in a non-committal sort of way. a few weeks later humphrey was sent to the east coast on special work. he did well, and the increase in salary came to him at last. with this he lifted himself out of the old ruck of his life. the money opened up unbounded vistas of wealth and new possibilities to him. he decided to leave beaver and guilford street. beaver, as an influence, had served his turn in shaping humphrey's career. it was beaver who first showed him the way to london, and now, at odd intervals, beaver occurred and recurred across his vision, still biting his nails, and still with ink-splashed thumbs. no stress of ambition seemed to disturb beaver's placidity. he was content to plod on and on, day after day, a journalistic cart-horse, until he dropped dead in his collar. that was how it seemed to humphrey, who never credited beaver with any great aspirations, yet that shaggy man had a separate life of his own, with his own dreams, and his own aims, which one day were destined to touch the fringe of humphrey's life. humphrey took a small flat in clifford's inn, a place of sleep and peace and quiet then, as it is now, out of the noise of fleet street. it was a "flat" only by courtesy, for in reality it was made up of two rooms and a box-room. the larger was his sitting-room, and the smaller--a narrow, oblong room--he used as a sleeping apartment. very little light, and scarcely any air, came through the small latticed windows, but the rooms held a mediæval charm about them, and he was free for ever from the landladies and grubbiness of lodgings. he paid a pound a week for his rooms in clifford's inn. every evening when he was free in london, humphrey went to the pen club. the place had a fascination for him, which he could not shake off. one could not define this fascination, this influence which the club wielded over him. it grew on him gradually, until an evening spent without a visit to the club seemed empty and insufficient. there was nothing vicious about the club--it was just a meeting-place, where one could eat and drink. within its four walls there was peace unutterable; and the world stood still for you when you passed the threshold. other clubs have tape machines spitting out lengths of news: telegrams pasted on the walls; chairs full of old gentlemen reading newspapers with dutiful eagerness--the pen club was a place where you escaped from news, where nobody was interested in news as news, but merely in news as it stood in the relation to the doings of their friends. there was no excitement over a by-election, nobody cared who would get in on polling day; nobody thrilled over a revolution in a foreign state; mention of these things only served as a peg on which to hang discussions of personalities. "i expect williamson's having a nobby time in st petersburg," or "who's down at bodmin for _the herald_--carter?--i thought so. jolly good stuff in to-day." and when news did touch them, it touched them personally, and altered the tenor of their lives perhaps for many days. at any minute something would happen, and a half-dozen of them would be wanted at their different offices. they would just disappear from the club for a few days, and return to find that a fresh set of events had dwarfed their own experiences completely. they were never missed. a man might be absent in morocco for half-a-year, living through wild happenings, with his life hanging on a slender thread--a hero in the eyes of newspaper readers--but nobody in particular in the eyes of the pen club, where every one found his level in the fellowship of the pen. they came and went like shadows. humphrey found all types of journalists in the pen club--odd types off the beaten track of journalism, guarding their own cabbage-patch of news, and taking their wares to market daily. there was larkin, for instance, who took the railway platforms as his special province. he was a tall, thin man, with friendly eyes smiling behind gold-rimmed pince-nez. no duke or duchess could leave london by way of the railway termini without larkin knowing it. those paragraphs that appeared scattered about all the newspapers of london, telling of the departure of somebody and his wife to cairo or nice marked the trail of larkin's day across the london railway stations. then there was foyle, a chubby, red-faced man, with a jolly smile, who, by the unwritten law of fleet street, chronicled the fires that happened in the metropolis. a fire without foyle was an impossible thing to imagine. there was touche, who dealt only in marriages and engagements; and ford, who had made a corner for himself in the divorce courts; chate, who sat in the bankruptcy court; modgers, who specialized in recording the wills and last testaments of those who died; and vernham, lean, long-haired, and cadaverous, who was the fleet street authority on the weather. these men and others were the servants of all newspapers, and attached to none. in some cases their work had been handed down from father to son; they made snug incomes, and though they were servants of all, they were masters of themselves. and all these men were just like children out of school, when they met in the pen club: there was no grim seriousness about them--they kept all that for their work. they had insatiable appetites for stories, for reminiscences of their craft. they knew how to laugh. it was well that they did, for, if they had taken themselves seriously, they would never have been able to face the caricatures of themselves which hung on the walls. these caricatures, drawn by a cartoonist on one of the dailies, were things of shuddering satire: they were cruelly true, grotesque parodies of faces and mouths, legs and arms. if you wanted to know the truth of a member, all you had to do was to consult the wall, and there you saw the man's character grimacing at you in colours. * * * * * humphrey had been away from london for a week, and he came back to find the club seething with excitement. the moment he crossed the threshold he was aware of something abnormal in the life of the club. it was the last night of the club elections for the committee--a riotous affair as a rule. all round the room there was the chatter and buzz of members discussing the new spirit in the club. as member after member dropped in, the excitement grew. it was a historic election. for the first time the youngest members of the club had been nominated to stand on the committee. the older members, the men who had watched the pen club grow from one room in the second floor of a house to two whole houses knocked into one, looked on a little sorrowfully. they had not become accustomed to the new spirit in the club. among themselves, they said the club was going to the dogs. these young men were making a travesty of the whole business. they had no reverence for traditions. after all, the election of a chairman and a committee was a grave affair. it was amazing how seriously they took themselves. presently chander appeared selling copies of _the club mosquito_, a journal produced specially for the occasion, which stung members in the weakest spots of their personalities. there were caricatures and portraits of all the "young members" who were going to save the club, as they put it, from the moss and cobwebs of old age. really, these young men were very ruthless. they invented election songs, and they sang boisterously:-- "we're going to vote all night, we're going to vote all day." privileged sub-editors, dropping in for a half-hour from their offices, found themselves caught up on the tempest of exhilaration. "hallo, here's leman--have you voted yet, leman?" and a paper would be fetched and leman would be made to put a cross against thirteen names, with thirteen people urging him to have a drink. bribery and corruption! humphrey abandoned himself to the merriment of the evening. he constituted himself willoughby's election-agent, and canvassed for votes with shameless disregard for the corrupt practices act. sharp, the sporting journalist, was busy making a book on the result. that eminent war-correspondent, bertram wace, issued a manifesto, demanding to know why he should not be chairman. the price of _the club mosquito_ rose to a shilling a copy when it was known that all the proceeds were to go to the newspaper press fund. humphrey found himself left alone with the excitement eddying all round him. he was able to survey the scene with an air of detached interest. it reminded him of his school-days: all these men were young of heart, with the generous impulses of boys; they had the spirit of eternal youth--the one reward which men of their temperament are able to wrest from life. he saw willoughby, with his black hair in a disordered tangle over his eyes, joining in the war-song of the young members. as he looked at all these men, chattering, laughing, grouped together here and there where some one was telling an entertaining story, he saw the smiling aspect of fleet street, the siren, luring the adventurous stranger to her, with laughter and opulent promise. to-morrow they would all begin their nervous work again, struggling to secure a firm foothold in the niches of the street, when a false move, a mistake, would bring disaster with it; but they thought nothing of to-morrow; they lived in a life of to-days.... he saw tommy pride come into the club. two years had left their mark on tommy's face. new reporters had appeared in the street, and somehow tommy found himself marking time, while the army of younger men pressed forward and passed him. he could not complain; he felt that if he asserted himself, rivers or neckinger would tell him bluntly that they were cutting down the staff--the dreadful, unanswerable excuse for dismissal. he knew that his mind was less supple than it was years ago; the stress and the bitterness of competition was sterner now than in those days when they posted assignments overnight. so, too, his pen went more slowly, finding each day increasing the difficulty of grappling with new methods. tommy pride had lived in to-day, and now to-morrow was upon him. "stopping for the declaration of the poll, pride?" asked humphrey. "not me," said tommy, picking a bundle of letters from his pigeon-hole. "i've had a late turn to-night and the missis will be sitting up." "well, what about a drink?" tommy shrugged his shoulders wearily. "oh--a whisky and soda," he said. "what a row these fellows are making." willoughby attacked him with a voting paper, and humphrey noticed how pride's hand--the hand that had written millions of words--trembled as he made crosses against the names. it was as if each finger were attached to thin wires; it reminded humphrey of those toy tortoises from japan, that danced and shook in a little glass case. and he thought: "will my hand be like that one day?" the torrent of talk flowed all round him; gusts of boisterous laughter marked the close of a funny story. in all the stories there was a note of egotism. he saw, suddenly, why these men were not as other men. they were profound egotists, they lived each day by the assertion of their own individuality. the stronger the individuality of the man, the greater his chance of success. and these men, he saw, though they all worked in a common school, were absolutely different from one another. they were different, even, in breeding: there were men whose voice and pose could only have been acquired at one of the 'varsities; there were men who lacked the refinements of speech; keen, eager men, and men whose eyes had lost their lustre, who seemed weary with work; mere boys, self-assertive and confident with the wisdom of men of the world, and older men with grey heads and bald heads. they surged about him, and came and went, in twos and threes, some of them departing to their homes in the suburbs, north and south, whither trains ran into the early hours of the morning. humphrey had been long enough in fleet street to know them all: if you could have taken the personalities of these men and blended them together, the composite result would have closely resembled the personality of tommy pride--who was now drinking his second glass of whisky. they were men of tremendously active brains--not one of them but had an idea for a new paper that was worth a fortune if only the capital could be procured--and all of them longed intensely for that cottage in the country after the storm and stress of fleet street; they could not talk seriously without being cynical, for though they saw the real side of life, the pompous make-believe of the rest left them without any illusions. "better wait for the result now," humphrey said to tommy. "it'll be out in a few minutes." "all right," said tommy, glancing at the clock. "green's offered me a lift in his cab. have a drink, quain. i had the hump when i came in--feel better now." they all trooped upstairs, where the young members were making discordant noises. they sang new and improvised quatrains. you would have thought that not a care in the world could exist within those cheerful walls. there was a shout of "here they are." the vote-counters came into the room. one of them they hailed affectionately as "grandpa." humphrey had seen him before, walking about fleet street, with his silver beard and black slouch hat set on his white hair, but to-night he felt strangely moved, as the old man came into the room, smiling to the cheers. what was it? some association of ideas passed through his mind, some linking up of ferrol, young, powerful, master of so many destinies, with the picture before his eyes.... these thoughts were overwhelmed with a tumult of shouting. the old man was reading out the names of the members of the new committee. the young members had won. "come on," said tommy pride, "let's get off before the rush." as they passed out of the club into the cool air of the night, tommy suddenly recollected green and his offer of a cab. "oh, never mind," he said; "can you lend me four bob for the cab; i'm rather short." humphrey passed the money to him, and, drawn by the jingle of the coin, as a moth is to candle, a man lurched out of the shadows of the court. the gas-light fell on the unshaven face of the man, and made his eyes blink feebly: it showed the pitiful, shabby clothes that garbed the swaying figure. "hullo, tommy," said the man. he smiled weakly not sure of his ground. "good god!" said tommy. eagerness now came into the man's face; a terrible eagerness, as if everything depended on his being able to compress his story into as few words as possible, before tommy went. there was no beating about the bush. "i say, old man, lend me a bob, will you?... didn't you know?... oh, i left two years ago.... nothing doing.... yes, i know i'm a fool.... honest, this is for food.... remember that time we had up in chatsworth, when the duke...? seen anything more of that fellow we met in portsmouth on the royal visit?... what was his name?... can't remember it ... never mind, i say, old man, _can_ you spare a bob?" tommy passed him one of the shillings he had just borrowed from humphrey. "why don't you pull up," he said; "you can do good stuff if you want to." "pull up!" said the man. "course i can do good stuff. i can do the best stuff in fleet street.... remember that story i wrote about...." there was something intensely tragic in this sudden kindling of the old, egotistical flame in the burnt-out ruin of a man. the cringing attitude left him when he spoke of his work. "well, you'd better get home..." tommy said. "what's the missis doing?" "she's trying to make a little by typewriting now.... thanks for the bob...." he shambled down the court towards gough square. "so long." his footsteps grew fainter, until the last echoes of them died away. tommy pride came out with humphrey into fleet street. there came to them, as it comes only to those who work in the street, the fascination of its night. the coloured omnibuses, and the cabs, and the busy crowds of people had left it long ago, and the lamps were like a yellow necklace strung into the darkness. eastwards, doubly steep in its vacancy, ludgate hill rose under the silent railway bridge to st paul's; westwards, the griffin, the dark towers of the law courts, and the island churches loomed uncertainly against the starless sky. the lights shone in the high windows of offices about them, and they caught glimpses of men smoking pipes, working in their shirt-sleeves--liverpool, manchester, sheffield, leeds, were waiting for their news. the carts darted up and down the street with loads of newspapers for the trains. there was a noise of moving machinery. a ragged, homeless man slouched wretchedly along the street, his eyes downcast, mumbling his misery to himself. two men in grimy clothes were delving down into the bowels of the roadway, and dragging up gross loads of black slime. they worked silently, seeing nothing of the loathsomeness of their work. over all, above even the noise of the machinery, there came the cleansing sound of swiftly running water, as the street-cleaners, with streaming hoses, swept the dust and the muck and the rubble of the day into the torrents of the gutter. ii humphrey took rooms in clifford's inn, because that was where kenneth carr lived. the two came together, though their natures were opposite, and their friendship had ripened. carr was an ascetic, denying himself most of the ordinary pleasures of life, sacrificing himself to the work of his heart; his mind was calm, with a spiritual beauty; he was a man of singularly high ideals. this contrast with humphrey's frank materialism, his love of pleasure and lack of any deep, spiritual feeling, seemed only to draw their friendship closer. then there was the memory of wratten. they often talked together of him, and, as for humphrey, he never found himself face to face with a difficult piece of reporting without imagining what wratten would have done. most people in fleet street had forgotten him long ago, but on humphrey's mind he had left an indelible impression. "i wonder what it was about wratten that makes us remember him still," humphrey said one day. "i had only known him a few months." "i don't know," kenneth said. "it's like that, i've noticed. sometimes a man, out of all the others you meet, comes forward, and you feel instantly, 'this man is worth having as a friend.' the charm of wratten was that there were two wrattens: one, the glum, churlish man, with whom nobody could get on, and the other, the self-revealing wratten we knew." they smoked in silence. presently kenneth threw his cigarette into the fireplace. "i suppose i'll have to get on with my book." "why don't you come out ... come to the club?" "not me, my son. i'm happier here. i want to get a chapter done." "what's the good of writing novels ... they don't pay, do they?" "pay! they pay you for every hour you spend over them," said kenneth. "i should go brooding mad if i couldn't sit down for an hour or so every night and do what i like with my people. the unhappiest moments of my life were when, to oblige elizabeth, i gave up novel-writing for a time, and took to poverty statistics." humphrey glanced up at the mantelpiece. a portrait of elizabeth carr was there, in a silver frame, set haphazard among the litter of masculine knick-knacks--ash-trays, a cigarette-box and a few old pipes. it was a portrait that had always attracted humphrey; the sun had caught the depth of her eyes and the shadows about her throat. he was never in the room without being conscious of that portrait, and often, when he was not thinking of her at all, he would find himself looking upwards at the silver frame to see, confronting him, the eyes of elizabeth carr. she, herself, never seemed to be quite like the photograph. she came, sometimes, to see kenneth, and, at rare intervals, humphrey's visits coincided with hers. she did not live with her brother. she was more fortunate than he, because she had been left an income which was large enough for all her wants. she had always wished to help kenneth with a small allowance, but he declared he would not touch a penny of her money. "i'll fight my own battles," he said. there was something in her attitude towards humphrey--a vague, impalpable something--that left him always uneasy; perhaps it was a subtle display of deference--he could not define it, but he felt that she was comparing him, in her mind, with kenneth, and that he was worsted in the comparison. she would move about in the little room, preparing tea for them, her presence bringing an oddly domestic air into the rooms, and humphrey would help her, and she would be jolly and laugh when he was clumsy, but all the time it was as if she were holding him away from her with invisible hands. and, when he looked at her photograph, he saw behind the clear beauty of the face, with its smile of tenderness and large eyes that never left him, an elizabeth carr divinely meek ... utterly unlike the elizabeth carr he knew, who carried herself with such graceful pride and seemed so far above him. he took up the portrait for a moment. "she hasn't been here lately?" he said. "who?" asked kenneth, at his writing-table. "your sister ... you were speaking about the statistics you did for her." "oh? elizabeth. no. she's been pretty busy with her work." "slumming, eh?" "that's about it. i don't know half her schemes. wonderful girl, elizabeth. now i come to think of it, i've got to go down to epping forest to-morrow. some bean-feast she's giving to a thousand slum kids. there's sure to be a ticket in your office, why don't you ask to do it?" "i will," said humphrey. "a day's fresh air in the forest would do me good." and he did. things happened to be slack that day in fleet street, and rivers thought there would be plenty of human interest in the story, "though, of course, it's a chestnut," so that was how humphrey found himself on the platform at loughton station an hour later. the morning was rich with the warmth and colour of june. the clear fresh smell of the country was all about him. the scent of the flowers, the sight of the green fields dappled with the yellow and white of kingcup and daisy, the pale sky above him with the sun beating down from the cloudless blue, called him back to easterham, and the life that now seemed centuries away. throughout all the comings and goings of years, throughout the change, and the unrest of men and women, the old cathedral close would be unaltered. the rooks would still clamour and circle about the beeches, and the ivy would grow more thickly. looking back on easterham, now on the odd market-place, and on the streets that wandered out to the hedgerows and meadow-lands towards the new forest, he looked back on a picture of infinite peace. a bird's song and the croon of bees as they swung in their flower-cradles; a horse galloping freely in a field, and cattle browsing in the sunshine--were not all these of more worth than anything else in life? unnoticed, he had relinquished everything to fleet street. the poison of its promise had drugged him. he could appreciate nothing outside its narrow area ... news! news! and the talking of news; fifty steps round to the pen club, and fifty steps back to the office; all the day spent in that world of bricks and mortar, which had once seemed so vast, and was now to him nothing more than a very much magnified easterham. he had not even sought out london. he remembered regretfully the evening of his first ride with beaver, through the crowded streets to shepherd's bush, when he had promised himself nights and days of enchantment in the new wonder of london. and the wonder was still unexplored. as it was with london, so it was with everything. his acquaintance and knowledge was superficial. there was no time for deep study, and the past could not live with the present hammering at its doors urgently day after day. just so, too, with the cities in every part of england. he had travelled much, but he came away from every place taking with him only the knowledge of the whereabouts of the hotel, the post-office and the railway station. a sense of waste filled him; he saw behind him the years, crowded with events, so crowded with movement that he could retain nothing of their activity. and he saw before him a repetition of this, year after year, and again year after year, a long avenue of waiting years, through which he passed, looking ever forward, seeing nothing, remembering nothing, and coming through them all empty-handed, unless.... unless what? he saw the impasse waiting for him. what was there to be done to avoid it? he might rise to the highest point in reporting--climb up laboriously, only to find at the top of the ladder that others were climbing up after him to force him down the steps on the other side. kenneth carr was rescuing the flotsam of the years. these books of his, though they brought little money, were something permanent; they were the witnesses of endeavour; they remained as things achieved out of the reckless squandering of the hours. and humphrey knew that for him there would be nothing left except the dead files of _the day_, nothing more profitable than that, a brain worked out, weak eyes and a trembling hand. yes, and as he looked about him on the glory of the country, and heard the breeze making a sea-noise among the trees, he felt that there was something everlasting here, if he could only grasp it. he could not explain it. he only knew that looking upwards into the lucent depths of the green leaves of a tree, and catching now and again the glimpse of the blue sky beyond, seemed to remove the oppression that weighed his soul, and release his mind from perplexity. he smiled. the old phrase came echoing back to him. "two pounds a week and a cottage in the country," he thought. eternal, pitiful, unfulfilled desire. the whistle of the approaching train woke him from his thoughts. "i'm an ass," he said to himself. "i couldn't live a day without being in the thick of it." he walked back to the station, just in time to see the train coming round the bend of the platform, giving a glimpse of fluttering handkerchiefs and eager faces at the windows. the stillness of the station was suddenly shattered into a thousand noisy pieces. the children tumbled over one another in their haste to be the first to see all that there was to see. there was a mighty sound of shrill voices, chattering, laughing, and calling to one another: a confused picture of pallid-faced children, darting from group to group, seeking their child-friends, and arranging themselves in marching order. the teachers herded them together like hens marshalling their elusive brood. humphrey surveyed the scene with an eye trained to the observation of detail. he saw the painful cleanliness of the children, as though they had been scrubbed and washed for days before their outing. he saw behind the neatness of the pink ribbon and the mended boots, a vision of faded mothers, fumbling with hands shrivelled by laundry work, or fingers ragged with sewing, at these parting touches of pathetic finery. and, behind the vision of the mothers, he saw that whole sordid underworld hung round the neck of civilization.... these children, pinched and haggard, were left to live in the breathless slums, with only charity to help them. the state made laws for them: but there was no law to make them grow up otherwise than the generation of neglect which produced them. they were too young to know the difference between happiness and misery. they could only sing and march away, an army of rags and patched neatness, because for one whole day their young limbs were to have the freedom of the country. they thought of that one day, and not of the other three hundred and sixty-four days of squalor and want. "hullo--here you are, then," kenneth carr appeared out of the crowd of children. "seen elizabeth--i've lost her." humphrey looked along the platform, and he saw elizabeth carr bending down and talking to a little girl. she looked tall and beautiful, among all the harsh ugliness for which these children stood. her figure, as she stooped to the little ones, seemed to shine with grace and merciful pity. she saw humphrey, and nodded to him, as he raised his hat. then she came up leading the child. "look," she said, and though her eyes were lit with anger, her voice was gentle. "look at this child's dress--and the father's earning thirty shillings a week." humphrey looked. the child was dressed grotesquely, so grotesquely that it appealed more to the sense of the ludicrous than to the sense of pity. her main garment was an absurd black cape sparkling with sequins, that undoubtedly belonged to her mother's cloak; it reached to below the child's knees. beneath this was a tattered muslin blouse of an uncertain, faded colour, and beneath that--nothing. elizabeth lifted the cape a little and showed undergarments made of string sacking. the child had neither shoes nor stockings. "isn't it a shame!" she cried, sending the child to join the rest. "doesn't it revolt you?" "poverty!" said humphrey. "what can one do?" "do!" retorted elizabeth. "what's the good of having compulsory education, if you don't have compulsory clothing. i know the parents of that child. they could dress that child if they wanted to. oh," and she clenched her fists, "it makes me feel so helpless." they talked about it on the way to the forest, as they followed in the wake of the children. "the wicked folly and the shame of it," she said. "does nobody realize the ruin and wreckage that belongs to big cities? thousands on thousands of lives ended before they began. the parents don't know, and won't know. "and what becomes of those who live? these children here will go through their school-days, and then--what? a small percentage of them may get on, the rest will become casual labourers, dock-hands, and loafers." they passed a long, ill-clad youth lounging along the road. his face was brutally coarse, and he walked with a slouch. "there's one of them," elizabeth went on. "now, i know that boy: he used to come to these outings three years ago. he's left school now, and he has tramped down from london for the sake of a meat-pie or a mug of tea. lots of them do that, you know," she said to humphrey. "he's never learnt a trade. of course, he learnt history and geography, and all that, and he got a place, i think, as an errand-boy. there's no interest in running errands--so he just loafs now; and he'll loaf on through life, until he's an old man, sleeping on the embankment, or on the benches on the bayswater side of the park. perhaps he'll have a few spells in prison--anyhow, he's doomed. lost. and so are nearly all these children here to-day." the strength of her convictions amazed humphrey. he had never heard elizabeth talk like this before. he wondered why she, so beautiful and frail, should mingle with the ugliness of life. when they came to the forest, and kenneth wandered off alone, she told him. "it's because behind all this sordidness there is something that is more than beauty--there are magnificent tragedies here, that make my throat dry. there are struggles to live of which nobody ever knows. and, sometimes, you know, when i come from one of my slums and stand by the theatres as they are emptying, and see the lighted motor-cars, and all these other women with jewels round their necks and in their ears, i want to laugh at the folly of it all. "they don't know ... they never can know, unless they go down to the depths, and look." humphrey was silent. "and nobody can do anything, you know, except this sort of thing. it's a poor enough thing to do, but it's something to know you're helping." "i think this work is noble," humphrey said. "oh no--not noble. it would be noble if we could do something lasting--something permanent." they were sitting now on the soft grass, and he looked sidewise at elizabeth carr, and saw the fine outline of her profile. there was great beauty in her face, in the delicate oval of her chin, in the shadows that played about her throat, showing soft and white above the low collar of lace. that low lace collar and unornamented dress gave to her a touch of demure simplicity. she had the fragrance of lavender: he could imagine her--(seeing her now, with her eyes and lips tender, and her hands meekly clasped in her lap)--standing in a room of chintz and chippendale, tending her bowl of pink roses by the latticed window opened to the sunshine. he sat by her absorbing her serenity; there was repose and rest in the unconscious pose of her body. he had suddenly found the elizabeth carr of the photograph on kenneth's mantelpiece: her presence seemed to bring him peace. the noise of the children rioting in their happiness made her smile. "come," she said, "let us go and join them." they walked across the open space in the forest, the soft grass yielding to their feet, and came upon the whole exulting landscape. on all sides of them the ragged little ones, released for a day from the barren prison-house of alley and by-way, ran and romped in the freedom of unfettered limbs, uttering shouts of triumph and gladness. this picture of merriment unchecked, cheered the heart with its bright movement. here was life, overflowing, bubbling, swirling in little eddies among the trees and undergrowth, running free over the green meadow-lands with all the chattering animation of childhood. out of the main stream they found strange types of children, odd-minded little things, full of cunning and mother-wit that they had learnt already, knowing the world's hand was against them. some of them clutched pennies in grimy fists: money saved in farthings for weeks in anticipation of this treat. others secreted about their person portions of the meat-pie which was given them for lunch. they would take this home as an earnest of altruism. impossible to forget the shadow of misery that overhung all their lives; impossible to see these ragged children, who had hopeless years before them, without realizing the mad folly and the waste of citizenship. splendid empire on which the sun never sets! will the historian of the future, discovering in the ruins of the british museum humphrey's account of that day in epping forest, place his finger on the yellow paper with its faded ink, and cry: "this is where the story of the decline and fall of britain begins." they went to see the children take their tea. they sat at long plank tables under the corrugated iron roof of the shed-like pavilion. the girls were in one vast room, the boys in another. their school-teachers rapped on the table, and the jabber and chatter faded away into a silence. then the voice of one of the school-masters started singing-- "praise god, from whom----" and the hymn was taken up by the voices, singing vociferously-- "praise god, from whom all blessings flow; praise him, all creatures here below; praise him above, ye heavenly host; praise father, son, and holy ghost." there was nothing half-hearted about it; they made a great clamour of their thanks, and their shrill treble made echoes within echoes against the iron roof and wooden walls of the room in which they sat. and humphrey, always the looker-on, saw the imperishable pathos of this and all that lay behind it, and for a moment he felt pity tug at his heart. then, as if ashamed of his weakness, he turned to elizabeth and saw that she was watching him. she laid a gloved hand on his sleeve for the fraction of a second; it was an impulsive, unconscious movement, the merest shadow of a caress. "i did not know you could feel like that," she said softly. iii in those days humphrey, trained in the school of experience, took his place in the ranks of fleet street, that very narrow community, where each man knows the value of his brother's work. he was being shaped in the mould. the characteristics of the journalist were more strongly marked in him than they had ever been. he was self-reliant and resourceful, he had acquired the magic faculty of making instant friendships; he had developed his personality, and there was about him a certain charm, a youthful ingenuousness of expression that stood him in good stead when he was at work. people liked humphrey; among his colleagues in the street, he was not great enough for jealousy, nor small enough to be ignored. he steered the middle course of popularity. he had been long enough now on _the day_ for ferrol to perceive his limitations. humphrey did not know--nobody knew--that ferrol from his red room was watching his work, noting each failure and each success, watching and weighing his value. and it was with something of regret that ferrol realized that in humphrey he had found not a genius, but merely a plodding conscientious worker, perhaps a little above the average. for, in spite of rivers, who found that genius and reporting do not go hand in hand, ferrol was always searching alertly for the miraculous writer whose style was individual; whose writing would be discussed in those broad circles where _the day_ was read. one sees ferrol hoping for that spark of genius to glow in humphrey, dreaming, whenever his thoughts took him back, of days now so dim that they seem never to have existed, and faced only with disappointment. up to a certain point he could make humphrey--but no further. perhaps, after all, the boy might show his worth in work of broader scope.... ferrol plans, and plans, rearranging the men in his employ, moving a man here, and a man there, a god with life for a chessboard and human lives as the men.... one sees humphrey, young and vigorous, doing his daily work.... it was an extraordinary life, full of uncertainties and sudden surprises ... a life of never-ending energy, with little rest even in sleep, for into his dreams there crept all the tangle of the day's happenings. disaster swept all round him, but he seemed to be lifted above all evil by the magic of his calling. the king can do no wrong: no journalist ever seemed to be hit by the hazards of life. murders, the collapse of houses, railway smashes, roofs falling in and burying people in the rubble, shipwrecks and terrible fires.... humphrey was always on the spot, sooner or later, with a dozen others of the craft.... he was outside the range of the things that really mattered. politics and the problems that touched deeply the lives of the people did not come his way. they fell into the hands of the lobby correspondent, the man in the press gallery of the house, or the sociological writers who stood somewhat aloof from the routine of the street. but, on the whole, the life was glorious, in spite of its bitter moments. "i shall have to chuck it, you know," kenneth carr said, one day. "this life is too awful: it's the system that's wrong, there is no system." that was kenneth's point of view. of course there was no system. is there any system in life? "we're all sick men, in fleet street," sighed kenneth. "we're sick and we're growing old. our nerves are broken with the continual movement and unrest. there's no time allowance made for our stomachs: i tell you, we're all sick men in fleet street, brain, nerve and stomach." at such times, humphrey would laugh and defend the street and its work, just to cheer kenneth up. "don't you go and drop out," he urged. "i shall be left without a friend." the next day they met each other on the platform at paddington. there was to be a royal week in windsor. a foreign monarch had come to england. "well, what do you think of the life to-day?" humphrey asked. "oh, it's all right," kenneth laughed. "i suppose i wanted a little fresh air and sunshine.... i shall get it in the forest." iv he was reading a letter in the bold, firm handwriting of elizabeth carr. "dear mr quain," she wrote, "i don't think i ever thanked you for the article you wrote of our day in the forest with the children. i asked kenneth to tell you how glad i was, but i expect he forgot all about it. i think your article was most _sympathetic_, though i wish you hadn't made quite so much of that unfortunate child who was dressed so grotesquely. i will tell you what i mean when i see you, for i am writing to know if you can come to dinner here. i'm sorry kenneth won't be able to come--he's away in lancashire on that dreadful strike. thank heaven--he'll be leaving it all soon." there was a postscript. "of course, i know the nature of your work will not let you say 'yes' definitely, but i've made the day saturday, on purpose to give you a chance. and if i don't have a wire from you, i shall expect you." it was quite a month since he had spent that day in loughton with elizabeth carr, and though he could not name offhand the things he had done since then, day by day, that day and its incidents remained sharply defined in his memory. had he really taken more than usual care to write his account of their doings? or, was it that the vision of her, and the recollection of her earnest eyes, inspired him to better work? or, had there been nothing very special about the story after all, and was her letter merely a courtesy? the fact remained that he was flattered to receive the letter with its invitation. kenneth had certainly forgotten to deliver her message. he looked upon it as something of a triumph for him: very patiently he had waited for a word from elizabeth carr. there was that extraordinary remark of hers when he had watched the children sing their grace. he had asked her what she meant by it, and she had declined to say. he had felt humiliated by her words: did she imagine that he had no heart at all? she seemed to think that because he was a reporter on a halfpenny paper, he must be absolutely callous. he re-read the letter. she was curiously captious. she seemed ready to take offence now because he had made a "story" out of that wretched child clad in its mother's cape and bedraggled blouse. well, of course, she wasn't a journalist. she couldn't be expected to see human interest from the same point of view as _the day_. he wrote, accepting her invitation provisionally. in the days that followed, thoughts of elizabeth carr recurred with disturbing persistency. he recalled the odd way in which she had come into his life: first at that evening at the wrattens, when lilian filmer had been his foremost thought, then, intermittently, at kenneth carr's, something unusually antagonistic in her attitude to him; and now she had come into the heart of his work, bringing with her a touch of intimacy. she, who had always averted herself from him, was now asking him to be her guest. she, who had always seemed to ignore him, was, of a sudden, extending towards him tentacles of influence, vague and shadowy; he was uneasily aware of their presence. he read her letter several times before the saturday came--the gentle perfume of it reminded him of her own fragrance. he was sensitive to praise and appreciation, and he dwelt often on those words which spoke of his work. it was pleasant to know that he had at last shown elizabeth carr what he could do. she was, he knew, judging him always by kenneth's standard, in life as well as writing, and of course every one knew that kenneth's ideals were high, that his writing was brilliant.... so kenneth was going to leave fleet street. it was the first that humphrey had heard of it. "i shall have to chuck it," kenneth had said, and he was going to keep his word. he contemplated the prospect with melancholy. kenneth was a good friend; his departure would leave an intolerable gap in london life. the chats and the evening meetings would be gone.... they would pass out of each other's daily life.... thus saturday came, and humphrey found himself free to carry out his acceptance of elizabeth's invitation. humphrey had always imagined that elizabeth lived in a flat with some woman-friend: he was surprised when he found the address led to a little white house, one of a row of such houses, in a broad, peaceful road at the back of kensington high street. it was one of those houses that must have been built when kensington was a village; it was like a cottage in the heart of london. the virginian creeper made its drapery of green over the trellis-work that framed the window, and the walls were green with ivy. an elderly woman opened the door to his knock, and he found himself in a low-ceilinged hall, with a few black-and-white drawings on the walls, and a reproduction of whistler's nocturne. he was ushered into the sitting-room. even if he had not known that it was her house, he could have chosen this room, out of all the rooms in london, as the room of elizabeth carr. wherever he looked, he found a reflex of her peace and gentle calm. in the few moments of waiting he took in all the details of the room: the soft-toned wall-paper, with a woodland frieze of blue and delicate shades of green, the old japanese prints on the walls, and the little leather-bound books on the tables here and there. he had sat so many times in the rooms of different people whom he went to interview, that his observation had trained itself mechanically to notice such details. he heard a rustle on the stairs, the door opened gently, and elizabeth carr came into the room. she looked as beautiful as a picture in the frame of her own room. so had he imagined her, her hair looped back from its centre parting piled in gleaming coils just above the nape of her neck, leaving its delicate outline unbroken; a long necklet of amethysts made a mauve rivulet against the whiteness of her bosom till it fell in a festoon over her bodice, and blended with the colour of her dress, amethystine itself. and in her hair there gleamed a comb beaten by a norwegian goldsmith, and set with moonstone and chrysoprase. she came forward to greet him, moving with the subtle grace of womanhood. her charm, her frank beauty, filled him with a peculiar sense of unworthiness and embarrassment. before the wonder of her, before the purity of her, everything else in life seemed incomprehensibly sordid. "i am so glad you were able to come," she said. she looked him in the eyes as she spoke, and there was this, he noticed, about elizabeth carr: she meant every word she said--even the most trivial of greetings took on significance when she uttered them. her words gave him confidence. "it was good of you to ask me...." there was a slight pause. "i nearly missed the house," he said with an inconsequential smile. "i always thought you lived in a flat." "did you?" she replied. "oh no!--(do sit down--i'm expecting some more visitors shortly.) i've had this house for a long time." she sighed. "it's an inheritance, you know, and i thought i'd live in it myself, instead of letting it. kenneth and i have dreadful squabbles--he says it's too far out for him, and wants me to keep a flat with him in town--and i loathe flats. i've got a small garden at the back, and it's blessed in the summer. there's a walnut tree and a pear tree just wide enough apart to hold a hammock." "a hammock in london!" cried humphrey; "i envy you! think of our clifford's inn." "i really don't know how you people can live on the doorsteps of your offices. i'm sure it's not good for you. anyway, kenneth's giving it up." "i hadn't heard of it before your letter." "it was only settled a few days ago. grahams, the publishers, liked his last book well enough to offer him a good advance; and the book's sold in america--he's got enough to get a year's start in the country, and so he's going down there to write only the things he wants to." humphrey smiled in his cocksure way. "aha! he'll soon get sick of it, miss carr." elizabeth carr's fingers strayed into the loops of her amethyst necklace; the light shone on the violet and blue gems as she gathered them into a little heap, and let them fall again. her brows hinted at a frown for a moment, and then they became level again. "nothing would make you give up fleet street, i suppose?" she asked. "no ... the fever's in me," he said. "i couldn't live without it." "are you so wrapped up in it?" "well," said humphrey, "i suppose i am. it's rather fine, you know, the way things are done. you ought to go through a newspaper office and see it at work ... all sorts of people, each of them working daily with only one aim--to-morrow's paper...." "and you never think of the day when ferrol doesn't want you any more?" "well, you know," humphrey said, with a smile, "it's difficult to explain. we just trust to luck. after all, lots of men have drifted into journalism; when they're done, they drift back again." "i see," elizabeth carr said, nodding her head gently. "and there are always fresh men to drift." "i suppose so." "and, you're quite content." humphrey shrugged his shoulders. "what else can i do?" the bell rang. "ah! what else!" she exclaimed, rising to meet her visitors. the new-comers were introduced to humphrey. one was a tall, thin man, with remarkable eyes, black and deep-sunken, and the thin mobile lips of an artist. his name was dyotkin; he spoke english fluently, with a faint russian accent. the other was a woman whose youthful complexion and features of middle age were in conflict, but whose hair tinged with grey left no doubt of her years. although her dress was in excellent taste, it suggested an unduly overbearing wealth. humphrey recognized her name when he heard it: mrs hayman. she was one of the philanthropists who helped elizabeth in her work. they went into dinner, to sit at a little oval chippendale table just big enough for the four of them; dyotkin and he faced one another, sitting between elizabeth and mrs hayman. "your work must be very interesting," mrs hayman said. humphrey smiled. that was the commonest remark he heard. those who did not know what the work was, perceived dimly its interest, but not one of them could ever be made to understand the intense, eager passion of the life. "it is interesting," humphrey said. "miss carr knows a good deal of it." "i suppose you go everywhere--it must be splendid." "when you talk like that, i, too, think it must be splendid. sometimes, it's very funny." "still, it's nice to see everything, isn't it? and i suppose you go to theatres and concerts." "oh no! i'm not a critic. that's another man's work. i'm just a reporter." "i don't know how you get your news. what do you do? go out in the morning and ask people? and isn't it dreadfully difficult to fill the paper?" it was always the same; nobody could understand the routine of the business. everybody had the same idea that newspaper offices lived in a day of tremulous anticipation lest there should not be enough news. nobody understood that the happenings in the world were so vast and complex, that their sole anxiety was to compress into four pages the manifold events that had happened while the earth had turned on its axis for one day. "now, yesterday, for instance?" mrs hayman said, with an inviting smile. "what did you do yesterday?" "oh, yesterday was an unpleasant day. i had to go to camberwell late at night. a man had given himself up somewhere in wales. he said he'd murdered miss cott--you remember the train murder, three years ago.... he kept a chemist's shop in camberwell, we found out. so i had to go there. i got there dreadfully late. the door was opened by a girl. her eyes were swollen and red. she was his daughter, i guessed.... i can tell you, i felt awkward." "i should think so," elizabeth said. he looked at her, and saw that she was annoyed. "what did you do--go away?" mrs hayman asked. "go away? good gracious, no. i interviewed her." "interviewed her!" "well, i talked with her, if you like. they were very pleased at the office." "i think it's repulsive," elizabeth remarked. "oh, come!" humphrey remonstrated. the dinner was finished. it occurred to humphrey that he had fallen from grace. "we will go into the next room," elizabeth said, "and mr dyotkin shall play to us." as she passed by him, humphrey went forward and opened the door for her. dyotkin and mrs hayman lingered behind. he passed into the adjoining room with elizabeth. he wanted to defend himself. "you're a little hard on me, you know," he said. "i don't understand how you can do it," she said. "do what?" "forget all your finer feelings, and make a trade of it." "i don't make a trade of it," he said, hotly. "you cannot separate the good from the bad. you must take us just as we are--or leave us." the words came from him quietly, almost unconsciously, as though in an unguarded moment his tongue had taken advantage of his thoughts. she turned her face sideways to his, and he was conscious of a queer look in her eyes--an expression which was absolutely foreign to them. he saw doubt, uncertainty and surprise in the swift glance of a moment. "i ought not to have said that," he thought to himself. and, then, hard upon that, defiantly, "i don't care what she thinks; it's what i thought." the expression in her eyes softened. though he had said nothing more, it was as if he had subtly communicated to her that which was passing in his mind. "yes," she said, with softness in her voice, "we must take the good with the bad, but we must separate the sincere from the insincere. i saw you that day in the forest when your eyes showed how you felt the pity of it all--and yet, you see, you did not put that in _the day_. you did not write as you felt." so that was her explanation. how could he make her comprehend the conflict that was for ever in his mind, and even his explanation could not redeem him in her eyes. john davidson's verse ran through his mind like a dirge:-- "ambition and passion and power, came out of the north and the west, every year, every day, every hour, into fleet street to fashion their best. they would write what is noble and wise, they must live by a traffic in lies!" ah, but it was wrong of her to take that view. as if one could ever tell the truth in a world where the very fabric of society is woven from lies and false conceptions. how could he tell her and make her believe that he was thrilled, and that his throat tightened at things that he saw--and yet he never dared give way to his emotions, and write them. why, the most vital things in his life were not the things he wrote, but the things he did not write. though his mind was rioting with indignation, he laughed. "we mustn't take our work too seriously," he said. "it's too ephemeral for that. things only last a day." she did not answer. she turned from him without a word. he had meant to anger her, and he had succeeded. there was a chatter of voices in the passage and mrs hayman came into the room with dyotkin. elizabeth went towards him. "won't you play something?" she begged. dyotkin sat down by the piano. the seat was too low; he wanted a cushion, or some books, and elizabeth went to fetch them. the sight of her waiting on dyotkin filled humphrey with an increasing annoyance. it jarred on him somehow. he attempted to help in an ungainly way, but elizabeth, without conveying it directly, held aloof from his assistance. he settled himself in the arm-chair by mrs hayman ... and dyotkin played. humphrey had no knowledge of music. he did not even know the name of the piece that was being played, but as the fingers of dyotkin struck three grand chords, something stirred within his soul, and, gradually, a vague understanding came to him, and he followed and traced the theme through its embroidery. and the following of the theme was just like the following of an ideal. at times he was lost in waves of seductive sounds, that charmed him and led his thoughts away, and then, suddenly, the chords would emerge again, out of the bewildering maze of melody clear and triumphant, again, and yet again; he could follow them, though they were cunningly concealed beneath intricate patterns. and then, for a moment, he would lose them, but he knew that they were still there, if he sought for them, and so he stumbled on; and, behold, once more as the dawn bursts out of the darkness, the familiar sounds struck on his ears. and now they were with him always: he hearkened to them, and they were fraught with a strange, delicious meaning. "i have thought this," he said, in his mind. here was something far, far removed from anything of daily life. he was uplifted, exalted from earthly things. the wonder of the music enchanted him. ah! what achievements were not possible in such moments! he felt grandiose, noble and apart from life altogether.... the music ceased. he sighed as one awaking from the glory of a dream. he looked up, and his eyes, once again, met the eyes of elizabeth, deep and tender and unspeakably divine. v it is impossible to point a finger at any date in this period of the career of humphrey quain and say, "this is the day on which he fell in love with elizabeth carr." for the days merged gradually into weeks and months, and they met at irregular intervals, and out of their meetings something new and definite came to humphrey. there was no sudden transition from acquaintance to friendship, from friendship to love. he could not mark the stages of the development of their knowledge of one another. but before he was aware of its true meaning, once again the spirit of yearning and unrest took hold of him. this time, his love was different from that abrupt love-affair with lilian filmer. then untutored youth had broken its bounds, and love had swept him from his foothold. he had been ardent, passionate in those days, the fervour of love had intoxicated him; but now, with this slow attachment, his love was a different quality. lilian, coming fresh upon the horizon of his hopes, bringing with her the promise of all that he needed in those days, had made a physical appeal to him. always there was working, subconsciously, in his mind, the thought of her desirability. she offered him material rewards; they were attracted to each other by the mutual disadvantages of their surroundings. their meeting, their abortive love-affair was the expression of the everlasting desire of the companionship of sex: they were, both of them, groping after things half-understood, towards a goal that looked glamorous in the incomplete vision they had of it. but elizabeth carr appealed to the intellectual in him. no doubt the old primeval forces compelled him towards her, but they were far below the surface of his thoughts whenever the vision of elizabeth rose before him. he could not describe the hold she had on his imagination. her influence had been so subtly and gently exercised, that he had not noticed the power of it, until now he was dominated by the thought of her. the finer spirit that lies dormant in every man, except in the very basest, put forth its wings and awoke. in little questions of everyday honour he began to see things from elizabeth's point of view: little, trivial questions of his dealings with mankind which jarred on elizabeth's own code of morality. unquestionably, he was better for her influence, better from the spiritual standpoint, but weaker altogether when judged by the standard of everyday life. elizabeth preached the gospel of altruism not directly, but insidiously, and he found himself adopting her views. hitherto his had been the grim doctrine of worldly success: those who would be strong must be ruthless and remorseless; there must be no halting consideration of the feelings of others. though he did not realize it, his absorption of elizabeth's ideals was weakening him, inevitably. the charity of her work, with its gentle benevolence, was reflected in all her life. she gained happiness by self-sacrifice, and peace by warring against social evils. their characters and temperaments conflicted whenever they met, and yet, after each meeting, it seemed to humphrey that their friendship was arising on a firmer basis. sometimes the shock of their opposing personalities would leave behind it quarrelsome echoes--not the echoes of an open quarrel, but the unmistakable suggestion of disagreement and dissatisfaction. he blundered about, trying to fathom her wishes, but her individuality remained always to him a problem, inscrutably complex. there were times, it seemed, when their spirits were in perfect agreement, when he was raised high in the wonder of the esteem in which she, obviously, held him. those were the times when he came first to realize that he loved her: and the audacity of his discovery filled him with dismay. he knew that she was altogether superior; she lived exalted in thought and deed in a plane far above him. they met, it is true, over tea, or at a theatre, just as if they both inhabited the same sphere, but, in spite of that, they were as separate planets, whirling in their own orbits, rushing together for an instant, meeting for a fraction of time, and soaring away once more until again they drew together. and, even when understanding of her seemed nearest to him, she suddenly receded from his grasp. a change of voice, a change of expression, a movement of her body--what was it? he did not know. he only knew that something he had said had separated them: she could become, in a moment, distant and unattainable, another woman altogether, coldly antagonistic. yet, by the old symptoms, he knew that he loved her. she persisted in his thoughts with an alarming result. he found himself pausing, pen in hand, at his desk in the reporters' room, thinking, "would elizabeth be pleased with this?..." and an impulse that needed all his strength to combat seized him to abandon the set form into which _the day_ had cast his thoughts, to criticize and to express his own individual impression, whether they accorded or not with the views held by _the day_. this was altogether new and disturbing. he was a mouthpiece whose mere duty was to record the words of others by interviews, or a painter to present pictures and not opinions. conscience and convictions were luxuries that belonged to the critics of art, and the leader-writers. there came to him days of unqualified unhappiness, when he was possessed by doubts. for the first time he mistrusted the value of his work: he began to see that the fundamental truths of life were outside his scope. cities might be festering with immorality and slums; vice might parade openly, but these things could never be touched on in a daily newspaper. nobody was to blame, least of all those who controlled the newspaper, for it is not the business of a daily to deal with the morals of existence.... it is not easy to analyse his feelings ... but, as a result of all this vague tormenting and apprehension, the old thrill at the power and wonder of the office which throbbed with daily activities forsook him, leaving in its place nothing but the desolating knowledge of the littleness and futility of it all. * * * * * the phase passed: the variety of the work enthralled him again. he travelled to distant towns and remote villages, and whenever he was in the grip of his work, all thoughts of elizabeth carr departed from him. he obtained extraordinary glimpses into the lives of other people; he acquired a knowledge into the working of things that was denied to those who only gleaned their knowledge second-hand from the things that he and others wrote. he saw things all day long: the plottings, the achievements and the failures of mankind. the other men of the street flitted into his life and out again at the decree of circumstance. for a week, perhaps, half-a-dozen of them would be thrown together in some part of england. they met at the hotels; they formed friendships, and they parted again, knowing, with the fatalism of their craft, that they would forgather perhaps next week, perhaps next year. there was no sentiment in these friendships. there were the photographers, too. a new race of men had come into fleet street, claiming kinship with the reporters, yet divided by difference of thought and outlook upon news. they were remarkable in their way, the product of the picture daily paper. and their coming marked the doom of the artist illustrators in the newspapers. they were the newest of the new generation, shattering every conception even of the younger men of the manner in which a journalist should perform his duty. the photographers were drawn, as a class, from the studios and operating-rooms of the professional photographer. they forsook the posing of babies and young men in frock coats for the photographic quest of news. their finger-tips and nails were brown with the stain of iodoform, and for them there was no concealment of their profession, for they went through life with the burden of their cameras slung over their shoulders. their audacity was astounding, even to humphrey and his friends, who knew the necessity of audacity themselves. they ranged themselves outside the law courts, or the houses of parliament, or wherever one of the many interests of the day centred, and when a litigant or a cabinet minister appeared, a dozen men closed towards him, their cameras at the level of their eyes, and a dozen intermittent "clicking" noises marked the achievement of their quest. they saw life in pictures; a speech was nothing to them but the open mouth and the raised arm of the speaker; the poignancy of death left them unmoved before the need of focus and exposure. the difficulties of their work seemed so immense to humphrey that reporting seemed child's play beside it. for not only had they actually to be on the spot, to overcome prejudices and barriers, but, once there, they had to select and group their picture, and to reckon with the light and time. and though the photographers and the reporters were far removed from one another by the external nature of their work, though neither class saw life from the identical standpoint, yet they were interdependent, and linked by the same ceaseless forces working towards one common end.... sometimes, also, in out-of-the-way places, humphrey met men who reminded him of his days on the _easterham gazette_, men with attenuated minds who were even more absorbed in their work than the london reporter. they had a shameless way of never concealing their identity: they were always the "reporter"; some of them never saw the dignity of their calling, they were careless of speech and appearance, seeming to place themselves on the level of inferior people, and submitting to the undisguised contempt of the little local authorities, who spoke to them scornfully as "you reporters." yet, among these, humphrey found scholars and men of strange experience. their salaries were absurdly low for the work they did--thirty shillings to two pounds a week was the average; their lives were a thousand times more dismal and humdrum than the lives of the london men. and, in spite of these, many london men sighed for the pleasant country work. whenever humphrey heard a man speak of the leisure and peace of country journalism, he told them of easterham and its dreadful monotony. he had interior glimpses, too, of other newspaper offices; not a town in the kingdom without its sheet of printed paper, and its reporter recording the day or the week. these offices held his imagination by their sameness. whether it was belfast or birmingham, edinburgh or exeter, their plan was uniform. there was always the narrow room, with its paper-strewn desks or tables at which the reporters sat; always the same air of hazy smoke hovered level with the electric-light bulbs; the same type of alert-eyed men, with the taut lips and frown of those who think swiftly, came into the room, smoking a cigarette or a pipe (but rarely a cigar), and brought with them a familiar suggestion of careless good-fellowship as they sat down to the work of transcribing their notes. and, always, wherever he went, the pungent smell of printer's ink was in his nostrils, the metallic rustle of shifting types from the linotype room, and the deep, rumbling sound of machinery in his ears. ah, when he got down to the machines that moved it all, he probed to the depths of the simple greatness. those big, strong men who worked below it all, and lived by the labour of it, made a parable of the whole social system. of what avail would all their writing be, if it were not for the men and the machines below? once he went down the stone steps to the high-roofed basement of _the day_. he went at midnight, just when the printing was about to begin. it was as if he had penetrated into the utmost secrecy of the office. here were the things of which nobody seemed to think; here, again, were men in their aprons stained with grease and oily ink; men with bare, strong arms lifting the curved plates of metal, and fixing them to the cylinders; each man doing his allotted work, oiling a bearing here, tightening a nut there, moving busily about the mighty growth of machinery that filled the brightly lit room. the sight of that tangle of iron and steel confused his thoughts. he understood nothing of it all. those great machines rose before him, towering massively to the roof, tier upon tier of black and glittering metal, with rods and cranks, and weird gaps here and there showing their bowels of polished steel. the enormous rolls of paper which he had seen carried on carts and hoisted many a time into the paper-department of the office, were waiting by each machine, threaded on to a rod of steel. their blank whiteness reflected the light of the electric lamps. and then, suddenly, a red light glowed, and somebody shouted, and a man turned a small wheel in the wall--just as a motor-car driver turns the wheel of the steering gear--and the great machines broke into thunderous noises. the din was appalling. it was loud and continuous, and the clamour of it deadened the ears. humphrey looked and saw the white reels of paper spinning, and, through the forest of iron and steel, he could trace a cascade of running whiteness, as the paper was spun between the rollers, up and down and across, until it met the curved plates of type, and ran beneath them, to reappear black with the printed words. and the columns looked like blurred, thin lines in the incredible rapidity of the passing paper. the moments were magical; he tried to follow the course of this everlasting ribbon of paper, but he could not. he saw it disappear and come into his vision again. he saw it speed and vanish along a triangular slab of steel, downwards into the invisible intricacies that took it and folded it into two and four and eight pages, cut it and patted it into shape, and tossed it out, quire after quire, a living, printed thing--_the day_. and everywhere, wherever he glanced at the turbulent, roaring machines, little screws were working, silent wheels were spinning, small, thin rods were moving almost imperceptibly to and fro, to and fro. he saw great rollers touching the gutters of ink, transmitting their inky touch to other rollers, spinning round and round and round; and the paper, speeding through it all, from the great white web to the folded sheets that were snatched up by waiting men and bundled into a lift, upwards into the night where the carts were waiting. and the force of the noise was dreadful, and the power of the machines perpetual and relentless as they flung from them, with such terrible ease, hundreds and hundreds of thousands of square, folded papers. they looked as if they could crush the lives of men in the swift snare of their machinery. vi whom should he meet one day, but beaver! beaver of the inky thumbs and the bitten nails, who had, somehow, eluded him, though they both worked in the narrow street. nothing astonishing in this, for the work of beaver lay in circles different from his own. he never came outside the radius of meetings, inquests, the opening of bazaars and the hundred and one minor happenings that are to be found in "to-day's diary." but here he was, utterly unchanged from the beaver with whom humphrey had lived in guilford street, with mrs wayzgoose, her wasteful coal-scuttles and her bulrushes. they met in a chop-house by temple bar, a strange place, where the lower floor was packed with keen-faced men from the courts of justice over the way and the temple at the back. they sat crowded together, abandoning all comfort in the haste to enjoy the luxury of the chops and steaks for which the house was famed. there were no table-cloths on the round tables, where coffee-cups and plates of poached eggs and rounds of toast jostled each other. only in england would people sit with joy and eat cheek by jowl in this fashion, with the smell of coffee and hot food in their nostrils, and the clatter of plates and knives and forks in their ears. upstairs men played chess and dominoes over coffee and rolls, cracking their boiled eggs with difficulty in the cramped space. humphrey heard a voice hail him as he threaded his way between the tables. he looked back and saw beaver waving a friendly fork at him. "hullo!" cried beaver, shifting his chair away a few inches, and seriously incommoding a grey-haired man so absorbed in his game of chess that his coffee was cold and untouched. "come and sit here," cried beaver. they shook hands. "well, how goes it?" humphrey asked. "still with the nose to the grindstone?" "that's it," beaver said. their positions had been changed since the days of easterham, when beaver seemed miles above him in worldly success. he remembered the day beaver left for london, to embark on a career which shone clear and brilliant in humphrey's imagination. "write in!" those had been beaver's last words. "write in. that's what i did." the vision of it all rose before him now, as he sat by beaver: the dingy office, with the scent of the fishmonger next door, the auctioneer's bills on the walls, with samples of mourning and wedding cards, and tradesmen's invoice headings, to show the excellence of the _gazette's_ jobbing department. and now--? he was conscious of a change in beaver's attitude towards him. humphrey had taken his place in fleet street among the personalities, among the young men of promise and achievement. he had even seen his name signed to occasional articles in _the day_--glorious thrill, splendid emotion, that repaid all the long anonymous hours of patient work! "you're getting on!" beaver said. there was admiration unconcealed in his eyes and voice. "great scott! it seems impossible that you and i ever worked together on that rotten easterham paper. that was a fine story you did of the hextable railway smash." "i've got nothing to complain of," humphrey replied, hacking at a roll of bread. "it hasn't been easy work. yours isn't, for the matter of that." beaver laughed. "oh, mine--it isn't difficult, you know. i get so used to it, that i can report a speech mechanically without even thinking of the speaker." "it's a safe job, you know," he said, after a pause. "a life job." humphrey knew what beaver's exultation in the safety of his job meant. there were men in fleet street, husbands of wives, and fathers of families, who lived and worked tremblingly from day to day, never certain when a fatal envelope would not contain the irrevocable "regret" of the editor that he could no longer continue the engagement. why, it might happen to humphrey himself, for aught he knew. truly, beaver was to be envied after all. "but don't you think you'd do better on a daily paper?" humphrey said. "i could tell rivers about you, you know. there might be room on _the day_." "i'm taking no risks. i'm going to stop where i am. you see--er--" beaver became suddenly hesitant, and smiled foolishly. "what i mean to say is--i'm engaged to be married." he leant back in his seat and contemplated the astonishment in humphrey's face. "no--are you really!" "fact," retorted beaver. "been engaged for the last year." beaver going to be married! the news touched humphrey oddly: beaver could be earning very little more than humphrey had earned at the time when he had almost plunged into married life, and there was no desire on beaver's part to reach out and grasp greater things; he was in a life job, untouched by the wrack and torment of ambition, and the craving for success. oh, assuredly, beaver was not to be pitied in the equable calmness of his life and temperament. "well, i congratulate you, old man--though i never thought you were the marrying sort." beaver took the congratulations blushingly. "nor did i, until i met her." he spoke of "her" in an awed, impressive manner, as though she were some abnormal person far removed from all other people in the world. humphrey tried to figure the girl whom beaver had chosen. he thought of her as a rather plain, nice homely sort of person, with no great burden of intellect or imagination. beaver's hand dived into an inside pocket, and out came a leather case. this he opened, and displayed a photograph, reverently. "that's her!" he said, showing the portrait. humphrey kept his self-possession well. neither by a look nor a word did he betray the past: there was nothing in his manner to show beaver that the girl whose portrait he held in his hand was she whose lips had clung to his in the young, passionate kisses of yester-year. but, as humphrey looked on the face of lilian filmer, the same lilian, even though the photograph was new, and the hair was done in a different fashion, an acute feeling of sorrow came over him, bringing with it the remembrance of aching days, of the early beginnings, of those meetings and partings, and hearts that strained, and he saw the reflection of himself, foolish and cruel, mistaking the shadow for the substance, struggling and struggling, all for nothing ... for not even as much as beaver had gained. she looked at him out of the eyes of her photograph, and about her lips there still hovered that smile which had always been a riddle to him; a smile of indulgent love, or contempt? who knows--a woman's smile is the secret of her sex. yet now, it seemed, her lips were curved in triumph. this was her revenge on him, that he should go for ever loveless through the world, while she should steal into a haven of welcome peace. beaver's voice brought him back to physical things. she would kiss beaver's shaggy-moustached lips, and his arms would catch her in an embrace.... how soon she had forgotten ... he thought, unreasonably.... she might have waited.... she might have understood.... "well?" said beaver, awaiting praise. "you've had a good old look." "she's awfully nice and charming," humphrey answered, returning the photograph. "she's like somebody i know." "oh, you've probably seen the original, old man, when you used to come and call for me. she used to be one of the girls in our office." he had forgotten that lunch in the fleet street public-house, when humphrey had asked for the name of the girl. used to be one of the girls in the office! then lilian had left. he wondered what she was doing, and an impulse that could not be withstood, compelled him to find out whether she had ever mentioned him to beaver. "by george!" he said. "i remember, now. miss filmer, her name was, wasn't it?" "that's it, miss filmer. did you ever speak to her, then?" he was treading on uncertain ground. it was clear that she had never spoken of him. he felt that she had forgotten him, absolutely and completely. "oh, i think so--just casually, now and again." "well, i never!" said the innocent beaver. "that's interesting. i'll tell her i met you." "oh, she wouldn't remember me or my name," humphrey answered, hastily. "it was only just 'how-d'ye-do' and 'good-day' with us.... so she's left the office now." "yes. it's rather a sad story. her father died, you know. he was a chronic invalid--paralysis, i think. anyhow, we don't speak of it much, and i've never pressed her. but the father who was so useless in life, has been the salvation of the mother by his death. odd, isn't it? he was insured for a good round sum, and lilian's mother--did i tell you her name was lilian?--has bought a little annuity, so that lilian's free. she used to slave for her mother and the rest of the family until they grew up. that's why she worked overtime at the office. 'pon me soul, i'd rather be the lowest jackal in fleet street than some of these poor little typist girls at eighteen bob a week.... well, time's up. i've got to be at the mansion house at three: the lord mayor's taking the chair at some blooming meeting to raise a fund for something, somewhere. what are you doing to-day?" "oh, i'm on the klipp case at the old bailey." humphrey came away profoundly disturbed. something entirely unexpected had happened. lilian had lived as the vaguest shadow at the back of his mind, just as he had last seen her, when she bent down to kiss him, and now this picture would have to be erased. he shuddered at the thought. she was beaver's "girl": she would be beaver's "missis." after all, what did it matter? he and lilian had long since parted; there had been little in common between them. he might have married her, and been as beaver; she might have married him, but never, never, could she have held the magic and the inspiration of elizabeth carr. his mind, always susceptible to outside influences, brooded on the new fact that had come into his life. unconsciously, as a natural sequel to his thoughts, he began to dream of his new love, and to see himself happier than he had ever been, with elizabeth for ever at his side. the same motives that impelled him to lilian after that scene in the registry office, when wratten was married, now urged him towards kenneth carr's sister.... and, of course, one day, beaver would have to mention his name to lilian. she would probably smile and say nothing. "he's engaged now," beaver would say. "there won't be any bachelors left, soon." and that would be his message to lilian. vii on a saturday evening some weeks later, humphrey sat in the dismantled room in clifford's inn, in which he and kenneth carr had shared so many hours of grateful friendship. the room looked forlorn enough. square gaping patches on the wall marked the places where pictures had once hung; the windows were bared of curtains and the floor was dismal without the carpet, littered with scraps of paper and little pieces of destroyed letters. trunks and boxes ready for the leaving were in the small entrance hall, now robbed of its curtains and its comfort. a pair of old boots, a broken pipe, a row of empty bottles and siphons, a chipped cup or two--these alone formed the salvage which the room would rescue from kenneth's presence. "this," said kenneth, taking the pipe-rack from the mantelpiece, "this, my son, i give and bequeath to you." he laughed, and tossed it over to humphrey, who caught it neatly. kenneth waved his arm comprehensively round the room. "now if there's any other little thing you fancy," he said, "take your choice. i'm afraid there's nothing but old boots and broken glass left. you might fancy a bottle or two for candlesticks." "the only thing of yours i coveted was your green edition of thackeray, and you took jolly good care to pack that before i came," humphrey remarked. "i'll send you one for your next birthday. i shall be rolling in money when i get to work. meanwhile, just hold this lid up, while i put these photographs in." the light glinted on the silver of the frames. humphrey knew nothing of two of them, but the third was a photograph that he had always observed. he could see it now as it lay, face upwards, in kenneth's hand--the photograph of elizabeth, very sweet and beautiful, with soft eyes that seemed to be full of infinite regret. "do you know, old man," he said, "i wish you'd let me have that photograph." "which one?" "the one of elizabeth." closer acquaintance had led to the dropping of the formal "miss" and "mister." "what will elizabeth say: it was a special and exclusive birthday present to me, frame and all." "you can easily get another one. keep the frame if you want to. honest, i'd like to have the photograph. it would remind me of you and all the jolly talks we've had." "best beloved," laughed kenneth, jovially, "i can refuse you nothing. it is yours, with half my kingdom." he slipped the photograph from the frame. "you know, i feel exhilarated at the thought of leaving it all. i walk on air. i am free." he slammed the lid on the last box and pirouetted across the room. "thanks," said humphrey, placing the photograph in his letter-case. "think of it," kenneth cried, "from to-morrow i'm a free man--free to write as i will: free to say at such and such a time, 'now i shall have luncheon,' 'now i shall have dinner,' or, 'now i will go to bed.' free to say, 'to-morrow week at three-thirty i shall do such and such a thing,' in the sure and certain knowledge that i shall be able to do it. henceforth, i am the captain of my soul." "oh yes, you feel pretty chirpy now, but just you wait. you wait till there's a big story on, and you read all the other fellows' stories--you'll start guessing who did this one, or who got that scoop--and you'll wish you were back again." "not i! i shall sit in the seclusion of my arm-chair, and gloat over it all the next morning. and i shall think, 'poor devils, they're still at it--and all that they think so splendid to-day will be forgotten by to-morrow.' i've had my fill of fleet street.... besides, i don't quite break with it." "why?" "didn't i tell you? old macalister of _the herald_ is a brick. he's the literary editor, you know, a regular spider in a web of books. he's put me on the reviewers' list, so you'll see my work in the literary page of _the herald_. and it's another guinea or so." "good old macalister," humphrey said. "the literary editors are the only people who give us a little sympathy sometimes. i believe that whenever they see a reporter they say: 'there, but for the grace of god, go i.'" kenneth surveyed the room. "there," he said, brushing the dust of packing from him. "it's finished. in an hour i shall be gone." "what train are you catching?" "the eight-twenty. i shall be in the west country two hours later, and a trap will be waiting to take me to my cottage. you should see it, old man--just three rooms, low ceilings and oaken beams, and a door that is sunk two steps below the roadway. five bob a week, and all mine for a year. there's a room for you when you come." "sounds jolly enough!..." humphrey sighed. "by george, i shall miss you when you've gone, kenneth," he said. "there'll only be willoughby left. it's funny how few real, social friendships there are in the street, isn't it? fellows know each other and all that, and feed together, but they always keep their private family lives apart...." "i'll tell you a secret if you promise not to crow. i _am_ sorry to leave. i'm pretending to be light-hearted and gay, as a sort of rehearsal for elizabeth--she'll be here soon--but, really and truly, i feel as if i were leaving part of myself behind in fleet street. say something ludicrous, humphrey; be ridiculous and save me from becoming mawkish over the parting." "i can't," humphrey admitted miserably. "it gives me the hump to sit in this bare room, and to think of all the talks we've had--" "you've got to come here on monday again, and see that carter paterson takes away the big box." "i shall send a boy from the office: i won't set foot in the room again.... wonder who'll live here next?" he added inconsequently. "donno," kenneth replied, absently looking at his watch. "they're not bad rooms for the price. i say, it's time elizabeth were here." their talk drifted aimlessly to and fro for the next quarter of an hour. they had already said everything they had to say on the subject of the journey. a feeling of depression and loneliness stole over humphrey: his mind travelled to the days of his friendship with wratten, and he was experiencing once more the sharp sense of loss that he had experienced when wratten died. there came a knock at the door, and elizabeth appeared, bringing with her, as she always did, an atmosphere of gladness and peace. her beautiful face, in the shadows of her large brimmed hat, her brilliant eyes, and the supple grace of her figure elated him: he came forward to greet her gaily. sorrow could not live in her presence. "i'm sorry i'm late," she said. "but i've kept the cab waiting.... well, have you two said your sobbing farewells?" kenneth kissed her. "don't make a joke of the sacred moments ... we were on the verge of a tearful breakdown. my tears spring from the fact that he has given me no parting gift." "good lord! i forgot all about it." humphrey produced from his pocket a small brown-paper parcel. "it's a pipe--smoke it, and see in the smoke visions of fleet street." "well, i'm hanged!" said kenneth, conjuring up a similar parcel; "that's just what i bought for you. a five-and-sixpenny one, too." "then i've lost," humphrey said, with mock gloom. "mine cost six-and-six. he'll have to pay the cab, elizabeth, won't he?" "if you two are going to stand there talking nonsense kenneth will miss the train. come along! i'll carry the little bag. can you both manage the big one?" both of them cunningly kept up their artificially high spirits. even when kenneth switched off the electric light, and the room was in darkness, except for a pallid moonbeam that accentuated the bareness of the floor and walls, they parodied their own feelings. they were both a little ashamed of the sentimental that was in them. but as the cab drove out of fleet street, they were silent. the lights were flaming in the upper rooms, but the offices of _the herald_ and _the day_ and the rest of the large dailies were unlit and silent, for sunday gave peace to them on saturday night. but fleet street itself was still alive, and the offices of the sunday papers were active, and the noise of the presses, without which no day passes in the street, would soon be heard.... half an hour later, under the great glass roof of paddington station, the last farewells had been said. nothing but a "so long, old man," and a "good-bye" and a tight handshake marked the breaking of another thread of friendship. humphrey watched the train curve outwards and away into the darkness with that queer emotion that always comes when one is left standing on a railway platform, and a lighted train has moved out, full of life behind its lit windows, leaving in its place a glistening, empty stretch of rails. elizabeth was fluttering a valedictory handkerchief to the shadows. humphrey touched her arm gently. "shall we go now?" he said. "i suppose we'd better." these were awkward, uneasy moments. he would have liked to have told her how much he felt the passing of kenneth, but he was afraid of hurting her, for he knew that she, too, was saddened at his departure. "you'll let me see you home, won't you?" he asked. "would you? thanks, so much." they passed out of the station, and he called a hansom. his hand held her arm firmly as he helped her into the cab. she thanked him with her eyes. the moment was precious. it seemed that he had taken kenneth's place; that, henceforth, she would look to him for protection. they rode in silence through the lamp-lit terraces, where the white houses stood tall and ghostly, flinging their shadows across the road. there was nothing for him to say. he knew that their thoughts were running in the same groove. the sudden clear ray of a lamp flashed intermittently as the cab came into the range of its light, and he could see her face, serene, thoughtful, and very beautiful. it made him think of the photograph that lay in his pocket, against his heart.... she was very close to him, closer than she had ever been before, so close that he had but to put out his arms and draw her lips to his. never again, he thought, would she be as close to him as she was at this moment. and the memory of lilian intruded ... and with the memory came a vision of just such a ride homewards in a hansom.... ah, but elizabeth was of a finer fibre,--a higher being altogether. his body tingled at his thoughts. his imagination ran riot in the long silence, and he did not seek to check it. he was seized by an indefinite impulse to hazard all his future in the rashness of a moment, to take her and kiss her, and tell her that he loved her. "here we are," she said, with a sudden movement as the cab jolted to a standstill. he sighed. how calm and remote she seemed from love. "you must come in for a moment and have something." he hesitated from conventional politeness. "the drive has been cold," she said. "i will ask ellen to mix you a whisky and soda; and i daresay she's left some sandwiches for us." "for us!" there was an inestimable touch of intimacy about those words. "thanks," he said (was his voice really as strange and as husky as it sounded to his ears?) "thanks--if i won't be keeping you up." again, that suggestion of close acquaintance and absolute familiarity, as she let herself and him into the house with her latchkey, and closed the door softly on the world outside. it was all nothing to her. she moved about with perfect self-possession, unaware of the agitation within him. "let me turn up the light," she said, leading the way into the sitting-room. he stumbled against something in the feeble light. "mind," she cried, laughingly. "don't knock my treasures over." and then, suddenly, the room was in utter darkness. he heard her make an impatient murmur of annoyance. "there! i've turned it the wrong way.... don't move ... i know where the matches are." he heard the rustle of her dress, and her breathing, and the faint fragrance of her pervaded the darkness. he stood there in the black room with the blood surging in his veins, and pulses that seemed to be hammering against the silence. he could feel the throbbing of his temples. she moved about the room, and once she came near to him, so near that her hair seemed to float across his face with a caress that was soft and silken ... clearly in his brain he pictured her, smiling, pure and beautiful ... this darkness was becoming intolerable. he made a step towards her.... and the room was lit with a brightness that blurred his sight with the sudden transition from darkness. he saw her standing by the gas-bracket, with a look of concern on her face. "humphrey!" she cried, "is anything the matter with you?" he was standing in a direct line with the oval mirror on the wall, and he caught the glimpse of a white face, with straining eyes and blanched lips, that he scarcely recognized as his own. she came to his side, tenderly solicitous. he could bear it no longer. the words came from him in faltering sentences. "elizabeth," he cried. "don't you know ... i love you, i love you." her face flushed with perfect beauty. "oh--humphrey ..." she said. and by the intimation of her voice, half-reproachful, and yet charged with infinite pity and love, he knew that, if he were bold enough, he could take her and hold her for evermore. "i love you.... i love you ..." he said, drawing her unresistingly towards him. and there was nothing in life comparable to the exquisite happiness of that miraculous moment when her lips met his. viii he seemed to have reached out and touched the very summit of life in that swift moment of supreme excellence. his whole being vibrated with the splendour of living. he felt as he had felt that night when those three grand chords struck by dyotkin had stirred the depths of his soul.... and then his moment faded away into the irrevocable past, as she disengaged herself with a gentle, graceful movement, and they stood facing each other in silence. he saw her eyes, inexpressibly mild and soft, droop downwards, as she bent her head; he marked the colour mounting up her cheeks, flushing faintly the whiteness of her neck, and her fingers straying nervously in the thin, golden loop of the chain that fell across her bosom. the wonder of his emotions dazed him. all that he could realize was that, in the space of a second, their relations had been absolutely changed. henceforth, she appeared to him in another aspect. quite suddenly and swiftly they had become isolated from all the countless millions in the world by the sorcery of a kiss. it seemed unreal and absurd to him. he wanted to laugh. "you had better sit down," she said in a low voice, that had a note of appeal in it. "i hear ellen coming.... it will not do to let her notice anything...." astonishing, he thought, how tranquil and undisturbed she could remain. she could talk to ellen as if nothing at all had happened; she could hand him sandwiches and prattle about little things as long as ellen was in the room, and even when the door closed on ellen she seemed loath to let him speak. but he stopped her, emboldened by the privilege of his love. he went over to her and, placing his hands on each side of her face, drew her forehead towards his kiss, and looked at her with sparkling, victorious eyes. "you have made me happier than i have ever been," he said. "i will be very grateful and good to you." her eyes met his searchingly. "you will, really?" she asked. "really," he said, and he kissed her again. now they could talk--he had so much to say. with her acceptance of his pledge, her smiling "really," and his reply, he became normal again. his thoughts descended from their eminence and came back to their matter-of-fact, everyday plane. "tell me," he said, with a lover's vanity, "when did you first know that i loved you?" "i don't know ..." she said. "perhaps to-night." "only to-night!" he echoed, disappointed. "oh, i have loved you long before this. i think it began when we went to the forest together that day with the children.... i shall be able to help you with your work," he cried, buoyantly, "or will you drop it now?" she laughed merrily. "how you hurry things on!" she said. "give me time to think, like a good boy. we're not going to be married to-morrow, are we?" "no ... no," he protested, "i didn't mean that. let's have a really long, lovely engagement. give me months in which i can do all sorts of things for you; we'll see things together that i've never seen before--museums and picture-galleries. do you know, there's hundreds of things in london i've never seen." "why not?" "i put off the seeing until i go there with my love." the consummate joy of the hour infected him. he walked up and down the room promising great things ... vanity and egotism tinged his talk. "i shall get on, you know. i shall do something great in fleet street, one day. there's no knowing where i shall stop. and then there are the books i mean to write. oh yes! kenneth's sown the seeds of book-writing in me. and plays ... plays are the things to make money with...." "you won't need money," she said, kindly. "i have enough for both of us." "dearest," he answered. (it seemed the most natural thing in the world, now, that he should call her "dearest.") "you must not say that.... you won't mind waiting, just a little, will you? until i feel i can come to you and say that i do not need your money.... i can't explain it ... i should never be happy if i took a penny from you." she took his hand and caressed it. "i like you all the better for that, humphrey." (he noticed that she did not use the word "love.") he saw the future splendid, and roseate. he thought, with a smile, of ferrol. ferrol could not check him now. he had made his own identity, he was conscious of his own will to achieve that which he set out to do. besides, there was such a difference between lilian and elizabeth. he emerged from the house, a new being in a new world, living in the amazement of the last hour. ix it seemed strange to him that, with such a change in his life, the old work should proceed unaltered: he stood in rivers' room, listening to rivers' talk and banter as the news-editor gave him his work to do; he came before selsey at night, copy in hand; he mingled with the reporters in their big, bare room, talking of the day's paper, and discussing their jobs and their troubles with them; he came into that close, personal contact with men whom he knew, and men who knew him, and yet there was always an abyss that divided his two lives. so it was with all of them: in their friendship they seemed to say, "thus far shalt thou go, and no further"; their homes, their private sorrows and eager hopes, the real lives that they lived, in fact, were left behind them with the closing of their house-door, and they came to the office different beings. those matters that touched their innermost lives were never discussed. occasionally, the birth of a baby in the home of a reporter or a sub-editor would bring a queer suggestion of humanity and ordinary life into their affairs: sometimes, the news would filter through of a wife seriously ill in some home at herne hill or wimbledon, and there were solicitous inquiries (ferrol would send down the greatest specialist in one of those deep, generous moods of his), for the rest they displayed no interest in each other's private affairs. as a matter of fact, it was assumed, by the law of the street, that they had no private lives of their own. it is impossible to imagine humphrey saying: "if you please, i am engaged to be married, may i have the evening off," if at seven in the evening anything from a fire at the docks to the kidnapping of a baby occurred. therefore he told no one of the new wonder that had come into his life, not even tommy pride, who, by the way, had of late taken to sending out for a glass of whisky and soda, and doing his work with the glass before him on the table. they looked at each other in the reporters' room, and sighed, "poor old tommy." least of all would he tell ferrol. he would have liked to have gone to ferrol, and told him, but he remembered ferrol's outburst. he was older now, and he could not trust himself to listen calmly to the old arguments. and he felt that it would be a slur on elizabeth if he were forced to plead the cause of his marriage.... so the days followed each other, and he was happy with that mixed happiness which is, perhaps, the most perfect. after the first great moment when he had declared his love, their relations had fallen back to their original groove. it was safer thus: one could not live always on the exalted plane of that moment. his love-affair with elizabeth carr was of a different calibre from that with lilian. it was truer, and rested on a firmer basis of friendship, but it lacked the ardour, and the passionate moments and kisses of the days when love held the ascendancy over his work.... once, when he was moved with most eager desire during one of their lonely meetings, he caught her to him, and kissed her, and he was conscious of an unspoken reproach in her lips and eyes, that took from him, for the moment, all the savour of his love. it seemed to him that he was most successful when he was not playing the lover, when they met just as if they were rather exceptional friends instead of betrothed, and this irked him from time to time. he wanted to love, and be loved, he wanted to give all and take all. but when, in those rare moods, she answered his kisses recklessly, she was splendidly beautiful and magnificent, atoning lavishly for all that she had withheld from him. in one thing this wooing ran parallel with the wooing of lilian: there were the same interruptions and postponement of plans; fleet street for ever intruded, and always there was the remorseless, inexorable conflict between his love and his career. after an unfortunate week of shattered plans for spending an evening together, she sighed impatiently. "i wish you would give up fleet street," she said. "you could do better work." "oh!" he said, light-heartedly, "one day i will. i'll sit down and write my book. but it's too soon yet." she looked at him with doubt in her eyes. she seemed to be feeling her way through the dark corridors of his mind. "but surely you don't like the work," she said. he laughed. "some days i don't, and some days i do. some days i think it loathsome, and some days i think it glorious.... we're all like that." * * * * * a day came when he thought it glorious, when fleet street gave him of its best, a swift reward for his allegiance. he was in the reporters' room one evening, talking the latest office gossip with jamieson and willoughby, which concerned the marriage of _the day's_ miss minger, with young hartopp of _the gazette_. it was an event in fleet street, marking, in its way, the end of the epoch of the woman reporter. "i don't think a reporters' room is a fit place for a woman," willoughby said. "they're all right for their special work--cooking and dress and weddings, and all that--but hard, right-down chasing after stories is man's work." "i didn't mind miss minger," remarked humphrey. "she was a jolly good sport, but women have us at a disadvantage. remember that time when we all fell down on the gun-running story at harwich, and miss minger sailed in, smiled her prettiest, and squeezed a scoop out of them." "ah, well," jamieson said. "they're all the same ... marriage, you know, and a happy home, with jolly children. they soon find out that it's better to let hubby do the reporting.... hullo, young man trinder, what do you want?" he said, breaking off as the pink-faced secretary stood in the doorway. "_you're_ wanted," trinder said, nodding to humphrey. "me!" said humphrey. "what's up?" "ferrol wants you." "my word!" said willoughby. "are you going to be sacked, or is your salary to be raised?" "our blessings on you," cried jamieson, as he followed trinder out of the room, upstairs, and along the corridor to ferrol's door. ferrol stood with his hat and coat on waiting for him. "oh, quain," he said, shortly. "get your things and come along. i want to talk to you." humphrey paused, bewildered. "hurry up," said ferrol. he took his watch from his pocket, glanced at it, and clicked its case hurriedly. "i've got to be back here at ten." "very well, sir," said humphrey. he ran back to the reporters' room, and gathered together his hat and his coat and his stick. "what's up?" chorused jamieson and willoughby. "lord knows!" he gasped. "_he_ wants me to go somewhere or the other with him." "most certainly you are either going to be sacked or have your salary raised," remarked willoughby. "but if you are going to be made editor, be kind to us when you are all-powerful." "ass!" laughed humphrey, in reply. he went back. ferrol made a noise of satisfaction, and led the way out of his room, carefully switching off the lights. down the stairs they went, side by side, humphrey walking beside the mighty ferrol, just as he did in his dreams. down the stairs they went, and the men coming up--his colleagues--raised their hats to ferrol, for they always gave him respect, and the heart of him throbbed with the strangeness of it all. the commissionaire saluted stiffly, and gazed at humphrey with a new esteem. a small boy in uniform darted with haste before them, and opened the door of a limousine car, reflecting the lights of the night in its lacquered brilliance. the chauffeur touched the polished peak of his hat. it seemed that everybody paid homage to ferrol, greatest of all men in the eyes of humphrey quain. for this man was the symbol, the personification of the street and the paper for which he had worked with all his heart, with all his might, and with all his soul. he stood aside to let ferrol step into the car first, but ferrol, with a smile, urged him into the lighted interior. he received an impression of superlative comfort and riches in that small, blue-lined room with its little electric lamp overhead. there were rugs of deliciously soft camel-hair, and, as he settled in the yielding cushions, his outstretched feet struck something hard, that gave warmth instantly, even through the leather of his boots. a silver cone-shaped holder, filled with red roses, confronted him; their very scent suggested ease and luxury. there were touches of silver everywhere: an ash-tray at his right hand, a whistle attached to a speaking tube, and a row of books in a silver case--an a b c railway guide, a diary, an address book, and a postal guide. they gave the ferrol touch of concentrated energy, even in these surroundings of comfortable, upholstered rest. the car sped along with a soft movement, almost noiseless, except for the low purring of its engines. through the windows, past the strong face of ferrol, he caught glimpses of a wet world with people walking upon their own reflections in the glistening pavements, of ragged beggars slouching along with hunched-up shoulders, of streaming crowds passing and repassing, ignoring entirely the passage of this splendid, immaculate room on wheels, never questioning the right of those people within it to the shelter which was denied to them. and he felt extraordinarily remote from all these people: an odd thrill of contempt for them moved him to think: "what fools they are not to get cars for themselves." it was as if he had been suddenly translated to another world: a world inhabited by a superior race of men and women, almost god-like in the power of their possessions, who looked down on other struggling mortals from their exalted plane, with a vision blurred by warmth and security. the silence enchanted him. if ferrol had spoken, the spell of that journey would have been snapped. the silence enabled him to enjoy to the full the extraordinary sensation of being whirled along in the darkness by the side of ferrol towards some unknown destiny. the discipline had made him always regard ferrol with awe; but now, as he sat wrapped in the warm rugs of the motor-car, the social barriers dropped. he wondered why ferrol was doing this. the speed of the car slackened gradually. he caught a glimpse of railings and the lights shining among the trees, bringing back to him the old memories of his first impression of the park. but they were on the kensington side, and the breadth of the park from bayswater to kensington made all the difference. here there seemed to be a culture and dignity in the very houses themselves: they did not suggest the overbearing, self-made prosperity of that broad road that ran parallel with it on the other side of the trees and meadows. a servant stood by the open door of the car. his face was implacably dignified. his white shirt-front and tie were splendidly correct for his station, in that he wore three obvious bone studs and a black tie. he held the door of the house open, and humphrey followed ferrol inside. he had been to many houses such as this as a reporter, when he had waited with a sense of social inferiority in halls hung with old masters, and furnished with rare old oak ... at those times the servants had treated him with a mixture of deference and contempt. but this was different: respectful, eager hands relieved him of his coat and hat; vaguely he knew he had to follow one of the owners of these hands up a broad staircase, along a soft carpeted passage, to a room which, suddenly flooded with light, showed its possession of a basin fitted with shining silver taps. he washed luxuriously; the towels were warm to the touch. he felt at peace with the world. down the stairs again, with a portrait on the white panelled wall for each step, to the inner hall lined with tapestries and brocade, where a bronze statue held an electric torch aloft to light the way to the dining-room. ferrol was standing by the fire. "chilly to-night," he said, as humphrey came into the room. his voice echoed in the spacious loneliness of the room. "yes," said humphrey, "it is." he hesitated a moment, and then added "sir." it seemed the correct thing to do, though ferrol and he might have been, for all that had happened in the last half-hour, excellent personal friends, of equal status in the world. "come and warm yourself," said ferrol, motioning him to a high-backed chair by the fire. humphrey sat down, and put his hands to the fire. this room with its bright lights and its high ceiling filled him with a realization of his own comparative poverty. the walls, again, reflected the artistic in ferrol. his glance wandered to the table. dishes of delicacies in aspic and mayonnaise gave colour to the white glitter of glass and silver. a bowl of great chrysanthemums rose out of the centre-piece of crystal, whose lower tiers were crowded with peaches, apricots, green figs, grapes, and other exotic fruits.... a whimsical vision came to him of a sausage-shop in fleet street where, often, kept late on a job, without opportunity for dinner, he had sat on a high stool at the counter eating sausages and onions and potatoes as they came hot from the sizzling trays of fat in the window. the thought made him smile. "what's the joke?" asked ferrol, smiling too. humphrey went a diffident pink. after all, why shouldn't he tell ferrol? he was quite right: the great man bubbled with laughter. he saw the ingenuousness of the thought. it endeared humphrey to him. "ah, young man," he said, "i know that shop." humphrey's eyebrows raised. "i've passed it many a time and seen the inviting sausages. by god!" he continued, bringing his fist down on the mantelpiece, "i'd give you everything on the table, every night of your life, if i could go in and sit at the counter and eat them." he laughed. "so don't you be in too much of a hurry to give up sausages." a servant appeared, bearing a silver soup-tureen. ferrol sat at the top of the table, and humphrey took the seat at his right hand. the soup was clear and delicious, possessing a faint, elusive flavour of sherry. while he was eating, he became aware of the butler pouring light-coloured wine into a high stemmed glass. he looked up and saw ferrol regarding his wine glass. "it's all i drink," said ferrol. "a little hock with dinner. in my day, many a fellow was ruined with too much drink. are they as bad now?" he asked. it was a strange experience to have ferrol question him on the doings of the street. "oh no!" he said, hastily, "there's not much of that now. perhaps a half dozen or so here and there, but nothing serious." (but he thought of the shaking hand of tommy pride as he spoke.) "none of my men drink, eh?" ferrol said. it was more of an assertion than a query. "do you know we've got the finest staff in london--in england." during the whole of that delightful dinner humphrey listened to ferrol talking about the men with whom he worked. he knew them all: knew all that they had done, and all that they were capable of doing. he asked humphrey's opinion on this man and that man, and listened attentively to the reply. sometimes humphrey made a joke, and ferrol laughed. and, as the dinner progressed, and the clear, cold wine invigorated his mind and warmed his perceptions, he conceived a greater liking for this man, who was so human at the core of him. in the office one saw him with the distorted, disciplined view, as an unapproachable demi-god, surrounded by people who sacrificed his name to their own advancement. ah! if one could always be on these terms of privileged intimacy with him, what a difference it would make in the work. if one dared tell ferrol of the obstacles and the petty humiliations that obscured the path to good work for the sake of the paper.... "tell me," said ferrol, suddenly, pushing bunches of black grapes towards him--"tell me about easterham, and your life there." now, what could there be in easterham and its monotonous life to interest ferrol, thought humphrey. nevertheless, he told him of easterham, and the _easterham gazette_ on which he had worked. that amused ferrol vastly. and he had to answer oddly insistent questions--to describe the market square, and the cathedral close, with its rooks and ivy. it astonished him to find how interested ferrol was in these little things, and almost before he was aware of it, he found himself speaking of personal matters, of things that touched his own inner, private life, of his aunt (with her stern gospel of "getting on"), of the mother whom he did not remember, and of daniel quain, his father. and as he talked on, he saw suddenly that ferrol was listening in a detached manner, and it occurred to him that he had rather overstepped the limits of a reply to a polite inquiry. he became confused and shy. his reminiscences withered within him. ferrol tried to urge him along the old track. "he's only doing it out of politeness," thought humphrey. "i shan't tell him any more. he's making fun of me." he cracked walnuts in silence and sipped at the port. (ferrol touched neither nuts nor wine.) he did not interpret that air of detached interest with which ferrol had listened to him as meaning anything else but boredom. he did not know that, as he was speaking, the old years came back again to ferrol, bringing with them once again the vision of margaret and those secret walks outwards from easterham, under the white moon of romance and love and supple youth that could be his never more. ferrol sighed. "you ought to be very happy," he said. "i think the happiest time of my life was when i was reporting." "were you ever a reporter?" asked humphrey. "oh yes! i didn't buy _the day_ at once." he rose and went to a cabinet to fetch silver and enamelled boxes of cigars and cigarettes. the cigarettes were oval and fat. "i don't think you've had enough scope," said ferrol, handing him a lighted match. "you've done well ... not as well as i hoped ... but perhaps you'd do better elsewhere." a peculiar sensation attacked humphrey in the regions of his throat and heart. ("most certainly you are to have your salary raised or be sacked.") he waited tensely. the butler came into the room, apologetically. "half-past nine, sir," he said; "the car's waiting, sir." "oh--yes. i forgot. i've got to be back at the office.... all right, wilson. "let me see--what was i saying.... oh yes, broader scope. can you speak french?" he asked abruptly. "just what i learnt at school.... i can read the papers." "you'll easily pick it up.... look here, i'll give you a lift back to fleet street. do you want to go there?" "yes," said humphrey, and then, suddenly, for some odd reason, he thought of elizabeth. he was not very sure of his geography, but the street in which she lived could not be far from here. "i think i'd rather walk, if you don't mind.... i've got a call to make." he wanted to tell elizabeth how splendid ferrol had been to him. "oh well! it doesn't matter. come and see me at twelve to-morrow. i'm going to send you to paris." "paris!" echoed humphrey, as if ferrol had promised him paradise. "paris," repeated ferrol. "we're changing our correspondent." x he did not go to elizabeth that night: he walked, in a dream, past knightsbridge and up piccadilly, contemplating the fulfilment of all his dreams. everything seemed possible now. he was a young man--and ferrol was going to give him paris; he was a young man--and elizabeth had given him her love. the sequence of this thought was significant. it would be very fine to tell her.... at last he was lifted out of the rut into a field of new endeavour. from paris the path led to other cities, of course--to petersburg, vienna, and rome. one day he would see them all. life became at once very broad and open. he walked on, an un-noteworthy figure in the throng of people that moved along piccadilly, his thoughts surging with the prospects of his new life. "humphrey quain ... paris correspondent of _the day_." he murmured that to himself. glorious title! splendid ferrol. how noble was this work in fleet street, holding out great promises to those who served it well, and sacrificed everything on its altar. how could one abandon a calling where fortune may change in a moment? he passed through astonishing ranks of women whose eyes and lips simulated love: one or two of them spoke to him in foreign accents. he passed on across the circus where the lights of the variety theatres made a blur of yellow in the nebulous night. his steps led him again to fleet street, and he walked with the joy of a man treading the soil of his own country. it was always the same when he passed the griffin: deep satisfaction took hold of him at the sight of the signs in all the buildings, telling of newspapers all the world over, in this narrow street in which the lives of him and his kind were centred. the fascination of the street was perpetual. it belonged to him. it belonged to all of them. at every hour of the day and night there were always friends to be met. he turned into the cheery warmth of the pen club--friends everywhere and fleet street smiling! there was laughter at the wooden counter, where larkin was telling some story to a group of men. "well, the next day i thought i'd go up and inquire after his lordship's health. the butler was very kind. 'come in,' he said. 'his lordship's expecting you.' so up i went, thinking i was going to get a fine story--he was supposed to be dangerously ill in bed, mind you." humphrey joined the group and listened. ("have a drink?" said larkin, turning to him. "it's my shout.") "well," continued larkin, "when i got to the room, there was his lordship in pants and undervest--you know how fat he is--with dumb-bells in his hands and whirling his arms about like a windmill. 'do i _look_ like a dying man?' he said, dancing lightly on his toes. 'go back, young man, and tell your editor what you've seen. good-morning.'" "talking of funny experiences," said one of the others, "i remember--" and so it went on, story after story, of real things happening in the most extraordinary way. it was all this that humphrey enjoyed, this inter-change of experiences, this telling of stories that were never written in newspapers, that belonged alone to them. presently tommy pride came in. "hullo all!" he said, "hullo! young quain--been busy to-day?" they sat down together, and humphrey noticed that tommy's face had changed greatly, even in the last few months. the flesh was loose and colourless, and the eyes had a nervous, wandering look in them. "ferrol's going to send me to paris--he told me so to-night," humphrey blurted out. "splendid," said tommy. "good for you." and then a look of great pathos crept into his eyes, and he seemed to grow very old all at once. "i wish i had all your chances," he said wistfully. "i wonder what will be the end of me.... i hear they're making changes." "don't you bother," humphrey said. "ferrol knows what you're worth.... but, i say, tommy, you don't mind, do you ... aren't you taking too much of _that_," he pointed to the whisky glass. "oh, hell! what does it matter," said tommy. "what does anything matter.... i'm a little worried ... they're thinking of making changes," he repeated aimlessly. * * * * * it was all settled in a few minutes the next morning. the paris appointment was definitely confirmed: he was to leave immediately. he hastened to elizabeth to tell her the wonderful news. it never occurred to him that she could be otherwise than pleased and proud at his success. but her manner was recondite and baffling. "have you accepted the post?" she asked. "why, of course," he said. "how could i refuse such a chance." she regarded him dubiously. "no--you could not refuse it. i don't blame you for not refusing it. i think i know how you feel...." "it's splendid!" humphrey cried. his voice rang with enthusiasm. "fancy ferrol singling me out. it will be the making of me.... it might lead to anything." "but weren't you only going to stay in journalism for another year, humphrey?" "oh, of course, when i said that, i couldn't foresee that this was going to happen.... elizabeth," he said suddenly, with a great fear on him, "do you want me to give it up now?" "no ... no," she said in haste. "you don't understand. it's so difficult to make you see. i wasn't prepared for this...." she laughed for no reason at all. "i am glad of your success. i am glad you're happy.... of course, you don't expect me to come to paris, like this, at a moment's notice. you must give me time." he smiled with relief. "why, of course, i didn't imagine i could carry you away at once.... but after a few months, perhaps. it will take me a few months to get used to the work." "yes," she agreed, "after a few months. we shall see." her face was strangely sorrowful. her attitude perplexed him. it hurt him to find that she did not share in his rejoicings. it took away some of the savour of his success. he thought he was the master of his destiny. he could not discern the hand of ferrol moving him again towards a crisis in his life. part iv paris i the noise of paris came to him through the open windows, a confusion of trivial sounds utterly different from the solid, strong note that london gave forth. it was the noise of a nursery of children playing with toys--he heard the continuous jingle of bells round the necks of the horses that drew the cabs, the shouts of men crying newspapers, the squeaking horns of motor-cars, and, every afternoon, at this hour, the sound of some pedlar calling attention to his wares, with a trumpet that had a tinny sound. at intervals the voice of paris, modified by the height at which he lived and the distance he was from the grands boulevards, sent a shout to him that reminded him of london. that was when a heavy rumbling shook the narrow street which was one of the tributaries of the boulevards, as a monstrous, unwieldy omnibus, drawn by three horses abreast, rolled upwards on its passage to the gare du nord. the horses' hoofs slapped the street with the clatter of iron on stone, and the passing of the omnibus drowned every other sound with its thunder, so that when it had gone, and the echoes of its passage had died away, the voice of paris seemed more mincing and playful than before. humphrey had been in paris six months now, but the first impression that the city gave had never been erased from his mind. at first the name had filled him with a curious kind of awe: paris and the splendour of its art and life, and the history which linked the centuries together; all the history of the kings of france which he did not know, and the rest that he knew with the vagueness of a somewhat neglected education--the bloody days of the revolution, the siege, the commune; paris, the cockpit of history and the pleasure-house of the world. there was some enchantment in the thought of going to paris, not as a mere visitor, but as a worker, one who was to share the daily lives of the people. and he had arrived in the evening of a february day, in the crisp cold, bewildered by the strangeness of the station. the huge engine had dragged him and his fellows--englishmen chiefly, travelling southwards, and eastwards, and westwards in search of sunshine--across the black country of france, into the greener, sweeter meadows of the valley of the loire, with tall poplars on the sky-line, through the suburbs with their red and white houses looking as if they had been built yesterday, to the vaulted bareness of the gare du nord. there, as it puffed and panted, like a stout, elderly gentleman out of breath, it seemed to gasp: "i've done my part. look after yourselves." to leave the train was like leaving a friend. one stepped to the low platform and became an insect in a web of blue-bloused porters, helpless, eager to placate, afraid of creating a disturbance. it seemed to humphrey in those first few moments that these people were inimical to him; they spoke to him roughly and without the traditional politeness of french people. the black-bearded ticket-collector snatched the little cook's pocket-book from his hand, tore out the last tickets, and thrust it back on him, murmuring some complaint, possibly because humphrey had not unclasped the elastic band. there was bother about luggage too; heaven knows what, but he waited dismally and hungrily in the vast room, with its flicker of white light from the arc-lamps above the low counters at which the customs-men, in their shabby uniforms, seemed to be quarrelling with one another, their voices pitched in the loud key that is seldom used in england. he was required to explain and explain again to three or four officials; something of a minor, technical point, he gathered, was barring him from his baggage. his french was not quite adequate to the occasion; but it was maddening to see them shrug their shoulders with a movement that suggested that they rejoiced in his discomfiture.... it was all straightened out, somehow, by a uniformed interpreter, a friendly man who came into humphrey's existence for a moment, and passed out of it in a casual way, a professional dispenser of sympathy and help, expecting no more reward than a franc or so for services that deserved a life-long gratitude. but when the cabman had shouted at him, and the blue-bloused porters (one had attached himself to each of his four pieces of baggage) had insisted on their full payment, and after there had been an exchange of abuse between the cabman and an itinerant seller of violets, whose barrow had nearly been run down, humphrey looked out of the window and caught his first glimpses of paris ... of the light that suggested warmth and laughter. he saw great splashes of light, and through the broad glass windows of the cafés a vision of cosy rooms, bustling with the business of eating, of white tables at which men and women sat--ordinary middle-class people. the movement of their arms and shoulders and heads showed that conversation was brisk during their meal; they smiled at one another. as the cab sped softly along on its pneumatic tyres, he saw picture after picture of this kind, set in its frame of light. "i shall like living here," he thought. chance decreed that the rue le peletier was being repaired, and the cab swung out of the narrower streets into the vivid and wonderful brilliance of the boulevard des italiens. the street throbbed with light and life. he was in a broad avenue with windows that blazed with splendid colour in the night. the faces of the clocks in the middle of the avenue were lit up; the lamps of the flower and newspaper kiosks made pools of shining yellow on the pavement; and above him the red and golden and green of the illuminated advertisements came and went, sending their iridescence into the night. it was not one unbearable glare that startled the eyes, but a blend of many delicate and fine luminous tints: one café was lit with electric lights that gave out a soft pale rose colour, another was of the faintest blue, and a third a delicate yellow, and all these different notes of light rushed together in a lucent harmony. music floated to him as he passed slowly in the stream of bleating and jingling and hooting traffic. he saw the people sitting outside the cafés near braziers of glowing coal, calmly drinking coloured liquids, as though there were no such thing as work in the world. and that was the thought that gave humphrey his first impression of paris. these people, it seemed, only played with life. there was something artificial and unreal about all these cafés: they played at being angry (that business at the customs office was part of the game), an _agent_ held up a little white baton to stop the traffic--playing at being a london policeman, thought humphrey. he wondered whether this sort of thing went on always, with an absurd thought of the paris he had seen at a london exhibition. the cab veered out of the traffic down a side-street between two cafés larger than the rest, and, at the last glimpse of people sitting in overcoats and furs by the braziers, he laughed in the delight of it. "why, they're playing at it being summer," he said to himself. six months had passed since that day, and he had seen paris in many aspects, yet nothing could alter his first impression. the whole city was built as a temple of pleasure, a feminine city, with all the shops in the rue royale or the avenue de l'opera decked with fine jewels and sables. huge emporiums everywhere, crowded with silks and ribbons and lace; wonderful restaurants, with soft rose-shaded lights and mauve and grey tapestries, as dainty as a lady's boudoir. somewhere, very discreetly kept in the background, men and women toiled behind the scenes of luxury and pleasure ... those markets in the bleak morning, and the factories on the outskirts of the city, and along the outer boulevards one saw great-chested men and narrow-chested girls walking homewards from their day's work. but there was pleasure, even for these people: the material pleasure of life, and the spiritual pleasure of art and beauty. the first they could satisfy with a jolly meal in the little bright restaurants of their quarter with red wine and cognac; and of the second they could take their fill for nothing, if they were so minded, for it surrounded them in a scattered profusion everywhere. * * * * * humphrey, in the paris office of _the day_, on the fourth floor of an apartment building in the rue le peletier, sat dreaming of all that had happened in the past six months. wonderful months had they been to him! they had altered his whole perception of things. here, in a new world and a new city, he was beginning to see things in a truer proportion. fleet street receded into the far perspective as something quite small and unimportant; the men themselves, even, seemed narrow-minded and petty, incapable of thinking more deeply than the news of the day demanded. humphrey, from the heights of his room in paris, began to see how broad the world was, that it was finer to deal with nations than individuals, and from his view fleet street appeared to him in the same relation as easterham had appeared to him in london. the clock struck five. rivers and neckinger and selsey would be going into the conference now in ferrol's room to discuss the contents of the paper. "anything big from paris?" some one would be asking, or "what about berlin?"... and he knew that every night they looked towards paris, where amazing things happened, and he, humphrey quain, was paris. that splendid thought thrilled him to the greatest endeavour. he was _the day's_ watchman in paris, not only of all the news that happened in the capital, but of all the happenings in the whole territory of france. a pile of cuttings from the morning's papers were on his desk. here was a leading article on the franco-german relations from the _echo de paris_--an important leading article, obviously inspired by the quai d'orsay. there was a two-column account of the hanon case--an extraordinary murder in lyons which english readers were following with great interest. there was a budget of "fait-divers," those astonishing events in which the fertility of the paris journalist's imagination rises to its highest point. they supplied the "human interest." he had received a wire from london to interview a famous french actress, who was going to play in a london theatre, and that had kept him busy for the afternoon. the morning had been devoted to reading every paris paper. at five o'clock dagneau arrived with the evening papers, bought from the fat old woman who kept the kiosk outside the café riche. he let himself into the flat with a latch-key, and appeared before humphrey, a young man, immaculately dressed, with a light beard fringing his fat cheeks. humphrey could never quite overcome the oddness of having a bearded man as his junior. dagneau was only twenty-two, but he had grown a beard since he was twenty; that was how youths played at being men. humphrey called dagneau "the lamb." "hullo," he said. "anything special?" dagneau's pronunciation of english was as bad as humphrey's pronunciation of french, but in both cases the vocabulary was immense. "they're crying 'death of the president' on the boulevards," said dagneau. humphrey leapt up. "great heavens! you don't say so!" he shouted, going to the telephone. "be not in a hurry, _mon vieux_." (though dagneau was his assistant, they dropped all formalities between themselves.) "it is in _la presse_." "but--" "calm yourself. _la presse_ is selling in thousands. the news is printed in great black letters across the front page." "is it true?" gasped humphrey. "it is true that the president is dead--but it is the president of montemujo or something like that in south america, and not m. loubet." dagneau laughed merrily and slapped the papers on the table. he took humphrey by the shoulders and shook him playfully. "i--would i let my old and faithful englishman down?" he asked. the newspaper phrase spoken as dagneau spoke it sounded delightful. "by george, you gave me a shock," humphrey laughed. "i thought i'd been dozing for an hour with the president dead. dagneau, you are an _espèce de_--anything you like." "any telegrams from london?" "one to interview jeanne granier. i've done it will you go through the evening papers? look out for the _temps_ comments on the persian railway ... they're running that in london. and the latest stuff about the hanon case. i'll run round to _le parisien_ and see what they've got." he went down the winding staircase, past the red-faced concierge and his enormous wife, who knitted perpetually by the door ("_pas des lettres, m'sieu_," she said, in answer to his inquiring look), and so into the street. a passing cabman held up his whip in appeal, and, as moments were precious now, humphrey engaged him. they bowled along through the side-streets, and at the end of each he saw, repeated, the glorious opal and orange sunset over paris: those magnificent sunsets that left the sky in a smother of golden and purple and dark clouds edged with livid light behind the steeple of st augustine. they came to the building of _le parisien_, with whom _the day_ had an arrangement by which humphrey could see their proofs evening and night, in exchange for extending the same privilege to the london correspondent of _le parisien_ at the offices of _the day_. he crossed the threshold into the familiar atmosphere of fleet street. hurry and activity: young frenchmen writing rapidly in room after room. some of them knew him, looked up from their work and nodded to him. from below the printing-machines sent tremors through the building, as they rolled off the first edition for the distant provinces of france, and for the night trains to every capital of europe. the same old work was going on here: the same incessant quest and record of news. he went to the room of barboux, the foreign editor. "good-evening," said barboux, black-bearded, fat and bald-headed. he pronounced "evening" as though it were a french word, and it came out "événandje." barboux offered humphrey a cigarette he had just rolled with black tobacco, and asked him most intimate questions of his doings in paris, so that humphrey had either to acknowledge himself a prude or a parisian. "all the same," said barboux, "paris is a wonderful city, _hein_?" "it is," said humphrey. barboux continued: "is it not the most beautiful, the most wonderful, the most entrancing city in the world, young englishman?" "all except london," replied humphrey. "rosbif--goddam--i box your nose," laughed barboux. it was a set form of dialogue that took place every night between them, without variation, a joke invented by barboux. a man in an apron--a french version of the type in _the day's_ printing-office--brought in a budget of proofs. "there is nothing that is happening, ain't it?" remarked barboux, who always rendered _n'est ce pas_ in this literal fashion. "apparently not," humphrey agreed, glancing through the proofs. "when do they expect the verdict in the hanon case?" barboux touched a bell. a young man appeared. his hair was fair and long, his clothes were faultless to the crease in the trousers turned up in the english style over patent-leather shoes with the laces tied in big bows. barboux introduced him: "m. charnac will tell you about the hanon case." the young man bowed in a charming manner, and spoke in a soft, delicious french, with a voice that was charged with courtesy and kindness. "they do not expect a verdict to-night, m'sieu. the court has adjourned. i've just had the finish of our correspondent's message." "_merci_," said humphrey. "_pas de quoi_," said charnac, bowing. humphrey rose and bowed with the ultra politeness that was now part of his daily life. they shook hands. "_enchanté d'avoir fait votre connaissance_," and charnac bowed once more. "_enchanté_," mumbled humphrey. barboux was at the telephone, saying impatiently, "ah-lo.... ah ... lo." humphrey put on his hat, barboux extended his left hand--the greatest sign of friendship that a frenchman can give, since it implies that he knows you too well for you to take offence at it. "_À demain_," said humphrey, as he went away. when he came back to the office, work began in earnest. first of all he had to select from the budget of news on his table those items that would be most acceptable to english readers. that was no small matter on days when there were many things happening. it required sound judgment and a knowledge of what was best in news. then there was always the question of the other correspondents of london newspapers: what were the other fellows sending? he and dagneau talked things over, and, finally, when they had decided what to transmit to london, the work of compiling the stories began. it was necessary to build up a coherent, comprehensive story out of the cuttings before him, in which all the points of the different papers should be mentioned. dagneau helped him, making illiterate translations of leading articles, that needed revising and knocking into shape. perhaps, even at the eleventh hour, a telegram might arrive from the london headquarters, setting them a new task, rendering void all the work they might have done. after two hours' writing humphrey laid down his pen. "come along, my lamb," he said to dagneau; "let us go to dinner." then they put on their hats and coats and went to boisson's, a few doors away in the rue le peletier, where père boisson presided over a pewter counter, spread with glasses and bottles, and mère boisson superintended the kitchen, and henri, the waiter, with a desperate squint, ran to and fro with his burden of plates, covering many miles every night by passing and repassing from the restaurant tables to the steamy recesses behind the door. this was the part of paris life that pleased humphrey most. they received him with cheery _bons soirs_, and henri paused in his race to set the chairs for them, and arrange their table. yards of crisp bread were brought to them, and a _carafon_ of the red wine from touraine, whither m. boisson went on a pilgrimage once a year to sample and buy for himself. little french olives and _filet d'hareng saur_; soup with sorrel floating in it; fish with black butter sauce; a _contre-filet_ or a _vol au vent_ deliciously cooked; roquefort cheese, and, to wind up with, what m. boisson called magnificently _une belle poire_--this was the little dinner they had for something under three francs, and, of course, there was special coffee to follow, and, as a piece of extravagance, a liqueur of _mandarin_ or _noyeau_. "this is better than fleet street," said humphrey, inhaling his cigarette and sipping at the excellent coffee. boisson in his shirt-sleeves and apron came over to them and spoke to them with light banter. he also had a joke of his own: he conceived it to be the highest form of humour to interject "aoh--yes--olright," several times during the conversation. madame boisson waddled towards them, with an overflowing figure, and said, as if her future happiness depended on an answer in the affirmative, "_vous avez bien diné, m'sieu_." the smell of food was pleasant here: there was no hurry; men and women concentrated all their attention on eating and enjoying their meal. the light shone on the glasses of red and white wine. it was a picture that delighted humphrey. and dagneau was telling him of his adventures on the previous night with a little girl, the dearest little girl he had ever met, kissing the tips of his fingers to the air, whenever his emotions overcame him ... and humphrey smiled. this was a side of paris of which he knew nothing. his thoughts went back to london where elizabeth lived, beautiful and austere. "i must write to elizabeth to-night," he thought. at nine-twenty dagneau caught the eye of henri and made an imaginary gesture of writing on the palm of his left hand. "that's the way to get a perfect french accent," he said to humphrey. henri nodded in swift comprehension and appeared with a piece of paper on which illegible figures were scrawled. they paid and went away, with the boissons and henri calling farewells to them. happy little restaurant in the rue le peletier! they got back to the office just as the telephone bell was making a rattling din. humphrey sat down and adjusted over his head the steel band that held the receivers close to his ears. then, pulling the telephone closer to him, and spreading out before him all that he had written, he waited. and, presently, sometimes receding and sometimes coming nearer above the hum and buzz that sounded like the wind and the waves roaring about the deep-sea cables, he heard the voice of westgate coming from england. "hallo ... hallo ... hallo.... that you, quain.... can't hear you.... get another line ... buzz--zz--zz ... oooo. ah! that's better." westgate's voice became suddenly clear and vibrating as though he were speaking from the next room. but humphrey could see the little box in the sub-editors' room, where all the men were working round selsey, and the messenger-boys coming and going with their flimsy envelopes; he could see the strained, eager face of westgate, as he waited, pencil in hand ... and he began. he shouted the news of paris for fifteen minutes, and at the end the perspiration wetted his forehead, and westgate's good-night left him exhausted. sometimes, when the wires were interfered with by a gale, the fifteen minutes were wasted in futile shouting and endeavour to be heard in london; sometimes westgate would say bluntly: "selsey says he doesn't want any of that story," when he began to read his carefully prepared notes. those were desperate minutes, shouting to london against time. "all well?" asked dagneau, when he finished. "i suppose so," humphrey answered. "westgate was in great form to-night--he was taking down at the rate of a hundred and twenty words a minute...." he rose and stretched himself. "will you pay the late call at the newspaper offices? i'll be at constans in case anything happens." out again into the bright glamour of the boulevards to constans at the corner of the place de l'opera, in the shadow of the opera-house, to meet the other correspondents, and wait on the events of europe, and drink brandy and soda or the light lager-beer that was sold at constans. it was a place where most of the paris correspondents gathered, and, sometimes, the "special correspondents" came also. they were lofty people, who had long since left the routine of fleet street; the princes of journalism, who passed through paris on their way to st petersburg, to madrid--to any part of europe or the world where there was unrest; war correspondents, and special commissioners; men who had letters of introduction from diplomat to diplomat, who talked with kings and chancellors, and interviewed sultans. they flitted through paris whenever any big news happened, in twos and threes, only staying for a few hours at constans to meet friends, and then on again by the midnight expresses.... they were a jolly lot of fellows who met in those days at constans: o'malley of _the sentinel_, the fair-haired scholar who spoke of style in writing, and could speak french with an irish accent and knew how to ask the waiter to "apporthez des p'hommes de therrey"; punter, who represented the kelmscotts' papers, talked french politics late into the night, and wore a monocle that never dropped from his eye--not even in those exciting moments when michael, his coal-black eyes and hair betraying his ancestry, crossed his path in argument. at midnight dagneau came in with word from the outside world. all was quiet. so humphrey went back to the hotel in the rue d'antin, where he rented a room on the fifth floor by the month for eighty francs, including the morning roll and bowl of coffee. he wrote his letter to elizabeth: he wanted her to come to paris and share his life with him. ii he wanted her very much to share in the delight of those days. it was all so new and beautiful to him, so different from london. he went about the city, sometimes alone, sometimes with dagneau for a companion, to the louvre, where the venus de milo filled him with awe and wonder, or to the luxembourg, with its statuary set among the green trees. in the afternoons, when he had any spare time, he would take a book and read in the tuileries, or on one of the seats in the champs elysées, where the fat norman and breton nurses, with their broad coloured ribbons floating from their _coifs_, wheeled perambulators up and down, or took the children to the punch and judy shows. and on sundays in the season, there were the races at longchamps, with a drive homewards in the cool of the evening, through the bois, where his cab was one of a long line of vehicles making a moving pageant of the human comedy, with laughing bourgeois families riding five and six in a cab, and aristocracy and opulent beauty, artificial and real, rolling by in victorias and electric broughams. those rides down the avenue du bois to the arc de triomphe made him feel very poor: the women, lolling back in silken comfort, seemed lifted above the everyday world, away from all thought of squalor and sordidness. they were the rare hot-house flowers of society; the cold wind of life's reality would wither them in a day. so they passed before him, exquisitely beautiful and remote, looking with languid interest at the rest of the people in the incomparable vanity of their silk and lace and diamonds.... yet again, his work took him behind the scenes of parisian life, into places that are not familiar to the casual visitor to paris. he would sit in the chamber of deputies to make notes of an important debate, or to watch the rigid semicircle of french legislators break up into riotous factions, with the tintinnabulation of the president's bell adding to the din. this would appear in _the day_ with the head-line, "pandemonium in the french chamber." perhaps it was necessary to interview a _juge d'instruction_ in his private room at the palais de justice, or to pass through the corridors of the surété--france's scotland yard--to inquire into a sensational murder mystery. and he found, too, that in paris he had a certain standing as a journalist that was denied him in london. he was registered in books, and the seal of approval was given to him in the shape of a _coupe-fil_, which was a card of identity, with his portrait and the name of _the day_ on it--a magic card that enabled him to do miraculous things with policemen and officials; it was a passport to the front row in the drama of life. there was no need in paris to haggle with policemen, to wink at them, and win a passage through the crowd by subterfuge as in london: this card divided a way for him through the multitude. so that now, when he felt that he had established himself in his career, when his salary was more than adequate for the needs of two, the strong need of elizabeth came to him. the brilliant gaiety of paris swirled about him, and tried to entice him into its joyous whirlpool. he knew the dangers that beset him: he knew the stories of men who had been dragged into the whirlpool, down into the waters that closed over their heads, bringing oblivion. and he looked towards the ideal of elizabeth, as he had always looked towards the ideal of the love which she personified, to save him from the evil things that are bred by loneliness and despair. iii one saturday night, when there was nothing else to do, he went up to montmartre, and walked along the boulevard de clichy, past the grotesque absurdities of the _cabarets_ that are set there for the delectation of foreign and provincial strangers: _cabarets_ that mock at death and heaven and hell with all the vulgarity and coarseness that exists side by side with the love of beauty, art and culture in paris. for a franc you could watch the old illusion of a shrouded man turning to a grisly skeleton in his narrow coffin; or you could see a diverting burlesque of the celestial realms, and observe how sinners were burnt in a canvas hell with artificial flames. humphrey had seen all these during his first week in paris: he had laughed, but afterwards he had been ashamed of his laughter. they were a little degrading.... he passed them by to-night, in spite of the enticing blandishments of the mock mute, the angel and the devil by the doors of their haunts. he wandered aimlessly along this boulevard, where women crossed his path, looking very picturesque, without any covering to their heads, shawls across their shoulders and red aprons down to the fringe of their short skirts. there was something savage and primitive about these women: they lacked the frankness and gaiety of the coster-girl in london; they were beautiful, with an evil and cruel beauty. vicious-looking men slouched from the shadows. their looks could not conceal the knives in their pockets. they were as rats in the night, creeping from pavement to pavement, preying on humanity. the door of a café chantant opened, as humphrey came abreast with it, and the sound of a jingling chorus, played on a discordant piano, arrested his steps. the man who was coming out, thinking that humphrey was about to enter, held the door open for him politely. something impelled humphrey forward. he went inside. the room was heavy with tobacco smoke; it floated in thin clouds about the lights and drifted here and there in pale spirals as it was blown from the lips of the smokers. his vision was blurred by the smoke at first, and, as he stood there blinking and self-conscious, it was as though he had intruded into some private and intimate gathering. it seemed that every one in the room was staring at him. the impression only lasted a moment. he perceived a vacant chair by a table and sat down, with the bearing of one to whom the place was familiar. all around him the men and women were sitting. there was an air of sex-comradeship that, in spite of its frankness, was neither indecent nor blatant. the people were behaving in the most natural way in the world. sometimes a woman nestled close to a man and their hands interlaced; sometimes a man sat with his arm round the waist of a girl. mild liquids were before them--the light beer of france, little glasses of cherries soaked in brandy, glasses of white and red wine. their eyes were set towards the small stage at the end of the room, a narrow platform framed in crudely-painted canvas, representing trees and foliage; while at the back there was a drop-scene that showed a forest as an early japanese artist might have drawn it, with vast distances and a nursery contempt for perspective. his eye wandered to the walls painted with scroll-work and deformed cupids and panels of nude women, so badly done that they appealed more to the sense of humour than to the sexual. the pictures on the walls seemed to leave the men and women untouched; they concentrated all their attention on the entertainment. the only person in the place who showed any sign of boredom was the gendarme who sat by the door, the state's hostage to its conscience. nothing, said the state, in effect, can be indecent if one of our gendarmes is there. this was not one of the _cabarets_ where the poet-singers of montmartre chant, with melancholy face, their witty doggerel or their fragrant pastorals; where people came to hear the veiled obscenities of political satire or allusions to passing events; this was a second-rate affair, a _tingel-tangel_--a species of family music-hall. a waiter in an alpaca jacket, a stained apron wound skirt-wise round his trousers, approached humphrey with an inquiring lift of his eyebrows. he removed empty glasses dexterously with one hand and slopped a cloth over the table with the other. "m'sieu, desire...?" "_un fin_," answered humphrey. the waiter emitted an explosive _bon_ and threaded his way through the labyrinth of chairs to a high wooden counter, where a fat man, with his shirt-sleeves rolled back to his elbow, stood sentinel over rows of coloured bottles. the light shone on green and red liqueurs, on pale amber and dark brown bottles placed on glass shelves against a looking-glass background, that reflected the bullet shape of the _patron's_ close-cropped head. meanwhile the pianist had finished his interlude, and there was a burst of applause as a woman appeared on the stage. she wore an amazing hat of orange and white silk, in which feathers were the most insistent feature. there was something extraordinarily bold and flaunting in her presence. her neck and shoulders and bosom were bare to the low cut of her bodice, and the cruel light showed the powder that she had scattered over her throat and shoulders to make them white and enticing; it showed the red paint on the lips and the rouge on the cheeks, and the black on her eyelashes and eyebrows. the crude touches of obvious artifice destroyed her beauty. her waist was compressed into a painful smallness, and her skirt was flounced and reached only to the knees. she sang a song that had something to do with a soldier's life. "tell me, soldier," she sang, "what do you think of in battle? do you think of the glory of the fatherland and the splendour of dying for france?" and the soldier answers: "i think only of a farm in avignon, and a maiden whose lips i used to kiss on the old bridge; i think only of my old mother and how she will embrace me when i come home." when she sang the simple song, though her voice was false, and her gestures stereotyped, the rouge and the powder and the paint were forgotten for a moment. she was one of those unconscious artists belonging to a people who have art woven into the warp and woof of their daily life. the audience took up the chorus. she nodded to them with an audacious smile. the pianist, with his cigarette stub hanging from his lips, under cover of the volume of voices, forsook the treble for a moment, and reached out with his hand for a glass of beer that rested above the piano. it was the strange, fumbling motion of his hand that caught humphrey's eye, trained to observe such details. he looked closer, and saw that the pianist's eyes were closed, and the lashes were withered where they met the cheek. he was blind; he never saw the faces and figures of the women who sang, he only heard the voices; he could see nothing that was harsh and cruel. and the picture of the blind pianist at the side of the garish stage, improvising little runs and trills and spinning a web of melody night after night, stirred humphrey with an odd emotion. there was a pause. the door opened and closed as people came and went. humphrey sipped at the brandy; the fiery taste of it made his palate and throat smart. the price of the entertainment was one franc, including a drink. suddenly the pianist struck up a well-known air. a slim girl, in the costume of the district, slouched on to the stage, her hands thrust into the pockets of her apron. her hair was bundled together in careless heaps of yellow, her eyes were pale blue and almost almond-shaped, her features finely moulded, with a queer distinction of their own. and when she took one hand out of her apron pocket, he saw that the fingers were long and exquisitely tapered, and tipped with pink, beautiful nails that shone in the light. those finger-nails betrayed her. they were not in keeping with the part. she started singing, walking the small stage with a swaying motion of her body; her young form was lithe and graceful; her movements tigrine. and as she sang her lilting chorus, her pale eyes gazed from their narrow slits at humphrey, not boldly or coquettishly, but with an indeterminate appeal, as though she felt ashamed of her song. "quand je danse avec mon grand frisé il a l'air de m'enlacer je perds la tête 'suis comme une bête! 'y a pas chose--'suis sa chose à lui 'y a pas mal--quoi? c'est mon mari car moi, je l'aime j'aime mon grand frisé." the audience sang the swinging chorus, and she moved sinuously to and fro with the rhythm of it. humphrey sat there, and he seemed to lose consciousness of all the other people in the room--the smell of the smoke, and the jingle of the piano, and the ill-painted pictures on the walls faded away from him; all his senses seemed to merge and concentrate on the enjoyment of this moment. she was singing on the stage for him, her narrow eyes never left him. and her song was a pæan in praise of the brute in man. she acted her song. her face was radiant with the joy of being possessed, and her eyes shone as she abandoned herself to the words: "quand je danse avec le grand frisé il a l'air de m'enlacer...." then her wonderful hands with their glinting finger-nails went up to her head, and she half-closed her eyes, as though she were swooning: "je perds la tête...." now her eyes were opened, and they glared wildly, and her lips trembled, and her slim body quivered with animal hunger: "'suis comme une bête." and now, she smiled, and pride was on her face; one hand rested on her hip, and she swaggered up the stage, as the words fitted into the opening lilt: "'y pas chose--suis sa chose à lui 'y pas mal--quoi? c'est mon mari...." her face became at once miraculously tender. she expressed great and overpowering love--a love so strong that it swept everything before it--a love that was without restraint, passionate, fierce and unquenchable. her arms were outstretched. her dark blouse, opened at the neck, revealed her white throat throbbing with her song: "car moi, je l'aime j'aime mon grand frisé." and when she sang "_je l'aime_," she invested the words with passion and renunciation. they clamoured for another verse, crying "_bis ... bis_," in throaty tones, but she only came on to bow to them, and walk off again with that swaying stride. "_eh, bien!_" said a voice at humphrey's elbow, "she is very good, our little desirée, _hein_?" he turned half round in his chair. at first he did not recognize the immaculately clothed young man, with the fair, long hair, who smiled at him, and then he recollected that they had met in the office of _le parisien_. "m. charnac, isn't it?" humphrey asked. "i didn't know you at once.... yes, she's very good. what's her name?" "desirée lebeau," charnac answered. he looked at humphrey again, still smiling. "do you often come here?" he asked. "this is the first time.... i was wandering about.... i just dropped in." humphrey noticed that charnac was not alone. a pretty girl dressed becomingly in black, with a touch of red about her neck, sat by his side. "allow me to present a friend, margot," charnac said to the girl. "he is an englishman--a journalist," he added. and to humphrey he said: "mlle. margot lebeau. she is the sister of our little desirée." "_m'sieu est anglais_," said the dark-haired girl in a piping voice. "_ah! que ça doit être interessant d'être anglais._" iv the entertainment was near its end. a dainty figure came from the heavy curtains that hung from each side of the proscenium and hid the entertainers from the audience. humphrey recognised desirée, though she had forsaken her stage-costume and wore a simple dark-blue dress, with a black fur boa held carelessly about her shoulders. she came towards them with a smile, stopping on the way, as one or two men, of a better class than the bulk of the audience, hailed her. she bent down to them, and whispered conversations followed. she laughed and slapped the face of one man--an elderly man with a red ribbon in his button-hole. it was a playful slap, just the movement that a kitten makes with its paw when it is playing with long hanging curtains. charnac pushed out a chair for her invitingly. she came to them with a smile hovering about her lips, and a look of curious interest in her pale eyes as she saw humphrey. she shook hands with charnac, and kissed her sister margot, and then, with a frank gesture, without any embarrassment, she held out her hand to humphrey and said: "_bon soir, p'tit homme._" there was a quality of friendship in her voice; her whole manner suggested a desire to be amiable; she accepted humphrey as a friend without question, and, as for charnac, she treated him as if he were one of the family, as a brother. the women in the room stared at the party every few moments, absorbed in the details of desirée's dress, and the men glanced at her with smiles that irritated humphrey. "it is a little friend of mine--an englishman," charnac said to desirée. "an englishman!" said desirée, in a way that seemed to be the echo of her sister's remark a few minutes earlier. "i have a friend in england." she spoke french in a clipped manner, abbreviating her words, and scattering fragments of slang through her phrases. "is that so?" humphrey said. "what part of england?" "manchestaire," she replied. "his name was mr smith. you know him?" humphrey laughed. "i'm afraid i don't--manchester's a big place, you know." "is it as big as london?" "oh no. not as big as london." "i should like to go to london. i have a friend there--a girl friend." "oh! where does she live?" "i forget the name of the street--somewhere near charing cross--that's a railway station, isn't it?" "yes." silence fell between them while a comedian, dressed as a comic soldier, sang a song that made them all laugh; though humphrey could not understand the _argot_, he caught something of the innuendo of the song. strange, that in france and germany, in countries where patriotism and militarism are at their highest, the army should be held up to ridicule, and burlesqued in the coarsest fashion. the song gave humphrey an opportunity of studying desirée's face. he saw that the yellow hair was silky and natural; her eyebrows were as pale as her hair, and when she laughed, her red lips parted to show small white teeth that looked incredibly sharp. she was not beautiful, but she held some mysterious attraction for him. she was of a type that differed from all the women he had met. though her face and figure showed that she was little more than twenty, her bearing was that of a woman who had lived and learnt all there was to know of the world. one slim, ungloved hand rested on the table, and he noted the beauty of it, its slender, delicate fingers, and the perfect shape of her pink, shining nails. in the making of her, nature seemed to have concentrated in her hands all her power of creating beauty. the song finished to a round of applause. "_il est joliment drôle_," said desirée to charnac. "ah! zut ... i could do with a drink." "we won't have anything here," charnac said. "they only sell species of poisons. let's go and have supper at the chariot d'or.... will you join us, mr quain?" why not? it was a perfectly harmless idea. every experience added something to his knowledge. and yet, he hesitated. somewhere, at the back of his mind, a feeling of uneasiness awoke in him. charnac would pair off with margot, and he would have to sit with desirée during the meal. the thought carried with it a picture of forbidden things. conscience argued with him: "you really oughtn't to, you know." "why not? what harm will it do?" he urged. conscience was relentless. "you forget you have a duty to some one." "nonsense," he said, "let's look at the thing in a broad-minded way. it won't hurt me to have supper with them, surely." desirée laid a hand upon his sleeve gently. "_tu viens--oui_," she asked, in a low, caressing voice. their eyes met. he saw the pupils of her narrow eyes grow larger for a second, as though they were striving to express unspoken thoughts. then they receded and contracted to little, dark, twinkling beads set in their centre of pale blue circles. "_oui_," he said, with a sigh. * * * * * they came out into the noisy night of the boulevard. they walked together, charnac and margot with linked arms. the lower floors of the night restaurants were blazing with light, but in the upper rooms the drawn blinds subdued the glare, and transformed it into a warm glow. cabs and motor-cars came up the steep hill from the grands boulevards below for the revelry of supper after the theatre. the great doors of the chariot d'or were continually moving, and the uniformed doorkeeper seemed to enjoy the exercise of pulling the door open every second, as women in wraps, accompanied by men, crossed the threshold. they went upstairs into a long brilliant room, all gold and glass and red plush, with white tablecloths shining in the strong light. in the corner a group of musicians, dressed in a picturesque costume--it might have been taken from any of the balkan states, or from imagination--played a dragging waltz melody. a dark woman sat by them, wearing a spanish dress, orange and spangled, the bodice low-cut, and the skirt fanciful and short, showing her thin legs clad in black open-work stockings. she regarded the room with an air of detached interest, unanswering the glances of the men. she was the wife of the first violinist. charnac led the way to a table; he placed himself next to margot on the red plush sofa-cushions, and humphrey sat with desirée. while charnac was ordering the supper and consulting their individual tastes, humphrey glanced round the room at the men who sat at the little tables with glasses of sparkling amber wine before them, some of them in evening-dress, with crumpled, soft shirt-fronts, others in lounge suits or morning-coats. not all had women with them, but the women that he saw were luxurious, beautiful creatures, with indolent eyes and faces of strange beauty. the lights gleamed under rose-coloured shades on the table, on the silver dishes piled high with splendid fruits, on bottles swathed tenderly with napkins, set in silver ice-pails, on tumblers of coloured wines and liqueurs. "it's pretty here, eh?" said desirée. "it's not so bad. i've never been here before. do you come often?" "oh no! not often: only when margot brings gustave to come and fetch me after i've been singing." she clapped her hands gaily as the waiter set a steaming dish of mussels before them. the house was famed for its _moules marinières_. "i adore them," she said, unfolding her serviette, and tucking it under her chin. charnac ladled out the mussels into soup-plates. their blue iridescent shells shone in an opal-coloured gravy where tiny slices of onion floated on the surface. her dainty fingers dipped into the plate, and she fed herself with the mussels, biting them from the shells with her sharp white teeth. she ate with an extraordinary rapidity, breaking off generous pieces from the long, crisp roll of bread before her, and drinking deeply of her red burgundy. she was simply an animal. margot ate in much the same way, with greedy, quick gestures, until her plate was piled high with empty mussel shells. and, during the meal, they chattered trivialities, discussing personal friends in a slangy, intimate phraseology. the sharp taste of the sauce, with its flavour of the salt sea-water, made humphrey thirsty, and he, too, drank plenty of wine; and the wine and the warmth sent the colour rushing to his cheeks, and filled him with a sense of comfort. the whole atmosphere of the place had a soothing effect on him. the orchestra started to play a spanish dance, and the woman in orange rose from her seat, and tossing her lace shawl aside, moved down the aisle of tables in a sidling, swinging dance, castanets clicking from her thumbs, marking the sway and poise of her body above her hips. it was a sexual, voluptuous dance, that stirred the senses like strong wine. now she flung herself backwards with a proud, uplifted chin. one high-heeled satin shoe stamped the floor. her eyes flashed darkly and dangerously; she flaunted her bare throat and bosom before them; now she moved with a lithe sinuous motion from table to table, one hand on her hip, and the other swinging loosely by her side. there was something terrible and triumphant in her dance to the beat of the music with its rhythm of a heart throbbing in passion. "bravo! bravo!" they cried, as the dance finished. "_bis_," shouted charnac, lolling back in his seat with his arm round margot's shoulder. "she dances well," said humphrey. desirée turned her pale eyes on him. "i can dance better," she said, and before he had realized it, she was up and in the centre of the room, and everybody laughed and clapped hands, as desirée began to dance with stealthy, cat-like steps. her face was impudent, as she twined and twisted her thin body into contortions that set all the men leering at her. it was frankly repulsive and horrible to humphrey; she seemed suddenly to have ceased to be a woman, just as when she had started to eat. she was inhuman when she sang and ate and danced. the blur of white flesh through the smoke, the odour of heavy scents, and the sight of desirée writhing in her horrid dance, sickened him. he saw her white teeth gleaming between her lips, half-parted with the exhaustion of her dance, he saw her eyes laughing at him, as though she were proud and expected his applause, and he felt a profound, inexplicable pity for her that overwhelmed his disgust. she flung herself, panting, into her seat, and pushed back her disordered yellow hair with her hands. "_oh la! ... la!_" she cried, laughing in gasps, "_c'est fatiguant, ça_ ... my throat is like a furnace." and she clicked her glass against the glass that humphrey held in his hand, and drained it to the finish. "why did you do that?" asked humphrey, huskily. "do what?" "dance like that--in front of all these people?" "why shouldn't i, if i want to?" "i don't like it," he said, wondering why he was impelled to say so. "well, you shouldn't have said she dances well," desirée replied. "i must be going," humphrey said. "oh, not yet," charnac said. "let's all go together." "no," he pushed his chair away with sudden resolution. "i must go." "but, my dear--" desirée began. "i must go," humphrey repeated, slowly. it was like the repetition of a lesson. "i must go now." "oh, well--" charnac said. the waiter appeared with a bill. "you will allow me to pay?" humphrey asked charnac. "_mais non, mais non, mon ami_," he replied, good-naturedly. "it was i who asked you to come, wasn't it? another night it will be your turn." "another night," echoed margot, in her high-pitched voice. "_j'adore les anglais, ils sont si gentils._" "and why cannot you stop?" desirée asked. he avoided her eyes. never could he explain in this room, with its scent and its music and its warmth, that turned vice into happiness and made virtue as chilling and intractable as marble. he only knew that he had to go. he made some excuse--any excuse--work--a headache ... he did not know what he was saying; he was only conscious of those narrow eyes beneath pale eyebrows, and red parted lips, and the soft hand that lay in his--the soft hand with the finger-tips as beautiful as rosy sea-shells. they were not to blame; they could not be expected to know his innermost life, nor why it was that he felt suddenly as if he had profaned himself, and all that was most sacred to him. but that finer, nobler self that was always dormant within him, as eager to awaken to influences as it was to be lulled to sleep by them, became active and alert.... there was a hint of dawn in the sky as he came out into the empty street, his mind charged with a deep melancholy. but, as the cool air played about his face, he breathed more freely after the stuffy warmth of the room, and he walked with a firm step, square-shouldered, erect and courageous. v some weeks later there came a letter which brought the reality of things into his own life. it was a short and regretful letter from a firm of easterham solicitors, announcing the death of his aunt. they informed him of the fact in a few, brief, dignified words. there was an undercurrent of excuse, as if they felt themselves personally responsible for the sudden demise, and were anxious to apologise for any inconvenience that might be felt by mr quain. he gathered that his aunt had lived on an annuity, which expired with her; that a little financial trouble--loans to a brother of whom humphrey had never heard--absorbed her furniture and all her possessions, with the exception of a watch and chain, which she had willed to humphrey. the funeral was to take place two days hence--and that was all. the letter moved him neither to tears nor sorrow. his aunt had been as remote from him in life as she was in death. an unbridgeable abyss had divided them. never, during the years he had lived in easterham, after his father's death, had they talked of the fundamental things that mattered to one another. he felt that he owed her nothing, least of all love, for she remained in his memory a masterful, powerful influence, trying to fetter him down to a narrow life, without comprehension of the broad, beautiful world that lay at her doors. he could see her now in her dress of some mysterious black pattern, and always a shawl over her shoulder, her white hair plastered close to her heavy gold earrings, her lips thin and compressed, and her eyes hard-set, when she said, "you must get on." she did not know, when she urged him to go forward, how far he meant to go. her vision of getting on was bounded by easterham--what could she know and understand of all the bewildering phases he had undergone; the bitter heartaches, the misery of failure, and the glory of conquest in a world wider than a million easterhams. but, as he thought of her dead, a strange feeling came to him that now she could understand everything, that she knew all, and was even ready to reach out in sympathy to him. her last pathetic message--a watch and chain! the rude knowledge that he had gained of the secret things of her life--how she lived, her loan to the brother; it seemed that some hidden door which they had both kept carefully locked had been flung open widely--that his eyes were desecrating her profoundest secrets. it was not the first time that death had stirred his life, but this was a sudden and unexpected snapping of a chain that bound him with his boyhood. always he had been subconsciously aware of his aunt's presence in the scheme of things; there had been ingrained in him a certain fear of her, that he had never quite shaken off. behind the individuality of his own life she had lurked, a shadowy figure, yet ready to emerge from the shadows at a moment of provocation, and become real and distinct and forbidding. and now he could scarcely realize that she was dead--that he was absolutely alone in the world, though there might be, somewhere, cousins and kinspeople whom he had never seen. she had not been demonstratively kind to him in life. the watch and chain she left was the first present he could ever remember receiving from her. but he felt that he could not absent himself from her funeral; it would be a sad and desolate business in the easterham churchyard, with not many people there, yet he knew that he could not pass the day in paris without thinking of her, lowered into the grave to the eternal loneliness of death. he sent a telegram to london, and received a reply a few hours later, giving him permission to leave paris, and the next day he travelled to england. the collection of papers and magazines rested unread in his lap. he looked from the window on the succession of pictures that flashed and disappeared--a blue-bloused labourer at work in the fields, or a waggoner toiling along a country lane; children shouting by the hedgerows, and the signal-women who sat by their little huts on the railway as the train sped by. he could not read; sometimes, with a sigh, he sought a paper (france had just caught the popular magazine habit from england), turned the pages restlessly, and, finally, leaning on the arm-rest, stared out of the window.... the shuttle of his mind went to and fro, twining together the disconnected threads of his thoughts into a pattern of memories--memories of his youth and his work and his aunt interwoven with the strong, dominating thought of elizabeth.... his thoughts turned continually to elizabeth; sometimes they spun away to something else, but always they were led back through a series of memories to that night when he had kissed her for the first time. it was odd how this absence from her seemed to have changed her in his mind. there had been an undercurrent of disappointment in their relations, of late. her letters had been strangely sterile and unsatisfying. she had written an evasive reply, after a delay, an answer to his last letter begging her to come to him.... yet he was eager to see her and to kiss her. he felt that she was all that he had left to him in the world: that she and his work were all that mattered.... a garrulous frenchman lured him into conversation during dinner; he was glad, for it gave him relief from the monotonous burden of his thoughts ... and on the boat he dozed in the sunshine of a smooth crossing. once in england again, the delight of an exile returning to his home provided new sensations. the porters were deferentially solicitous for his comfort; the customs officers behaved with innate politeness, and the little squat train, with its separate compartments, brought a glow of happiness to him. he saw england as a stranger might see it for the first time: he observed the discipline and order of the railway station that came not from oppression but from high organization and planning. there were no mistakes made; the boy brought his tea-basket and did not overcharge him; the porter accepted sixpence and touched his hat, not obsequiously, but in acknowledgment, without a suggestion of haggling for more. it seemed incredible that he should find this perfection, where a year ago he could not see it.... there were frenchmen in the carriage, and he sat with the conscious pride of an englishman in his own country. the train moved out, giving a glimpse of the harbour and the sea breaking in white lines over the sloping beach; and then through a tunnel that emerged on fields. the first thing he noticed was the vivid green of the country, and the way it was cut up and divided into squares and oblongs: the small clumps of low-set trees, the fat cattle, and the peace brooding over the land. and then he noticed the little houses, low-storied and thatched, with a feather of blue smoke waving from their chimneys. the whole journey was a series of new impressions that elated him. stations flashed and left behind a blurred memory of advertisements, and names that breathed of yeoman england: ashford--paddock wood--sevenoaks--knockholt; and then the advertisement-boards stood out of the green fields, blatantly insisting on lung tonics and pills, marking off mile after mile that brought him nearer to london. the houses closed in on the railway line; the train ran now through larger stations of red brick, passing the peopled platforms with an echoing roar; other crowded trains passed them, going slowly to the suburbs they had left behind. a new note seemed to come into the journey as the evening descended, and the world outside was populous with lights. the memory of the clean, sweet country, with its toy houses, was wiped away by a swift blot of darkness as the train flashed through new cross, and out into the broad network of rails with which london begins. he saw the factories and the sidings and the busy traffic of trains overtaking one another, running parallel for a space, and then swaying apart as one branched off to the south-eastern suburbs. he saw the smoke hanging in thick clouds on the far horizon; masts and rigging made spidery silhouettes against the sky; and the tall, factory chimneys thrust out their monstrous tongues of livid fire. the city was before him right and left, overgrown and tremendous. they ran level with crooked chimney-pots and the scarred roofs of endless rows of houses. the upper windows were yellow with light, and he caught glimpses of women before mirrors and men in their shirt-sleeves. dark masses of clouds rolled before the moon. something wet splashed on his cheek. a silent englishman sitting next to him, said moodily: "raining as usual. i've never once come home without it raining." he laughed as though it were a bitter joke. fantastic reflections wriggled on the wet, shining approach to london bridge--a swift vision of bus-drivers, with oilcloth capes glinting in the rain, hurrying crowds, and something altogether new--a motor-omnibus. then the train, with a dignified, steady movement, swung slowly across hungerford bridge, and he saw the strong, resolute river, black and broad, flowing to the bridges, within the jewelled girdle of the embankment. the sense of england's greatness came to him, as the landmarks of london were set in a semicircle before him: the tall dome of st paul's, the spires of churches, the turrets of great hotels, grey government offices, culminating in the vague majesty of the houses of parliament. how different the streets were from paris! there was a force and an energy that seemed to be driving everything perpetually forward. this business of getting to dinner--it was about half-past seven--was a terribly earnest and crowded affair. the throng of motor-cars and omnibuses jammed and flocked together in the strand, held in leash by a policeman's uplifted hand, and when it was released, it crawled sluggishly forward. here and there, rare sight for humphrey, one of the new motor-omnibuses lumbered forward heavily, threatening instant annihilation of everything. there was no chatter of voices in the crowd--no gesticulation--the people walked silently and hurriedly with a set concentration of purpose. he went to a hotel in the adelphi to leave his bag. then he came out, pausing for a moment irresolutely in the crowd. it was too late, as he had foreseen, to go to elizabeth. he had made up his mind to see her on his return from easterham. an omnibus halted by him: he boarded it, and as he passed the griffin, he breathed deeply like a monarch entering his own domain, for the scent of the street was in his nostrils and the old, well-known vision of the lit windows passed before him, and a newsboy ran along shouting a late edition. this was the only street in the world, he felt, that he loved; its people were his people, and its life was his life. he turned into the pen club, to friendship, good-fellowship and welcome. and all the old friends were there--larkin, retelling old stories, chander spinning merry yarns, and vernham making melancholy epigrams. willoughby, he learnt, was away on a mystery in the north, and jamieson was at a first night. "by the way," said larkin, "heard about tommy pride?" "no. what's happened?" "he's left _the day_." "sacked?" asked humphrey. larkin nodded. "rather rough on poor old tommy. married, isn't he?" a picture of his first visit to the home of the prides leapt before humphrey's eyes, and the comfort, the cheeriness, that hid all the hard work of the week. the news hurt him queerly. "what's he doing?" he asked. "well, not much. tommy's not a youngster, you know. i suppose the newspaper press fund will tide him over a bit." larkin dropped the subject, to listen to a story from vernham. after all, it was the most casual thing in the happenings of fleet street to them: it might happen to them any day; it was bound to happen to them one day. and there would always be young men ready to take their places. nobody was to blame; it was just one of the chances of the inexorable system which made their work a gamble, where men hazarded their wits and their lives, and lost or won in the game. humphrey knew more than they did what it meant for tommy pride. he heard as a mocking echo now, the old cry, "two pounds a week and a cottage in the country."... "have a drink," larkin said. he became suddenly out of tune with the place. his perception of fleet street altered. he saw the relentless cruelty of it, the implacable demand for sacrifice that it always made. he visioned it as a giant striding discordantly through the lives of men, crushing them with a strength as mighty as its own machines that roared in the night ... a clumsy and senseless giant, that towered above them, against whom all struggles were pitiful ... futile. vi "one lump or two?" asked elizabeth, holding the sugar-tongs poised over his cup of tea. "one, please," said humphrey. "milk or cream?" "milk." she handed him the cup in silence. there was something in the frank, questioning look in her blue eyes that made him avert his gaze. their meeting had not been at all as he had imagined it. he did not spring towards her, boyishly, and take her in his arms and kiss her. he had approached her humbly and timidly when she stood before him, in all her white purity and beauty, and their lips had met in a brief kiss of greeting. her manner had been curiously formal and restrained, empty of all outward display of emotion. and now they sat at tea in her room with the conversation lagging between them. as he looked round at the room with its chintzes and rose-bowls, its old restfulness reasserted itself. but to humphrey it seemed now more than restful--it seemed stagnant and out of the world.... somewhere, in paris, there were music and laughter, but here, in this quiet backwater of london, one's vision became narrow, and life seemed a monotonous repetition of days. he felt moody, depressed; a sense of coming disaster hung over his mind, like a shadow. her quick sympathy perceived his gloom. "you ought not to have gone," she said, softly. "you mean to the funeral?" "yes; you are too susceptible ... too easily influenced by surroundings. there was no need to come all this way to make yourself miserable." "i don't know why i went," he said. "we never had much in common, my aunt and i, but somehow ... i don't know ... i couldn't bear the thought of not being present at her funeral. i had a silly sort of idea that she would know if i were not there." "you are too susceptible," she repeated. "sometimes i wish you were stronger. you are too much afraid of what people will think of you. this death has meant nothing at all to you, but you are ashamed to say so." "it has meant something to me," he said. "i don't mean that i felt a wrench, as if some one whom i loved very dearly had gone ... i felt that when my father died ... but her death has changed me somehow--here--" and he tapped his breast, "i feel older. i feel as if i had stood over the grave and seen the burial of my youth." "it has made you gloomy," elizabeth said. "i think you would have been truer to yourself if you had remained in paris." he reflected for a few moments, drinking his tea. he felt sombre enough in his black clothes and black tie--dreary concessions to conventionality. "ah, but i wanted to see you, elizabeth," he said earnestly. "it's terribly lonely without you." she leaned forward and laid her hand lightly on his, with a soft, caressing touch. "it's good of you to say that," she said, and then, with a frank smile, "tell me, humphrey, do you really miss me very much?" "i do," he said; and he began talking of himself and all that he did in paris. elizabeth listened with an amused smile playing about her lips. he told her of his work and his play, growing enthusiastic over paris, speaking with all the self-centredness of the egotist. "it seems very pleasant," she said. "you are to be envied, i think. you ought to be very happy: doing everything that you want to do; occupying a good position in journalism." he purred mentally under her praise. already he felt better; her presence stimulated him; but he could not see, nor understand, the true elizabeth, for the mists of vanity, ambition and selfishness clouded his vision at that moment. if only he had forgotten himself ... if only he had asked her one question about herself and _her_ work, or shown the smallest interest in anything outside his own career, he might have risen to great heights of happiness. this was the second in which everything hung in the balance. he saw elizabeth lean her chin in the palm of her hand and contemplate reflectively the distance beyond him. he marked the beauty of her lower arm, bare to the rounded charm of the elbow, as it rested on the curve of the arm-chair. so, he thought, would she sit in paris, and grace his life. and then, suddenly, her face became grave, and she said, abruptly: "humphrey, i want to talk to you very seriously. i want to know whether you will give up journalism." he remembered her hint of this far back in the months when she had first allowed him to tell her of his love. he had thought the danger was past, but now she came to him, with a deliberate, frontal attack on the very stronghold of his existence. "give up journalism!" he echoed. "what for?" all the weapons of her sex were at her command. she might have said, "for me"; she might have smiled and enticed and cajoled. but she brushed these weapons aside disdainfully. hers was the earnest business of putting humphrey to the test. "because i think you and i will never be happy together if you do not. because, if i marry you (he noticed she did not say, 'when i marry you'), i should not want your work to occupy a larger place in our lives than myself. because i hate your work, and i think you can do better things. those are my reasons." he stood up and walked to the window, looking out on the trees that made an avenue of the quiet road. a man with a green baize covered tray on his head came round the corner, swinging a bell up and down. "well?" she said. "oh but look here, elizabeth," he began, "you spring something like this on me suddenly, and expect me to answer at once...." "oh, no! you can have time to think it over. you've had nearly a year, you know." "how do you make that out?" "have you forgotten? when you were going to paris--before you were going to paris even--i tried to show you that i wanted you to give up the work. i remember you promised things. you said you'd write books, or do essays for the weeklies...." "but, dear, you can't make a living writing books--unless you fluke, or unless you're a genius; as for essays for the weeklies, frankly, i don't believe i can do them--i'm not brilliant enough." "yes, you are," elizabeth urged. (fatal mistake to make, it smoothed all his vanity the right way.) "i believe in you, humphrey. if i didn't believe in you, i wouldn't be talking as i am now. and, besides, i've told you before, i have enough for us both." though she was offering him freedom; though, if he wished, he could accept her offer and be rid for ever from the torments of fleet street, he could not leave its joys. "you don't understand," he said. "you couldn't expect me to live on you...." "why not? i should be prepared to live on you, if i were poor." "that's different. you're a woman." she laughed. "we won't go into the side-issues of arguments over ethics," she said. "you need not live on me. you told me that you had saved four hundred pounds. if we lived simply that would keep us both for a start, and you could be adding to your income by writing. humphrey, don't you see i'm trying to rescue you. i want you to do something fine and noble; i want you to go forward." "well, i've gone forward," he said. "i've made myself in the street. you don't know what you ask when you want me to give it up. nobody can understand it unless he's been in the game. i can't think what it is--it isn't vanity, because all that we write is unsigned; it's sheer love of the work that drives us on." "but you hate it, too." "we hate it as fiercely as we love it..." he said, simply. "one day we say to ourselves, 'we will give it up.' that's what i say to you, now. i'm going to give it up, one day." "that you have also promised before," she said, in a gentle voice. "let us talk it over between ourselves. why shouldn't you leave now?" he was cornered: he stood at bay, facing her beauty, but behind it and above it he saw all the struggles and endeavour and splendid triumph that awaited him in the restless years to come, when each day would be a battle-field, and any might bring him defeat or conquest. he saw the world opening before him, and far-off cities close at hand; he saw himself wandering through the years, touching the lives of men; a privileged person, always behind the scenes of life, with a hint of power perhaps.... and, in exchange, she offered him peace and rest, both of which corroded the soul eager for war; peace and rest and love, that would be so beautiful until the years made them familiar and wearisome, until he would be forced to go out again into the thick of the battle ... and by that time his armour would be rusty, and the years of peace would have blunted his sword. "elizabeth," he said slowly, "i can't live in a room, now. i can't always look out of the window on the same scene. i must keep moving. each day must bring me a fresh scene, a fresh experience. i have grown so used to change and movement that a week without it makes life dull and unbearable. i'm not fit for anything else but the work i do. i'm born to do that and nothing else. everything in life now i see from the point of view of 'copy.'" he laughed, but there was a sob in his laughter at his shameful confession. "why, even at the funeral, as i stood over the grave, and watched them lower the coffin, i felt that i could write a splendid column about it, and instead of feeling the solemnity of it all, i found that i was watching the white surplices against the green trees, and looking at the faces of the people, and painting a picture in my mind...." he paused. her eyes were downcast, and her fingers played absently with the loops of the chain that hung from her neck. "it's a habit," he went on. "it's grown on me, so that i see life and its emotions as a series of things to be written about. why shouldn't i have thought as i did at the funeral? i have been taught to do it, when i go to the funerals of great men that i have to report. i'm a journalist ... a reporter. i've seen men eat their hearts out in a year, after they've left the street light-heartedly. the reaction comes suddenly. things are happening all around them, and they're out of it. and they creep back, and try to get a job again. that's what kenneth himself will do one day.... i don't want to be one of those, elizabeth. i want to go through with it, right through to the failure at the end of all, and when the failure comes, i'll build up again." she spread out her hands helplessly. "i see..." she said, "i see...." that was all for a moment, and then, again: "if you were doing something worthy, i could understand; if you were producing art, i could understand, too ... but this"--a copy of _the day_ was on the table, and she held it in her hand--"this is unworthy. this is all you produce with your infinite labour." "it's not unworthy ... we have our ideals." she laughed, and her laugh stung him. "humphrey, you have the ha'penny mind that does not see beyond its own nose. you just live for the day itself. oh!" she cried, "if you knew how i hate your ferrol, and all that he stands for: all the ignoble things in life, painting everything with the commercial taint of worldly success. there was a beautiful picture bought the other day for the national gallery. i see it is to be known as the '£ , picture.' that's the spirit behind ferrol ... we might be crying for great reforms--i have not spoken of my work in all this--we might be lifted up with the power at his command...." when she spoke of ferrol, humphrey remembered all that had been done for him. what could she know of ferrol's personality, of his splendid force, of the thousand generous acts that remained hidden, while only the things were remembered that blackened his reputation. his admiration for ferrol was immeasurable. he saw in the indomitable energy of the man something tangible and positive among all the negative virtues of life. ferrol stood for achievement that crowned the indefatigable years. and with it all, this superman could descend from his loftiness and be human and weave the spell of his humanity about the lives of others. "you don't understand ferrol," he said. "very few people do. but he has been kind to me ... there's something in ferrol that draws me to him. one day you will see he will do all that you expect him to do, but the time is not yet ripe for that. and you speak as if ferrol were the only man in england who owned a newspaper. what of the others--have any of them done as much good as he has done?" "whatever good he has done, is done from motives of gain." "i do not look at motives," he retorted. "i look only at the effects of the action. if a bad deed is done from good motives, it does not make the deed anything but bad." they were standing face to face now. "come, elizabeth," he said, moving towards her. "you do not know how i love you, and if you loved me, you would not ask me to give up my work." her face was white and beautiful, and her hand went up to her heart with a womanly gesture. she spoke in a low, deliberate voice. "in all that we have said, there has never been a word of what giving up _my_ work may mean to me. yet you would have me abandon it, and forsake all the good we have tried to build up...." "you would have to give it up, one day, elizabeth. besides, if you like," he said, desperately, "i'll go to ferrol and ask him to remove me from paris back to london. i'll do anything to meet you, i only want to make you happy." "oh, don't keep on saying that sort of thing," she said; "it irritates me. those hollow repetitions of set phrases--just because they're the right thing to say." "i think you are unreasonable," he began. "i have worked all these years for success, and now, just when i've won it, you wish me to throw everything away." "i wish you to do nothing against your will. i thought you would have seen my point of view. i thought you would be ready to share in my work, which is the work of humanity.... i am sorry. you see, we clash. we shall be better alone." he stared at her with dull incomprehension. "we clash. we shall be better alone." the words repeated themselves over and over again in his brain. and his mind suddenly went back to a little room in the strand and the tears of lilian.... "you mean that," he said, slowly. "you mean that." she nodded. "don't you see how impossible it would be?" "you never loved me," he flung forth as a challenge. "you could have helped me and understood me.... i am not so bad as you think i am." a sad smile answered him. "i understand you so well, humphrey, that i know i shall never be able to help you." he looked about him in weak hesitation. "i suppose i must begin again," he said. "you ... you ... all the time it is you," she cried, passionately. "and what about myself; must not i begin over again, too?" "i'm sorry," he said, feeling the inadequacy of his words. he longed intensely to be away from her now, to be out in the open street where he could think. this room was stifling. he went through the horrid methodical business of parting as if it were all a dream. he remembered glancing at the clock in a casual way, and saying, "i'd better be going"; he remembered the ludicrous search for one glove, he murmuring that it didn't really matter, and she insisting on a search with aching minuteness.... he never saw her again; her life had impinged on his, and left its impression, as many others had done. he did not regret her as he had regretted lilian, for she had outraged his self-respect, and left him abashed and humbled. vii he went back to paris, and a week later the trouble broke out in narbonne. at first it did not seem very serious. one understood vaguely that the wine-growers were in revolt. the paris buyers had been adulterating the vintages--making one cask into a dozen--so that they came to a year when there was such a glut of this adulterated wine on the market, that the wine-growers of the south were left with wine to spill in the gutters, and wine to give to the pigs--but without bread to give to their children. then there arose one of those men who flame into history for a few vivid moments. a leader of men, whose words were sparks dropped among straw; who had but to say "kill," and they would kill, until he bade them stop. for a time, in a way essentially peculiar to france, the ludicrous prevailed. municipalities resigned, mayors and all, and there was no giving nor taking in marriage, no registration of births or deaths. odd stories of the despair of love--sick peasantry at postponed weddings--filled the papers; the _assiette au beurre_ published a special number satirizing the situation. it was a good joke in paris--but at perpignan and montpellier twenty thousand _vignerons_ were talking of bloody revolution, and marching with blue and silver banners, and calling on the government to put a tax on sugar, so as to make adulteration so costly that it should be profitless.... and humphrey in the paris office distilled a column a day from the forty columns that the french special correspondents sent to their papers, while dagneau, up at the ministry of the interior, garnered facts and official _communiqués_. work was his salvation and his solace. everything of the past was wiped away from his mind when humphrey worked. the personal things affecting his own private life became trivial beside the urgent importance of keeping _the day_ well-informed. and thus habit had fortified his power of resistance to external matters that might have disturbed a mind less trained to make itself subservient to the larger issue of duty. in a week--a brief week--he had gone through every phase of sorrow, anger, self-pity at his rejection. he thought of writing--indeed, he went so far one night as to compose a letter imploring elizabeth for forgiveness, promising everything she wished ... but, when it was written, he tore it into little pieces. a mood of futile oaths followed. he felt that he had been balked of her by trickery. it led to violent hatred of her cold austerity, her icy splendour. he put away the thought of her from him. after all, what did it matter? they would never have been happy together. always she was above him, distant and unattainable ... yet those fine moments, when she had stooped down and lifted him up, when gold and brilliance took the place of the dross in his mind! how she filled him with dreams of overwhelming possibilities, of ennobling achievements.... below the crust of the selfishness and vanity of his life, there was a rich vein of good and strong desire ready to be worked, if she had only known. there were moments when his whole soul ached with an intense longing to be exalted and free from the impoverished squalor of its surroundings. he knew it, and the thought of it made him unjust to elizabeth. she had not known of those constant conflicts which endured over years that seemed everlasting,--a guerrilla warfare with conscience. they had not mattered. she had given his soul back to him, to do as he liked with it; she had forsaken him before he was strong enough to stand alone.... the telephone bell rang. he adjusted the metal band over his head. "londres," said the voice of the operator. his ears heard nothing but the voice of _the day_ calling to him; his eyes saw nothing but the sheets of writing at his side, and everything else faded from his mind but the news of the night.... * * * * * he put the receiver down, and almost immediately the telephone bell rang, and he heard a voice telling him that it was charnac.... "where have you been?" asked charnac. "one has missed you." humphrey explained his absence. "can you come to supper to-night," charnac called. "your little desirée will be there." his voice came out of the depths of space, calling humphrey to the gaiety of life. "your little desirée...." it brought to him, vividly, her thin, supple figure; those strange blue eyes that looked widely from beneath the pale eyebrows; and the lips of cherry-red. the song that she had sung that night had been lilting ever since in his mind: "... je perds la tête 'suis comme une bête." he saw her in all her alluring languor, secret, and mysterious. and it was the eternal mystery in her that attracted him. for a few moments he hesitated, indeterminately, at the telephone. "_eh bien, mon vieux_," called charnac's voice. "will you come? . at the chariot d'or." "i'll come," said humphrey. it was ten-thirty. ripples of unrest stirred his mind; he felt deeply agitated. he knew that he was on the brink of a new and complex development in his life; and the future stretched before him, vague and impenetrable, full of a promise of mournful and fierce delights, of happiness inconceivable, and sorrow inexperienced. no scruples retarded him now, and the voice of conscience was stilled, but despite all this, an indefinable mist of melancholy clouded his soul. dagneau came briskly into the office. humphrey ceased brooding, and swung round in his chair. "lamb," he said, "i'm going out to supper to-night." "oh! la! la!" dagneau laughed. "who's the lucky lady?" "not for the likes of little lambs that have to stay in the office and keep the fort." dagneau made a grimace. "i suppose it isn't safe for both of us to leave," he said. "no fear," humphrey replied. "there's no knowing what these fellows mayn't be up to in the south. anyhow, if anything urgent happens, come along to me. i shall be in the chariot d'or until one o'clock." dagneau was a good fellow, thought humphrey, as his cab climbed the hill to montmartre. it was jolly decent of him not to mind. he forgot the office now, and thought only of the night's adventuring. there was fully a half-hour to spare, so he idled it away on the terrace of a café sipping at a liqueur. every variety of street hawker came to persuade sous from him: they had plaster figures for sale, or wanted to cut his silhouette in black paper, or draw a portrait of him in pastels, or sell him ballads and questionable books, bound in pink, pictorial covers. the toy of the moment, frankly indecent, yet offered with a childlike innocence that made it impossible for one to be disgusted with the vendors, was thrust before him fifty times. they showed him how it worked, and when he refused, they brought from inner pockets picture-postcards which they tried to show him covertly, until he drove them away with the _argot_ he had learned from dagneau. at the time appointed a cab climbed the steep rue pigalle, and drew up before the chariot d'or. charnac sat in the middle comfortably squeezed in between margot and desirée. they waved a cheery greeting as they saw humphrey, and he helped them down. without any question he linked his arm in desirée's, and led her up the brilliant scarlet staircase to the supper-room. her meek acceptance of him, and the touch of her, gave him a strong sense of possession. this woman acknowledged his right of mastery over her, without a word being spoken, without any pleading, or the bitter pain of uncertainty. from that moment he felt she was his completely and unquestionably. there was no need to woo her and win her; she was to be taken, and she would yield herself up, as women were taken and women yielded themselves up in the earliest days of the earth. they went to their table. he had no eyes for anyone but desirée. she threw off her wrap, with a gesture of her shoulders, and as it tumbled from them, they shone white and shapely, and a rose was crushed to her bosom, making a splash of scarlet on her white bodice. she laughed and looked at him frankly, as if there were to be no secrets between them, and once, while the supper was being ordered, her thin hand rested in his, and he was stirred to wild, delicious emotion. yes, she was all as he had imagined her; she had not changed at all, and her yellow hair and pale eyebrows and thin face culminating in her pointed chin, reminded him of an aubrey beardsley picture--those slanting eyes, and red lips eternally shaped for a kiss, and the slender throat that rippled below the white surface of its skin when she spoke, the thin bare arms, and her hands, balanced on delicate wrists--those hands with their long dainty fingers and exquisite finger-tips. the sight of her inflamed him. their conversation was commonplace. why, she wanted to know, did he run away the last time they met. he lied to her, and pleaded a headache. "and you won't run off this time?" she asked, with a childish note of appeal in her voice. he sought her hand and held it in his own. she drew it away with a little grimace. "you're hurting me," she said. occasionally margot cut into their conversation. she lacked the beauty of her sister, her figure was stouter, and her face was not well made-up. she treated charnac with good-natured tolerance. during the supper--again the famous mussels--desirée asked humphrey many questions about himself--they were not questions which penetrated deeply into his private life, indeed, she showed no desire to pry into his surroundings. she wanted to know his tastes, and his likes and dislikes, and when, sometimes, he said anything that showed that they had something in common, she laughed delightedly at the discovery. her eyes held a wonderful knowledge in them, but the boldness of their gaze did not suggest immodesty to him. her eyes seemed to say: "there are certain things in life we never talk about. but i understand them all, and i know that you know i understand." it made him feel that there was nothing artificial about their friendship; in one bound they had attained perfect understanding, and it was miraculous to him. it was miraculous to him to sit there, with the music surging in his veins, and to look upon this delicately-wrought creature, beautiful, perfect in body, knowing that when he wished he could take her in his arms, and she would give herself to him without any hesitation. she was utterly strange to him, and yet, by this miracle, their lives were already commingled in swift intimacy. he thought of the other two women who had influenced his life: though he had kissed them, and spent long hours with them, they seemed now irrevocably distant from him, and never had he penetrated to the stratum of full comprehension that lay below the surface of misunderstandings.... he looked back on the years that were past, and he could only see himself struggling and pleading and breaking his heart to win that which was won now without any contest at all. was it love or passion that he wanted from them. ah! if we would only be frank with ourselves, and admit that there is no love without passion, there is no passion without love: that by separating passion from love, it has become a degraded and hidden thing. and humphrey wanted love: the desire for love, love inseparable from passion, had made a turbulent underflow beneath the stream of his life. twice he had tried to grasp love, twice it had eluded him. he had been despoiled by circumstance ... cheated by his own conscience. it was miraculous to him now, that he should be able to wrest his prize from life with so little struggle after all. he looked at desirée, and her eyes smiled--how incredibly near they seemed to one another, how the unattainable drew close to him and smiled.... he became aware of his name spoken aloud, and he looked up and saw a waiter looking round the room, with dagneau at his side. dagneau's face was strained and anxious. he seemed out of breath. suddenly he caught sight of humphrey, and hurried towards him. he raised his hat to the group. "pardon, mad'm'selle," he said to desirée, as he put a telegram before humphrey. the blue slips pasted on the paper danced before his eyes. "_qu'est que c'est?_" margot asked, fussily. "ferrol wants you to go to narbonne," dagneau said. "there's been shooting there.... i looked up the trains. you can catch the one o'clock from the gare d'orsay if you hurry." humphrey stared stupidly at the telegram, and desirée touched him with her hand. "_c'est quelque chose de grave?_" she asked. he shrugged his shoulders. "narbonne," he said to charnac, laconically. "_oh! nom d'un nom_--to-night?" asked charnac. "_c'est embêtant, ça._" and, suddenly, humphrey grew peaceful again, and all the turbulence of his thoughts calmed down and flowed towards the one desire that he had made paramount in his life--the desire of the journalist for news, the longing of the historian for history. fleet street called to him from those blue strips with their printed message. "go narbonne immediately cover riots," and the signature that symbolized fleet street--"ferrol"--held in it all the power that had made him a puppet of fate. but narbonne.... from all parts of europe the special correspondents would be converging on the town. there would be great doings to describe, new interests to make him forget rapidly. dagneau helped him on with his coat. "send on my bag," he said, glancing at his watch. "i'm awfully sorry," he added to charnac. "you'll understand. explain to them, won't you? dagneau, stop and finish my supper." he forgot everything else ... what else mattered? "_dis donc_," desirée said, "are you going again?" how surprisingly unimportant she seemed at this moment. her expression was half-suppliant, half-petulant. "if you go," she said distinctly, "i will never speak to you again--never." as if she could hold him back when others had failed! but he was moved to show her tenderness. a momentary pang of regret shot across him because he had to leave her. "don't be cross," he whispered. "i shall be back in three days." she turned her head away impetuously. and he realized that there never had been, nor ever could be, anything in common between them. * * * * * once, when he was dozing in the train speeding southwards to bordeaux, he woke up and laughed as he remembered the ludicrous amazement on the face of desirée as he left her suddenly and gladly to take up his work. viii the matters that occupied his mind belonged only to his work. in the early morning at bordeaux, when he had to change, he bought a budget of morning papers, and read them in the refreshment-room over his roll and coffee. the news was alarming enough: people were fleeing from narbonne and the neighbouring towns. seven had been shot in a riot on the previous night; the soldiery was in charge of the town, and martial law had been proclaimed. the french journalists excelled themselves in superlatives ... their stories were vain accounts of personal emotions and experiences, for it is the fashion with them to thrust their personality in front of the news. thereafter, on the journey to narbonne, humphrey wondered how he was going to get his telegrams out of the town, if it were besieged. he bought a map of the district and studied it: it might be necessary to send a courier to perpignan, or back to bordeaux, or, if things were very bad indeed, there were carrier pigeons; the spanish frontier at port bou was not very far away also ... perhaps, he could find some one to whom to telephone. it was his business to get any news out of narbonne, and there would be no excuse for failure. the people in his carriage were talking of the shooting. "i shouldn't like to be going there," one said. "it will be worse to-night," another remarked. "those southerners lose their heads so quickly." it seemed odd to humphrey that while they were talking of it in this detached way, he alone, probably, out of the whole train-load, was about to plunge into the actualities of revolution of his own free will. for the next few days he would be living with the grievances of the wine-growers, learning things that were unknown to him now. he would have to record and describe all that happened. his was the power to create sympathy in english households for the wrongs of these people starving in the midst of their fertile vineyards. the brakes jarred the carriages of the train. heads were put out of the window. on the up-line a goods train carrying flour had met with an accident. the engine lay grotesquely on one side, powdered with white flour, and the vans looked as if they had been out in a snow-storm. the melancholy sight of the shattered train slid past, as their own train jolted slowly on its journey. "what is it--have they wrecked the train?" some one asked. "no," another said, pointing to a paragraph in the paper, "it was an accident. the engine ran off the metals last night. it's in the _depêche de toulouse_." they all chattered among themselves. it was a trivial affair, then--one had thought for a moment that those sacred narbonnais...! but there was something sinister in that wrecked train with its broken vans and its engine covered in a cloud of white. it seemed to presage disaster, as it lay there outside the door of the town. the train stopped. "narbonne" cried the porters. humphrey descended as though it was the commonest thing in his life to enter garrisoned cities. the platform was full of soldiers, some standing with fixed bayonets, others sleeping on straw beside their stacked arms. officers strolled up and down to the clank of their swords; outside, through the door of the station, itself guarded by an infantryman in a blue coat, with its skirts tucked back, he caught a glimpse of horses tethered to the railings. nobody stopped him but the ticket-collector: in the midst of all this outward display of militarism, the business of the station went on as usual. trains steamed in and departed; expresses pounded through on their way to paris; porters were busy with parcels. the hotel buses were drawn up outside, just as if nothing in the world had happened to disturb the life of the town. he chose the hotel dorade omnibus, and away they went. the streets were lined with soldiers bivouacking on the pavements. the avenue from the station was a long line of stacked rifles, and soldiers in blue and red lounging against the walls, smoking cigarettes, or lying on the pavement, where beds of hay had been made. many of the shops were shuttered. he looked up, and the flat roofs of the houses were like barracks, with the _képis_ of soldiers visible between the chimney-pots. the bus passed an open square--cavalry held it, and another street, broad and long, leading from it, was a camp of white tents. sentries guarded the bridges across the river, and though the main boulevard was free of soldiers, he saw a hint of power in the courtyards of large houses. the walls were placarded with green and yellow posters, addressed to "citoyens," urging them to resist the government. the soldiers read them idly. and, in the midst of all this, the people of narbonne sat outside the cafés in the sunshine, under the red and white striped awnings, drinking their vermouth or absinthe! later, after he had taken his room at the hotel dorade, he walked about the town through the ranks of the soldiers. groups of people stood here and there, with grim faces and stern-set lips; they looked revengefully at officers and mounted police, and whenever a regiment marched into the town to the music of its drums and bugles, it was greeted with hoarse shouts of derision, and mocking cries of "assassins!" at the corner of a street of shops he came upon a little mound of stones set round a dark stain on the cobbled road; a wreath was laid there, and a night-light still burned under a glass cover. a piece of white cardboard, cut in the shape of a miniature tombstone, rested against a brick. he read the ill-written inscription on the card:-- | | ----- | | | | renÉ duclos âgé de ans assasiné par le gouvernement. there were seven other little memorial mounds in the neighbourhood. each one of them marked where a victim had fallen to the soldiers' ball cartridge. one of the cardboard tombstones bore a woman's name. her death was one of the inexplicable accidents of life: she was to have been married on the morrow. on her way she had been carried along in the crowd which was marching towards the town hall ... and in a minute she was dead. these signs of tragedy made a deep impression on humphrey's journalistic sense. he saw that the soldiers had not dared to move the mounds that reminded the people of the dreadful happenings in their midst. and they were surrounded by little silent crowds, who spelt out the inscriptions, sighed, and departed with mutterings. a man with bloodshot eyes, and unkempt hair, his chin thick with bristles, lurched across the road, and stood by humphrey, regarding him with a curious, persistent gaze. humphrey moved away, and the man edged after him. he made for the main boulevards where the crowded cafés gave him a sense of safety. he turned round, and saw that he was still being shadowed. a voice hailed him from a café: he turned and saw o'malley, the irishman of _the sentinel_. "hallo," said o'malley, "been here long?" "just arrived," humphrey said. he was glad to see a friend. that unkempt man who had followed him made him feel uncomfortably insecure. "where are you stopping?" o'malley asked. "at the dorade." "i'm there too: there's a whole gang of french and english fellows here. been having no end of adventures. my carriage was held up outside argelliers yesterday, and they wanted to see my papers. as bad as the flight to varennes, isn't it?" he laughed, and they sat down to drink. the unkempt man took up his position against the parapet of the bridge opposite. humphrey noticed that o'malley wore a white band round his arm with a blue number on it, and his name, coupled with _the sentinel_, written in ink that had frayed itself into the fabric. "you'll have to get one of these," o'malley explained. "it isn't safe to be a stranger here. they're issued by the people's committee to journalists who show their credentials. a lot of detectives have been down here, you see, posing as journalists, and asking questions in the villages, getting all sorts of information; that's how they managed to arrest the ringleaders in the villages." "it was a pretty mean trick," humphrey said. "mean--i should think it was. they nearly lynched harridge, the photographer, yesterday, and they chased another so-called journalist to the river, and he had to swim for his life, while the mob fired pot-shots at him from the bridges. so now they've placarded the town to explain that every real journalist has a white armband with a number on it." humphrey looked at the shaggy man opposite. "good lord!" he said, "that's why that fellow's been shadowing me...." "yes. he's one of the committee's spies." "i'd better get that armband quick." "no hurry. you're all serene in my company. we'll finish our drink and stroll up together." on the way o'malley told him some of the latest developments. the chief ringleader, the man whom the wine-growers hailed as the redeemer, was still at large, and nobody knew where he was. picture-postcards of the bearded man with a halo round his head and a bunch of grapes dangling from a cross that he held in his right hand, were selling in thousands at two sous each. "to-morrow there are the funerals," remarked o'malley. "seven funerals at once. it ought to make a good story." they came to a dingy house, where there were no soldiers. humphrey followed o'malley up a narrow, twisting staircase to a little room. the walls were plastered with the posters he had seen on the street hoardings. five men sat in the room, smoking cigarettes. the air was full of the stale reek of cheap tobacco. they sat in their shirt-sleeves with piles of papers before them. one of them, a gross man with a black moustache straggling over his heavy under lip, spread out his fat hands in inquiry. another, thin, undersized and dirty, with a rat-like face, peered at them with blinking red-rimmed eyes. "what do you want?" he asked, gruffly. o'malley, in his best irish-french, explained his business and presented humphrey. the hollow farce of polite phrases, which mean nothing in france, was played out. they wanted to see his _carte d'identité_ and all the credentials he had. humphrey unloaded his pocket-book on them. finally, they made him sign a book, and they gave him a white armlet; he pinned it round his arm, and walked forth a free man. the unkempt man stood on the opposite side of the street still watching him. and now, as he walked along the streets of narbonne, with the white armlet of the revolutionaries giving him protection, he smiled to see the soldiers guarding the streets. "look here," he said to o'malley, "who's going to give me anything to prevent the soldiers bayoneting me?" "yes--i've thought of that too," o'malley answered. "funny, isn't it, that we've got to fly for a safeguard to the people's committee? by the way, don't you get talking to strangers more than you can help. they're down on spies. i'm going to get my copy off now. see you at the post-office." humphrey went back to the dorade, and wrote his message, a descriptive account of all that he had seen, in abbreviated telegraphese. other correspondents were there, war correspondents used to open campaigns, prepared for all emergencies; others had come from the fleet streets of spain and belgium and germany. there was an american, too, who had travelled from paris: as he had not yet obtained his armband, he remained in the hotel, writing very alarming telegrams. the englishmen dined together--a jolly party--at a large round table, and, afterwards, they all went out to look at the town at night under arms. once, during their walk, the sound of firing came to them, and they ran helter-skelter up the boulevard right into the arms of a young lieutenant, who laughed and told them that nothing serious had happened. he invited them all to a drink in a café, and just to satisfy them, humphrey went reconnoitring and found that all was peaceful. he had no time to think of anything but his work. at midnight he went to bed and slept deeply. * * * * * on the second day the "redeemer," whom every one had imagined to be captured, suddenly appeared in narbonne, and was whisked away in a motor-car to argelliers, his native town. bouvier, of the _petit journal_, saw him, dashed into a motor-garage, and hired a car in an instant. "_viens_," he shouted, as humphrey strolled down the street. "the 'redeemer' has come back. you can share my car." humphrey, knowing nothing except that bouvier was very excited, and that, by a chance, some big news had come under his notice, jumped into the car, and away they whirled into the open country. the southern landscape was vivid in the hot sunshine of the late autumn; they left clouds of dust behind them as the car raced along to overtake the car of the "redeemer." they passed the spacious vineyards, where the grapes grew like stunted hop-fields, twining round their little sticks; they sped through avenues of poplars, and almond trees and ilex; through villages where old women cheered and pointed down the long road. "we're catching him up," bouvier grunted. "they must have heard the news of his coming somehow." a bend in the road, and a bridge with the blue river running beneath its arches; farmhouses and boys driving cattle home; children swinging on a gate, and old men plodding towards the sunset, on sticks that could never straighten their bent backs: the country came at them and receded from them in a succession of pictures framed in the hood of their car. vineyards, and again vineyards, with the ungathered grapes withering in the sun, and people crying to them, "he's come back: the brave fellow." as the road led nearer to argelliers they overtook yellow coaches, full of people, and country carts swinging along. the drivers pointed their whips ahead, and shouted something, but the words were lost in the rush of the wind as the car rushed by them. "the whole countryside seems to know that he's escaped. there'll be thousands in the market place," bouvier said. "it'll be a fine story," humphrey agreed. "those other fellows must have missed it." he was drunk with the excitement and the happiness of hunting a quarry. they came to the market place of argelliers, and the sight amazed him. left and right the people crushed together--a rectangular pattern of humanity. people of all ages had been drawn there by the magnetism of this man who had stirred up the south to revolt. the caps and dresses of the women and girls gave touches of colour to the sombre crowd of men, and, as he stood up in the motor-car for a better view, he saw row upon row of pink, upturned faces, parted, eager lips, and eyes that strained against the sunshine to see the black-clad figure of a man standing on the low roof of the people's committee. boys had climbed the trees round the market place--their gaping faces shone from the dark branches; and on the outskirts of the vast crowd men and women stood up in carts and waggonettes--horses had been harnessed to anything that ran on wheels. there was not a soldier in sight. the sun shone fiercely on the market place of argelliers, where two thousand people were thinking of their wrongs. and the man on the roof talked to them. his voice, strong and sonorous, came to them urging them to be of good cheer. they flung back at him cries of encouragement, and called him by name. "i'm going into the crowd," humphrey said. "better stop here," urged bouvier. "they're an excitable lot." "i must hear what he's saying." humphrey climbed out of the car, and pushed his way into the middle of the crowd. there was a loud shouting over some remark that the speaker had made. he found himself wedged in tightly between heavy, broad-shouldered men, with black eyes and swarthy faces. he heard the man on the roof speak about those who had been attacking him, and a voice close to humphrey yelled, "_la depêche de toulouse_," and immediately another voice cried out, "_conspuez la depêche de toulouse_." he turned at the voice and saw, with a sudden shock, the shaggy-haired man with the bloodshot eyes who had dogged his footsteps that first day in narbonne. their glances met. humphrey thrust back into his pocket the pencil with which he had been making furtive notes. "_conspuez les autres!_" cried the man with the bloodshot eyes, "_conspuez les mouchards_." he was conscious of a new note in the crowd: he saw anger and hatred passing swiftly over all the faces around him. they turned on him with relentless eyes. he saw the shaggy-haired man shouldering his way, and scrambling towards him with crooked fingers that clawed at the air. in one quick second he realized that he was in danger. "_conspuez les autres._" the cry rose all about him swelling to a roar of confusion. "_en voilà un!_" shouted the shaggy man, pointing to humphrey's white armband. they surged against him, and he was swept from his feet. he heard the shriek of women, and the babble and a murmur that ran like an undercurrent through the storm of noisy voices. the black figure on the roof was wringing his hands, and trying to calm the mob. humphrey turned to escape. "what a fool i was to come into the thick of it," he thought. once, in the struggle, he saw bouvier standing with a white face in the motor-car, probably wondering what the row was about. and then, they came at him suddenly and determinedly. remorseless and menacing faces were thrust close to him. he struck out and a thrill went up his arm as his fist met a hard cheek-bone. something fell on his arm with a heavy, aching blow that left it numb and limp, and at the same moment an excruciating spasm of self-pity swept upward from his soul, as he saw, as in a red mist, uplifted, clenched hands struggling to meet him. this was real life at last. he had ceased to be an onlooker; the game was terrible and earnest, and he was, for the first time, the principal figure in the play. his agony did not last long. the hot breath of the men was on him, and the evil, bloodshot eyes of the shaggy-haired man who had denounced him, loomed terribly large, like great red-veined moons. and, in that last moment, before all consciousness went from him for ever, as he swayed and fell before the trampling mob, in that supreme moment when deliverance came from all the tribulations that life held for him, an odd, whimsical idea twisted his lips into a smile as he thought: "what a ripping story this will make for _the day_." the end colstons limited, printers, edinburgh * * * * * transcriber's notes: italic text is denoted by _underscores_. hyphenation has been retained as in the original publication. page , in the phrase "every day" a space was kept (every day, it seemed). page , comma erased (among which, "twencent"). page , double quotes added ("we had an awful row.). page , hyphen retained (a bed-sitting room). page , apostrophe added (reporters' room). page , she changed to she (yes, she had remembered him,). page , period added (he began.). page , double quotes added (i know."). page , period erased (to wait..."). page , apostrophe replaced by period (she was now.). page , double quotes added (i wrote about...."). page , double quotes added (thanks for the bob...."). page , period added (of the office.). page , sedn changed to send in (i'll send you). page , single quote added (forgotten by to-morrow.'). page , single quote added (go i.'"). page , question mark changed to period (not as big as london.). page , phaseology changed to phraseology in (intimate phraseology.). page , period added (anything in common between them.). both "latchkey" and "latch-key" were used in this text. this text also uses "countryside" and "country-side", "earrings" and "ear-rings", "lawsuits" and "law-suits", "notebook" and "note-book", "schoolmasters" and "school-masters", "tablecloths" and "table-cloths". this was retained. the adventures of a special correspondent among the various races and countries of central asia being the exploits and experiences of claudius bombarnac of "the twentieth century" by jules verne biography and bibliography jules verne, french author, was born at nantes, france, in , and died in . in he wrote a comedy in verse, but he eventually confined himself to the writing of scientific and geographical romances, achieving a great reputation. he visited the united states in , sailing for new york on the _great eastern_, and his book, _a floating city_, was the result of this voyage. his best-known books are: _a captain at fifteen, a two years' vacation, a voyage to the center of the earth_ ( ), _from the earth to the moon_ ( ), _ , leagues under the sea_ ( ), _a tour of the world in eighty days_ ( ), _michael strogoff_ ( ), _mrs. branica_ ( ), _clovis dordentor_ ( ), _the brothers kip_ ( ). most of his works have been translated into english. claudius bombarnac chapter i. claudius bombarnac, _special correspondent_, "_twentieth century._" _tiflis, transcaucasia._ such is the address of the telegram i found on the th of may when i arrived at tiflis. this is what the telegram said: "as the matters in hand will terminate on the th instant claudius bombarnac will repair to uzun ada, a port on the east coast of the caspian. there he will take the train by the direct grand transasiatic between the european frontier and the capital of the celestial empire. he will transmit his impressions in the way of news, interviewing remarkable people on the road, and report the most trivial incidents by letter or telegram as necessity dictates. the _twentieth century_ trusts to the zeal, intelligence, activity and tact of its correspondent, who can draw on its bankers to any extent he may deem necessary." it was the very morning i had arrived at tiflis with the intention of spending three weeks there in a visit to the georgian provinces for the benefit of my newspaper, and also, i hoped, for that of its readers. here was the unexpected, indeed; the uncertainty of a special correspondent's life. at this time the russian railways had been connected with the line between poti, tiflis and baku. after a long and increasing run through the southern russian provinces i had crossed the caucasus, and imagined i was to have a little rest in the capital of transcaucasia. and here was the imperious administration of the _twentieth century_ giving me only half a day's halt in this town! i had hardly arrived before i was obliged to be off again without unstrapping my portmanteau! but what would you have? we must bow to the exigencies of special correspondence and the modern interview! but all the same i had been carefully studying this transcaucasian district, and was well provided with geographic and ethnologic memoranda. perhaps it may be as well for you to know that the fur cap, in the shape of a turban, which forms the headgear of the mountaineers and cossacks is called a "papakha," that the overcoat gathered in at the waist, over which the cartridge belt is hung, is called a "tcherkeska" by some and "bechmet" by others! be prepared to assert that the georgians and armenians wear a sugar-loaf hat, that the merchants wear a "touloupa," a sort of sheepskin cape, that the kurd and parsee still wear the "bourka," a cloak in a material something like plush which is always waterproofed. and of the headgear of the georgian ladies, the "tassakravi," composed of a light ribbon, a woolen veil, or piece of muslin round such lovely faces; and their gowns of startling colors, with the wide open sleeves, their under skirts fitted to the figure, their winter cloak of velvet, trimmed with fur and silver gimp, their summer mantle of white cotton, the "tchadre," which they tie tight on the neck--all those fashions in fact so carefully entered in my notebook, what shall i say of them? learn, then, that their national orchestras are composed of "zournas," which are shrill flutes; "salamouris," which are squeaky clarinets; mandolines, with copper strings, twanged with a feather; "tchianouris," violins, which are played upright; "dimplipitos," a kind of cymbals which rattle like hail on a window pane. know that the "schaska" is a sword hung from a bandolier trimmed with studs and silver embroidery, that the "kindjall" or "kandijar" is a dagger worn in the belt, that the armament of the soldiers of the caucasus is completed by a long damascus gun ornamented with bands of chiseled metal. know that the "tarantass" is a sort of berline hung on five pieces of rather elastic wood between wheels placed rather wide apart and of moderate height; that this carriage is driven by a "yemtchik," on the front seat, who has three horses, to whom is added a postilion, the "falétre," when it is necessary to hire a fourth horse from the "smatritel," who is the postmaster on the caucasian roads. know, then, that the verst is two-thirds of a mile, that the different nomadic people of the governments of transcaucasia are composed of kalmucks, descendants of the eleuthes, fifteen thousand, kirghizes of mussulman origin eight thousand, koundrof tartars eleven hundred, sartof tartars a hundred and twelve, nogais eight thousand five hundred, turkomans nearly four thousand. and thus, after having so minutely absorbed my georgia, here was this ukase obliging me to abandon it! and i should not even have time to visit mount ararat or publish my impressions of a journey in transcaucasia, losing a thousand lines of copy at the least, and for which i had at my disposal the , words of my language actually recognized by the french academy. it was hard, but there was no way out of it. and to begin with, at what o'clock did the train for tiflis start from the caspian? the station at tiflis is the junction of three lines of railway: the western line ending at poti on the black sea, where the passengers land coming from europe, the eastern line which ends at baku, where the passengers embark to cross the caspian, and the line which the russians have just made for a length of about a hundred miles between ciscaucasia and transcaucasia, from vladikarkaz to tiflis, crossing the arkhot range at a height of four thousand five hundred feet, and which connects the georgian capital with the railways of southern russia. i went to the railway station at a run, and rushed into the departure office. "when is there a train for baku?" i asked. "you are going to baku?" answered the clerk. and from his trap-door he gave me one of those looks more military than civil, which are invariably found under the peak of a muscovite cap. "i think so," said i, perhaps a little sharply, "that is, if it is not forbidden to go to baku." "no," he replied, dryly, "that is, if you are provided with a proper passport." "i will have a proper passport," i replied to this ferocious functionary, who, like all the others in holy russia, seemed to me an intensified gendarme. then i again asked what time the train left for baku. "six o'clock to-night." "and when does it get there?" "seven o'clock in the morning." "is that in time to catch the boat for uzun ada?" "in time." and the man at the trap-door replied to my salute by a salute of mechanical precision. the question of passport did not trouble me. the french consul would know how to give me all the references required by the russian administration. six o'clock to-night, and it is already nine o'clock in the morning! bah! when certain guide books tell you how to explore paris in two days, rome in three days, and london in four days, it would be rather curious if i could not do tiflis in a half day. either one is a correspondent or one is not! it goes without saying that my newspaper would not have sent me to russia, if i could not speak fluently in russian, english and german. to require a newspaper man to know the few thousand languages which are used to express thought in the five parts of the world would be too much; but with the three languages above named, and french added, one can go far across the two continents. it is true, there is turkish of which i had picked up a few phrases, and there is chinese of which i did not understand a single word. but i had no fear of remaining dumb in turkestan and the celestial empire. there would be interpreters on the road, and i did not expect to lose a detail of my run on the grand transasiatic. i knew how to see, and see i would. why should i hide it from myself? i am one of those who think that everything here below can serve as copy for a newspaper man; that the earth, the moon, the sky, the universe were only made as fitting subjects for newspaper articles, and that my pen was in no fear of a holiday on the road. before starting off round tiflis let us have done with this passport business. fortunately i had no need for a "poderojnaia," which was formerly indispensable to whoever traveled in russia. that was in the time of the couriers, of the post horses, and thanks to its powers that official exeat cleared away all difficulties, assured the most rapid relays, the most amiable civilities from the postilions, the greatest rapidity of transport, and that to such a pitch that a well-recommended traveler could traverse in eight days five hours the two thousand seven hundred versts which separate tiflis from petersburg. but what difficulties there were in procuring that passport! a mere permission to move about would do for to-day, a certificate attesting in a certain way that you are not a murderer or even a political criminal, that you are what is called an honest man, in a civilized country. thanks to the assistance i received from our consul at tiflis, i was soon all in due order with the muscovite authorities. it was an affair of two hours and two roubles. i then devoted myself entirely, eyes, ears, legs, to the exploration of the georgian capital, without taking a guide, for guides are a horror to me. it is true that i should have been capable of guiding no matter what stranger, through the mazes of this capital which i had so carefully studied beforehand. that is a natural gift. here is what i recognized as i wandered about haphazard: first, there was the "douma," which is the town hall, where the "golova," or mayor, resides; if you had done me the honor to accompany me, i would have taken you to the promenade of krasnoia-gora on the left bank of the koura, the champs elysées of the place, something like the tivoli of copenhagen, or the fair of the belleville boulevard with its "katchélis," delightful seesaws, the artfully managed undulations of which will make you seasick. and everywhere amid the confusion of market booths, the women in holiday costume, moving about with faces uncovered, both georgians and armenians, thereby showing that they are christians. as to the men, they are apollos of the belvedere, not so simply clothed, having the air of princes, and i should like to know if they are not so. are they not descended from them? but i will genealogize later on. let us continue our exploration at full stride. a minute lost is ten lines of correspondence, and ten lines of correspondence is--that depends on the generosity of the newspaper and its managers. quick to the grand caravanserai. there you will find the caravans from all points of the asiatic continent. here is one just coming in, composed of armenian merchants. there is one going out, formed of traders in persia and russian turkestan. i should like to arrive with one and depart with the other. that is not possible, and i am sorry for it. since the establishment of the transasiatic railways, it is not often that you can meet with those interminable and picturesque lines of horsemen, pedestrians, horses, camels, asses, carts. bah! i have no fear that my journey across central asia will fail for want of interest. a special correspondent of the _twentieth century_ will know how to make it interesting. here now are the bazaars with the thousand products of persia, china, turkey, siberia, mongolia. there is a profusion of the fabrics of teheran, shiraz, kandahar, kabul, carpets marvelous in weaving and colors, silks, which are not worth as much as those of lyons. will i buy any? no; to embarrass oneself with packages on a trip from the caspian to the celestial empire, never! the little portmanteau i can carry in my hand, the bag slung across my shoulders, and a traveling suit will be enough for me. linen? i will get it on the road, in english fashion. let us stop in front of the famous baths of tiflis, the thermal waters of which attain a temperature of degrees centigrade. there you will find in use the highest development of massage, the suppling of the spine, the cracking of the joints. i remember what was said by our great dumas whose peregrinations were never devoid of incidents; he invented them when he wanted them, that genial precursor of high-pressure correspondence! but i have no time to be shampooed, or to be cracked or suppled. stop! the hôtel de france. where is there not a hôtel de france? i enter, i order breakfast--a georgian breakfast watered with a certain kachelie wine, which is said to never make you drunk, that is, if you do not sniff up as much as you drink in using the large-necked bottles into which you dip your nose before your lips. at least that is the proceeding dear to the natives of transcaucasia. as to the russians, who are generally sober, the infusion of tea is enough for them, not without a certain addition of vodka, which is the muscovite brandy. i, a frenchman, and even a gascon, am content to drink my bottle of kachelie, as we drank our château laffite, in those regretted days, when the sun still distilled it on the hillsides of pauillac. in truth this caucasian wine, although rather sour, accompanied by the boiled fowl, known as pilau--has rather a pleasant taste about it. it is over and paid for. let us mingle with the sixteen thousand inhabitants of the georgian capital. let us lose ourselves in the labyrinth of its streets, among its cosmopolitan population. many jews who button their coats from left to right, as they write--the contrary way to the other aryan peoples. perhaps the sons of israel are not masters in this country, as in so many others? that is so, undoubtedly; a local proverb says it takes six jews to outwit an armenian, and armenians are plentiful in these transcaucasian provinces. i reach a sandy square, where camels, with their heads out straight, and their feet bent under in front, are sitting in hundreds. they used to be here in thousands, but since the opening of the transcaspian railway some years ago now, the number of these humped beasts of burden has sensibly diminished. just compare one of these beasts with a goods truck or a luggage van! following the slope of the streets, i come out on the quays by the koura, the bed of which divides the town into two unequal parts. on each side rise the houses, one above the other, each one looking over the roof of its neighbors. in the neighborhood of the river there is a good deal of trade. there you will find much moving about of vendors of wine, with their goatskins bellying out like balloons, and vendors of water with their buffalo skins, fitted with pipes looking like elephants' trunks. here am i wandering at a venture; but to wander is human, says the collegians of bordeaux, as they muse on the quays of the gironde. "sir," says a good little jew to me, showing me a certain habitation which seems a very ordinary one, "you are a stranger?" "quite." "then do not pass this house without stopping a moment to admire it." "and why?" "there lived the famous tenor satar, who sang the _contre-fa_ from his chest. and they paid him for it!" i told the worthy patriarch that i hoped he would be able to sing a _contre-sol_ even better paid for; and i went up the hill to the right of the koura, so as to have a view of the whole town. at the top of the hill, on a little open space where a reciter is declaiming with vigorous gestures the verses of saadi, the adorable persian poet, i abandon myself to the contemplation of the transcaucasian capital. what i am doing here, i propose to do again in a fortnight at pekin. but the pagodas and yamens of the celestial empire can wait awhile, here is tiflis before my eyes; walls of the citadels, belfries of the temples belonging to the different religions, a metropolitan church with its double cross, houses of russian, persian, or armenian construction; a few roofs, but many terraces; a few ornamental frontages, but many balconies and verandas; then two well-marked zones, the lower zone remaining georgian, the higher zone, more modern, traversed by a long boulevard planted with fine trees, among which is seen the palace of prince bariatinsky, a capricious, unexpected marvel of irregularity, which the horizon borders with its grand frontier of mountains. it is now five o'clock. i have no time to deliver myself in a remunerative torrent of descriptive phrases. let us hurry off to the railway station. there is a crowd of armenians, georgians, mingrelians, tartars, kurds, israelites, russians, from the shores of the caspian, some taking their tickets--oh! the oriental color--direct for baku, some for intermediate stations. this time i was completely in order. neither the clerk with the gendarme's face, nor the gendarmes themselves could hinder my departure. i take a ticket for baku, first class. i go down on the platform to the carriages. according to my custom, i install myself in a comfortable corner. a few travelers follow me while the cosmopolitan populace invade the second and third-class carriages. the doors are shut after the visit of the ticket inspector. a last scream of the whistle announces that the train is about to start. suddenly there is a shout--a shout in which anger is mingled with despair, and i catch these words in german: "stop! stop!" i put down the window and look out. a fat man, bag in hand, traveling cap on head, his legs embarrassed in the skirts of a huge overcoat, short and breathless. he is late. the porters try to stop him. try to stop a bomb in the middle of its trajectory! once again has right to give place to might. the teuton bomb describes a well-calculated curve, and has just fallen into the compartment next to ours, through the door a traveler had obligingly left open. the train begins to move at the same instant, the engine wheels begin to slip on the rails, then the speed increases. we are off. chapter ii. we were three minutes late in starting; it is well to be precise. a special correspondent who is not precise is a geometer who neglects to run out his calculations to the tenth decimal. this delay of three minutes made the german our traveling companion. i have an idea that this good man will furnish me with some copy, but it is only a presentiment. it is still daylight at six o'clock in the evening in this latitude. i have bought a time-table and i consult it. the map which accompanies it shows me station by station the course of the line between tiflis and baku. not to know the direction taken by the engine, to be ignorant if the train is going northeast or southeast, would be insupportable to me, all the more as when night comes, i shall see nothing, for i cannot see in the dark as if i were an owl or a cat. my time-table shows me that the railway skirts for a little distance the carriage road between tiflis and the caspian, running through saganlong, poily, elisabethpol, karascal, aliat, to baku, along the valley of the koura. we cannot tolerate a railway which winds about; it must keep to a straight line as much as possible. and that is what the transgeorgian does. among the stations there is one i would have gladly stopped at if i had had time, elisabethpol. before i received the telegram from the _twentieth century_, i had intended to stay there a week. i had read such attractive descriptions of it, and i had but a five minutes' stop there, and that between two and three o'clock in the morning! instead of a town resplendent in the rays of the sun, i could only obtain a view of a vague mass confusedly discoverable in the pale beams of the moon! having ended my careful examination of the time-table, i began to examine my traveling companions. there were four of us, and i need scarcely say that we occupied the four corners of the compartment. i had taken the farthest corner facing the engine. at the two opposite angles two travelers were seated facing each other. as soon as they got in they had pulled their caps down on their eyes and wrapped themselves up in their cloaks--evidently they were georgians as far as i could see. but they belonged to that special and privileged race who sleep on the railway, and they did not wake up until we reached baku. there was nothing to be got out of those people; the carriage is not a carriage for them, it is a bed. in front of me was quite a different type with nothing of the oriental about it; thirty-two to thirty-five years old, face with a reddish beard, very much alive in look, nose like that of a dog standing at point, mouth only too glad to talk, hands free and easy, ready for a shake with anybody; a tall, vigorous, broad-shouldered, powerful man. by the way in which he settled himself and put down his bag, and unrolled his traveling rug of bright-hued tartan, i had recognized the anglo-saxon traveler, more accustomed to long journeys by land and sea than to the comforts of his home, if he had a home. he looked like a commercial traveler. i noticed that his jewelry was in profusion; rings on his fingers, pin in his scarf, studs on his cuffs, with photographic views in them, showy trinkets hanging from the watch-chain across his waistcoat. although he had no earrings and did not wear a ring at his nose i should not have been surprised if he turned out to be an american--probably a yankee. that is my business. to find out who are my traveling companions, whence they come, where they go, is that not the duty of a special correspondent in search of interviews? i will begin with my neighbor in front of me. that will not be difficult, i imagine. he is not dreaming or sleeping, or looking out on the landscape lighted by the last rays of the sun. if i am not mistaken he will be just as glad to speak to me as i am to speak to him--and reciprocally. i will see. but a fear restrains me. suppose this american--and i am sure he is one--should also be a special, perhaps for the _world_ or the _new york herald_, and suppose he has also been ordered off to do this grand asiatic. that would be most annoying! he would be a rival! my hesitation is prolonged. shall i speak, shall i not speak? already night has begun to fall. at last i was about to open my mouth when my companion prevented me. "you are a frenchman?" he said in my native tongue. "yes, sir," i replied in his. evidently we could understand each other. the ice was broken, and then question followed on question rather rapidly between us. you know the oriental proverb: "a fool asks more questions in an hour than a wise man in a year." but as neither my companion nor myself had any pretensions to wisdom we asked away merrily. "_wait a bit_," said my american. i italicize this phrase because it will recur frequently, like the pull of the rope which gives the impetus to the swing. "_wait a bit_! i'll lay ten to one that you are a reporter!" "and you would win! yes. i am a reporter sent by the _twentieth century_ to do this journey." "going all the way to pekin?" "to pekin." "so am i," replied the yankee. and that was what i was afraid of. "same trade?" said i indifferently. "no. you need not excite yourself. we don't sell the same stuff, sir." "claudius bombarnac, of bordeaux, is delighted to be on the same road as--" "fulk ephrinell, of the firm of strong, bulbul & co., of new york city, new york, u.s.a." and he really added u.s.a. we were mutually introduced. i a traveler in news, and he a traveler in--in what? that i had to find out. the conversation continues. ephrinell, as may be supposed, has been everywhere--and even farther, as he observes. he knows both americas and almost all europe. but this is the first time he has set foot in asia. he talks and talks, and always jerks in _wait a bit_, with inexhaustible loquacity. has the hunson the same properties as the garonne? i listen to him for two hours. i have hardly heard the names of the stations yelled out at each stop, saganlong, poily, and the others. and i really should have liked to examine the landscape in the soft light of the moon, and made a few notes on the road. fortunately my fellow traveler had already crossed these eastern parts of georgia. he pointed out the spots of interest, the villages, the watercourses, the mountains on the horizon. but i hardly saw them. confound these railways! you start, you arrive, and you have seen nothing on the road! "no!" i exclaim, "there is none of the charm about it as there is in traveling by post, in troika, tarantass, with the surprises of the road, the originality of the inns, the confusion when you change horses, the glass of vodka of the yemtchiks--and occasionally the meeting with those honest brigands whose race is nearly extinct." "mr. bombarnac," said ephrinell to me, "are you serious in regretting all those fine things?" "quite serious," i reply. "with the advantages of the straight line of railway we lose the picturesqueness of the curved line, or the broken line of the highways of the past. and, monsieur ephrinell, when you read of traveling in transcaucasia forty years ago, do you not regret it? shall i see one of those villages inhabited by cossacks who are soldiers and farmers at one and the same time? shall i be present at one of those merry-makings which charm the tourist? those djiquitovkas with the men upright on their horses, throwing their swords, discharging their pistols, and escorting you if you are in the company of some high functionary, or a colonel of the staniza." "undoubtedly we have lost all those fine things," replies my yankee. "but, thanks to these iron ribbons which will eventually encircle our globe like a hogshead of cider or a bale of cotton, we can go in thirteen days from tiflis to pekin. that is why, if you expect any incidents, to enliven you--" "certainly, monsieur ephrinell." "illusions, mr. bombarnac! nothing will happen either to you or me. wait a bit, i promise you a journey, the most prosaic, the most homely, the flattest--flat as the steppes of kara koum, which the grand transasiatic traverses in turkestan, and the plains of the desert of gobi it crosses in china--" "well, we shall see, for i travel for the pleasure of my readers." "and i travel merely for my own business." and at this reply the idea recurred to me that ephrinell would not be quite the traveling companion i had dreamed of. he had goods to sell, i had none to buy. i foresaw that our meeting would not lead to a sufficient intimacy during our long journey. he was one of those yankees who, as they say, hold a dollar between their teeth, which it is impossible to get away from them, and i should get nothing out of him that was worth having. and although i knew that he traveled for strong, bulbul & co., of new york, i had never heard of the firm. to listen to their representative, it would appear that strong, bulbul & co. ought to be known throughout the world. but then, how was it that they were unknown to me, a pupil of chincholle, our master in everything! i was quite at a loss because i had never heard of the firm of strong, bulbul & co. i was about to interrogate ephrinell on this point, when he said to me: "have you ever been in the united states, mr. bombarnac?" "no, monsieur ephrinell." "you will come to our country some day?" "perhaps." "then you will not forget to explore the establishment of strong, bulbul & co.?" "explore it?" "that is the proper word." "good! i shall not fail to do so." "you will see one of the most remarkable industrial establishments of the new continent." "i have no doubt of it; but how am i to know it?" "wait a bit, mr. bombarnac. imagine a colossal workshop, immense buildings for the mounting and adjusting of the pieces, a steam engine of fifteen hundred horse-power, ventilators making six hundred revolutions a minute, boilers consuming a hundred tons of coals a day, a chimney stack four hundred and fifty feet high, vast outhouses for the storage of our goods, which we send to the five parts of the world, a general manager, two sub-managers, four secretaries, eight under-secretaries, a staff of five hundred clerks and nine hundred workmen, a whole regiment of travelers like your servant, working in europe, asia, africa, america, australasia, in short, a turnover exceeding annually one hundred million dollars! and all that, mr. bombarnac, for making millions of--yes, i said millions--" at this moment the train commenced to slow under the action of its automatic brakes, and he stopped. "elisabethpol! elisabethpol!" shout the guard and the porters on the station. our conversation is interrupted. i lower the window on my side, and open the door, being desirous of stretching my legs. ephrinell did not get out. here was i striding along the platform of a very poorly lighted station. a dozen travelers had already left the train. five or six georgians were crowding on the steps of the compartments. ten minutes at elisabethpol; the time-table allowed us no more. as soon as the bell begins to ring i return to our carriage, and when i have shut the door i notice that my place is taken. yes! facing the american, a lady has installed herself with that anglo-saxon coolness which is as unlimited as the infinite. is she young? is she old? is she pretty? is she plain? the obscurity does not allow me to judge. in any case, my french gallantry prevents me from claiming my corner, and i sit down beside this person who makes no attempt at apology. ephrinell seems to be asleep, and that stops my knowing what it is that strong, bulbul & co., of new york, manufacture by the million. the train has started. we have left elisabethpol behind. what have i seen of this charming town of twenty thousand inhabitants, built on the gandja-tchaï, a tributary of the koura, which i had specially worked up before my arrival? nothing of its brick houses hidden under verdure, nothing of its curious ruins, nothing of its superb mosque built at the beginning of the eighteenth century. of its admirable plane trees, so sought after by crows and blackbirds, and which maintain a supportable temperature during the excessive heats of summer, i had scarcely seen the higher branches with the moon shining on them. and on the banks of the stream which bears its silvery murmuring waters along the principal street, i had only seen a few houses in little gardens, like small crenelated fortresses. all that remained in my memory would be an indecisive outline, seized in flight from between the steam puffs of our engine. and why are these houses always in a state of defence? because elisabethpol is a fortified town exposed to the frequent attacks of the lesghians of chirvan, and these mountaineers, according to the best-informed historians, are directly descended from attila's hordes. it was nearly midnight. weariness invited me to sleep, and yet, like a good reporter, i must sleep with one eye and one ear open. i fall into that sort of slumber provoked by the regular trepidations of a train on the road, mingled with ear-splitting whistles and the grind of the brakes as the speed is slowed, and tumultuous roars as passing trains are met with, besides the names of the stations shouted out during the short stoppages, and the banging of the doors which are opened or shut with metallic sonority. in this way i heard the shouts of geran, varvara, oudjarry, kiourdamir, klourdane, then karasoul, navagi. i sat up, but as i no longer occupied the corner from which i had been so cavalierly evicted, it was impossible for me to look through the window. and then i began to ask what is hidden beneath this mass of veils and wraps and petticoats, which has usurped my place. is this lady going to be my companion all the way to the terminus of the grand transasiatic? shall i exchange a sympathetic salute with her in the streets of pekin? and from her my thoughts wander to my companion who is snoring in the corner in a way that would make all the ventilators of strong, bulbul & co. quite jealous. and what is it these big people make? is it iron bridges, or locomotives, or armor plates, or steam boilers, or mining pumps? from what my american told me, i might find a rival to creusot or cokerill or essen in this formidable establishment in the united states of america. at least unless he has been taking a rise out of me, for he does not seem to be "green," as they say in his country, which means to say that he does not look very much like an idiot, this ephrinell! and yet it seems that i must gradually have fallen sound asleep. withdrawn from exterior influences, i did not even hear the stentorian respiration of the yankee. the train arrived at aliat, and stayed there ten minutes without my being aware of it. i am sorry for it, for aliat is a little seaport, and i should like to have had a first glimpse of the caspian, and of the countries ravaged by peter the great. two columns of the historico-fantastic might have been made out of that, with the aid of bouillet and larousse. "baku! baku!" the word repeated as the train stopped awoke me. it was seven o'clock in the morning. chapter iii. the boat did not start until three o'clock in the afternoon. those of my companions who intended to cross the caspian hurried off to the harbor; it being necessary to engage a cabin, or to mark one's place in the steamer's saloon. ephrinell precipitately left me with these words: "i have not an instant to lose. i must see about the transport of my baggage." "have you much?" "forty-two cases." "forty-two cases!" i exclaimed. "and i am sorry i have not double as many. allow me--" if he had had a voyage of eight days, instead of one of twenty-four hours, and had to cross the atlantic instead of the caspian, he could not have been in a greater hurry. as you may imagine, the yankee did not for a moment think of offering his hand to assist our companion in descending from the carriage. i took his place. the lady leaned on my arm and jumped--no, gently put her foot on the ground. my reward was a _thank you, sir_, uttered in a hard, dry, unmistakably british voice. thackeray has said somewhere that a well-brought-up englishwoman is the completest of the works of god on this earth. my only wish is to verify this gallant affirmation in the case of my companion. she has put back her veil. is she a young woman or an old girl? with these englishwomen one never knows! twenty-five years is apparently about her age, she has an albionesque complexion, a jerky walk, a high dress like an equinoctial tide, no spectacles, although she has eyes of the intense blue which are generally short-sighted. while i bend my back as i bow, she honors me with a nod, which only brings into play the vertebrae of her long neck, and she walks off straight toward the way out. probably i shall meet this person again on the steamboat. for my part, i shall not go down to the harbor until it is time to start. i am at baku: i have half a day to see baku, and i shall not lose an hour, now that the chances of my wanderings have brought me to baku. it is possible that the name may in no way excite the reader's curiosity. but perhaps it may inflame his imagination if i tell him that baku is the town of the guebres, the city of the parsees, the metropolis of the fire-worshippers. encircled by a triple girdle of black battlemented walls, the town is built near cape apcheron, on the extreme spur of the caucasian range. but am i in persia or in russia? in russia undoubtedly, for georgia is a russian province; but we can still believe we are in persia, for baku has retained its persian physiognomy. i visit a palace of the khans, a pure product of the architecture of the time of schahriar and scheherazade, "daughter of the moon," his gifted romancer, a palace in which the delicate sculpture is as fresh as it came from the chisel. further on rise some slender minarets, and not the bulbous roofs of moscow the holy, at the angles of an old mosque, into which one can enter without taking off one's boots. true, the muezzin no longer declaims from it some sonorous verse of the koran at the hour of prayer. and yet baku has portions of it which are real russian in manners and aspect, with their wooden houses without a trace of oriental color, a railway station of imposing aspect, worthy of a great city in europe or america, and at the end of one of the roads, a modern harbor, the atmosphere of which is foul with the coal smoke vomited from the steamer funnels. and, in truth, one asks what they are doing with coal in this town of naphtha. what is the good of coal when the bare and arid soil of apcheron, which grows only the pontic absinthium, is so rich in mineral oil? at eighty francs the hundred kilos, it yields naphtha, black or white, which the exigencies of supply will not exhaust for centuries. a marvelous phenomenon indeed! do you want a light or a fire? nothing can be simpler; make a hole in the ground, the gas escapes, and you apply a match. that is a natural gasometer within the reach of all purses. i should have liked to visit the famous sanctuary of atesh gah; but it is twenty-two versts from the town, and time failed me. there burns the eternal fire, kept up for centuries by the parsee priests from india, who never touch animal food. this reminds me that i have not yet breakfasted, and as eleven o'clock strikes, i make my way to the restaurant at the railway, where i have no intention of conforming myself to the alimentary code of the parsees of atesh gah. as i am entering, ephrinell rushes out. "breakfast?" say i. "i have had it," he replies. "and your cases?" "i have still twenty-nine to get down to the steamer. but, pardon, i have not a moment to lose. when a man represents the firm of strong, bulbul & co., who send out every week five thousand cases of their goods--" "go, go, monsieur ephrinell, we will meet on board. by the by, you have not met our traveling companion?" "what traveling companion?" "the young lady who took my place in the carriage." "was there a young lady with us?" "of course." "well you are the first to tell me so, mr. bombarnac. you are the first to tell me so." and thereupon the american goes out of the door and disappears. it is to be hoped i shall know before we get to pekin what it is that strong, bulbul & co. send out in such quantities. five thousand cases a week--what an output, and what a turnover! i had soon finished my breakfast and was off again. during my walk i was able to admire a few magnificent lesghians; these wore the grayish tcherkesse, with the cartridge belts on the chest, the bechmet of bright red silk, the gaiters embroidered with silver, the boots flat, without a heel, the white papak on the head, the long gun on the shoulders, the schaska and kandijar at the belt--in short men of the arsenal as there are men of the orchestra, but of superb aspect and who ought to have a marvelous effect in the processions of the russian emperor. it is already two o'clock, and i think i had better get down to the boat. i must call at the railway station, where i have left my light luggage at the cloakroom. soon i am off again, bag in one hand, stick in the other, hastening down one of the roads leading to the harbor. at the break in the wall where access is obtained to the quay, my attention is, i do not know why, attracted by two people walking along together. the man is from thirty to thirty-five years old, the woman from twenty-five to thirty, the man already a grayish brown, with mobile face, lively look, easy walk with a certain swinging of the hips. the woman still a pretty blonde, blue eyes, a rather fresh complexion, her hair frizzed under a cap, a traveling costume which is in good taste neither in its unfashionable cut nor in its glaring color. evidently a married couple come in the train from tiflis, and unless i am mistaken they are french. but although i look at them with curiosity, they take no notice of me. they are too much occupied to see me. in their hands, on their shoulders, they have bags and cushions and wraps and sticks and sunshades and umbrellas. they are carrying every kind of little package you can think of which they do not care to put with the luggage on the steamer. i have a good mind to go and help them. is it not a happy chance--and a rare one--to meet with french people away from france? just as i am walking up to them, ephrinell appears, drags me away, and i leave the couple behind. it is only a postponement. i will meet them again on the steamboat and make their acquaintance on the voyage. "well," said i to the yankee, "how are you getting on with your cargo?" "at this moment, sir, the thirty-seventh case is on the road." "and no accident up to now? "no accident." "and what may be in those cases, if you please? "in those cases? ah! there is the thirty-seventh!" he exclaimed, and he ran out to meet a truck which had just come onto the quay. there was a good deal of bustle about, and all the animation of departures and arrivals. baku is the most frequented and the safest port on the caspian. derbent, situated more to the north, cannot keep up with it, and it absorbs almost the entire maritime traffic of this sea, or rather this great lake which has no communication with the neighboring seas. the establishment of uzun ada on the opposite coast has doubled the trade which used to pass through baku. the transcaspian now open for passengers and goods is the chief commercial route between europe and turkestan. in the near future there will perhaps be a second route along the persian frontier connecting the south russian railways with those of british india, and that will save travelers the navigation of the caspian. and when this vast basin has dried up through evaporation, why should not a railroad be run across its sandy bed, so that trains can run through without transhipment at baku and uzun ada? while we are waiting for the realization of this desideratum, it is necessary to take the steamboat, and that i am preparing to do in company with many others. our steamer is called the _astara_, of the caucasus and mercury company. she is a big paddle steamer, making three trips a week from coast to coast. she is a very roomy boat, designed to carry a large cargo, and the builders have thought considerably more of the cargo than of the passengers. after all, there is not much to make a fuss about in a day's voyage. there is a noisy crowd on the quay of people who are going off, and people who have come to see them off, recruited from the cosmopolitan population of baku. i notice that the travelers are mostly turkomans, with about a score of europeans of different nationalities, a few persians, and two representatives of the celestial empire. evidently their destination is china. . the _astara_ is loaded up. the hold is not big enough, and a good deal of the cargo has overflowed onto the deck. the stern is reserved for passengers, but from the bridge forward to the topgallant forecastle, there is a heap of cases covered with tarpaulins to protect them from the sea. there ephrinell's cases have been put. he has lent a hand with yankee energy, determined not to lose sight of his valuable property, which is in cubical cases, about two feet on the side, covered with patent leather, carefully strapped, and on which can be read the stenciled words, "strong, bulbul & co., now york." "are all your goods on board?" i asked the american. "there is the forty-second case just coming," he replied. and there was the said case on the back of a porter already coming along the gangway. it seemed to me that the porter was rather tottery, owing perhaps to a lengthy absorption of vodka. "wait a bit!" shouted ephrinell. then in good russian, so as to be better understood, he shouted: "look out! look out!" it is good advice, but it is too late. the porter has just made a false step. the case slips from his shoulders, falls--luckily over the rail of the _astara_--breaks in two, and a quantity of little packets of paper scatter their contents on the deck. what a shout of indignation did ephrinell raise! what a whack with his fist did he administer to the unfortunate porter as he repeated in a voice of despair: "my teeth, my poor teeth!" and he went down on his knees to gather up his little bits of artificial ivory that were scattered all about, while i could hardly keep from laughing. yes! it was teeth which strong, bulbul & co., of new york made! it was for manufacturing five thousand cases a week for the five parts of the world that this huge concern existed! it was for supplying the dentists of the old and new worlds; it was for sending teeth as far as china, that their factory required fifteen hundred horse power, and burned a hundred tons of coal a day! that is quite american! after all, the population of the globe is fourteen hundred million, and as there are thirty-two teeth per inhabitant, that makes forty-five thousand millions; so that if it ever became necessary to replace all the true teeth by false ones, the firm of strong, bulbul & co. would not be able to supply them. but we must leave ephrinell gathering up the odontological treasures of the forty-second case. the bell is ringing for the last time. all the passengers are aboard. the _astara_ is casting off her warps. suddenly there are shouts from the quay. i recognize them as being in german, the same as i had heard at tiflis when the train was starting for baku. it is the same man. he is panting, he runs, he cannot run much farther. the gangway has been drawn ashore, and the steamer is already moving off. how will this late comer get on board? luckily there is a rope out astern which still keeps the _astara_ near the quay. the german appears just as two sailors are manoeuvring with the fender. they each give him a hand and help him on board. evidently this fat man is an old hand at this sort of thing, and i should not be surprised if he did not arrive at his destination. however, the _astara_ is under way, her powerful paddles are at work, and we are soon out of the harbor. about a quarter of a mile out there is a sort of boiling, agitating the surface of the sea, and showing some deep trouble in the waters. i was then near the rail on the starboard quarter, and, smoking my cigar, was looking at the harbor disappearing behind the point round cape apcheron, while the range of the caucasus ran up into the western horizon. of my cigar there remained only the end between my lips, and taking a last whiff, i threw it overboard. in an instant a sheet of flame burst out all round the steamer the boiling came from a submarine spring of naphtha, and the cigar end had set it alight. screams arise. the _astara_ rolls amid sheaves of flame; but a movement of the helm steers us away from the flaming spring, and we are out of danger. the captain comes aft and says to me in a frigid tone: "that was a foolish thing to do." and i reply, as i usually reply under such circumstances: "really, captain, i did not know--" "you ought always to know, sir!" these words are uttered in a dry, cantankerous tone a few feet away from me. i turn to see who it is. it is the englishwoman who has read me this little lesson. chapter iv. i am always suspicious of a traveler's "impressions." these impressions are subjective--a word i use because it is the fashion, although i am not quite sure what it means. a cheerful man looks at things cheerfully, a sorrowful man looks at them sorrowfully. democritus would have found something enchanting about the banks of the jordan and the shores of the dead sea. heraclitus would have found something disagreeable about the bay of naples and the beach of the bosphorus. i am of a happy nature--you must really pardon me if i am rather egotistic in this history, for it is so seldom that an author's personality is so mixed up with what he is writing about--like hugo, dumas, lamartine, and so many others. shakespeare is an exception, and i am not shakespeare--and, as far as that goes, i am not lamartine, nor dumas, nor hugo. however, opposed as i am to the doctrines of schopenhauer and leopardi, i will admit that the shores of the caspian did seem rather gloomy and dispiriting. there seemed to be nothing alive on the coast; no vegetation, no birds. there was nothing to make you think you were on a great sea. true, the caspian is only a lake about eighty feet below the level of the mediterranean, but this lake is often troubled by violent storms. a ship cannot "get away," as sailors say: it is only about a hundred leagues wide. the coast is quickly reached eastward or westward, and harbors of refuge are not numerous on either the asiatic or the european side. there are a hundred passengers on board the _astara_--a large number of them caucasians trading with turkestan, and who will be with us all the way to the eastern provinces of the celestial empire. for some years now the transcaspian has been running between uzun ada and the chinese frontier. even between this part and samarkand it has no less than sixty-three stations; and it is in this section of the line that most of the passengers will alight. i need not worry about them, and i will lose no time in studying them. suppose one of them proves interesting, i may pump him and peg away at him, and just at the critical moment he will get out. no! all my attention i must devote to those who are going through with me. i have already secured ephrinell, and perhaps that charming englishwoman, who seems to me to be going to pekin. i shall meet with other traveling companions at uzun ada. with regard to the french couple, there is nothing more at present, but the passage of the caspian will not be accomplished before i know something about them. there are also these two chinamen who are evidently going to china. if i only knew a hundred words of the "kouan-hoa," which is the language spoken in the celestial empire, i might perhaps make something out of these curious guys. what i really want is some personage with a story, some mysterious hero traveling _incognito_, a lord or a bandit. i must not forget my trade as a reporter of occurrences and an interviewer of mankind--at so much a line and well selected. he who makes a good choice has a good chance. i go down the stairs to the saloon aft. there is not a place vacant. the cabins are already occupied by the passengers who are afraid of the pitching and rolling. they went to bed as soon as they came on board, and they will not get up until the boat is alongside the wharf at uzun ada. the cabins being full, other travelers have installed themselves on the couches, amid a lot of little packages, and they will not move from there. as i am going to pass the night on deck, i return up the cabin stairs. the american is there, just finishing the repacking of his case. "would you believe it!" he exclaims, "that that drunken moujik actually asked me for something to drink?" "i hope you have lost nothing, monsieur ephrinell?" i reply. "no; fortunately." "may i ask how many teeth you are importing into china in those cases?" "eighteen hundred thousand, without counting the wisdom teeth!" and ephrinell began to laugh at this little joke, which he fired off on several other occasions during the voyage. i left him and went onto the bridge between the paddle boxes. it is a beautiful night, with the northerly wind beginning to freshen. in the offing, long, greenish streaks are sweeping over the surface of the sea. it is possible that the night may be rougher than we expect. in the forepart of the steamer are many passengers, turkomans in rags, kirghizes wrapped up to the eyes, moujiks in emigrant costume--poor fellows, in fact, stretched on the spare spars, against the sides, and along the tarpaulins. they are almost all smoking or nibbling at the provisions they have brought for the voyage. the others are trying to sleep and forget their fatigue, and perhaps their hunger. it occurs to me to take a stroll among these groups. i am like a hunter beating the brushwood before getting into the hiding place. and i go among this heap of packages, looking them over as if i were a custom house officer. a rather large deal case, covered with a tarpaulin, attracts my attention. it measures about a yard and a half in height, and a yard in width and depth. it has been placed here with the care required by these words in russian, written on the side, "glass--fragile--keep from damp," and then directions, "top--bottom," which have been respected. and then there is the address, "mademoiselle zinca klork, avenue cha-coua, pekin, petchili, china." this zinca klork--her name showed it--ought to be a roumanian, and she was taking advantage of this through train on the grand transasiatic to get her glass forwarded. was this an article in request at the shops of the middle kingdom? how otherwise could the fair celestials admire their almond eyes and their elaborate hair? the bell rang and announced the six-o'clock dinner. the dining-room is forward. i went down to it, and found it already occupied by some forty people. ephrinell had installed himself nearly in the middle. there was a vacant seat near him; he beckoned to me to occupy it, and i hastened to take possession. was it by chance? i know not; but the englishwoman was seated on ephrinell's left and talking to him. he introduced me. "miss horatia bluett," he said. opposite i saw the french couple conscientiously studying the bill of fare. at the other end of the table, close to where the food came from--and where the people got served first--was the german passenger, a man strongly built and with a ruddy face, fair hair, reddish beard, clumsy hands, and a very long nose which reminded one of the proboscidean feature of the plantigrades. he had that peculiar look of the officers of the landsturm threatened with premature obesity. "he is not late this time," said i to ephrinell. "the dinner hour is never forgotten in the german empire!" replied the american. "do you know that german's name?" "baron weissschnitzerdörfer." "and with that name is he going to pekin?" "to pekin, like that russian major who is sitting near the captain of the _astara_." i looked at the man indicated. he was about fifty years of age, of true muscovite type, beard and hair turning gray, face prepossessing. i knew russian: he ought to know french. perhaps he was the fellow traveler of whom i had dreamed. "you said he was a major, mr. ephrinell?" "yes, a doctor in the russian army, and they call him major noltitz." evidently the american was some distance ahead of me, and yet he was not a reporter by profession. as the rolling was not yet very great, we could dine in comfort. ephrinell chatted with miss horatia bluett, and i understood that there was an understanding between these two perfectly anglo-saxon natures. in fact, one was a traveler in teeth and the other was a traveler in hair. miss horatia bluett represented an important firm in london, messrs. holmes-holme, to whom the celestial empire annually exports two millions of female heads of hair. she was going to pekin on account of the said firm, to open an office as a center for the collection of the chinese hair crop. it seemed a promising enterprise, as the secret society of the blue lotus was agitating for the abolition of the pigtail, which is the emblem of the servitude of the chinese to the manchu tartars. "come," thought i, "if china sends her hair to england, america sends her teeth: that is a capital exchange, and everything is for the best." we had been at the table for a quarter of an hour, and nothing had happened. the traveler with the smooth complexion and his blonde companion seemed to listen to us when we spoke in french. it evidently pleased them, and they were already showing an inclination to join in our talk. i was not mistaken, then; they are compatriots, but of what class? at this moment the _astara_ gave a lurch. the plates rattled on the table; the covers slipped; the glasses upset some of their contents; the hanging lamps swung out of the vertical--or rather our seats and the table moved in accordance with the roll of the ship. it is a curious effect, when one is sailor enough to bear it without alarm. "eh!" said the american; "here is the good old caspian shaking her skin." "are you subject to seasickness?" i asked. "no more than a porpoise," said he. "are you ever seasick?" he continued to his neighbor. "never," said miss horatia bluett. on the other side of the table there was an interchange of a few words in french. "you are not unwell, madame caterna?" "no, adolphe, not yet; but if this continues, i am afraid--" "well, caroline, we had better go on deck. the wind has hauled a point to the eastward, and the _astara_ will soon be sticking her nose in the feathers." his way of expressing himself shows that "monsieur caterna"--if that was his name--was a sailor, or ought to have been one. that explains the way he rolls his hips as he walks. the pitching now becomes very violent. the majority of the company cannot stand it. about thirty of the passengers have left the table for the deck. i hope the fresh air will do them good. we are now only a dozen in the dining room, including the captain, with whom major noltitz is quietly conversing. ephrinell and miss bluett seem to be thoroughly accustomed to these inevitable incidents of navigation. the german baron drinks and eats as if he had taken up his quarters in some bier-halle at munich, or frankfort, holding his knife in his right hand, his fork in his left, and making up little heaps of meat, which he salts and peppers and covers with sauce, and then inserts under his hairy lip on the point of his knife. fie! what behavior! and yet he gets on splendidly, and neither rolling nor pitching makes him lose a mouthful of food or drink. a little way off are the two celestials, whom i watch with curiosity. one is a young man of distinguished bearing, about twenty-five years old, of pleasant physiognomy, in spite of his yellow skin and his narrow eyes. a few years spent in europe have evidently europeanized his manners and even his dress. his mustache is silky, his eye is intelligent his hair is much more french than chinese. he seems to me a nice fellow, of a cheerful temperament, who would not ascend the "tower of regret," as the chinese have it, oftener than he could help. his companion, on the contrary, whom he always appears to be making fun of, is of the type of the true porcelain doll, with the moving head; he is from fifty to fifty-five years old, like a monkey in the face, the top of his head half shaven, the pigtail down his back, the traditional costume, frock, vest, belt, baggy trousers, many-colored slippers; a china vase of the green family. he, however, could hold out no longer, and after a tremendous pitch, accompanied by a long rattle of the crockery, he got up and hurried on deck. and as he did so, the younger chinaman shouted after him, "cornaro! cornaro!" at the same time holding out a little volume he had left on the table. what was the meaning of this italian word in an oriental mouth? did the chinaman speak the language of boccaccio? the _twentieth century_ ought to know, and it would know. madame caterna arose, very pale, and monsieur caterna, a model husband, followed her on deck. the dinner over, leaving ephrinell and miss bluett to talk of brokerages and prices current, i went for a stroll on the poop of the _astara_. night had nearly closed in. the hurrying clouds, driven from the eastward, draped in deep folds the higher zones of the sky, with here and there a few stars peeping through. the wind was rising. the white light of the steamer clicked as it swung on the foremast. the red and green lights rolled with the ship, and projected their long colored rays onto the troubled waters. i met ephrinell, miss horatia bluett having retired to her cabin; he was going down into the saloon to find a comfortable corner on one of the couches. i wished him good night, and he left me after gratifying me with a similar wish. as for me, i will wrap myself in my rug and lie down in a corner of the deck, and sleep like a sailor during his watch below. it is only eight o'clock. i light my cigar, and with my legs wide apart, to assure my stability as the ship rolled, i begin to walk up and down the deck. the deck is already abandoned by the first-class passengers, and i am almost alone. on the bridge is the mate, pacing backward and forward, and watching the course he has given to the man at the wheel, who is close to him. the paddles are impetuously beating into the sea, and now and then breaking into thunder, as one or the other of the wheels runs wild, as the rolling lifts it clear of the water. a thick smoke rises from the funnel, which occasionally belches forth a shower of sparks. at nine o'clock the night is very dark. i try to make out some steamer's lights in the distance, but in vain, for the caspian has not many ships on it. i can hear only the cry of the sea birds, gulls and scoters, who are abandoning themselves to the caprices of the wind. during my promenade, one thought besets me: is the voyage to end without my getting anything out of it as copy for my journal? my instructions made me responsible for producing something, and surely not without reason. what? not an adventure from tiflis to pekin? evidently that could only be my fault! and i resolved to do everything to avoid such a misfortune. it is half-past ten when i sit down on one of the seats in the stern of the _astara_. but with this increasing wind it is impossible for me to remain there. i rise, therefore, and make my way forward. under the bridge, between the paddle boxes, the wind is so strong that i seek shelter among the packages covered by the tarpaulin. stretched on one of the boxes, wrapped in my rug, with my head resting against the tarpaulin, i shall soon be asleep. after some time, i do not exactly know how much, i am awakened by a curious noise. whence comes this noise? i listen more attentively. it seems as though some one is snoring close to my ear. "that is some steerage passenger," i think. "he has got under the tarpaulin between the cases, and he will not do so badly in his improvised cabin." by the light which filters down from the lower part of the binnacle, i see nothing. i listen again. the noise has ceased. i look about. there is no one on this part of the deck, for the second-class passengers are all forward. then i must have been dreaming, and i resume my position and try again to sleep. this time there is no mistake. the snoring has begun again, and i am sure it is coming from the case against which i am leaning my head. "goodness!" i say. "there must be an animal in here!" an animal? what? a dog? a cat? why have they hidden a domestic animal in this case? is it a wild animal? a panther, a tiger, a lion? now i am off on the trail! it must be a wild animal on its way from some menagerie to some sultan of central asia. this case is a cage, and if the cage opens, if the animal springs out onto the deck--here is an incident, here is something worth chronicling; and here i am with my professional enthusiasm running mad. i must know at all costs to whom this wild beast is being sent; is it going to uzon ada, or is it going to china? the address ought to be on the case. i light a wax vesta, and as i am sheltered from the wind, the flame keeps upright. by its light what do i read? the case containing the wild beast is the very one with the address: "_mademoiselle zinca klork, avenue cha-coua, pekin, china."_ _fragile_, my wild beast! _keep from damp_, my lion! quite so! but for what does miss zinca klork, this pretty--for the roumanian ought to be pretty, and she is certainly a roumanian--for what does she want a wild beast sent in this way? let us think about it and be reasonable. this animal, whatever it may be, must eat and drink. from the time it starts from uzon ada it will take eleven days to cross asia, and reach the capital of the celestial empire. well, what do they give it to drink, what do they give it to eat, if he is not going to get out of his cage, if he is going to be shut up during the whole of the journey? the officials of the grand transasiatic will be no more careful in their attentions to the said wild beast than if he were a glass, for he is described as such; and he will die of inanition! all these things sent my brain whirling. my thoughts bewildered me. "is it a lovely dream that dazes me, or am i awake?" as margaret says in faust, more lyrically than dramatically. to resist is impossible. i have a two-pound weight on each eyelid. i lay down along by the tarpaulin; my rug wraps me more closely, and i fall into a deep sleep. how long have i slept? perhaps for three or four hours. one thing is certain, and that is that it is not yet daylight when i awake. i rub my eyes, i rise, i go and lean against the rail. the _astara_ is not so lively, for the wind has shifted to the northeast. the night is cold. i warm myself by walking about briskly for half an hour. i think no more of my wild beast. suddenly remembrance returns to me. should i not call the attention of the stationmaster to this disquieting case? but that is no business of mine. we shall see before we start. i look at my watch. it is only three o'clock in the morning. i will go back to my place. and i do so with my head against the side of the case. i shut my eyes. suddenly there is a new sound. this time i am not mistaken. a half-stifled sneeze shakes the side of the case. never did an animal sneeze like that! is it possible? a human being is hidden in this case and is being fraudulently carried by the grand transasiatic to the pretty roumanian! but is it a man or a woman? it seems as though the sneeze had a masculine sound about it. it is impossible to sleep now. how long the day is coming! how eager i am to examine this box! i wanted incidents--well! and here is one, and if i do not get five lines out of this-- the eastern horizon grows brighter. the clouds in the zenith are the first to color. the sun appears at last all watery with the mists of the sea. i look; it is indeed the case addressed to pekin. i notice that certain holes are pierced here and there, by which the air inside can be renewed. perhaps two eyes are looking through these holes, watching what is going on outside? do not be indiscreet! at breakfast gather all the passengers whom the sea has not affected: the young chinaman, major noltitz, ephrinell, miss bluett, monsieur caterna, the baron weissschnitzerdörfer, and seven or eight other passengers. i am careful not to let the american into the secret of the case. he would be guilty of some indiscretion, and then good-by to my news par! about noon the land is reported to the eastward, a low, yellowish land, with no rocky margin, but a few sandhills in the neighborhood of krasnovodsk. in an hour we are in sight of uzun ada, and twenty-seven minutes afterward we set foot in asia. chapter v. travelers used to land at mikhailov, a little port at the end of the transcaspian line; but ships of moderate tonnage hardly had water enough there to come alongside. on this account, general annenkof, the creator of the new railway, the eminent engineer whose name will frequently recur in my narrative, was led to found uzun ada, and thereby considerably shorten the crossing of the caspian. the station was built in three months, and it was opened on the th of may, . fortunately i had read the account given by boulangier, the engineer, relating to the prodigious work of general annenkof, so that i shall not be so very much abroad during the railway journey between uzun ada and samarkand, and, besides, i trust to major noltitz, who knows all about the matter. i have a presentiment that we shall become good friends, and in spite of the proverb which says, "though your friend be of honey do not lick him!" i intend to "lick" my companion often enough for the benefit of my readers. we often hear of the extraordinary rapidity with which the americans have thrown their railroads across the plains of the far west. but the russians are in no whit behind them, if even they have not surpassed them in rapidity as well as in industrial audacity. people are fully acquainted with the adventurous campaign of general skobeleff against the turkomans, a campaign of which the building of the railway assured the definite success. since then the political state of central asia has been entirely changed, and turkestan is merely a province of asiatic russia, extending to the frontiers of the chinese empire. and already chinese turkestan is very visibly submitting to the muscovite influence which the vertiginous heights of the pamir plateau have not been able to check in its civilizing march. i was about to cross the countries which were formerly ravaged by tamerlane and genghis khan, those fabulous countries of which the russians in possessed six hundred and fifteen thousand square kilometres, with thirteen hundred thousand inhabitants. the southern part of this region now forms the transcaspian province, divided into six districts, fort alexandrovski, krasnovodsk, askhabad, karibent, merv, pendjeh, governed by muscovite colonels or lieutenant-colonels. as may be imagined, it hardly takes an hour to see uzun ada, the name of which means long island. it is almost a town, but a modern town, traced with a square, drawn with a line or a large carpet of yellow sand. no monuments, no memories, bridges of planks, houses of wood, to which comfort is beginning to add a few mansions in stone. one can see what this, first station of the transcaspian will be like in fifty years; a great city after having been a great railway station. do not think that there are no hotels. among others there is the hôtel du czar, which has a good table, good rooms and good beds. but the question of beds has no interest for me. as the train starts at four o'clock this afternoon, to begin with, i must telegraph to the _twentieth century,_ by the caspian cable, that i am at my post at the uzun ada station. that done, i can see if i can pick up anything worth reporting. nothing is more simple. it consists in opening an account with those of my companions with whom i may have to do during the journey. that is my custom, i always find it answers, and while waiting for the unknown, i write down the known in my pocketbook, with a number to distinguish each: . fulk ephrinell, american. . miss horatia bluett, english. . major noltitz, russian. . monsieur caterna, french. . madame caterna, french. . baron weissschnitzerdörfer, german. as to the chinese, they will have a number later on, when i have made up my mind about them. as to the individual in the box, i intend to enter into communication with him, or her, and to be of assistance in that quarter if i can do so without betraying the secret. the train is already marshaled in the station. it is composed of first and second-class cars, a restaurant car and two baggage vans. these cars are painted of a light color, an excellent precaution against the heat and against the cold. for in the central asian provinces the temperature ranges between fifty degrees centigrade above zero and twenty below, and in a range of seventy degrees it is only prudent to minimize the effects. these cars are in a convenient manner joined together by gangways, on the american plan. instead of being shut up in a compartment, the traveler strolls about along the whole length of the train. there is room to pass between the stuffed seats, and in the front and rear of each car are the platforms united by the gangways. this facility of communication assures the security of the train. our engine has a bogie on four small wheels, and is thus able to negotiate the sharpest curves; a tender with water and fuel; then come a front van, three first-class cars with twenty-four places each, a restaurant car with pantry and kitchen, four second-class cars and a rear van; in all twelve vehicles, counting in the locomotive and tender. the first class cars are provided with dressing rooms, and their seats, by very simple mechanism, are convertible into beds, which, in fact, are indispensable for long journeys. the second-class travelers are not so comfortably treated, and besides, they have to bring their victuals with them, unless they prefer to take their meals at the stations. there are not many, however, who travel the complete journey between the caspian and the eastern provinces of china--that is to say about six thousand kilometres. most of them go to the principal towns and villages of russian turkestan, which have been reached by the transcaspian railway for some years, and which up to the chinese frontier has a length of over , miles. this grand transasiatic has only been open six weeks and the company is as yet only running two trains a week. all has gone well up to the present; but i ought to add the significant detail that the railway men carry a supply of revolvers to arm the passengers with if necessary. this is a wise precaution in crossing the chinese deserts, where an attack on the train is not improbable. i believe the company are doing their best to ensure the punctuality of their trains; but the chinese section is managed by celestials, and who knows what has been the past life of those people? will they not be more intent on the security of their dividends than of their passengers? as i wait for the departure i stroll about on the platform, looking through the windows of the cars, which have no doors along the sides, the entrances being at the ends. everything is new; the engine is as bright as it can be, the carriages are brilliant in their new paint, their springs have not begun to give with wear, and their wheels run true on the rails. then there is the rolling stock with which we are going to cross a continent. there is no railway as long as this--not even in america. the canadian line measures five thousand kilometres, the central union, five thousand two hundred and sixty, the santa fe line, four thousand eight hundred and seventy-five, the atlantic pacific, five thousand six hundred and thirty, the northern pacific, six thousand two hundred and fifty. there is only one line which will be longer when it is finished, and that is the grand transsiberian, from the urals to vladivostock, which will measure six thousand five hundred kilometres. between tiflis and pekin our journey will not last more than thirteen days, from uzun ada it will only last eleven. the train will only stop at the smaller stations to take in fuel and water. at the chief towns like merv, bokhara, samarkand, tashkend, kachgar, kokhand, sou tcheou, lan tcheou, tai youan, it will stop a few hours--and that will enable me to do these towns in reporter style. of course, the same driver and stoker will not take us through. they will be relieved every six hours. russians will take us up to the frontier of turkestan, and chinese will take us on through china. but there is one representative of the company who will not leave his post, and that is popof, our head guard, a true russian of soldierly bearing, hairy and bearded, with a folded overcoat and a muscovite cap. i intend to talk a good deal with this gallant fellow, although he is not very talkative. if he does not despise a glass of vodka, opportunity offered, he may have a good deal to say to me; for ten years he has been on the transcaspian between uzun ada and the pamirs, and during the last month he has been all along the line to pekin. i call him no. in my notebook, and i hope he will give me information enough. i only want a few incidents of the journey, just a few little incidents worthy of the _twentieth century._ among the passengers i see on the platform are a few jews, recognizable more by their faces than their attire. formerly, in central asia, they could only wear the "toppe," a sort of round cap, and a plain rope belt, without any silk ornamentation--under pain of death. and i am told that they could ride on asses in certain towns and walk on foot in others. now they wear the oriental turban and roll in their carriages if their purse allows of it. who would hinder them now they are subjects of the white czar, russian citizens, rejoicing in civil and political rights equal to those of their turkoman compatriots? there are a few tadjiks of persian origin, the handsomest men you can imagine. they have booked for merv, or bokhara, or samarkand, or tachkend, or kokhand, and will not pass the russo-chinese frontier. as a rule they are second-class passengers. among the first-class passengers i noticed a few usbegs of the ordinary type, with retreating foreheads and prominent cheek bones, and brown complexions, who were the lords of the country, and from whose families come the emirs and khans of central asia. but are there not any europeans in this grand transasiatic train? it must be confessed that i can only count five or six. there are a few commercial travelers from south russia, and one of those inevitable gentlemen from the united kingdom, who are inevitably to be found on the railways and steamboats. it is still necessary to obtain permission to travel on the transcaspian, permission which the russian administration does not willingly accord to an englishman; but this man has apparently been able to get one. and he seems to me to be worth notice. he is tall and thin, and looks quite the fifty years that his gray hairs proclaim him to be. his characteristic expression is one of haughtiness, or rather disdain, composed in equal parts of love of all things english and contempt for all things that are not. this type is occasionally so insupportable, even to his compatriots, that dickens, thackeray and others have often made fun of it. how he turned up his nose at the station at uzun ada, at the train, at the men, at the car in which he had secured a seat by placing in it his traveling bag! let us call him no. in my pocketbook. there seem to be no personages of importance. that is a pity. if only the emperor of russia, on one side, or the son of heaven, on the other, were to enter the train to meet officially on the frontier of the two empires, what festivities there would be, what grandeur, what descriptions, what copy for letters and telegrams! it occurs to me to have a look at the mysterious box. has it not a right to be so called? yes, certainly. i must really find out where it has been put and how to get at it easily. the front van is already full of ephrinell's baggage. it does not open at the side, but in front and behind, like the cars. it is also furnished with a platform and a gangway. an interior passage allows the guard to go through it to reach the tender and locomotive if necessary. popof's little cabin is on the platform of the first car, in the left-hand corner. at night it will be easy for me to visit the van, for it is only shut in by the doors at the ends of the passage arranged between the packages. if this van is reserved for luggage registered through to china, the luggage for the turkestan stations ought to be in the van at the rear. when i arrived the famous box was still on the platform. in looking at it closely i observe that airholes have been bored on each of its sides, and that on one side it has two panels, one of which can be made to slide on the other from the inside. and i am led to think that the prisoner has had it made so in order that he can, if necessary, leave his prison--probably during the night. just now the porters are beginning to lift the box. i have the satisfaction of seeing that they attend to the directions inscribed on it. it is placed, with great care, near the entrance to the van, on the left, the side with the panels outward, as if it were the door of a cupboard. and is not the box a cupboard? a cupboard i propose to open? it remains to be seen if the guard in charge of the luggage is to remain in this van. no. i find that his post is just outside it. "there it is, all right!" said one of the porters, looking to see that the case was as it should be, top where top should be, and so on. "there is no fear of its moving," said another porter; "the glass will reach pekin all right, unless the train runs off the metals." "or it does not run into anything," said the other; "and that remains to be seen." they were right--these good fellows--it remained to be seen--and it would be seen. the american came up to me and took a last look at his stock of incisors, molars and canines, with a repetition of his invariable "wait a bit." "you know, monsieur bombarnac," he said to me, "that the passengers are going to dine at the hôtel du czar before the departure of the train. it is time now. will you come with me?" "i follow you." and we entered the dining room. all my numbers are there: , ephrinell, taking his place as usual by the side of , miss horatia bluett. the french couple, and , are also side by side. number , that is major noltitz, is seated in front of numbers and , the two chinese to whom i have just given numbers in my notebook. as to the fat german, number , he has already got his long nose into his soup plate. i see also that the guard popol, number , has his place at the foot of the table. the other passengers, europeans and asiatics, are installed, _passim_ with the evident intention of doing justice to the repast. ah! i forgot my number , the disdainful gentleman whose name i don't yet know, and who seems determined to find the russian cookery inferior to the english. i also notice with what attention monsieur caterna looks after his wife, and encourages her to make up for the time lost when she was unwell on board the _astara_. he keeps her glass filled, he chooses the best pieces for her, etc. "what a good thing it is," i hear him say, "that we are not to leeward of the teuton, for there would be nothing left for us!" he is to windward of him--that is to say, the dishes reach him before they get to the baron, which, however, does not prevent his clearing them without shame. the observation, in sea language, made me smile, and caterna, noticing it, gave me a wink with a slight movement of the shoulder toward the baron. it is evident that these french people are not of high distinction, they do not belong to the upper circles; but they are good people, i will answer for it, and when we have to rub shoulders with compatriots, we must not be too particular in turkestan. the dinner ends ten minutes before the time fixed for our departure. the bell rings and we all make a move for the train, the engine of which is blowing off steam. mentally, i offer a last prayer to the god of reporters and ask him not to spare me adventures. then, after satisfying myself that all my numbers are in the first-class cars, so that i can keep an eye on them, i take my place. the baron weissschnitzerdörfer--what an interminable name--is not behindhand this time. on the contrary, it is the train this time which is five minutes late in starting; and the german has begun to complain, to chafe and to swear, and threatens to sue the company for damages. ten thousand roubles--not a penny less!--if it causes him to fail. fail in what, considering that he is going to pekin? at length the last shriek of the whistle cleaves the air, the cars begin to move, and a loud cheer salutes the departure of the grand transasiatic express. chapter vi. the ideas of a man on horseback are different to those which occur to him when he is on foot. the difference is even more noticeable when he is on the railway. the association of his thoughts, the character of his reflections are all affected by the speed of the train. they "roll" in his head, as he rolls in his car. and so it comes about that i am in a particularly lively mood, desirous of observing, greedy of instruction, and that at a speed of thirty-one miles an hour. that is the rate at which we are to travel through turkestan, and when we reach the celestial empire we shall have to be content with eighteen. that is what i have just ascertained by consulting my time-table, which i bought at the station. it is accompanied by a long slip map, folded and refolded on itself, which shows the whole length of the line between the caspian and the eastern coast of china. i study, then, my transasiatic, on leaving uzun ada, just as i studied my transgeorgian when i left tiflis. the gauge of the line is about sixty-three inches--as is usual on the russian lines, which are thus about four inches wider than those of other european countries. it is said, with regard to this, that the germans have made a great number of axles of this length, in case they have to invade russia. i should like to think that the russians have taken the same precautions in the no less probable event of their having to invade germany. on either side of the line are long sandhills, between which the train runs out from uzun ada; when it reaches the arm of the sea which separates long island from the continent, it crosses an embankment about , yards long, edged with masses of rock to protect it against the violence of the waves. we have already passed several stations without stopping, among others mikhailov, a league from uzun ada. now they are from ten to eleven miles apart. those i have seen, as yet, look like villas, with balustrades and italian roofs, which has a curious effect in turkestan and the neighborhood of persia. the desert extends up to the neighborhood of uzun ada, and the railway stations form so many little oases, made by the hand of man. it is man, in fact, who has planted these slender, sea-green poplars, which give so little shade; it is man who, at great expense, has brought here the water whose refreshing jets fall back into an elegant vase. without these hydraulic works there would not be a tree, not a corner of green in these oases. they are the nurses of the line, and dry-nurses are of no use to locomotives. the truth is that i have never seen such a bare, arid country, so clear of vegetation; and it extends for one hundred and fifty miles from uzun ada. when general annenkof commenced his works at mikhailov, he was obliged to distil the water from the caspian sea, as if he were on board ship. but if water is necessary to produce steam, coal is necessary to vaporize the water. the readers of the _twentieth century_ will ask how are the furnaces fed in a country in which there is neither coal nor wood? are there stores of these things at the principal stations of the transcaspian? not at all. they have simply put in practice an idea which occurred to our great chemist, sainte-claire deville, when first petroleum was used in france. the furnaces are fed, by the aid of a pulverizing apparatus, with the residue produced from the distillation of the naphtha, which baku and derbent produce in such inexhaustible quantities. at certain stations on the line there are vast reservoirs of this combustible mineral, from which the tenders are filled, and it is burned in specially adapted fireboxes. in a similar way naphtha is used on the steamboats on the volga and the other affluents of the caspian. i repeat, the country is not particularly varied. the ground is nearly flat in the sandy districts, and quite flat in the alluvial plains, where the brackish water stagnates in pools. nothing could be better for a line of railway. there are no cuttings, no embankments, no viaducts, no works of art--to use a term dear to engineers, very "dear," i should say. here and there are a few wooden bridges from two hundred to three hundred feet long. under such circumstances the cost per kilometre of the transcaspian did not exceed seventy-five thousand francs. the monotony of the journey would only be broken on the vast oases of merv, bokhara and samarkand. but let us busy ourselves with the passengers, as we can do all the more easily from our being able to walk from one end to the other of the train. with a little imagination we can make ourselves believe we are in a sort of traveling village, and i am just going to take a run down main street. remember that the engine and tender are followed by the van at the angle of which is placed the mysterious case, and that popof's compartment is in the left-hand corner of the platform of the first car. inside this car i notice a few sarthes of tall figure and haughty face, draped in their long robes of bright colors, from beneath which appear the braided leather boots. they have splendid eyes, a superb beard, arched nose, and you would take them for real lords, provided we ignore the word sarthe, which means a pedlar, and these were going evidently to tachkend, where these pedlars swarm. in this car the two chinese have taken their places, opposite each other. the young celestial looks out of window. the old one--ta-lao-ye, that is to say, a person well advanced in years--is incessantly turning over the pages of his book. this volume, a small mo, looks like our _annuaire du bureau des longitudes_, and is covered in plush, like a breviary, and when it is shut its covers are kept in place by an elastic band. what astonishes me is that the proprietor of this little book does not seem to read it from right to left. is it not written in chinese characters? we must see into this! on two adjoining seats are ephrinell and miss horatia bluett. their talk is of nothing but figures. i don't know if the practical american murmurs at the ear of the practical englishwoman the adorable verse which made the heart of lydia palpitate: "nee tecum possum vivere sine te," but i do know that ephrinell can very well live without me. i have been quite right in not reckoning on his company to charm away the tedium of the journey. the yankee has completely "left" me--that is the word--for this angular daughter of albion. i reach the platform. i cross the gangway and i am at the door of the second car. in the right-hand corner is baron weissschnitzerdörfer. his long nose--this teuton is as short-sighted as a mole--rubs the lines of the book he reads. the book is the time-table. the impatient traveler is ascertaining if the train passes the stations at the stated time. whenever it is behind there are new recriminations and menaces against the grand transasiatic company. in this car there are also the caternas, who have made themselves quite comfortable. in his cheery way, the husband is talking with a good deal of gesticulation, sometimes touching his wife's hands, sometimes putting his arms round her waist; and then he turns his head toward the platform and says something aside. madame caterna leans toward him, makes little confused grimaces, and then leans back into the corner and seems to reply to her husband, who in turn replies to her. and as i leave i hear the chorus of an operetta in the deep voice of monsieur caterna. in the third car, occupied by many turkomans and three or four russians, i perceive major noltitz. he is talking with one of his countrymen. i will willingly join in their conversation if they make me any advances, but i had better maintain a certain reserve; the journey has only begun. i then visit the dining car. it is a third longer than the other cars, a regular dining room, with one long table. at the back is a pantry on one side, a kitchen on the other, where the cook and steward are at work, both of them russians. this dining car appears to me capitally arranged. passing through it, i reach the second part of the train, where the second-class passengers are installed. kirghizes who do not look very intelligent with their depressed heads, their prognathous jaws stuck well out in front, their little beards, flat cossack noses and very brown skins. these wretched fellows are mahometans and belong either to the grand horde wandering on the frontier between china and siberia, or to the little horde between the ural mountains and the aral sea. a second-class car, or even a third-class car, is a palace for these people, accustomed to the encampments on the steppes, to the miserable "iourts" of villages. neither their beds nor their seats are as good as the stuffed benches on which they have seated themselves with true asiatic gravity. with them are two or three nogais going to eastern turkestan. of a higher race than the kirghizes, being tartars, it is from them that come the learned men and professors who have made illustrious the opulent cities of bokhara and samarkand. but science and its teaching do not yield much of a livelihood, even when reduced to the mere necessaries of life, in these provinces of central asia. and so these nogais take employment as interpreters. unfortunately, since the diffusion of the russian language, their trade is not very remunerative. now i know the places of my numbers, and i know where to find them when i want them. as to those going through to pekin, i have no doubt of ephrinell and miss horatia bluett nor the german baron, nor the two chinese, nor major noltitz, nor the caternas, nor even for the haughty gentleman whose bony outline i perceive in the corner of the second car. as to these travelers who are not going across the frontier, they are of most perfect insignificance in my eyes. but among my companions i have not yet found the hero of my chronicle! let us hope he will declare himself as we proceed. my intention is to take notes hour by hour--what did i say? to "minute" my journey. before the night closes in i go out on the platform of the car to have a last look at the surrounding country. an hour with my cigar will take me to kizil arvat, where the train has to stop for some time. in going from the second to the first car i meet major noltitz. i step aside to let him pass. he salutes me with that grace which distinguishes well-bred russians. i return his salute. our meeting is restricted to this exchange of politeness, but the first step is taken. popof is not just now in his seat. the door of the luggage van being open, i conclude that the guard has gone to talk with the driver. on the left of the van the mysterious box is in its place. it is only half-past six as yet, and there is too much daylight for me to risk the gratification of my curiosity. the train advances through the open desert. this is the kara koum, the black desert. it extends from khiva over all turkestan comprised between the persian frontier and the course of the amou daria. in reality the sands of the kara koum are no more black than the waters of the black sea or than those of the white sea are white, those of the red sea red, or those of the yellow river yellow. but i like these colored distinctions, however erroneous they may be. in landscapes the eye is caught by colors. and is there not a good deal of landscape about geography? it appears that this desert was formerly occupied by a huge central basin. it has dried up, as the caspian will dry up, and this evaporation is explained by the powerful concentration of the solar rays on the surface of the territories between the sea of aral and the plateau of the pamir. the kara koum is formed of low sandy hills which the high winds are constantly shifting and forming. these "barkans," as the russians call them, vary in height from thirty to ninety feet. they expose a wide surface to the northern hurricanes which drive them gradually southward. and on this account there is a well-justified fear for the safety of the transcaspian. it had to be protected in some efficacious way, and general annenkof would have been much embarrassed if provident nature had not, at the same time as she gave the land favorable for the railway to be laid along, given the means of stopping the shifting of the barkanes. behind these sand hills grow a number of spring shrubs, clumps of tamarisk, star thistles, and that _haloxylon ammodendron_ which russians call, not so scientifically, "saksaoul." its deep, strong roots are as well adapted for binding together the ground as those of _hippophaë rhamnoides_, an arbutus of the eleagnaceous family, which is used for binding together the sands in southern europe. to these plantations of saksaouls the engineers of the line have added in different places a series of slopes of worked clay, and in the most dangerous places a line of palisades. these precautions are doubtless of use; but if the road is protected, the passengers are hardly so, when the sand flies like a bullet hail, and the wind sweeps up from the plain the whitish efflorescences of salt. it is a good thing for us that we are not in the height of the hot season; and it is not in june or july or august that i would advise you to take a trip on the grand transasiatic. i am sorry that major noltitz does not think of coming out on the gangway to breathe the fresh air of the kara koum. i would offer him one of those choice regalias with which my case is well provided. he would tell me if these stations i see on my time-table, balla-ischem, aïdine, pereval, kansandjik, ouchak, are of any interest--which they do not seem to be. but it would not do for me to disturb his siesta. and yet his conversation ought to be interesting, for as a surgeon in the russian army he took part in the campaigns of generals skobeleff and annenkof. when our train ran through the little stations that it honors only with a whistle, he could tell me if this one or that one had been the scene of any incident of the war. as a frenchman i am justified in questioning him about the russian expedition across turkestan, and i have no doubt that my fellow passenger will be pleased to gratify me. he is the only one i can really trust besides popof. but why is popof not in his seat? he also is not insensible to the charms of a cigar. it would seem that his conversation with the engineer has not finished yet. ah! here he is coming from the front of the luggage van. he comes out of it and shuts the door; he remains for a moment and is about to take a seat. a hand which holds a cigar, is stretched out toward him. popof smiles and soon his perfumed puffs are mingling voluptuously with mine. for fifteen years i think i said our guard had been in the transcaspian service. he knows the country up to the chinese frontier, and five or six times already he has been over the whole line known as the grand transasiatic. popof was on duty on the section between mikhailov and kizil arvat when the line opened--a section which was begun in the december of and finished in ten months, in november, . five years later the locomotive entered merv, on the th july, , and eighteen months later it was welcomed at samarkand. now the road through turkestan joins the road through the celestial empire, and the ribbon of iron extends without interruption from the caspian sea to pekin. when popof had given me this information, i asked if he knew anything of our fellow travelers, i meant those who were going through to china. and in the first place of major noltitz? "the major," said popof, "has lived a long time in the turkestan provinces, and he is going to pekin to organize the staff of a hospital for our compatriots, with the permission of the czar, of course." "i like this major noltitz," i said, "and i hope to make his acquaintance very soon." "he would be equally pleased to make yours," replied popof. "and these two chinese, do you know them?" "not in the least, monsieur bombarnac; all i know is the name on the luggage." "what is that?" "the younger man's name is pan-chao, the elder's is tio-king. probably they have been traveling in europe for some years. as to saying where they come from, i cannot. i imagine that pan-chao belongs to some rich family, for he is accompanied by his doctor." "this tio-king?" "yes, doctor tio-king." "and do they only speak chinese?" "probably; i have not heard them speak any other language together." on this information from popof, i will keep to the number nine i have given to young pan-chao, and to the ten with which i have labelled doctor tio-king. "the american," began popof. "ephrinell?" i exclaimed, "and miss horatia bluett, the englishwoman? oh! you can tell me nothing about them i don't know." "shall i tell you what i think about that couple, monsieur bombarnac?" "what do you think?" "that as soon as they reach pekin, miss bluett will become mrs. ephrinell." "and may heaven bless their union, popof, for they are really made for each other." i saw that on this subject popof and i held similar ideas. "and the two french people, that couple so affectionate." i asked, "who are they?" "have they not told you?" "no, popof." "you need not be anxious, monsieur bombarnac. besides, if you wish to know their profession, it is written at full length on all their luggage. "and that is?" "stage people who are going to a theater in china." stage people! if that explains the attitudes, and mobile physiognomy, and demonstrative gestures of caterna, it does not explain his maritime allusions. "and do you know what line these players are in?" "the husband is comic lead." "and the wife?" "she is leading lady." "and where are these lyrical people going?" "to shanghai, where they have an engagement at the french theater." that is capital. i will talk about the theater, and behind the scenes, and such matters, and, as popof said, i shall soon make the acquaintance of the cheery comedian and his charming wife. but it is not in their company that i shall discover the hero of romance who is the object of my desire. as to the scornful gentleman, our guide knew nothing beyond that his luggage bore the address in full: sir francis trevellyan, trevellyan hall, trevellyanshire. "a gentleman who does not answer when he is spoken to!" added popof. well, my number eight will have to be dumb man, and that will do very well. "now we get to the german," said i. "baron weissschnitzerdörfer?" "he is going to pekin, i think." "to pekin and beyond." "beyond?" "yes; he is on a trip round the world." "a trip round the world?" "in thirty-nine days." and so after mrs. bisland who did the famous tour in seventy-three days, and train who did it in seventy, this german was attempting to do it in thirty-nine? true, the means of communication are more rapid the line is more direct, and by using the grand transasiatic which puts pekin within a fortnight of the prussian capital, the baron might halve the old time by suez and singapore--but-- "he will never do it!" i exclaimed. "why not?" asked popof. "because he is always late. he nearly missed the train at tiflis, he nearly missed the boat at baku--" "but he did not miss the start from uzun ada." "it doesn't matter, popof. i shall be much surprised if this german beats an american at globe trotting." * * * * * chapter vii. the train arrived at kizil arvat, two hundred and forty-two versts from the caspian, at thirteen minutes past seven in the evening instead of seven o'clock. this slight delay provoked thirteen objurgations from the baron, one for each minute. we have two hours to wait at kizil arvat. although the day is closing in, i could not employ my time better than in visiting this little town, which contains more than two thousand inhabitants, russians, persians and turkomans. there is not much to see, however, either within it or around it; there are no trees--not even a palm tree--only pasturages and fields of cereals, watered by a narrow stream. my good fortune furnished me with a companion, or i should rather say a guide, in major noltitz. our acquaintance was made very simply. the major came up to me, and i went up to him as soon as we set foot on the platform of the railway station. "sir," said i, "i am a frenchman, claudius bombarnac, special correspondent of the _twentieth century_, and you are major noltitz of the russian army. you are going to pekin, so am i. i can speak your language, and it is very likely that you can speak mine." the major made a sign of assent. "well, major noltitz, instead of remaining strangers to each other during the long transit of central asia, would it please you for us to become more than mere traveling companions? you know all about this country that i do not know, and it would be a pleasure for me to learn from you." "monsieur bombarnac," replied the major in french, without a trace of accent, "i quite agree with you." then he added with a smile: "as to learning from me, one of your most eminent critics, if i remember rightly, has said that the french only like to learn what they know." "i see that you have read sainte beuve, major noltitz; perhaps this sceptical academician was right in a general way. but for my part, i am an exception to the rule, and i wish to learn what i do not know. and in all that concerns russian turkestan, i am in a state of ignorance." "i am entirely at your disposal," said the major, "and i will be happy to tell you all about general annenkof, for i was all through the work with him." "i thank you, major noltitz. i expected no less than the courtesy of a russian towards a frenchman." "and," said the major, "if you will allow me to quote that celebrated sentence in the _danicheffs_, 'it will be always thus so long as there are frenchmen and russians.'" "the younger dumas after sainte beuve?" i exclaimed. "i see, major, that i am talking to a parisian--" "of petersburg, monsieur bombarnac." and we cordially shook hands. a minute afterwards, we were on our way through the town, and this is what major noltitz told me: it was towards the end of that general annenkof finished, at kizil arvat, the first portion of this railway measuring about miles, of which were through a desert which did not yield a single drop of water. but before telling me how this extraordinary work was accomplished, major noltitz reminded me of the facts which had gradually prepared the conquest of turkestan and its definite incorporation with the russian empire. as far back as the russians had imposed a treaty of alliance on the khan of khiva. some years afterwards, eager to pursue their march towards the east, the campaigns of and had given them the khanats of kokhand and bokhara. two years later, samarkand passed under their dominion after the battles of irdjar and zera-buleh. there remained to be conquered the southern portion of turkestan, and chiefly the oasis of akhal tekke, which is contiguous to persia. generals sourakine and lazareff attempted this in their expeditions of and . their plans failed, and it was to the celebrated skobeleff, the hero of plevna, that the czar confided the task of subduing the valiant turkoman tribes. skobeleff landed at the port of mikhailov--the port of uzun ada was not then in existence--and it was in view of facilitating his march across the desert that his second in command, annenkof, constructed the strategic railway which in ten months reached kizil arvat. this is how the russians built the line with a rapidity superior, as i have said, to that of the americans in the far west, a line that was to be of use for commerce and for war. to begin with, the general got together a construction train consisting of thirty-four wagons. four of these were two-decked for the officers, twenty more had two decks and were used by the workmen and soldiers; one wagon served as a dining room, four as kitchens, one as an ambulance, one as a telegraph office, one as a forge, one as a provision store, and one was held in reserve. these were his traveling workshops and also his barracks in which fifteen hundred workmen, soldiers and otherwise, found their board and lodging. the train advanced as the rails were laid. the workmen were divided into two brigades; they each worked six hours a day, with the assistance of the country people who lived in tents and numbered about fifteen thousand. a telegraph wire united the works with mikhailov, and from there a little decauville engine worked the trains which brought along the rails and sleepers. in this way, helped by the horizontality of the ground, a day's work yielded nearly five miles of track, whereas in the plains of the united states only about half that rate was accomplished. labor cost little; forty-five francs a month for the men from the oasis, fifty centimes a day for those who came from bokhara. it was in this way that skobeleff's soldiers were taken to kizil arvat, and then eighty-four miles beyond to gheok tepe. this town did not surrender until after the destruction of its ramparts and the massacre of twelve thousand of its defenders; but the oasis of akhal tekke was in the power of the russians. the inhabitants of the atek oasis were only too ready to submit, and that all the more willingly as they had implored the help of the czar in their struggle with kouli khan, the chief of the mervians. these latter to the number of two hundred and fifty thousand, followed their example, and the first locomotive entered merv station in july, . "and the english?" i asked major noltitz. "in what way have they looked upon the progress of the russians through central asia?" "jealously, of course. think for a moment what it means when the russian railways are united with the chinese, instead of the indian. the transcaspian in connection with the line between herat and delhi! and consider that the english have not been as fortunate in afghanistan as we have been in turkestan. you have noticed the gentleman in our train?" "i have. he is sir francis trevellyan of trevellyan hall, trevellyanshire." "well, sir francis trevellyan has nothing but looks of contempt and shrugs of the shoulder for all we have done. his nation's jealousy is incarnate in him, and england will never be content that our railways should go from europe to the pacific ocean, while the british railways end at the indian ocean." this interesting conversation had lasted for the hour and a half during which we walked about the streets of kizil arvat. it was time to return to the station, and we did so. of course, matters did not end here. it was agreed that the major should leave his seat in the third car and occupy that next to mine in the first. we had already been two inhabitants of the same town; well, we would become two neighbors in the house, or, rather, two friends in the same room. at nine o'clock the signal to start was given. the train leaving kizil arvat went off in a southwesterly direction towards askhabad, along the persian frontier. for another half hour the major and i continued to talk of one thing or another. he told me that if the sun had not set, i should have been able to see the summits of the great and little balkans of asia which rise above the bay of krasnovodsk. already most of our companions had taken up their quarters for the night on their seats, which by an ingenious mechanism could be transformed into beds, on which you could stretch yourself at full length, lay your head on a pillow, wrap yourself in rugs, and if you didn't sleep well it would be on account of a troubled conscience. major noltitz had nothing to reproach himself with apparently, for a few minutes after he had said good night he was deep in the sleep of the just. as for me, if i remained awake it was because i was troubled in my mind. i was thinking of my famous packing case, of the man it contained, and this very night i had resolved to enter into communication with him. i thought of the people who had done this sort of thing before. in , , and , an austrian tailor, hermann zeitung, had come from vienna to paris, from amsterdam to brussels, from antwerp to christiania in a box, and two sweethearts of barcelona, erres and flora anglora, had shared a box between them from spain into france. but i must wait until popof had retired to rest. the train would not stop until it reached gheok tepe at one o'clock in the morning. during the run from kizil arvat to gheok tepe i reckoned that popof would have a good sleep, and then, or never, i would put my plan into execution. hold! an idea! suppose it is zeitung who makes a trade of this sort of thing and manages to make a little money out of public generosity? it ought to be zeitung, it must be! confound it! he is not at all interesting! and here was i reckoning on this fellow. well, we shall see. i shall know him by his photographs, and perhaps i may make use of him. half an hour went by, and the noise of a door shutting on the platform of the car told me that our guard had just entered his little box. in spite of my desire to visit the baggage car i waited patiently, for it was possible that popof was not yet sound asleep. within, all is quiet under the veiled light of the lamps. without, the night is very dark, and the rattle of the train mingles with the whistling of the rather high wind. i rise. i draw aside the curtain of one of the lamps. i look at my watch. it is a few minutes past eleven. still two hours to gheok tepe. the moment has come. i glide between the seats to the door of the car. i open it gently and shut it after me without being heard by my companions, without waking any one. here i am on the platform, which shakes as the train travels. amid the unfathomable darkness which envelops the kara koum, i experience the feeling of a night at sea when on shipboard. a feeble light filters through the blind of the guard's box. shall i wait till it is extinct, or, as is very probable, will it not last till the morning? anyhow, popof is not asleep, as i discover by the noise he makes in turning over. i keep quiet, leaning against the balustrade of the platform. leaning forward my looks are attracted by the luminous ray thrown forward by the headlight of the engine. it seems as though we are running on a road of fire. above me the clouds are racing across with great rapidity, and a few constellations glitter through their rifts, cassiopeia, the little bear, in the north, and in the zenith vega of lyra. at length absolute silence reigns on the platforms. popof, who is in charge of the train, has his eyes closed in sleep. assured of safety i cross the gangway and am in front of the baggage van. the door is only fastened with a bar which is hung between two staples. i open it and shut it behind me. i do this without noise, for if i do not want to attract popof's attention, i do not want as yet to attract the attention of the man in the packing case. although the darkness is deep in the van, although there is no side window, i know my position. i know where the case is placed; it is in the left corner as i enter. the thing is not to knock against any other case--not against one of those belonging to ephrinell, for what a row there would be if i set all those artificial teeth chattering! carefully feeling with feet and hands, i reach the case. no cat could have been more gentle or more silent as i felt its edges. i leaned over and placed my ear timidly against the outer panel. there was no sound of breathing. the products of the house of strong, bulbul & co., of new york, could not be more noiseless in their boxes. a fear seizes upon me--the fear of seeing all my reporter's hopes vanish. was i deceived on board the _astara_? that respiration, that sneeze; had i dreamed it all? was there no one in the case, not even zeitung? were these really glass goods exported to miss zinca klork, avenue cha-coua, pekin, china? no! feeble as it is, i detect a movement inside the case! it becomes more distinct, and i ask if the panel is going to slide, if the prisoner is coming out of his prison to breathe the fresh air? what i had better do to see and not to be seen is to hide between two cases. thanks to the darkness there is nothing to fear. suddenly a slight cracking greets my ear. i am not the sport of an illusion; it is the crack of a match being lighted. almost immediately a few feeble rays pierce the ventilation holes of the case. if i had had any doubts as to the position held by the prisoner in the scale of being, i have none now. at the least it must be an ape who knows the use of fire, and also the handling of matches. travelers tell us that such animals exist, but we have to take the statement on trust. why should i not confess it? a certain emotion came over me and i had to take care i did not run away. a minute elapsed. nothing shows that the panel has been moved, nothing gives me reason to suppose that the unknown is coming out. cautiously i wait. then i have an idea to make something out of this light. the case is lighted within; if i were to peep through those holes? i creep toward the case. a single apprehension chills my brain. if the light were suddenly extinguished! i am against the panel, which i take care not to touch, and i put my eyes close to one of the holes. there is a man in the box, and it is not the austrian tailor, zeitung! thank heaven! i will soon make him my no. . the man's features i can make out clearly. he is from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age. he does not shave, and his beard is brown. he is of the true roumanian type, and that confirms me in my notion regarding his roumanian correspondent. he is good-looking, although his face denotes great energy of character, and he must be energetic to have shut himself up in a box like this for such a long journey. but if he has nothing of the malefactor about him, i must confess that he does not look like the hero i am in search of as the chief personage in my story. after all, they were not heroes, that austrian and that spaniard who traveled in their packing cases. they were young men, very simple, very ordinary, and yet they yielded columns of copy. and so this brave no. , with amplifications, antonyms, diaphoreses, epitases, tropes, metaphors, and other figures of that sort, i will beat out, i will enlarge, i will develop--as they develop a photographic negative. besides to travel in a box from tiflis to pekin is quite another affair than traveling from vienna or barcelona to paris, as was done by zeitung, erres and flora anglora. i add that i will not betray my roumanian; i will report him to no one. he may rely on my discretion; he may reckon on my good offices if i can be of use to him when he is found out. but what is he doing now? well, he is seated on the bottom of his case and placidly eating his supper by the light of a little lamp. a box of preserves is on his knee, biscuit is not wanting, and in a little cupboard i notice some full bottles, besides a rug and overcoat hooked up on the wall. evidently no. is quite at home. he is there in his cell like a snail in his shell. his house goes with him; and he saves the thousand francs it would have cost him to journey from tiflis to pekin, second-class. i know he is committing a fraud, and that the law punishes such fraud. he can come out of his box when he likes and take a walk in the van, or even at night venture on the platform. no! i do not blame him, and when i think of his being sent to the pretty roumanian, i would willingly take his place. an idea occurs to me which may not perhaps be as good as it seems. that is to rap lightly on the box so as to enter into communication with my new companion, and learn who he is, and whence he comes, for i know whither he goes. an ardent curiosity devours me, i must gratify it. there are moments when a special correspondent is metamorphosed into a daughter of eve. but how will the poor fellow take it? very well, i am sure. i will tell him that i am a frenchman, and a roumanian knows he can always trust a frenchman. i will offer him my services. i will propose to soften the rigors of his imprisonment by my interviews, and to make up the scarcity of his meals by little odds and ends. he will have nothing to fear from my imprudences. i rap the panel. the light suddenly goes out. the prisoner has suspended his respiration. i must reassure him. "open!" i say to him gently in russian. "open--" i cannot finish the sentence; for the train gives a sudden jump and slackens speed. but we cannot yet have reached gheok tepe? there is a noise outside. i rush out of the van and shut the door behind me. it was time. i have scarcely reached the platform before popofs door opens, and without seeing me he hurries through the van on to the engine. almost immediately the train resumes its normal speed and popof reappears a minute afterwards. "what is the matter, popof?" "what is often the matter, monsieur bombarnac. we have smashed a dromedary." "poor brute!" "poor brute? he might have thrown us off the line!" "stupid brute, then!" chapter viii. before the train reaches gheok tepe i am back in the car. confound this dromedary! if he had not managed to get smashed so clumsily no. would no longer be unknown to me. he would have opened his panel, we would have talked in a friendly way, and separated with a friendly shake of the hand. now he will be full of anxiety, he knows his fraud is discovered, that there is some one who has reason to suspect his intentions, some one who may not hesitate to betray his secret. and then, after being taken out of his case, he will be put under guard at the next station, and it will be useless for mademoiselle zinca klork to expect him in the capital of the chinese empire! yes! it would be better for me to relieve his anxiety this very night. that is impossible, for the train will soon stop at gheok tepe, and then at askhabad which it will leave in the first hour of daylight. i can no longer trust to popof's going to sleep. i am absorbed in these reflections, when the locomotive stops in gheok tepe station at one o'clock in the morning. none of my companions have left their beds. i get out on to the platform and prowl around the van. it would be too risky to try and get inside. i should have been glad to visit the town, but the darkness prevents me from seeing anything. according to what major noltitz says it still retains the traces of skobeleffs terrible assault in --dismantled walls, bastions in ruins. i must content myself with having seen all that with the major's eyes. the train starts at two o'clock in the morning, after having been joined by a few passengers who popof tells me are turkomans. i will have a look at them when daylight comes. for ten minutes i remained on the car platform and watched the heights of the persian frontier on the extreme limit of the horizon. beyond the stretch of verdant oasis watered by a number of creeks, we crossed wide cultivated plains through which the line made frequent diversions. having discovered that popof did not intend to go to sleep again, i went back to my corner. at three o'clock there was another stop. the name of askhabad was shouted along the platform. as i could not remain still i got out, leaving my companions sound asleep, and i ventured into the town. askhabad is the headquarters of the transcaspian, and i opportunely remembered what boulangier, the engineer, had said about it in the course of that interesting journey he had made to merv. all that i saw on the left as i went out of the station, was the gloomy outline of the turkoman fort, dominating the new town, the population of which has doubled since . it forms a confused mass behind a thick curtain of trees. when i returned at half-past three, popof was going through the luggage van, i know not why. what must be the roumanian's anxiety during this movement to and fro in front of his box! as soon as popof reappeared i said to him: "anything fresh?" "nothing, except the morning breeze!" said he. "very fresh!" said i. "is there a refreshment bar in the station?" "there is one for the convenience of the passengers." "and for the convenience of the guards, i suppose? come along, popof." and popof did not want asking twice. the bar was open, but there did not seem to be much to choose from. the only liquor was "koumiss," which is fermented mare's milk, and is the color of faded ink, very nourishing, although very liquid. you must be a tartar to appreciate this koumiss. at least that is the effect it produced on me. but popof thought it excellent, and that was the important point. most of the sarthes and kirghizes who got out at askhabad, have been replaced by other second-class passengers, afghan merchants and smugglers, the latter particularly clever in their line of business. all the green tea consumed in central asia is brought by them from china through india, and although the transport is much longer, they sell it at a much lower price than the russian tea. i need not say that their luggage was examined with muscovite minuteness. the train started again at four o'clock. our car was still a sleeper. i envied the sleep of my companions, and as that was all i could do, i returned to the platform. the dawn was appearing in the east. here and there were the ruins of the ancient city, a citadel girdled with high ramparts and a succession of long porticos extending over fifteen hundred yards. running over a few embankments, necessitated by the inequalities of the sandy ground, the train reaches the horizontal steppe. we are running at a speed of thirty miles an hour in a southwesterly direction, along the persian frontier. it is only beyond douchak that the line begins to leave it. during this three hours' run the two stations at which the train stops are gheours, the junction for the road to mesched, whence the heights of the iran plateau are visible, and artyk where water is abundant although slightly brackish. the train then traverses the oasis of the atek, which is an important tributary of the caspian. verdure and trees are everywhere. this oasis justifies its name, and would not disgrace the sahara. it extends to the station of douchak at the six hundred and sixtieth verst, which we reach at six o'clock in the morning. we stop here two hours, that is to say, there are two hours for us to walk about. i am off to look at douchak with major noltitz as my cicerone. a traveler precedes us out of the railway station; i recognize sir francis trevellyan. the major makes me notice that this gentleman's face is more sullen than usual, his lip more scornful, his attitude more anglo-saxon. "and do you know why, monsieur bombarnac? because this station at douchak might be the terminus of a line from british india through the afghan frontier, kandahar, the bolan pass and the pendjeh oasis, that would unite the two systems." "and how long would the line be?" "about six hundred miles. but the english will not meet the russians in a friendly way. but if we could put calcutta within twelve days of london, what an advantage that would be for their trade!" talking in this way the major and i "did" douchak. some years ago it was foreseen how important this village would be. a branch line unites it with teheran in persia, while there has, as yet, been no survey for a line to india. while gentlemen cast in the mould of sir francis trevellyan are in the majority in the united kingdom, the asiatic network of railways will never be complete. i was led to question the major regarding the safety of the grand transasiatic across the provinces of central asia. in turkestan, he told me, the safety is well assured. the russian police keep constant watch over it; there is a regular police force at the stations, and as the stations are not far apart, i don't think the travelers have much to fear from the nomad tribes. besides, the turkomans are kept in their place by the russian administration. during the years the transcaspian has been at work, there has been no attack to hinder the train service. "that is comforting, major noltitz. and as to the section between the frontier and pekin?" "that is another matter," replied the major. "over the pamir plateau, up to kachgar, the road is carefully guarded; but beyond that, the grand transasiatic is under chinese control, and i have not much confidence in that." "are the stations very far from each other?" i asked. "very far, sometimes." "and the russians in charge of the train are replaced by chinese, are they not?" "yes, with the exception of popof, who goes through with us." "so that we shall have chinese engine drivers and stokers? well, major, that seems rather alarming, and the safety of the travelers--" "let me undeceive you, monsieur bombarnac. these chinese are just as clever as we are. they are excellent mechanics, and it is the same with the engineers who laid out the line through the celestial empire. they are certainly a very intelligent race, and very fit for industrial progress." "i think, major, that they will one day become masters of the world--after the slavs, of course!" "i do not know what the future may have in store," said major noltitz, with a smile. "but, returning to the chinese, i say that they are of quick comprehension, with an astonishing facility of assimilation. i have seen them at work, and i speak from experience." "agreed," said i; "but if there is no danger under this head, are there not a lot of scoundrels prowling about mongolia and northern china?" "and you think these scoundrels will be daring enough to attack the train?" "exactly, major, and that is what makes me feel easy." "what? makes you feel easy?" "quite so, for my sole anxiety is that our journey may not be devoid of incident." "really, mr. special correspondent, i admire you. you must have incidents--" "as a doctor must have patients. now a real good adventure--" "well, monsieur bombarnac, i am afraid you will be disappointed, as i have heard that the company has treated several chiefs of the robber bands--" "as the greek government treated hadji stavros in about's romance." "precisely; and who knows that if in their wisdom--" "i don't believe it." "why not? it would be quite in the modern style, this way of assuring the safety of the trains during the run through the celestial empire. anyhow, there is one of these highwaymen, who has retained his independence and liberty of action, a certain ki-tsang." "who is he?" "a bold bandit chief, half-chinaman, half-mongol. having for some time been a terror to yunnan, he was being too closely pursued, and has now moved into the northern provinces. his presence has ever been reported in that part of mongolia served by the grand transasiatic." "well, he ought to furnish a few paragraphs." "the paragraphs ki-tsang will furnish you with may cost you too dearly." "bah! major, the _twentieth century_ is quite rich enough to pay for its glory." "to pay with its money, perhaps, but we may have to pay with our lives! luckily our companions have not heard you talk in this way, or they might come in a body and demand your expulsion from the train. so be careful, and keep a guard on your desires as a newspaper man in quest of adventures. above all, don't have anything to do with this ki-tsang. it would be all the better in the interest of the passengers." "but not of the passage, major." we returned towards the station. the stoppage at douchak had another half hour to last. as i walked on the quay, i observed something going on which would change the make-up of our train. another van had arrived from teheran by the branch line to mesphed, which puts the persian capital in communication with the transcaspian. this van was bolted and barred, and accompanied by a squad of persian police, whose orders seemed to be not to lose sight of it. i don't know what made me think so, but it seemed as though this van had something mysterious about it, and as the major had left me, i went and spoke to popof, who was watching over the proceedings. "popof, where is that van going?" "to pekin." "and what has it got in it?" "what has it got in it? an exalted personage." "an exalted personage?" "are you surprised?" "i am. in this van?" "it is his own idea." "well, popof, when this exalted personage gets out perhaps you will let me know?" "he will not get out." "why not?" "because he is dead." "dead?" "yes, and it is his body they are taking to pekin, where he will be interred with all the honors due to him." so that we were to have an important personage in our train--in the shape of a corpse, it is true. never mind! i asked popof to discover the name of the defunct. he ought to be some mandarin of mark. as soon as i knew it i would send a telegram to the _twentieth century_. while i was looking at this van, a new passenger came up and examined it with no less curiosity than i did. this traveler was a fine-looking man of about forty, wearing gracefully the costume of the richer mongols, a tall fellow, with rather a gloomy look, a military moustache, tawny complexion, and eyes that never shut. "here is a splendid fellow," i said to myself. "i don't know if he will turn out the hero of the drama i am in search of, but, anyhow, i will number him twelve in my traveling troupe." this leading star, i soon learned from popof, bore the name of faruskiar. he was accompanied by another mongol, of inferior rank, of about the same age, whose name was ghangir. as they looked at the van being attached to the tail of the train in front of the luggage van, they exchanged a few words. as soon as the arrangements were complete the persians took their places in the second-class car, which preceded the mortuary van, so as to have the precious corpse always under their surveillance. at this moment there was a shout on the station platform i recognized the voice. it was the baron weissschnitzerdörfer shouting: "stop! stop!" this time it was not a train on the start, but a hat in distress. a sudden gust had swept through the station and borne off the baron's hat--a helmet-shaped hat of a bluish color. it rolled on the platform, it rolled on the rails, it skimmed the enclosure and went out over the wall, and its owner ran his hardest to stop it. at the sight of this wild pursuit the caternas held their sides, the young chinaman, pan chao, shouted with laughter, while dr. tio-king remained imperturbably serious. the german purple, puffling and panting, could do no more. twice he had got his hand on his hat, and twice it had escaped him, and now suddenly he fell full length with his head lost under the folds of his overcoat; whereupon caterna began to sing the celebrated air from "miss helyett": "ah! the superb point of view--ew--ew--ew! ah! the view unexpected by you--you--you--you!" i know nothing more annoying than a hat carried away by the wind, which bounds hither and thither, and spins and jumps, and glides, and slides, and darts off just as you think you are going to catch it. and if that should happen to me i will forgive those who laugh at the comic endeavor. but the baron was in no mood for forgiveness. he bounded here, and bounded there, he jumped on to the line. they shouted to him, "look out! look out!" for the merv was coming in at some speed. it brought death to the hat, the engine smashed it pitilessly, and it was only a torn rag when it was handed to the baron. and then began again a series of imprecations on the grand transasiatic. the signal is given. the passengers, old and new, hurry to their places. among the new ones i notice three mongols, of forbidding appearance, who get into the second-class car. as i put my foot on the platform i hear the young chinese say to his companion: "well, dr. tio-king, did you see the german with his performing hat? how i laughed!" and so pan chao speaks french. what do i say? better than french--he speaks persian! most extraordinary! i must have a talk with him. chapter ix. we started to time. the baron could not complain this time. after all, i understood his impatience; a minute's delay might cause him to lose the mail boat from tien tsin to japan. the day looked promising, that is to say, there might have been a wind strong enough to put out the sun as if it were a candle, such a hurricane as sometimes stops the locomotives of the grand transasiatic, but to-day it is blowing from the west, and will be supportable, as it blows the train along. we can remain out on the platforms. i want to enter into conversation with pan chao. popof was right; he must be the son of some family of distinction who has been spending some years in paris for education and amusement. he ought to be one of the most regular visitors at the _twentieth century_ "five o'clocks." meanwhile i will attend to other business. there is that man in the case. a whole day will elapse before i can relieve his anxiety. in what a state he must be! but as it would be unwise for me to enter the van during the day, i must wait until night. i must not forget that an interview with the caternas is included in the programme. there will be no difficulty in that, apparently. what will not be so easy is to get into conversation with my no. , his superb lordship faruskiar. he seems rather stiff, does this oriental. ah! there is a name i must know as soon as possible, that of the mandarin returning to china in the form of a mortuary parcel. with a little ingenuity popof may manage to ascertain it from one of the persians in charge of his excellency. if it would only be that of some grand functionary, the pao-wang, or the ko-wang, or the viceroy of the two kiangs, the prince king in person! for an hour the train is running through the oasis. we shall soon be in the open desert. the soil is formed of alluvial beds extending up to the environs of merv. i must get accustomed to this monotony of the journey which will last up to the frontier of turkestan. oasis and desert, desert and oasis. as we approach the pamir the scenery will change a little. there are picturesque bits of landscape in that orographic knot which the russians have had to cut as alexander cut the gordian knot that was worth something to the macedonian conqueror of asia. here is a good augury for the russian conquest. but i must wait for this crossing of the pamir and its varied scenery. beyond lay the interminable plains of chinese turkestan, the immense sandy desert of gobi, where the monotony of the journey will begin again. it is half-past ten. breakfast will soon be served in the dining car. let us take a walk through the length of the train. where is ephrinell? i do not see him at his post by the side of miss horatia bluett, whom i questioned on the subject after saluting her politely. "mr. ephrinell has gone to give an eye to his cases," she replies. in the rear of the second car faruskiar and ghangir have installed themselves; they are alone at this moment, and are talking together in a low tone. as i return i meet ephrinell, who is coming back to his traveling companion. he shakes my hand yankee fashion. i tell him that miss horatia bluett has given me news of him. "oh!" says he, "what a woman yonder! what a splendid saleswoman! one of those english--" "who are good enough to be americans!" i add. "wait a bit!" he replies, with a significant smile. as i am going put, i notice that the two chinamen are already in the dining car, and that dr. tio-king's little book is on the table. i do not consider it too much of a liberty for a reporter to pick up this little book, to open it and to read the title, which is as follows: the temperate and regular life, or the art of living long in perfect health. translated from the italian of louis cornaro, a venetian noble. to which is added the way of correcting a bad constitution, and enjoying perfect felicity to the most advanced years. and to die only from the using up of the original humidity in extreme old age. salerno, . and this is the favorite reading of dr. tio-king! and that is why his disrespectful pupil occasionally gives him the nickname of cornaro! i have not time to see anything else in this volume than _abstinentia adjicit vitam_; but this motto of the noble venetian i have no intention of putting in practice, at least at breakfast time. there is no change in the order in which we sit down to table. i find myself close to major noltitz, who is looking attentively at faruskiar and his companion, placed at the extremity of the table. we are asking ourselves who this haughty mongol could be. "ah!" said i, laughing at the thought which crossed my mind, "if that is--" "who?" asked the major. "the chief of the brigands, the famous ki-tsang." "have your joke, monsieur bombarnac, but under your breath, i advise you!" "you see, major, he would then be an interesting personage and worth a long interview!" we enjoyed our meal as we talked. the breakfast was excellent, the provisions having come freshly on board at askhabad and douchak. for drink we had tea, and crimean wine, and kazan beer; for meat we had mutton cutlets and excellent preserves; for dessert a melon with pears and grapes of the best quality. after breakfast i went to smoke my cigar on the platform behind the dining car. caterna almost immediately joins me. evidently the estimable comedian has seized the opportunity to enter into conversation with me. his intelligent eyes, his smooth face, his cheeks accustomed to false whiskers, his lips accustomed to false moustaches, his head accustomed to wigs red, black, or gray, bald or hairy, according to his part, everything denoted the actor made for the life of the boards. but he had such an open, cheery face, such an honest look, so frank an attitude, that he was evidently a really good fellow. "sir," said he to me, "are two frenchmen going all the way from baku to pekin without making each other's acquaintance?" "sir," i replied, "when i meet a compatriot--" "who is a parisian--" "and consequently a frenchman twice over," i added, "i am only too glad to shake hands with him! and so, monsieur caterna--" "you know my name?" "as you know mine, i am sure." "of course, monsieur claudius bombarnac, correspondent of the _twentieth century_." "at your service, believe me." "a thousand thanks, monsieur bombarnac, and even ten thousand, as they say in china, whither madame caterna and i are bound." "to appear at shanghai in the french troupe at the residency as--" "you know all that, then?" "a reporter!" "quite so." "i may add, from sundry nautical phrases i have noticed, that you have been to sea." "i believe you, sir. formerly coxswain of admiral de boissondy's launch on board the _redoubtable_." "then i beg to ask why you, a sailor, did not go by way of the sea?" "ah, there it is, monsieur bombarnac. know that madame caterna, who is incontestably the first leading lady of the provinces, and there is not one to beat her as a waiting maid or in a man's part, cannot stand the sea. and when i heard of the grand transasiatic, i said to her, 'be easy, caroline! do not worry yourself about the perfidious element. we will cross russia, turkestan, and china, without leaving _terra firma_!' and that pleased her, the little darling, so brave and so devoted, so--i am at a loss for a word--well, a lady who will play the duenna in case of need, rather than leave the manager in a mess! an artiste, a true artiste!" it was a pleasure to listen to caterna; he was in steam, as the engineer says, and the only thing to do was to let him blow off. surprising as it may seem, he adored his wife, and i believe she was equally fond of him. a well-matched couple, evidently, from what i learned from my comedian, never embarrassed, very wide awake, content with his lot, liking nothing so much as the theater--above all the provincial theater--where he and his wife had played in drama, vaudeville, comedy, operetta, opera comique, opera, spectacle, pantomime, happy in the entertainment which began at five o'clock in the afternoon and ended at one o'clock in the morning, in the grand theaters of the chief cities, in the saloon of the mayor, in the barn of the village, without boots, without patches, without orchestra, sometimes even without spectators--thus saving the return of the money--professionals fit for anything, no matter what. as a parisian, caterna must have been the wag of the forecastle when he was at sea. as clever with his instrument of brass or wood, he possessed a most varied and complete assortment of jokes, songs, monologues, and dialogues. this he told me with an immense amount of attitude and gesture, now here, now there, legs, arms, hands, and feet all going together. i should never feel dull in the company of such a merry companion. "and where were you before you left france?" i asked. "at la ferté-sous-jouarre, where madame caterna achieved a genuine success as elsa in 'lohengrin,' which we played without music. but it is an interesting piece, and it was well done." "you must have been a good deal about the world, monsieur caterna?" "i believe you; russia, england, both americas. ah! monsieur claudius." he already called me claudius. "ah! monsieur claudius, there was a time when i was the idol of buenos ayres, and the pet of rio janeiro! do not think i would tell you an untruth! no! i know myself. bad at paris, i am excellent in the provinces. in paris you play for yourself; in the provinces you play for the others! and then what a repertory!" "my compliments, my dear compatriot!" "i accept them, monsieur claudius, for i like my trade. what would you haye? all the world cannot expect to be a senator or--a special correspondent." "there, that is wicked, monsieur caterna," said i, with a laugh. "no; it is the last word." and while the unwearied actor ran on in this way, stations appeared one after the other between the shrieks of the whistle, kulka, nisachurch, kulla minor and others, not particularly cheerful to look at; then bairam ali at the seven hundred and ninety-fifth verst and kourlan kala at the eight hundred and fifteenth. "and to tell you the truth," continued caterna, "we have made a little money by going about from town to town. at the bottom of our boxes are a few northern debentures, of which i think a good deal, and take much care, and they have been honestly got, monsieur claudius. although we live under a democratic government, the rule of equality, the time is still far off when you will see the noble father dining beside the prefect at the table of the judge of appeal, and the actress open the ball with the prefect at the house of the general-in-chief! well! we can dine and dance among ourselves--" "and be just as happy, monsieur caterna." "certainly no less, monsieur claudius," replied the future premier comic of shanghai, shaking an imaginary frill with the graceful ease of one of louis xv.'s noblemen. at this point, madame caterna came up. she was in every way worthy of her husband, sent into the world to reply to him in life as on the stage, one of those genial theater folks, born one knows not where or how, but thoroughly genuine and good-natured. "i beg to introduce you to caroline caterna," said the actor, in much the same tone as he would have introduced me to patti or sarah bernhardt. "having shaken hands with your husband," said i, "i shall be happy to shake hands with you, madame caterna." "there you are, then," said the actress, "and without ceremony, foot to the front, and no prompting." "as you see, no nonsense about her, and the best of wives--" "as he is the best of husbands." "i believe i am, monsieur claudius," said the actor, "and why? because i believe that marriage consists entirely in the precept to which husbands should always conform, and that is, that what the wife likes the husband should eat often." it will be understood that it was touching to see this honest give-and-take, so different from the dry business style of the two commercials who were in conversation in the adjoining car. but here is baron weissschnitzerdörfer, wearing a traveling cap, coming out of the dining car, where i imagine he has not spent his time consulting the time-table. "the good man of the hat trick!" said caterna, after the baron went back into the car without favoring us with a salute. "he is quite german enough!" said madame caterna. "and to think that henry heine called those people sentimental oaks!" i added. "then he could not have known that one!" said caterna. "oak, i admit, but sentimental--" "do you know why the baron has patronized the grand transasiatic?" i asked. "to eat sauerkraut at pekin!" said caterna. "not at all. to rival miss nelly bly. he is trying to get around the world in thirty-nine days." "thirty-nine days!" exclaimed gaterna. "you should say a hundred and thirty-nine!" and in a voice like a husky clarinet the actor struck up the well-known air from the cloches de corneville: "i thrice have been around the world." adding, for the baron's benefit: "he will not do the half." chapter x. at a quarter-past twelve our train passed the station of kari bata, which resembles one of the stations on the line from naples to sorrento, with its italian roofs. i noticed a vast asiatico-russian camp, the flags waving in the fresh breeze. we have entered the mervian oasis, eighty miles long and eight wide, and containing about six hundred thousand hectares--there is nothing like being precise at the finish. right and left are cultivated fields, clumps of fine trees, an uninterrupted succession of villages, huts among the thickets, fruit gardens between the houses, flocks of sheep and herds of cattle among the pastures. all this rich country is watered by the mourgab--the white water--or its tributaries, and pheasants swarm like crows on the plains of normandy. at one o'clock in the afternoon the train stopped at merv station, over five hundred miles from uzun ada. the town has been often destroyed and rebuilt. the wars of turkestan have not spared it. formerly, it seems, it was a haunt of robbers and bandits, and it is a pity that the renowned ki-tsang did not live in those days. perhaps he would have become a genghis khan? major noltitz told me of a turkoman saying to the following effect: "if you meet a mervian and a viper, begin by killing the mervian and leave the viper till afterwards." i fancy it would be better to begin with killing the viper now that the mervian has become a russian. we have seven hours to stop at merv. i shall have time to visit this curious town. its physical and moral transformation has been profound, owing to the somewhat arbitrary proceedings of the russian administration. it is fortunate that its fortress, five miles round, built by nour verdy in , was not strong enough to prevent its capture by the czar, so that the old nest of malefactors has become one of the most important cities of the transcaspian. i said to major noltitz: "if it is not trespassing on your kindness, may i ask you to go with me?" "willingly," he answered; "and as far as i am concerned, i shall be very pleased to see merv again." we set out at a good pace. "i ought to tell you," said the major, "that it is the new town we are going to see." "and why not the old one first? that would be more logical and more chronological." "because old merv is eighteen miles away, and you will hardly see it as you pass. so you must refer to the accurate description given of it by your great geographer elisée reclus." and certainly readers will not lose anything by the change. the distance from the station to new merv is not great. but what an abominable dust! the commercial town is built on the left of the river--a town in the american style, which would please ephrinell, wide streets straight as a line crossing at right angles; straight boulevards with rows of trees; much bustle and movement among the merchants in oriental costume, in jewish costume, merchants of every kind; a number of camels and dromedaries, the latter much in request for their powers of withstanding fatigue and which differ in their hinder parts from their african congeners. not many women along the sunny roads which seem white hot. some of the feminine types are, however, sufficiently remarkable, dressed out in a quasi-military costume, wearing soft boots and a cartouche belt in the circassian style. you must take care of the stray dogs, hungry brutes with long hair and disquieting fangs, of a breed reminding one of the dogs of the caucasus, and these animals--according to boulangier the engineer--have eaten a russian general. "not entirely," replies the major, confirming the statement. "they left his boots." in the commercial quarter, in the depths of the gloomy ground floors, inhabited by the persians and the jews, within the miserable shops are sold carpets of incredible fineness, and colors artistically combined, woven mostly by old women without any jacquard cards. on both banks of the mourgab the russians have their military establishment. there parade the turkoman soldiers in the service of the czar. they wear the blue cap and the white epaulettes with their ordinary uniform, and drill under the orders of russian officers. a wooden bridge, fifty yards long, crosses the river. it is practicable not only for foot-passengers, but for trains, and telegraph wires are stretched above its parapets. on the opposite bank is the administrative town, which contains a considerable number of civil servants, wearing the usual russian cap. in reality the most interesting place to see is a sort of annexe, a tekke village, in the middle of merv, whose inhabitants have retained the villainous characteristics of this decaying race, the muscular bodies, large ears, thick lips, black beard. and this gives the last bit of local color to be found in the new town. at a turning in the commercial quarter we met the commercials, american and english. "mr. ephrinell," i said, "there is nothing curious in this modern merv." "on the contrary, mr. bombarnac, the town is almost yankee, and it will soon see the day when the russians will give it tramways and gaslights!" "that will come!" "i hope it will, and then merv will have a right to call itself a city." "for my part, i should have preferred a visit to the old town, with its mosque, its fortress, and its palace. but that is a little too far off, and the train does not stop there, which i regret." "pooh!" said the yankee. "what i regret is, that there is no business to be done in these turkoman countries! the men all have teeth--" "and the women all have hair," added horatia bluett. "well, miss, buy their hair, and you will not lose your time." "that is exactly what holmes-holme of london will do as soon as we have exhausted the capillary stock of the celestial empire." and thereupon the pair left us. i then suggested to major noltitz--it was six o'clock--to dine at merv, before the departure of the train. he consented, but he was wrong to consent. an ill-fortune took us to the hotel slav, which is very inferior to our dining car--at least as regards its bill of fare. it contained, in particular, a national soup called "borchtch," prepared with sour milk, which i would carefully refrain from recommending to the gourmets of the _twentieth century_. with regard to my newspaper, and that telegram relative to the mandarin our train is "conveying" in the funereal acceptation of the word? has popof obtained from the mutes who are on guard the name of this high personage? yes, at last! and hardly are we within the station than he runs up to me, saying: "i know the name." "and it is?" "yen lou, the great mandarin yen lou of pekin." "thank you, popof." i rush to the telegraph office, and from there i send a telegram to the _twentieth century_. "merv, th may, p.m. "train, grand transasiatic, just leaving merv. took from douchak the body of the great mandarin yen lou coming from persia to pekin." it cost a good deal, did this telegram, but you will admit it was well worth its price. the name of yen lou was immediately communicated to our fellow travelers, and it seemed to me that my lord faruskiar smiled when he heard it. we left the station at eight o'clock precisely. forty minutes afterwards we passed near old merv, and the night being dark i could see nothing of it. there was, however, a fortress with square towers and a wall of some burned bricks, and ruined tombs, and a palace and remains of mosques, and a collection of archaeological things, which would have run to quite two hundred lines of small text. "console yourself," said major noltitz. "your satisfaction could not be complete, for old merv has been rebuilt four times. if you had seen the fourth town, bairam ali of the persian period, you would not have seen the third, which was mongol, still less the musalman village of the second epoch, which was called sultan sandjar kala, and still less the town of the first epoch. that was called by some iskander kala, in honor of alexander the macedonian, and by others ghiaour kala, attributing its foundation to zoroaster, the founder of the magian religion, a thousand years before christ. so i should advise you to put your regrets in the waste-paper basket." and that is what i did, as i could do no better with them. our train is running northeast. the stations are twenty or thirty versts apart. the names are not shouted, as we make no stop, and i have to discover them on my time-table. such are keltchi, ravina--why this italian name in this turkoman province?--peski, repetek, etc. we cross the desert, the real desert without a thread of water, where artesian wells have to be sunk to supply the reservoirs along the line. the major tells me that the engineers experienced immense difficulty in fixing the sandhills on this part of the railway. if the palisades had not been sloped obliquely, like the barbs of a feather, the line would have been covered by the sand to such an extent as to stop the running of the trains. as soon as this region of sandhills had been passed we were again on the level plain on which the rails had been laid so easily. gradually my companions go to sleep, and our carriage is transformed into a sleeping car. i then return to my roumanian. ought i to attempt to see him to-night? undoubtedly; and not only to satisfy a very natural curiosity, but also to calm his anxiety. in fact, knowing his secret is known to the person who spoke to him through the panel of his case, suppose the idea occurred to him to get out at one of the stations, give up his journey, and abandon his attempt to rejoin mademoiselle zinca klork, so as to escape the company's pursuit? that is possible, after all, and my intervention may have done the poor fellow harm--to say nothing of my losing no. , one of the most valuable in my collection. i am resolved to visit him before the coming dawn. but, in order to be as careful as possible, i will wait until the train has passed tchardjoui, where it ought to arrive at twenty-seven past two in the morning. there we shall stop a quarter of an hour before proceeding towards the amu-daria. popof will then retire to his den, and i shall be able to slip into the van, without fear of being seen. how long the hours appear! several times i have almost fallen asleep, and twice or thrice i have had to go out into the fresh air on the platform. the train enters tchardjoui station to the minute. it is an important town of the khanate of bokhara, which the transcaspian reached towards the end of , seventeen months after the first sleeper was laid. we are not more than twelve versts from the amu-daria, and beyond that river i shall enter on my adventure. i have said that the stop at tchardjoui ought to last a quarter of an hour. a few travelers alight, for they have booked to this town which contains about thirty thousand inhabitants. others get in to proceed to bokhara and samarkand, but these are only second-class passengers. this produces a certain amount of bustle on the platform. i also get out and take a walk up and down by the side of the front van, and i notice the door silently open and shut. a man creeps out on to the platform and slips away through the station, which is dimly lighted by a few petroleum lamps. it is my roumanian. it can be no one else. he has not been seen, and there he is, lost among the other travelers. why this escape? is it to renew his provisions at the refreshment bar? on the contrary, is not his intention, as i am afraid it is, to get away from us? shall i stop him? i will make myself known to him; promise to help him. i will speak to him in french, in english, in german, in russian--as he pleases. i will say to him: "my friend, trust to my discretion; i will not betray you. provisions? i will bring them to you during the night. encouragements? i will heap them on you as i will the refreshments. do not forget that mademoiselle zinca klork, evidently the most lovely of roumanians, is expecting you at pekin, etc." behold me then following him without appearing to do so. amid all this hurry to and fro he is in little danger of being noticed. neither popof nor any of the company's servants would suspect him to be a swindler. is he going towards the gate to escape me? no! he only wants to stretch his legs better than he can do in the van. after an imprisonment which has lasted since he left baku--that is to say, about sixty hours--he has earned ten minutes of freedom. he is a man of middle height, lithe in his movements, and with a gliding kind of walk. he could roll himself up like a cat and find quite room enough in his case. he wears an old vest, his trousers are held up by a belt, and his cap is a fur one--all of dark color. i am at ease regarding his intentions. he returns towards the van, mounts the platform, and shuts the door gently behind him. as soon as the train is on the move i will knock at the panel, and this time-- more of the unexpected. instead of waiting at tchardjoui one-quarter of an hour we have to wait three. a slight injury to one of the brakes of the engine has had to be repaired, and, notwithstanding the german baron's remonstrances, we do not leave the station before half-past three, as the day is beginning to dawn. it follows from this that if i cannot visit the van i shall at least see the amou-daria. the amou-daria is the oxus of the ancients, the rival of the indus and the ganges. it used to be a tributary of the caspian, as shown on the maps, but now it flows into the sea of aral. fed by the snows and rains of the pamir plateau, its sluggish waters flow between low clay cliffs and banks of sand. it is the river-sea in the turkoman tongue, and it is about two thousand five hundred kilometres long. the train crosses it by a bridge a league long, the line being a hundred feet and more above its surface at low water, and the roadway trembles on the thousand piles which support it, grouped in fives between each of the spans, which are thirty feet wide. in ten months, at a cost of thirty-five thousand roubles, general annenkof built this bridge, the most important one on the grand transasiatic. the river is of a dull-yellow color. a few islands emerge from the current here and there, as far as one can see. popof pointed out the stations for the guards on the parapet of the bridge. "what are they for?" i asked. "for the accommodation of a special staff, whose duty it is to give the alarm in case of fire, and who are provided with fire-extinguishers." this is a wise precaution. not only have sparks from the engines set it on fire in several places, but there are other disasters possible. a large number of boats, for the most part laden with petroleum, pass up and down the amou-daria, and it frequently happens that these become fire-ships. a constant watch is thus only too well justified, for if the bridge were destroyed, its reconstruction would take a year, during which the transport of passengers from one bank to the other would not be without its difficulties. at last the train is going slowly across the bridge. it is broad daylight. the desert begins again at the second station, that of karakoul. beyond can be seen the windings of an affluent of the amou-daria, the zarafchane, "the river that rolls with gold," the course of which extends up to the valley of the sogd, in that fertile oasis on which stands the city of samarkand. at five o'clock in the morning the train stops at the capital of the khanate of bokhara, eleven hundred and seven versts from uzun ada. chapter xi. the khanates of bokhara and samarkand used to form sogdiana, a persian satrapy inhabited by the tadjiks and afterwards by the usbegs, who invaded the country at the close of the fifteenth century. but another invasion, much more modern, is to be feared, that of the sands, now that the saksaouls intended to bring the sandhills to a standstill, have almost completely disappeared. bokhara, the capital of the khanate, is the rome of islam, the noble city, the city of temples, the revered centre of the mahometan religion. it was the town with the seven gates, which an immense wall surrounded in the days of its splendor, and its trade with china has always been considerable. today it contains eighty thousand inhabitants. i was told this by major noltitz, who advised me to visit the town in which he had lived several times. he could not accompany me, having several visits to pay. we were to start again at eleven o'clock in the morning. five hours only to wait and the town some distance from the railway station! if the one were not connected with the other by a decauville--a french name that sounds well in sogdiana--time would fail for having even a slight glimpse of bokhara. it is agreed that the major will accompany me on the decauville; and when we reach our destination he will leave me to attend to his private affairs. i cannot reckon on him. is it possible that i shall have to do without the company of any of my numbers? let us recapitulate. my lord faruskiar? surely he will not have to worry himself about the mandarin yen lou, shut up in this traveling catafalque! fulk ephrinell and miss horatia bluett? useless to think of them when we are talking about palaces, minarets, mosques and other archaeological inutilities. the actor and the actress? impossible, for madame caterna is tired, and monsieur caterna will consider it his duty to stay with her. the two celestials? they have already left the railway station. ah! sir francis trevellyan. why not? i am not a russian, and it is the russians he cannot stand. i am not the man who conquered central asia. i will try and open this closely shut gentleman. i approach him; i bow; i am about to speak. he gives me a slight inclination and turns on his heel and walks off! the animal! but the decauville gives its last whistle. the major and i occupy one of the open carriages. half an hour afterwards we are through the dervaze gate, the major leaves me, and here am i, wandering through the streets of bokhara. if i told the readers of the _twentieth century_ that i visited the hundred schools of the town, its three hundred mosques--almost as many mosques as there are churches in rome, they would not believe me, in spite of the confidence that reporters invariably receive. and so i will confine myself to the strict truth. as i passed along the dusty roads of the city, i entered at a venture any of the buildings i found open. here it was a bazaar where they sold cotton materials of alternate colors called "al adjas," handkerchiefs as fine as spider webs, leather marvelously worked, silks the rustle of which is called "tchakhtchukh," in bokhariot, a name that meilhac and halevy did wisely in not adopting for their celebrated heroine. there it was a shop where you could buy sixteen sorts of tea, eleven of which are green, that being the only kind used in the interior of china and central asia, and among these the most sought after, the "louka," one leaf of which will perfume a whole teapot. farther on i emerged on the quay of the divanbeghi, reservoirs, bordering one side of a square planted with elms. not far off is the arche, which is the fortified palace of the emir and has a modern clock over the door. arminius vambery thought the palace had a gloomy look, and so do i, although the bronze cannon which defend the entrance appear more artistic than destructive. do not forget that the bokhariot soldiers, who perambulate the streets in white breeches, black tunics, astrakan caps, and enormous boots, are commanded by russian officers freely decorated with golden embroidery. near the palace to the right is the largest mosque of the town, the mosque of mesjidi kelan, which was built by abdallah khan sheibani. it is a world of cupolas, clock towers, and minarets, which the storks appear to make their home, and there are thousands of these birds in the town. rambling on at a venture i reach the shores of the zarafchane on the northeast of the town. its fresh limpid waters fill its bed once or twice a fortnight. excellent this for health! when the waters appear men, women, children, dogs, bipeds, quadrupeds, bathe together in tumultuous promiscuousness, of which i can give no idea, nor recommend as an example. going northwest towards the centre of the city, i came across groups of dervishes with pointed hats, a big stick in their hands, their hair straggling in the breeze, stopping occasionally to take their part in a dance which would not have disgraced the fanatics of the elysée montmartre during a chant, literally vociferated, and accentuated by the most characteristic steps. let us not forget that i went through the book market. there are no less than twenty-six shops where printed books and manuscripts are sold, not by weight like tea or by the box like vegetables, but in the ordinary way. as to the numerous "medresses," the colleges which have given bokhara its renown as a university--i must confess that i did not visit one. weary and worn i sat down under the elms of the divanbeghi quay. there, enormous samovars are continually on the boil, and for a "tenghe," or six pence three farthings, i refreshed myself with "shivin," a tea of superior quality which only in the slightest degree resembles that we consume in europe, which has already been used, so they say, to clean the carpets in the celestial empire. that is the only remembrance i retain of the rome of turkestan. besides, as i was not able to stay a month there, it was as well to stay there only a few hours. at half-past ten, accompanied by major noltitz, whom i found at the terminus of the decauville, i alighted at the railway station, the warehouses of which are crowded with bales of bokhariot cotton, and packs of mervian wool. i see at a glance that all my numbers are on the platform, including my german baron. in the rear of the train the persians are keeping faithful guard round the mandarin yen lou. it seems that three of our traveling companions are observing them with persistent curiosity; these are the suspicious-looking mongols we picked up at douchak. as i pass near them i fancy that faruskiar makes a signal to them, which i do not understand. does he know them? anyhow, this circumstance rather puzzles me. the train is no sooner off than the passengers go to the dining car. the places next to mine and the major's, which had been occupied since the start, are now vacant, and the young chinaman, followed by dr. tio-king, take advantage of it to come near us. pan chao knows i am on the staff of the _twentieth century_, and he is apparently as desirous of talking to me as i am of talking to him. i am not mistaken. he is a true parisian of the boulevard, in the clothes of a celestial. he has spent three years in the world where people amuse themselves, and also in the world where they learn. the only son of a rich merchant in pekin, he has traveled under the wing of this tio-king, a doctor of some sort, who is really the most stupid of baboons, and of whom his pupil makes a good deal of fun. dr. tio-king, since he discovered cornaro's little book on the quays of the seine, has been seeking to make his existence conform to the "art of living long in perfect health." this credulous chinaman of the chinese had become thoroughly absorbed in the study of the precepts so magisterially laid down by the noble venetian. and pan chao is always chaffing him thereupon, though the good man takes no notice. we were not long before we had a few specimens of his monomania, for the doctor, like his pupil, spoke very good french. "before we begin," said pan chao, "tell me, doctor, how many fundamental rules there are for finding the correct amounts of food and drink?" "seven, my young friend," replied tio-king with the greatest seriousness. "the first is to take only just so much nourishment as to enable you to perform the purely spiritual functions." "and the second?" "the second is to take only such an amount of nourishment as will not cause you to feel any dullness, or heaviness, or bodily lassitude. the third--" "ah! we will wait there, to-day, if you don't mind, doctor," replied pan chao. "here is a certain maintuy, which seems rather good, and--" "take care, my dear pupil! that is a sort of pudding made of hashed meat mixed with fat and spices. i fear it may be heavy--" "then, doctor, i would advise you not to eat it. for my part, i will follow these gentlemen." and pan chao did--and rightly so, for the maintuy was delicious--while doctor tio-king contented himself with the lightest dish on the bill of fare. it appeared from what major noltitz said that these maintuys fried in fat are even more savory. and why should they not be, considering that they take the name of "zenbusis," which signifies "women's kisses?" when caterna heard this flattering phrase, he expressed his regret that zenbusis did not figure on the breakfast table. to which his wife replied by so tender a look that i ventured to say to him: "you can find zenbusis elsewhere than in central asia, it seems to me." "yes," he replied, "they are to be met with wherever there are lovable women to make them." and pan chao added, with a laugh: "and it is again at paris that they make them the best." he spoke like a man of experience, did my young celestial. i looked at pan chao; i admired him. how he eats! what an appetite! not of much use to him are the observations of the doctor on the immoderate consumption of his radical humidity. the breakfast continued pleasantly. conversation turned on the work of the russians in asia. pan chao seemed to me well posted up in their progress. not only have they made the transcaspian, but the transsiberian, surveyed in , is being made, and is already considerably advanced. for the first route through iscim, omsk, tomsk, krasnojarsk, nijni-ufimsk, and irkutsk, a second route has been substituted more to the south, passing by orenburg, akmolinsk, minoussinsk, abatoni and vladivostock. when these six thousand kilometres of rails are laid, petersburg will be within six days of the japan sea. and this transsiberian, which will exceed in length the transcontinental of the united states, will cost no more than seven hundred and fifty millions. it will be easily imagined that this conversation on the russian enterprise is not very pleasing to sir francis trevellyan. although he says not a word and does not lift his eyes from the plate, his long face flushes a little. "well, gentlemen," said i, "what we see is nothing to what our nephews will see. we are traveling to-day on the grand transasiatic. but what will it be when the grand transasiatic is in connection with the grand transafrican." "and how is asia to be united by railway with africa?" asked major noltitz. "through russia, turkey, italy, france and spain. travelers will go from pekin to the cape of good hope without change of carriage." "and the straits of gibraltar?" asked pan chao. at this sir francis trevellyan raised his ears. "yes, gibraltar?" said the major. "go under it!" said i. "a tunnel fifteen kilometres long is a mere nothing! there will be no english parliament to oppose it as there is to oppose that between dover and calais! it will all be done some day, all--and that will justify the vein: "_omnia jam fieri quae posse negabam_." my sample of latin erudition was only understood by major noltitz, and i heard caterna say to his wife: "that is volapuk." "there is no doubt," said pan chap, "that the emperor of china has been well advised in giving his hand to the russians instead of the english. instead of building strategic railways in manchouria, which would never have had the approbation of the czar, the son of heaven has preferred to continue the transcaspian across china and chinese turkestan." "and he has done wisely," said the major. "with the english it is only the trade of india that goes to europe, with the russians it is that of the whole asiatic continent." i look at sir francis trevellyan. the color heightens on his cheeks, but he makes no movement. i ask if these attacks in a language he understands perfectly will not oblige him to speak out. and yet i should have been very much embarrassed if i had had to bet on or against it. major noltitz then resumed the conversation by pointing out the incontestable advantages of the transasiatic with regard to the trade between grand asia and europe in the security and rapidity of its communications. the old hatreds will gradually disappear under european influence, and in that respect alone russia deserves the approbation of every civilized nation. is there not a justification for those fine words of skobeleff after the capture of gheok tepe, when the conquered feared reprisals from the victors: "in central asian politics we know no outcasts?" "and in that policy," said the major, "lies our superiority over england." "no one can be superior to the english." such was the phrase i expected from sir francis trevellyan--the phrase i understand english gentlemen always use when traveling about the world. but he said nothing. but when i rose to propose a toast to the emperor of russia and the russians, and the emperor of china and the chinese, sir francis trevellyan abruptly left the table. assuredly i was not to have the pleasure of hearing his voice to-day. i need not say that during all this talk the baron weissschnitzerdörfer was fully occupied in clearing dish after dish, to the extreme amazement of doctor tio-king. here was a german who had never read the precepts of cornaro, or, if he had read them, transgressed them in the most outrageous fashion. for the same reason, i suppose, neither faruskiar nor ghangir took part in it, for they only exchanged a few words in chinese. but i noted rather a strange circumstance which did not escape the major. we were talking about the safety of the grand transasiatic across central asia, and pan chao had said that the road was not so safe as it might be beyond the turkestan frontier, as, in fact, major noltitz had told me. i was then led to ask if he had ever heard of the famous ki tsang before his departure from europe. "often," he said, "for ki tsang was then in the yunnan provinces. i hope we shall not meet him on our road." my pronunciation of the name of the famous bandit was evidently incorrect, for i hardly understood pan chao when he repeated it with the accent of his native tongue. but one thing i can say, and that is that when he uttered the name of ki tsang, faruskiar knitted his brows and his eyes flashed. then, with a look at his companion, he resumed his habitual indifference to all that was being said around him. assuredly i shall have some difficulty in making the acquaintance of this man. these mongols are as close as a safe, and when you have not the word it is difficult to open them. the train is running at high speed. in the ordinary service, when it stops at the eleven stations between bokhara and samarkand, it takes a whole day over the distance. this time it took but three hours to cover the two hundred kilometres which separate the two towns, and at two o'clock in the afternoon it entered the illustrious city of tamerlane. chapter xii. samarkand is situated in the rich oasis watered by the zarafchane in the valley of sogd. a small pamphlet i bought at the railway station informs me that this great city is one of the four sites in which geographers "agree" to place the terrestrial paradise. i leave this discussion to the exegetists of the profession. burned by the armies of cyrus in b.c. , samarkand was in part destroyed by genghis khan, about . when it had become the capital of tamerlane, its position, which certainly could not be improved upon, did not prevent its being ravaged by the nomads of the eighteenth century. such alternations of grandeur and ruin have been the fate of all the important towns of central asia. we had five hours to stop at samarkand during the day, and that promised something pleasant and several pages of copy. but there was no time to lose. as usual, the town is double; one half, built by the russians, is quite modern, with its verdant parks, its avenues of birches, its palaces, its cottages; the other is the old town, still rich in magnificent remains of its splendor, and requiring many weeks to be conscientiously studied. this time i shall not be alone. major noltitz is free; he will accompany me. we had already left the station when the caternas presented themselves. "are you going for a run round the town, monsieur claudius?" asked the actor, with a comprehensive gesture to show the vast surroundings of samarkand. "such is our intention." "will major noltitz and you allow me to join you?" "how so?" "with madame caterna, for i do nothing without her." "our explorations will be so much the more agreeable," said the major, with a bow to the charming actress. "and," i added, with a view to save fatigue and gain time, "my dear friends, allow me to offer you an arba." "an arba!" exclaimed caterna, with a swing of his hips. "what may that be, an arba?" "one of the local vehicles." "let us have an arba." we entered one of the boxes on wheels which were on the rank in front of the railway station. under promise of a good "silao," that is to say, something to drink, the yemtchik or coachman undertook to give wings to his two doves, otherwise his two little horses, and we went off at a good pace. on the left we leave the russian town, arranged like a fan, the governor's house, surrounded by beautiful gardens, the public park and its shady walks, then the house of the chief of the district which is just on the boundary of the old town. as we passed, the major showed us the fortress, round which our arba turned. there are the graves of the russian soldiers who died in the attack in , near the ancient palace of the emir of bokhara. from this point, by a straight narrow road, our arba reached the righistan square, which, as my pamphlet says, "must not be confounded with the square of the same name at bokhara." it is a fine quadrilateral, perhaps a little spoiled by the fact that the russians have paved it and ornamented it with lamps--which would certainly, please ephrinell, if he decides upon visiting samarkand. on three sides of the square are the well-preserved ruins of three medresses, where the mollahs give children a good education. these medresses--there are seventeen of these colleges at samarkand, besides eighty-five mosques--are called tilla-kari, chir dar and oulong beg. in a general way they resemble each other; a portico in the middle leading to interior courts, built of enameled brick, tinted pale blue or pale yellow, arabesques designed in gold lines on a ground of turquoise blue, the dominant color; leaning minarets threatening to fall and never falling, luckily for their coating of enamel, which the intrepid traveller madame de ujfalvy-bourdon, declares to be much superior to the finest of our crackle enamels--and these are not vases to put on a mantelpiece or on a stand, but minarets of good height. these marvels are still in the state described by marco polo, the venetian traveler of the thirteenth century. "well, monsieur bombarnac," asked the major, "do you not admire the square?" "it is superb," i say. "yes," says the actor, "what a splendid scene it would make for a ballet, caroline! that mosque, with a garden alongside, and that other one with a court--" "you are right, adolphe," said his wife; "but we would have to put those towers up straight and have a few luminous fountains." "excellent notion, caroline! write us a drama, monsieur claudius, a spectacle piece, with a third act in this square. as for the title--" "tamerlane is at once suggested!" i reply. the actor made a significant grimace. the conqueror of asia seemed to him to be wanting in actuality. and leaning toward his wife, caterna hastened to say: "as a scene, i have seen a better at the porte-saint martin, in the _fils de la nuit_--" "and i have at the châtelet in _michael strogoff_." we cannot do better than leave our comedians alone. they look at everything from the theatrical point of view. they prefer the air gauze and the sky-blue foliage, the branches of the stage trees, the agitated canvas of the ocean waves, the prospectives of the drop scene, to the sites the curtain represents, a set scene by cambon or rubé or jambon to no matter what landscape; in short, they would rather have art than nature. and i am not the man to try and change their opinions on the subject. as i have mentioned the name of tamerlane, i asked major noltitz if we were going to visit the tomb of the famous tartar. the major replied that we would see it as we returned; and our itinerary brought us in front of the samarkand bazaar. the arba stopped at one of the entrances to this vast rotunda, after taking us in and out through the old town, the houses of which consist of only one story, and seem very comfortless. here is the bazaar in which are accumulated enormous quantities of woollen stuffs, velvet-pile carpets in the brightest of colors, shawls of graceful patterns, all thrown anyhow on the counters of the shops. before these samples the sellers and buyers stand, noisily arriving at the lowest price. among the fabrics is a silk tissue known as kanaous, which is held in high esteem by the samarkand ladies, although they are very far from appreciating the similar product of lyons manufacture, which it excels neither in quality nor appearance. madame caterna appeared extraordinarily tempted, as if she were among the counters of the _bon marché_ or the _louvre_. "that stuff would do well for my costume in the _grande duchesse_!" she said. "and those slippers would suit me down to the ground as ali bajou in the _caid_!" said caterna. and while the actress was investing in a remnant of kanaous, the actor paid for a pair of those green slippers which the turkomans wear when they enter a mosque. but this was not without recourse to the kindness of the major, who acted as interpreter between the caternas and the merchant, whose "yoks! yoks!" sounded like a lot of crackers in his large mouth. the arba started again and went off toward the square of ribi-khanym, where stands the mosque of that name which was that of one of tamerlane's wives. if the square is not as regular as that of righistan, it is in my opinion rather more picturesque. there are strangely grouped ruins, the remains of arcades, half-unroofed cupolas, columns without capitals, the shafts of which have retained all the brightness of their enamelling; then a long row of elliptical porticoes closing in one side of the vast quadrilateral. the effect is really grand, for these old monuments of the splendor of samarkand stand out from a background of sky and verdure that you would seek in vain, even at the grand opera, if our actor does not object. but i must confess we experienced a deeper impression when, toward the northeast of the town, our arba deposited us in front of the finest of the mosques of central asia, which dates from the year of the hegira ( of our era). i cannot, writing straight away, give you an idea of this marvel. if i were to thread the words, mosaics, pediments, spandrels, bas-reliefs, niches, enamels, corbels, all on a string in a sentence, the picture would still be incomplete. it is strokes of the brush that are wanted, not strokes of the pen. imagination remains abashed at the remains of the most splendid architecture left us by asiatic genius. it is in the farthest depths of this mosque that the faithful go to worship at the tomb of kassimben-abbas, a venerated mussulman saint, and we are told that if we open the tomb a living man will come forth from it in all his glory. but the experiment has not been made as yet, and we prefer to believe in the legend. we had to make an effort to throw off our contemplative mood; and fortunately the caternas did not trouble our ecstasy by evoking any of their recollections of the theater. doubtless they had shared in our impressions. we resumed our seats in the arba, and the yemtchik took us at the gallop of his doves along shady roads which the russian administration keeps up with care. along these roads we met and passed many figures worthy of notice. their costumes were varied enough, "khalats," in startling colors, and their heads enturbaned most coquettishly. in a population of forty thousand there was, of course, a great mingling of races. most of them seemed to be tadjiks of iranian origin. they are fine strong fellows, whose white skin has disappeared beneath the tan of the open air and the unclouded sun. here is what madame de ujfalvy-bourdon says of them in her interesting book: "their hair is generally black, as is also their beard, which is very abundant. their eyes are never turned up at the corners, and are almost always brown. the nose is very handsome, the lips are not thick, the teeth are small. the forehead is high, broad, and the general shape of the face is oval." and i cannot refrain from mentioning a note of approval from caterna when he saw one of these tadjiks superbly draped in his many-colored khalat. "what a splendid lead! what an admirable melingue! you can see him in richepins's _nana sahib_ or meurice's _schamyl_." "he would make a lot of money! replied madame caterna. "he just would--i believe you, caroline!" replied the enthusiastic actor. and for him, as for all other theatrical folks, is not the money the most serious and the least disputable manifestation of the dramatic art? it was already five o clock, and in this incomparable city of samarkand scene succeeded scene. there! i am getting into that way of looking at it now. certainly the spectacle should finish before midnight. but as we start at eight o'clock, we shall have to lose the end of the piece. but as i considered that, for the honor of special correspondents in general, it would never do to have been at samarkand without seeing tamerlane's tomb, our arba returned to the southwest, and drew up near the mosque of gour emir, close to the russian town. what a sordid neighborhood, what a heap of mud huts and straw huts, what an agglomeration of miserable hovels we have just been through! the mosque has a grand appearance. it is crowned with its dome, in which the raw blue of the turquoise is the chief color, and which looks like a persian cap; and on its only minaret, which has now lost its head, there glitter the enamelled arabesques which have retained their ancient purity. we visited the central hall beneath the cupola. there stands the tomb of the lame timour the conqueror. surrounded by the four tombs of his sons and his patron saint, beneath a stone of black jade covered with inscriptions, whiten the bones of tamerlane, in whose name is gathered the whole fourteenth century of asiatic history. the walls of the hall are covered with slabs of jade, on which are engraven innumerable scrolls of foliage, and in the southwest stands a little column marking the direction of mecca. madame de ujfalvy-bourdon has justly compared this part of the mosque of gour emir to a sanctuary, and we had the same impression. this impression took a still more religious tone when, by a dark and narrow stairway, we descended to the crypt in which are the tombs of tamerlane's wives and daughters. "but who was this tamerlane?" asked caterna. "this tamerlane everybody is talking about." "tamerlane," replied major noltitz, "was one of the greatest conquerors of the world, perhaps the greatest, if you measure greatness by the extent of the conquests. asia to the east of the caspian sea, persia and the provinces to the north of it, russia to the sea of azof, india, syria, asia minor, china, on which he threw two hundred thousand men--he had a whole continent as the theater of his wars." "and he was lame!" said madame caterna. "yes, madame, like genseric, like shakespeare, like byron, like walter scott, like talleyrand, but that did not hinder his getting along in the world. but how fanatic and bloodthirsty he was! history affirms that at delhi he massacred a hundred thousand captives, and at bagdad he erected an obelisk of eighty thousand heads." "i like the one in the place de la concorde better," said caterna, "and that is only in one piece." at this observation we left the mosque of gour emir, and as it was time to "hurry up," as our actor said, the arba was driven briskly toward the station. for my part, in spite of the observations of the caternas, i was fully in tone with the local color due to the marvels of samarkand, when i was roughly shaken back into modern reality. in the streets--yes--in the streets near the railway station, in the very center of tamerlane's capital, i passed two bicyclists. "ah!" exclaimed caterna. "messrs. wheeler!" and they were turkomans! after that nothing more could be done than leave a town so dishonored by the masterpiece of mechanical locomotion, and that was what we did at eight o'clock. chapter xiii. we dined an hour after the train left. in the dining car were several newcomers, among others two negroes whom caterna began to speak of as darkies. none of these travelers, popof told me, would cross the russo-chinese frontier, so that they interested me little or not at all. during dinner, at which all my numbers were present--i have twelve now, and i do not suppose i shall go beyond that--i noticed that major noltitz continued to keep his eye on his lordship faruskiar. had he begun to suspect him? was it of any importance in his opinion that this mongol seemed to know, without appearing to do so, the three second-class travelers, who were also mongols? was his imagination working with the same activity as mine, and was he taking seriously what was only a joke on my part? that i, a man of letters, a chronicler in search of scenes and incidents, should be pleased to see in his personage a rival of the famous ki tsang, or ki tsang himself, could be understood; but that he, a serious man, doctor in the russian army, should abandon himself to such speculations no one would believe. never mind now, we shall have something more to say about it by and by. as for me, i had soon forgotten all about the mongol for the man in the case. tired as i am after that long run through samarkand, if i get a chance to visit him to-night i will. dinner being over, we all begin to make ourselves comfortable for the night, with the intention of sleeping till we reach tachkend. the distance from samarkand to tachkend is three hundred kilometres. the train will not get in there before seven o'clock in the morning. it will stop three times at small stations for water and fuel--circumstances favorable to the success of my project. i add that the night is dark, the sky overcast, no moon, no stars. it threatens rain; the wind is freshening. it is no time for walking on platforms, and nobody walks there. it is important to choose the moment when popof is sound asleep. it is not necessary for the interview to be a long one. that the gallant fellow should be reassured--that is the essential point--and he will be, as soon as i have made his acquaintance. a little information concerning him, concerning mademoiselle zinca klork, whence he comes, why he is going to pekin, why he chose such a mode of transport, his provisions for the journey, how he gets into the case, his age, his trade, his birthplace, what he has done in the past, what he hopes to do in the future, etc., etc., and i have done all that a conscientious reporter can do. that is what i want to know; that is what i will ask him. it is not so very much. and in the first place let us wait until the car is asleep. that will not be long, for my companions are more or less fatigued by the hours they have spent in samarkand. the beds were ready immediately after dinner. a few of the passengers tried a smoke on the platform, but the gust drove them in very quickly. they have all taken up their places under the curtained lamps, and toward half-past ten the respiration of some and the snoring of others are blended with the continued grinding of the train on the steel rails. i remained outside last of all, and popof exchanged a few words with me. "we shall not be disturbed to-night," he said to me, "and i would advise you to make the most of it. to-morrow night we shall be running through the defiles of the pamir, and we shall not travel so quietly, i am afraid." "thanks, popof, i will take your advice, and sleep like a marmot." popof wished me good night and went into his cabin. i saw no use in going back into the car, and remained on the platform. it was impossible to see anything either to the left or right of the line. the oasis of samarkand had already been passed, and the rails were now laid across a long horizontal plain. many hours would elapse before the train reached the syr daria, over which the line passes by a bridge like that over the amou-daria, but of less importance. it was about half-past eleven when i decided to open the door of the van, which i shut behind me. i knew that the young roumanian was not always shut up in his box, and the fancy might just have taken him to stretch his limbs by walking from one end to the other of the van. the darkness is complete. no jet of light filters through the holes of the case. that seems all the better for me. it is as well that my no. should not be surprised by too sudden an apparition. he is doubtless asleep. i will give two little knocks on the panel, i will awake him, and we will explain matters before he can move. i feel as i go. my hand touches the case; i place my ear against the panel and i listen. there is not a stir, not a breath! is my man not here? has he got away? has he slipped out at one of the stations without my seeing him? has my news gone with him? really, i am most uneasy; i listen attentively. no! he has not gone. he is in the case. i hear distinctly his regular and prolonged respiration. he sleeps. he sleeps the sleep of the innocent, to which he has no right, for he ought to sleep the sleep of the swindler of the grand transasiatic. i am just going to knock when the locomotive's whistle emits its strident crow, as we pass through a station. but the train is not going to stop, i know, and i wait until the whistling has ceased. i then give a gentle knock on the panel. there is no reply. however, the sound of breathing is not so marked as before. i knock more loudly. this time it is followed by an involuntary movement of surprise and fright. "open, open!" i say in russian. there is no reply. "open!" i say again. "it is a friend who speaks. you have nothing to fear!" if the panel is not lowered, as i had hoped, there is the crack of a match being lighted and a feeble light appears in the case. i look at the prisoner through the holes in the side. there is a look of alarm on his face; his eyes are haggard. he does not know whether he is asleep or awake. "open, my friend, i say, open and have confidence. i have discovered your secret. i shall say nothing about it. on the other hand, i may be of use to you." the poor man looks more at ease, although he does not move. "you are a roumanian, i think," i add, "and i am a frenchman." "frenchman? you are a frenchman?" and this reply was given in my own language, with a foreign accent. one more bond between us. the panel slips along its groove, and by the light of a little lamp i can examine my no. , to whom i shall be able to give a less arithmetical designation. "no one can see us, nor hear us?" he asked in a half-stifled voice. "no one." "the guard?" "asleep." my new friend takes my hands, he clasps them. i feel that he seeks a support. he understands he can depend on me. and he murmurs: "do not betray me--do not betray me." "betray you, my boy? did not the french newspapers sympathize with that little austrian tailor, with those two spanish sweethearts, who sent themselves by train in the way you are doing? were not subscriptions opened in their favor? and can you believe that i, a journalist--" "you are a journalist?" "claudius bombarnac, special correspondent of the _twentieth century."_ "a french journal--" "yes, i tell you." "and you are going to pekin?" "through to pekin." "ah! monsieur bombarnac, providence has sent you onto my road." "no, it was the managers of my journal, and they delegated to me the powers they hold from providence, courage and confidence. anything i can do for you i will." "thanks, thanks." "what is your name?" "kinko." "kinko? excellent name!" "excellent?" "for my articles! you are a roumanian, are you not?" "roumanian of bucharest." "but you have lived in france?" "four years in paris, where i was apprentice to an upholsterer in the faubourg saint antoine." "and you went back to bucharest?" "yes, to work at my trade there until the day came when it was impossible for me to resist the desire to leave--" "to leave? why?" "to marry!" "to marry--mademoiselle zinca--" "zinca?" "yes, mademoiselle zinca klork, avenue cha-coua, pekin, china!" "you know?" "certainly. the address is on the box." "true." "as to mademoiselle zinca klork--" "she is a young roumanian. i knew her in paris, where she was learning the trade of a milliner. oh, charming--" "i am sure upon it. you need not dwell on that." "she also returned to bucharest, until she was invited to take the management of a dressmaker's at pekin. we loved, monsieur; she went--and we were separated for a year. three weeks ago she wrote to me. she was getting on over there. if i could go out to her, i would do well. we should get married without delay. she had saved something. i would soon earn as much as she had. and here i am on the road--in my turn--for china." "in this box?" "what would you have, monsieur bombarnac?" asked kinko, reddening. "i had only money enough to buy a packing case, a few provisions, and get myself sent off by an obliging friend. it costs a thousand francs to go from tiflis to pekin. but as soon as i have gained them, the company will be repaid, i assure you." "i believe you, kinko, i believe you; and on your arrival at pekin?" "zinca has been informed. the box will be taken to avenue cha-coua, and she--" "will pay the carriage?" "yes." "and with pleasure, i will answer for it." "you may be sure of it, for we love each other so much." "and besides, kinko, what would one not do for a sweetheart who consents to shut himself up in a box for a fortnight, and arrives labelled 'glass,' 'fragile,' 'beware of damp--'" "ah, you are making fun of a poor fellow." "not at all; and you may rest assured i will neglect nothing which will enable you to arrive dry and in one piece at mademoiselle zinca klork's--in short, in a perfect state of preservation!" "again i thank you," said kinko, pressing my hands. "believe me, you will not find me ungrateful." "ah! friend kinko, i shall be paid, and more than paid!" "and how?" "by relating, as soon as i can do so without danger to you, the particulars of your journey from tiflis to pekin. think now--what a heading for a column: 'a lover in a box! zinca and kinko!! , leagues through central asia in a luggage van!!!'" the young roumanian could not help smiling. "you need not be in too much of a hurry!" he said. "never fear! prudence and discretion, as they say at the matrimonial agencies." then i went to the door of the van to see that we were in no danger of surprise, and then the conversation was resumed. naturally, kinko asked me how i had discovered his secret. i told him all that had passed on the steamer during the voyage across the caspian. his breathing had betrayed him. the idea that at first i took him for a wild beast seemed to amuse him. a wild beast! a faithful poodle, rather! then with a sneeze he went up the animal scale to human rank. "but," said he to me, lowering his voice, "two nights ago i thought all was lost. the van was closed. i had just lighted my little lamp, and had begun my supper when a knock came against the panel--" "i did that, kinko, i did that. and that night we should have become acquainted if the train had not run into a dromedary." "it was you! i breathe again!" said kinko. "in what dreams i have lived! it was known that some one was hidden in this box. i saw myself discovered, handed over to the police, taken to prison at merv or bokhara, and my little zinca waiting for me in vain; and never should i see her again, unless i resumed the journey on foot. well, i would have resumed, yes, i would." and he said it with such an air of resolution that it was impossible not to see that the young roumanian had unusual spirit. "brave kinko!" i answered. "i am awfully sorry to have caused you such apprehensions. now you are at ease again, and i fancy your chances have improved now we have made friends." i then asked kinko to show me how he managed in his box. nothing could be simpler or better arranged. at the bottom was a seat on which he sat with the necessary space for him to stretch his legs when he placed them obliquely; under the seat, shut in by a lid, were a few provisions, and table utensils reduced to a simple pocket knife and metal mug; an overcoat and a rug hung from a nail, and the little lamp he used at nighttime was hooked onto one of the walls. the sliding panel allowed the prisoner to leave his prison occasionally. but if the case had been placed among other packages, if the porters had not deposited it with the precautions due to its fragility, he would not have been able to work the panel, and would have had to make a friend somehow before the end of the journey. fortunately, there is a special providence for lovers, and divine intervention in favor of kinko and zinca klork was manifested in all its plenitude. he told me that very night he had taken a walk either in the van or else on the station platform where the train had stopped. "i know that, kinko. that was at bokhara. i saw you!" "you saw me?" "yes, and i thought you were trying to get away. but if i saw you, it was because i knew of your presence in the van, and i was there watching you, no one else having an idea of spying on you. nevertheless, it was dangerous; do not do it again; let me replenish your larder when i get an opportunity." "thank you, monsieur bombarnac, thank you! i do not believe i am in danger of being discovered, unless at the chinese frontier--or rather at kachgar." "and why?" "the custom house is very keen on goods going into china. i am afraid they will come round the packages, and that my box--" "in fact, kinko," i replied, "there are a few difficult hours for you." "if they find me out?" "i shall be there, and i will do all i can to prevent anything unpleasant happening." "ah! monsieur bombarnac!" exclaimed kinko, in a burst of gratitude. "how can i repay you?" "very easily, kinko." "and in what way?" "ask me to your marriage with the lovely zinca." "i will! and zinca will embrace you." "she will be only doing her duty, friend kinko, and i shall be only doing mine in returning two kisses for one." we exchanged a last grip of the hand; and, really, i think there were tears in the good fellow's eyes when i left him. he put out his lamp, he pushed back the panel, then through the case i heard one more "thanks" and an "_au revoir_." i came out of the van, i shut the door, i assured myself that popof was still asleep. in a few minutes, after a breath or two of the night air, i go into my place near major noltitz. and before i close my eyes my last thought is that, thanks to the appearance of the episodic kinko, the journey of their energetic "special" will not be displeasing to my readers. chapter xiv. in the russians endeavored without success to establish a fair at tachkend which would rival that at nijni-novgorod. some twenty years later the attempt would have succeeded, and as a matter of fact the fair now exists, owing to the making of the transcaspian to unite samarkand and tachkend. and now not only do merchants with their merchandise crowd into this town, but pilgrims with their pilgrimage outfits. and there will be quite a procession, or rather an exodus, when the time comes for the mussulman faithful to ride to mecca by railway. meanwhile we are at tachkend, and the time-table shows that we stop here two hours and a half. of course i shall not have time to visit the town, which would be worth my while to do. but i must confess that these cities of turkestan are very much alike, and to have seen one is to have seen another, unless we can go into details. crossing a fertile region where poplars like distaffs rise gracefully erect, skirting fields bristling with vines, running by gardens where fruit trees abound, our train stops at the new town. as is inevitable since the russian conquest, there are two towns side by side at tachkend as at samarkand, as at bokhara, as at merv. here the old town has tortuous streets, houses of mud and clay, bazaars of poor appearance, caravanserais built of bricks dried in the sun, a few mosques, and schools as numerous as if the czar had decreed by ukase that everything french should be imitated. it is true that the scholars are wanting, but there is no want of schools. the population of tachkend does not differ very much from that met with in other parts of turkestan. it comprises sarthes, usbegs, tadjiks, khirgizes, nogais, israelites, a few afghans and hindoos and--as may be naturally supposed--a fair supply of russians. it is perhaps at tachkend that the jews are gathered in the greatest numbers. and from the day that the town passed under russian administration their situation has considerably improved. from that epoch dates the complete civil and political liberty they now enjoy. i have only two hours to spare in visiting the town, and i do my work in true reporter style. you should have seen me dashing through the grand bazaar, a mere wooden building, which is crammed with oriental stuffs, silk goods, metal ware, specimens of chinese manufacture, including some very fine examples of porcelain. in the streets of old tachkend a certain number of women are to be met with. i need hardly say that there are no slaves in this country, much to the displeasure of the mussulmans. nowadays woman is free--even in her household. "an old turkoman," said major noltitz, "once told me that a husband's power is at an end now that he cannot thrash his wife without being threatened with an appeal to the czar; and that marriage is at an end!" i do not know if the fair sex is still beaten, but the husbands know what they may expect if they knock their wives about. will it be believed that these peculiar orientals can see no progress in this prohibition to beat their wives? perhaps they remember that the terrestrial paradise is not far off--a beautiful garden between the tigris and euphrates, unless it was between the amou and the syr-daria. perhaps they have not forgotten that mother eve lived in this preadamite garden, and that if she had been thrashed a little before her first fault, she would probably not have committed it. but we need not enlarge on that. i did not hear, as madam ujfalvy-bourdon did, the band playing the _pompiers de nanterre_ in the governor-general's garden. no! on this occasion they were playing _le pere la victoire_, and if these are not national airs they are none the less agreeable to french ears. we left tachkend at precisely eleven o'clock in the morning. the country through which the grand transasiatic is now running is not so monotonous. the plain begins to undulate, for we are approaching the outer ramifications of the eastern orographic system. we are nearing the tableland of the pamirs. at the same time we continue at normal speed along this section of a hundred and fifty kilometres which separates us from khodjend. as soon as we are on the move i begin to think of kinko. his little love romance has touched me to the heart. this sweetheart who sent himself off--this other sweetheart who is going to pay the expenses--i am sure major noltitz would be interested in these two turtle doves, one of which is in a cage; he would not be too hard on this defrauder of the company, he would be incapable of betraying him. consequently i have a great desire to tell him of my expedition into the baggage van. but the secret is not mine. i must do nothing that might get kinko into trouble. and so i am silent, and to-night i will, if possible, take a few provisions to my packing case--to my snail in his shell, let us say. and is not the young roumanian like a snail in his shell, for it is as much as he can do to get out of it? we reach khodjend about three in the afternoon. the country is fertile, green, carefully cultivated. it is a succession of kitchen gardens, which seem to be well-kept immense fields sown with clover, which yield four or five crops a year. the roads near the town are bordered with long rows of mulberry trees, which diversify the view with eccentric branches. again, this pair of cities, old and new. both of them had only thirty thousand inhabitants in and they have from forty-five to fifty thousand now. is it the influence of the surroundings which produces the increase of the birth rate? is the province affected by the prolific example of the celestial empire? no! it is the progress of trade, the concentration of merchants of all nations onto these new markets. our halt at khodjend has lasted three hours. i have made my professional visit and walked on the banks of the syr-dana. this river, which bathes the foot of the high mountains of mogol-taou, is crossed by a bridge, the middle section of which gives passage to ships of moderate tonnage. the weather is very warm. the town being protected by its shelter of mountains, the breezes of the steppe cannot reach it, and it is one of the hottest places in turkestan. i met the caternas, delighted with their excursion. the actor said to me in a tone of the best humor: "never shall i forget khodjend, monsieur claudius." "and why will you never forget khodjend, monsieur caterna?" "do you see these peaches?" he asked, showing me the fruit he was carrying. "they are magnificent--" "and not dear! a kilo for four kopeks--that is to say, twelve centimes!" "eh!" i answer. "that shows that peaches are rather common in this country. that is the asiatic apple and it was one of those apples that mrs. adam took a bite at--" "then i excuse her!" said madame caterna, munching away at one of these delicious peaches. after leaving tachkend the railway had curved toward the south, so as to reach khodjend; but after leaving town it curved to the east in the direction of kokhan. it is at tachkend that it is nearest to the transsiberian, and a branch line is being made to semipalatinsk to unite the railway systems of central and northern asia. beyond we shall run due east, and by marghelan and och pass through the gorges of the pamirs so as to reach the turkesto-chinese frontier. the train had only just started when the travelers took their seats at the table, where i failed to notice any fresh arrival. we shall not pick up any more until we reach kachgar. there the russian cookery will give place to the chinese, and although the name does not recall the nectar and ambrosia of olympus, it is probable that we shall not lose by the change. ephrinell is in his usual place. without going as far as familiarity, it is obvious that a close intimacy, founded on a similarity in tastes and aptitudes exists between miss horatia bluett and the yankee. there is no doubt, in our opinion, but what it will end in a wedding as soon as the train arrives. both will have their romance of the rail. frankly, i like that of kinko and zinca klork much better. it is true the pretty roumanian is not here! we are all very friendly, and by "we" i mean my most sympathetic numbers, the major, the caternas, young pan chao, who replies with very parisian pleasantries to the actor's fooleries. the dinner is a pleasant one and a good one. we learn what is the fourth rule formulated by cornaco, that venetian noble, and with the object of determining the right amount for drinking and eating. pan chao pressed the doctor on this subject, and tio-king replied, with a seriousness truly buddhic: "the rule is founded on the quantity of nourishment proportionate for each temperament as regards the difference of ages, and the strength and the food of various kinds." "and for your temperament, doctor?" asked caterna, "what is the right quantity?" "fourteen ounces of solid or liquid--" "an hour?" "no, sir, a day," replied tio-king. "and it was in this manner that the illustrious cornaro lived from the age of thirty-six, so as to leave himself enough strength of body and mind to write his fourth treatise when he was eighty-five, and to live to a hundred and two." "in that case, give me my fifth cutlet," said pan ghao, with a burst of laughter. there is nothing more agreeable than to talk before a well-served table; but i must not forget to complete my notes regarding kokham. we were not due there till nine o'clock, and that would be in the nighttime. and so i asked the major to give me some information regarding this town, which is the last of any importance in russian turkestan. "i know it all the better," said the major, "from having been in garrison there for fifteen months. it is a pity you have not time to visit it, for it remains very asiatic, and there has not been time yet for it to grow a modern town. there is a square there unrivalled in asia, a palace in great style, that of the old khan of khondajar, situated on a mound about a hundred yards high, and in which the governor has left his sarthe artillery. it is considered wonderful, and there is good reason for it. you will lose by not going there a rare opportunity of bringing in the high-flown words of your language in description: the reception hall transformed into a russian church, a labyrinth of rooms with the floors of the precious karagatch wood, the rose pavilion, in which visitors receive a truly oriental hospitality, the interior court of moorish decoration recalling the adorable architectural fancies of the alhambra, the terraces with their splendid views, the harem where the thousand wives of the sultan--a hundred more than solomon--live in peace together, the lacework of the fronts, the gardens with their shady walks under the ancient vines--that is what you would have seen--" "and which i have already seen with your eyes, dear major," said i. "my readers will not complain. pray tell me if there are any bazaars in ." "a turkestan town without bazaars would be like london without its docks." "and paris without its theaters!" said the actor. "yes; there are bazaars at kokhan, one of them on the sokh bridge, the two arms of which traverse the town and in it the finest fabrics of asia are sold for tillahs of gold, which are worth three roubles and sixty kopeks of our money." "i am sure, major, that you are going to mention mosques after bazaars." "certainly." "and medresses?" "certainly; but you must understand that some of them are as good as the mosques and medresses of samarkand of bokhara." i took advantage of the kindness of major noltitz and thanks to him, the readers of the _twentieth century_ need not spend a night in kokhan. i will leave my pen inundated with the solar rays of this city of which i could only see a vague outline. the dinner lasted till rather late, and terminated in an unexpected manner by an offer from caterna to recite a monologue. i need scarcely say that the offer was gladly accepted. our train more and more resembled a small rolling town it had even its casino, this dining-car in which we were gathered at the moment. and it was thus in the eastern part of turkestan, four hundred kilometres from the pamir plateau, at dessert after our excellent dinner served in a saloon of the grand transasiatic, that the _obsession_ was given with remarkable talent by monsieur caterna, grand premier comique, engaged at shanghai theater for the approaching season. "monsieur," said pan chao, "my sincere compliments. i have heard young coquelin--" "a master, monsieur; a master!" said caterna. "whom you approach--" "respectfully--very respectfully!" the bravos lavished on caterna had no effect on sir francis trevellyan, who had been occupying himself with onomatopic exclamations regarding the dinner, which he considered execrable. he was not amused--not even sadly, as his countrymen have been for four hundred years, according to froissart. and yet nobody took any notice of this grumbling gentleman's recriminations. baron weissschnitzerdörfer had not understood a single word of this little masterpiece, and had he understood it, he would not have been able to appreciate this sample of parisian monologomania. as to my lord faruskiar and his inseparable ghangir, it seemed that in spite of their traditional reserve, the surprising grimaces, the significant gestures, the comical intonations, had interested them to a certain extent. the actor had noticed it, and appreciated this silent admiration. as he rose from the table he said to me: "he is magnificent, this seigneur! what dignity! what a presence! what a type of the farthest east! i like his companion less--a third-rate fellow at the outside! but this superb mongol! caroline, cannot you imagine him as 'morales' in the _pirates of the savannah_?" "not in that costume, at any rate," said i. "why not, monsieur claudius? one day at perpignan i played 'colonel de montéclin' in the _closerie des genets_ in the costume of a japanese officer--" "and he was applauded!" added madame caterna. during dinner the train had passed kastakos station, situated in the center of a mountainous region. the road curved a good deal, and ran over viaducts and through tunnels--as we could tell by the noise. a little time afterward popof told us that we were in the territory of ferganah, the name of the ancient khanate of kokhan, which was annexed by russia in , with the seven districts that compose it. these districts, in which sarthes are in the majority, are administered by prefects, sub-prefects, and mayors. come, then, to ferganah, to find all the machinery of the constitution of the year viii. beyond there is an immense steppe, extending before our train. madame de ujfalvy-bourdon has justly compared it to a billiard table, so perfect in its horizontality. only it is not an ivory ball which is rolling over its surface, but an express of the grand transasiatic running at sixty kilometres an hour. leaving the station of tchontchai behind, we enter station at nine o'clock in the evening. the stoppage is to last two hours. we get out onto the platform. as we are leaving the car i am near major noltitz, who asks young pan chao: "have you ever heard of this mandarin yen lou, whose body is being taken to pekin?" "never, major." "but he ought to be a personage of consideration, to be treated with the honor he gets." "that is possible," said pan chao; "but we have so many personages of consideration in the celestial empire." "and so, this mandarin, yen lou?" "i never heard him mentioned." why did major noltitz ask the chinaman this question? what was he thinking about? chapter xv. kokhan, two hours to stop. it is night. the majority of the travelers have already taken up their sleeping quarters in the car, and do not care to alight. here am i on the platform, walking the deck as i smoke. this is rather an important station, and from the engine house comes a more powerful locomotive than those which have brought the train along since we left uzun ada. these early engines were all very well as long as the line lay over an almost horizontal plain. but now we are among the gorges of the pamir plateau, there are gradients of such steepness as to require more engine power. i watch the proceedings, and when the locomotive has been detached with its tender, the baggage van--with kinko in--is at the head of the train. the idea occurs to me that the young roumanian may perhaps venture out on the platform. it would be an imprudence for he runs the risk of being seen by the police, the "gardovois," who move about taking a good look at the passengers. what my no. had better do is to remain in his box, or at least in his van. i will go and get a few provisions, liquid and solid, and take them to him, even before the departure of the train, if it is possible to do so without fear of being noticed. the refreshment room at the station is open, and popof is not there. if he was to see me making purchases he would be astonished, as the dining car contains everything we might want. at the bar i get a little cold meat, some bread, and a bottle of vodka. the station is not well lighted. a few lamps give only a feeble light. popof is busy with one of the railway men. the new engine has not yet been attached to the train. the moment seems favorable. it is useless to wait until we have left. if i can reach kinko i shall be able to sleep through the night--and that will be welcome, i admit. i step onto the train, and after assuring myself that no one is watching me, i enter the baggage van, saying as i do so: "it is i." in fact it is as well to warn kinko in case he is out of his box. but he had not thought of getting out, and i advise him to be very careful. he is very pleased at the provisions, for they are a change to his usual diet. "i do not know how to thank you, monsieur bombarnac," he says to me. "if you do not know, friend kinko," i reply, "do not do it; that is very simple." "how long do we stop at ?" "two hours." "and when shall we be at the frontier?" "to-morrow, about one in the afternoon." "and at kachgar?" "fifteen hours afterward, in the night of the nineteenth." "there the danger is, monsieur bombarnac." "yes, kinko; for if it is difficult to enter the russian possessions, it is no less difficult to get out of them, when the chinese are at the gates. their officials will give us a good look over before they will let us pass. at the same time they examine the passengers much more closely than they do their baggage. and as this van is reserved for the luggage going through to pekin, i do not think you have much to fear. so good night. as a matter of precaution, i would rather not prolong my visit." "good night, monsieur bombarnac, good night." i have come out, i have regained my couch, and i really did not hear the starting signal when the train began to move. the only station of any importance which the railway passed before sunrise, was that of marghelan, where the stoppage was a short one. marghelan, a populous town--sixty thousand inhabitants--is the real capital of ferganah. that is owing to the fact that does not enjoy a good reputation for salubrity. it is of course, a double town, one town russian, the other turkoman. the latter has no ancient monuments, and no curiosities, and my readers must pardon my not having interrupted my sleep to give them a glance at it. following the valley of schakhimardan, the train has reached a sort of steppe and been able to resume its normal speed. at three o'clock in the morning we halt for forty-five minutes at och station. there i failed in my duty as a reporter, and i saw nothing. my excuse is that there was nothing to see. beyond this station the road reaches the frontier which divides russian turkestan from the pamir plateau and the vast territory of the kara-khirghizes. this part of central asia is continually being troubled by plutonian disturbances beneath its surface. northern turkestan has frequently suffered from earthquake--the terrible experience of will not have been forgotten--and at tachkend, as at samarkand, i saw the traces of these commotions. in fact, minor oscillations are continually being observed, and this volcanic action takes place all along the fault, where lay the stores of petroleum and naphtha, from the caspian sea to the pamir plateau. in short, this region is one of the most interesting parts of central asia that a tourist can visit. if major noltitz had never been beyond och station, at the foot of the plateau, he knew the district from having studied it on the modern maps and in the most recent books of travels. among these i would mention those of capus and bonvalot--again two french names i am happy to salute out of france. the major is, nevertheless, anxious to see the country for himself, and although it is not yet six o'clock in the morning, we are both out on the gangway, glasses in hand, maps under our eyes. the pamir, or bam-i-douniah, is commonly called the "roof of the world." from it radiate the mighty chains of the thian shan, of the kuen lun, of the kara korum, of the himalaya, of the hindoo koosh. this orographic system, four hundred kilometres across, which remained for so many years an impassable barrier, has been surmounted by russian tenacity. the sclav race and the yellow race have come into contact. we may as well have a little book learning on the subject; but it is not i that speak, but major noltitz. the travelers of the aryan people have all attempted to explore the plateau of the pamir. without going back to marco polo in the thirteenth century, what do we find? the english with forsyth, douglas, biddulph, younghusband, and the celebrated gordon who died on the upper nile; the russians with fendchenko, skobeleff, prjevalsky, grombtchevsky, general pevtzoff, prince galitzin, the brothers groum-grjimailo; the french with auvergne, bonvalot, capus, papin, breteuil, blanc, ridgway, o'connor, dutreuil de rhins, joseph martin, grenard, edouard blanc; the swedes with doctor swen-hedin. this roof of the world, one would say that some devil on two sticks had lifted it up in his magic hand to let us see its mysteries. we know now that it consists of an inextricable entanglement of valleys, the mean altitude of which exceeds three thousand metres; we know that it is dominated by the peaks of gouroumdi and kauffmann, twenty-two thousand feet high, and the peak of tagarma, which is twenty-seven thousand feet; we know that it sends off to the west the oxus and the amou daria, and to the east the tarim; we know that it chiefly consists of primary rocks, in which are patches of schist and quartz, red sands of secondary age, and the clayey, sandy loess of the quaternary period which is so abundant in central asia. the difficulties the grand transasiatic had in crossing this plateau were extraordinary. it was a challenge from the genius of man to nature, and the victory remained with genius. through the gently sloping passes which the kirghizes call "bels," viaducts, bridges, embankments, cuttings, tunnels had to be made to carry the line. here are sharp curves, gradients which require the most powerful locomotives, here and there stationary engines to haul up the train with cables, in a word, a herculean labor, superior to the works of the american engineers in the defiles of the sierra nevada and the rocky mountains. the desolate aspect of these territories makes a deep impression on the imagination. as the train gains the higher altitudes, this impression is all the more vivid. there are no towns, no villages--nothing but a few scattered huts, in which the pamirian lives a solitary existence with his family, his horses, his herds of yaks, or "koutars," which are cattle with horses' tails, his diminutive sheep, his thick-haired goats. the moulting of these animals, if we may so phrase it, is a natural consequence of the climate, and they change the dressing gown of winter for the white fur coat of summer. it is the same with the dog, whose coat becomes whiter in the hot season. as the passes are ascended, wide breaks in the ranges yield frequent glimpses of the more distant portions of the plateau. in many places are clumps of birches and junipers, which are the principal trees of the pamir, and on the undulating plains grow tamarisks and sedges and mugwort, and a sort of reed very abundant by the sides of the saline pools, and a dwarf labiate called "terskenne" by the kirghizes. the major mentioned certain animals which constitute a somewhat varied fauna on the heights of the pamir. it is even necessary to keep an eye on the platforms of the cars in case a stray panther or bear might seek a ride without any right to travel either first or second class. during the day our companions were on the lookout from both ends of the cars. what shouts arose when plantigrades or felines capered along the line with intentions that certainly seemed suspicious! a few revolver shots were discharged, without much necessity perhaps, but they amused as well as reassured the travelers. in the afternoon we were witnesses of a magnificent shot, which killed instantly an enormous panther just as he was landing on the side step of the third carriage. "it is thine, marguerite!" exclaimed caterna. and could he have better expressed his admiration than in appropriating the celebrated reply of buridan to the dauphine's wife--and not the queen of france, as is wrongly stated in the famous drama of the _tour de nesle_? it was our superb mongol to whom we were indebted for this marksman's masterpiece. "what a hand and what an eye!" said i to the major, who continued to look on faruskiar with suspicion. among the other animals of the pamirian fauna appeared wolves and foxes, and flocks of those large wild sheep with gnarled and gracefully curved horns, which are known to the natives as arkars. high in the sky flew the vultures, bearded and unbearded, and amid the clouds of white vapor we left behind us were many crows and pigeons and turtledoves and wagtails. the day passed without adventure. at six o'clock in the evening we crossed the frontier, after a run of nearly two thousand three hundred kilometres, accomplished in four days since leaving uzun ada. two hundred and fifty kilometres beyond we shall be at kachgar. although we are now in chinese turkestan, it will not be till we reach that town that we shall have our first experience of chinese administration. dinner over about nine o'clock, we stretched ourselves on our beds, in the hope, or rather the conviction, that the night will be as calm as the preceding one. it was not to be so. at first the train was running down the slopes of the pamir at great speed. then it resumed its normal rate along the level. it was about one in the morning when i was suddenly awakened. at the same time major noltitz and most of our companions jumped up. there were loud shouts in the rear of the train. what had happened? anxiety seized upon the travelers--that confused, unreasonable anxiety caused by the slightest incident on a railroad. "what is the matter? what is the matter?" these words were uttered in alarm from all sides and in different languages. my first thought was that we were attacked. i thought of the famous ki-tsang, the mongol pirate, whose help i had so imprudently called upon--for my chronicle. in a moment the train began to slow, evidently preparing to stop. popof came into the van, and i asked him what had happened. "an accident," he replied. "serious?" "no, a coupling has broken, and the two last vans are left behind." as soon as the train pulls up, a dozen travelers, of whom i am one, get out onto the track. by the light of the lantern it is easy to see that the breakage is not due to malevolence. but it is none the less true that the two last vans, the mortuary van and the rear van occupied by the goods guard, are missing. how far off are they? nobody knows. you should have heard the shouts of the persian guards engaged in escorting the remains of yen lou, for which they were responsible! the travelers in their van, like themselves, had not noticed when the coupling broke. it might be an hour, two hours, since the accident. what ought to be done was clear enough. the train must be run backward and pick up the lost vans. nothing could be more simple. but--and this surprised me--the behavior of my lord faruskiar seemed very strange. he insisted in the most pressing manner that not a moment should be lost. he spoke to popof, to the driver, to the stoker, and for the first time i discovered that he spoke russian remarkably well. there was no room for discussion. we were all agreed on the necessity of a retrograde movement. only the german baron protested. more delays! a waste of time for the sake of a mandarin--and a dead mandarin! he had to walk about and bear it. as to sir francis trevellyan, he merely shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say: "what management! what couplings! we should not get this sort of thing on an anglo-indian line!" major noltitz was as much struck as i was at the behavior of my lord faruskiar. this mongol, usually so calm, so impassible, with his cool look beneath his motionless eyelid, had become a prey to a sort of furious anxiety which he appeared incapable of controlling. his companion was as excited as he was. but what was there in these two missing vans which could be of interest to them? they had not even any luggage in the rear van! was it the mandarin, yen lou? was it for that reason that at donchak they had so carefully watched the van which contained the corpse? i could see clearly enough that the major thought it all very suspicious. the train began to run back as soon as we had taken our places. the german baron attempted to curse, but faruskiar gave him such a look that he did not care to get another, and stowed himself away in the corner. dawn appeared in the east when the two wagons were found a kilometre off, and the train gently slowed up to them after an hour's run. faruskiar and ghangir went to help in coupling on the vans, which was done as firmly as possible. major noltitz and i noticed that they exchanged a few words with the other mongols. after all, there was nothing astonishing in that, for they were countrymen of theirs. we resume our seats in the train, and the engineer tries to make up for lost time. nevertheless, the train does not arrive at kachgar without a long delay, and it is half-past four in the morning when we enter the capital of chinese turkestan. * * * * * chapter xvi. kachgaria is oriental turkestan which is gradually being metamorphosed into russian turkestan. the writers in the _new review_ have said: "central asia will only be a great country when the muscovite administration have laid hands on tibet, or when the russians lord it at kachgar." well, that is a thing half done! the piercing of the pamir has joined the russian railway with the chinese line which runs from one frontier of the celestial empire to the other. the capital of kachgaria is now as much russian as chinese. the sclav race and the yellow race have rubbed elbows and live in peace. how long will it last? to others leave the future; i am content with the present. we arrive at half-past four; we leave at eleven. the grand transasiatic shows itself generous. i shall have time to see kachgar, on condition of allowing myself an hour less than the time stated. for what was not done at the frontier has to be done at kachgar. russians and chinese are one as bad as the other when there are vexing formalities; papers to verify, passports to sign, etc., etc. it is the same sort of meddling, minute and over-fastidious, and we must put up with it. we must not forget the terrible threat of the formula the functionary of the celestial empire affixes to his acts--"tremble and obey!" i am disposed to obey, and i am prepared to appear before the authorities of the frontier. i remember the fears of kinko, and it is with regard to him that the trembling is to be done, if the examination of the travelers extends to their packages and luggage. before we reached kachgar, major noltitz said to me: "do not imagine that chinese turkestan differs very much from russian turkestan. we are not in the land of pagodas, junks, flower boats, yamens, hongs and porcelain towers. like bokhara, merv and samarkand, kachgar is a double town. it is with the central asian cities as it is with certain stars, only they do not revolve round one another." the major's remark was very true. it was not so long ago since emirs reigned over kachgaria, since the monarchy of mohammed yakoub extended over the whole of turkestan, since the chinese who wished to live here had to adjure the religion of buddha and confucius and become converts to mahometanism, that is, if they wished to be respectable. what would you have? in these days we are always too late, and those marvels of the oriental cosmorama, those curious manners, those masterpieces of asiatic art, are either memories or ruins. the railways will end by bringing the countries they traverse down to the same level, to a mutual resemblance which will certainly be equality and may be fraternity. in truth, kachgar is no longer the capital of kachgaria; it is a station on the grand transasiatic, the junction between the russian and chinese lines, and the strip of iron which stretches for three thousand kilometres from the caspian to this city runs on for nearly four thousand more to the capital of the celestial empire. i return to the double town. the new one is yangi-chahr: the old one, three and a half miles off, is kachgar. i have seen both, and i will tell you what they are like. in the first place, both the old and the new towns are surrounded with a villainous earthen wall that does not predispose you in their favor. secondly, it is in vain that you seek for any monument whatever, for the materials of construction are identical for houses as for palaces. nothing but earth, and not even baked earth. it is not with mud dried in the sun that you can obtain regular lines, clean profiles and finely worked sculptures. your architecture must be in stone or marble, and that is precisely what you do not get in chinese turkestan. a small carriage quickly took the major and myself to kachgar, which is three miles round. the kizil-sou, that is to say the red river, which is really yellow, as a chinese river ought to be, clasps it between its two arms, which are united by two bridges. if you wish to see a few ruins of some interest, you must go a short distance beyond the town, where there are the remains of fortifications dating from five hundred or two thousand years ago, according to the imagination of the archaeologist. what is certain is that kachgar submitted to the furious assault of tamerlane, and we will agree that without the exploits of this terrible cripple the history of central asia would be singularly monotonous. since his time there have been fierce sultans, it is true--among others that ouali-khan-toulla, who, in , strangled schlagintweit, one of the most learned and most daring explorers of the asiatic continent. two tablets of bronze, presented by the geographical societies of paris and petersburg, ornament his commemorative monument. kachgar is an important centre of trade, which is almost entirely in russian hands. khotan silks, cotton, felt, woolen carpets, cloth, are the principal articles in the markets, and these are exported beyond the frontier between tachkend and koulja, to the north of oriental turkestan. here, as the major told me, sir francis trevellyan should have special cause for manifesting his ill humor. in fact, an english embassy under chapman and gordon in and had been sent from kashmir to kachgar by way of kothan and yarkand. at this time the english had reason to hope that commercial relations could be established to their advantage. but instead of being in communication with the indian railways, the russian railways are in communication with the chinese, and the result of this junction has been that english influence has had to give place to russian. the population of kachgar is turkoman, with a considerable mixture of chinese, who willingly fulfil the duties of domestics, artisans or porters. less fortunate than chapman and gordon, major noltitz and i were not able to see the kachgarian capital when the armies of the tumultuous emir filled its streets. there were none of those djiguit foot soldiers who were mounted, nor of those sarbaz who were not. vanished had those magnificent bodies of taifourchis, armed and disciplined in the chinese manner, those superb lancers, those kalmuck archers, bending bows five feet high, those "tigers" with their daubed shields and their matchlocks. all have disappeared, the picturesque warriors of kachgaria and the emir with them. at nine o'clock we are on our return to yangi-chahr. there, at the end of the streets near the citadel, what do we see? the caternas in ecstatic admiration before a troop of musical dervishes. who says dervish says beggar, and who says beggar evokes the completest type of filth and laziness. but with what an extraordinary combination of gestures, with what attitudes in the management of the long-stringed guitar, with what acrobatic swingings of the body do they accompany their singing of their legends and poetry which could not be more profane. the instinct of the old actor was awakened in caterna. he could not keep still; it was too much for him. and so these gestures, these attitudes, these swingings he imitated there with the vigor of an old topman joined to that of a leading premier, and i saw him as he was figuring in this quadrille of dancing dervishes. "eh! monsieur claudius!" he said, "it is not difficult to copy the exercises of these gallant fellows! make me a turkestan operetta, let me act a dervish, and you will see if i don't do it to the very life." "i do not doubt it, my dear caterna," i replied; "but before you do that, come into the restaurant at the railway station and bid farewell to turkestan cookery, for we shall soon be reduced to chinese." the offer is accepted all the more willingly, for the reputation of the kachgarian cooks is well justified, as the major made us remark. in fact, the caternas, the major, young pan chao and i were astonished and enchanted at the quantity of dishes that were served us, as well as at their quality. sweets alternated capriciously with roasts and grills. and as the caternas could never forget--any more than they could forget the famous peaches of khodjend--there are a few of these dishes which the english embassy wished to retain in remembrance, for they have given the composition in the story of their journey: pigs' feet dusted with sugar and browned in fat with a dash of pickles; kidneys fried with sweet sauce and served with fritters. caterna asked for the first twice, and for the other three times. "i take my precautions," said he. "who knows what the dining-car kitchen will give us on the chinese railways? let us beware of shark fins, which may perhaps be rather horny, and of swallows' nests which may not be quite fresh!" it is ten o'clock when a stroke of the gong announces that the police formalities are about to begin. we leave the table after a parting glass of choa-hing wine, and a few minutes afterward are in the waiting room. all my numbers are present, with the exception, of course, of kinko, who would have done honor to our breakfast if it had been possible for him to take part in it. there was doctor tio-king, his _cornaro_ under his arm; fulk ephrinell and miss horatia bluett, mingling their teeth and hair, figuratively, be it understood; sir francis trevellyan, motionless and silent, intractable and stiff, smoking his cigar on the threshold; faruskiar, accompanied by ghangir; russian, turkoman, chinese travelers--in all from sixty to eighty persons. every one had in his turn to present himself at the table, which was occupied by two celestials in uniform; a functionary speaking russian fluently, an interpreter for german, french and english. the chinese was a man about fifty, with a bald head, a thick moustache, a long pigtail, and spectacles on his nose. wrapped in a flowery robe, fat as if he belonged to the most distinguished people in the country, he had not a prepossessing face. after all, it was only a verification of our papers, and as ours were in order it did not much matter how repulsive he looked. "what an air he has!" murmured madame caterna. "the air of a chinaman!" said her husband, "and frankly i do not want to have one like it." i am one of the first to present my passport, which bears the visas of the consul at tiflis and the russian authorities at uzun-ada. the functionary looks at it attentively. when you are dealing with a mandarin, you should always be on the lookout. nevertheless, the examination raises no difficulty, and the seal of the green dragon declares me all in order. the same result with regard to the actor and actress. nevertheless it was worth while looking at caterna while his papers were being examined. he assumed the attitude of a criminal endeavoring to mollify a magistrate, he made the sheepiest of eyes, and smiled the most deprecating of smiles, and seemed to implore a grace or rather a favor, and yet the most obdurate of the chinamen had not a word to say to him. "correct," said the interpreter. "thank you, my prince!" replied caterna, with the accent of a paris street boy. as to ephrinell and miss bluett, they went through like a posted letter. if an american commercial and an english ditto were not in order, who would be? uncle sam and john bull are one as far as that goes. the other travelers, russian and turkoman, underwent examination without any difficulty arising. whether they were first-class or second-class, they had fulfilled the conditions required by the chinese administration, which levies a rather heavy fee for each visa, payable in roubles, taels or sapeks. among the travelers i noticed an american clergyman bound to pekin. this was the reverend nathaniel morse, of boston, one of those honest bible distributors, a yankee missionary, in the garb of a merchant, and very keen in business matters. at a venture i make him no. in my notebook. the verification of the papers of young pan chao and doctor tio-king gave rise to no difficulty, and on leaving they exchanged "ten thousand good mornings" with the more amiable of the chinese representatives. when it came to the turn of major noltitz, a slight incident occurred. sir francis trevellyan, who came to the table at the same moment, did not seem inclined to give way. however, nothing resulted but haughty and provoking looks. the gentleman did not even take the trouble to open his mouth. it is evidently written above that i am not to hear the sound of his voice! the russian and the englishman each received the regulation visa, and the affair went no further. my lord faruskiar, followed by ghangir, then arrived before the man in spectacles, who looked at him with a certain amount of attention. major noltitz and i watched him. how would he submit to this examination? perhaps we were to be undeceived regarding him. but what was our surprise and even our stupefaction at the dramatic outburst which at once took place! after throwing a glance at the papers presented to him by ghangir, the chinese functionary rose and bowed respectfully to faruskiar, saying: "may the general manager of the grand transasiatic deign to receive my ten thousand respects!" general manager, that is what he is, this lord faruskiar! all is explained. during our crossing of russian turkestan he had maintained his _incognito_ like a great personage in a foreign country; but now on the chinese railways he resumed the rank which belonged to him. and i--in a joke, it is true--had permitted myself to identify him with the pirate ki-tsang. and major noltitz, who had spent his time suspecting him! at last i have some one of note in our train--i have him, this somebody, i will make his acquaintance, i will cultivate it like a rare plant, and if he will only speak russian i will interview him down to his boots! good! i am completely upset, and i could not help shrugging my shoulders, when the major whispers to me: "perhaps one of the bandit chiefs with whom the grand transasiatic had to make terms!" "come, major, be serious." the visit was nearing its end when baron weissschnitzerdörfer appeared. he is preoccupied, he is troubled, he is anxious, he is confused, he is fidgety. why is he shaking, and bending, and diving into his pockets like a man who has lost something valuable? "your papers!" demands the interpreter in german. "my papers!" replies the baron, "i am looking for them. i have not got them; they were in my letter case." and he dived again into his trousers pockets, his waistcoat pockets, his coat pockets, his great-coat pockets--there were twenty of them at the least--and he found nothing. "be quick--be quick!" said the interpreter. "the train cannot wait!" "i object to its going without me!" exclaimed the baron. "these papers--how have they gone astray? i must have let them drop out of my case. they should have given them back to me--" at this moment the gong awoke the echoes of the interior of the railway station. "wait! wait! donner vetter! can't you wait a few moments for a man who is going round the world in thirty-nine days--" "the grand transasiatic does not wait," says the interpreter. without waiting for any more, major noltitz and i reach the platform, while the baron continues to struggle in the presence of the impassible chinese functionaries. i examine the train and see that its composition has been modified on account of there being fewer travelers between kachgar and pekin. instead of twelve carriages, there are now only ten, placed in the following order: engine, tender, front van, two first-class cars, dining car, two second-class cars, the van with the defunct mandarin, rear van. the russian locomotives, which have brought us from uzun-ada, have been replaced by a chinese locomotive, burning not naphtha but coal, of which there are large deposits in turkestan, and stores at the chief stations along the line. my first care is to look in at the front van. the custom-house officers are about to visit it, and i tremble for poor kinko. it is evident that the fraud has not been discovered yet, for there would have been a great stir at the news. suppose the case is passed? will its position be shifted? will it be put hind side before or upside down? kinko will not then be able to get out, and that would be a complication. the chinese officers have come out of the van and shut the door, so that i cannot give a glance into it. the essential point is that kinko has not been caught in the act. as soon as possible i will enter the van, and as bankers say, "verify the state of the safe." before getting into our car, major noltitz asks me to follow him to the rear of the train. the scene we witness is not devoid of interest; it is the giving over of the corpse of the mandarin yen lou by the persian guards to a detachment of soldiers of the green standard, who form the chinese gendarmerie. the defunct passes into the care of twenty celestials, who are to occupy the second-class car in front of the mortuary van. they are armed with guns and revolvers, and commanded by an officer. "well," said i to the major, "this mandarin must be some very exalted personage if the son of heaven sends him a guard of honor--" "or of defence," replies the major. faruskiar and ghangir assist at these proceedings, in which there is nothing surprising. surely the general manager of the line ought to keep an eye on the illustrious defunct, entrusted to the care of the grand transasiatic? the gong was struck for the last time; we hasten into our cars. and the baron, what has become of him? here he comes out on to the platform like a whirlwind. he has found his papers at the bottom of his nineteenth pocket. he has obtained the necessary visa--and it was time. "passengers for pekin, take your seats!" shouts popof in a sonorous voice. the train trembles, it starts, it has gone. chapter xvii. we are off on a chinese railway, single line, the train drawn by a chinese engine, driven by a chinese driver. let us hope we shall not be telescoped on the road, for among the passengers is one of the chief functionaries of the company in the person of faruskiar. after all, if an accident should happen it will break the monotony of the journey, and furnish me with an episode. i am forced to admit that up to the present my personages have not behaved as i expected. the drama does not run well, the action languishes. we want something startling to bring all the actors on--what caterna would call "a good fourth act." but then ephrinell and miss bluett are all the time absorbed in their commercial tête-à-tête. pan chao and the doctor amused me for a time, but they are not equal to it now. the actor and the actress are of no use without opportunity. kinko, kinko himself, on whom i had built such hopes, has passed the frontier without difficulty, he will reach pekin, he will marry zinca klork. decidedly there is a want of excitement. i cannot get anything out of the corpse of yen lou! and the readers of the _twentieth century_ who looked to me for something sensational and thrilling. must i have recourse to the german baron? no! he is merely ridiculous, stupidly ridiculous, and he has no interest for me. i return to my idea: i want a hero, and up to the present no hero has appeared on the scene. evidently the moment has come to enter into more intimate relations with faruskiar. perhaps he will not now be so close in his incognito. we are under his orders, so to say. he is the mayor of our rolling town, and a mayor owes something to those he governs. besides, in the event of kinko's fraud being discovered i may as well secure the protection of this high functionary. our train runs at only moderate speed since we left kachgar. on the opposite horizon we can see the high lands of the pamir; to the southwest rises the bolor, the kachgarian belt from which towers the summit of tagharma lost among the clouds. i do not know how to spend my time. major noltitz has never visited the territories crossed by the grand transasiatic, and i am deprived of the pleasure of taking notes from his dictation. dr. tio-king does not lift his nose from his cornaro, and pan chao reminds me more of paris and france than of pekin and china; besides, when he came to europe he came by suez, and he knows no more of oriental turkestan than he does of kamtschatka. all the same, we talk. he is a pleasant companion, but a little less amiability and a little more originality would suit me better. i am reduced to strolling from one car to another, lounging on the platforms, interrogating the horizon, which obstinately refuses to reply, listening on all sides. hello! there are the actor and his wife apparently in animated conversation. i approach. they sing in an undertone. i listen. "i'm fond of my turkeys--eys--eys," says madame caterna. "i'm fond of my wethers--ers--ers," says monsieur caterna, in any number of baritones. it is the everlasting duet between pipo and bettina; and they are rehearsing for shanghai. happy shanghai! they do not yet know the _mascotte_! ephrinell and miss bluett are talking away with unusual animation, and i catch the end of the dialogue. "i am afraid," said she, "that hair will be rising in pekin--" "and i," said he, "that teeth will be down. ah! if a good war would only break out in which the russians would give the chinaman a smack on the jaw." there now! smack them on the jaw, in order that strong, bulbul & co., of new york, might have a chance of doing a trade! really i do not know what to do, and we have a week's journey before us. to jericho with the grand transasiatic and its monotonous security! the great trunk from new york to san francisco has more life in it! at least, the redskins do sometimes attack the trains, and the chance of a scalping on the road cannot but add to the charm of the voyage! but what is that i hear being recited, or rather intoned at the end of our compartment? "there is no man, whoever he may be, who cannot prevent himself from eating too much, and avoid the evils due to repletion. on those who are intrusted with the direction of public affairs this is more incumbent than on others--" it is dr. tio-king reading cornaro aloud, in order that he may remember his principles better. eh! after all, this principle is not to be despised. shall i send it by telegram to our cabinet ministers? they might, perhaps, dine with more discretion after it. during this afternoon i find by the guide-book that we shall cross the yamanyar over a wooden bridge. this stream descends from the mountains to the west, which are at least twenty-five thousand feet high, and its rapidity is increased by the melting of the snows. sometimes the train runs through thick jungles, amid which popof assures me tigers are numerous. numerous they may be, but i have not seen one. and yet in default of redskins we might get some excitement out of tiger-skins. what a heading for a newspaper, and what a stroke of luck for a journalist! terrible catastrophe. a grand transasiatic express attacked by tigers. fifty victims. an infant devoured before its mother's eyes--the whole thickly leaded and appropriately displayed. well, no! the turkoman felidae did not give me even that satisfaction! and i treat them--as i treat any other harmless cats. the two principal stations have been yanghi-hissar, where the train stops ten minutes, and kizil, where it stops a quarter of an hour. several blast furnaces are at work here, the soil being ferruginous, as is shown by the word "kizil," which means red. the country is fertile and well cultivated, growing wheat, maize, rice, barley and flax, in its eastern districts. everywhere are great masses of trees, willows, mulberries, poplars. as far as the eye can reach are fields under culture, irrigated by numerous canals, also green fields in which are flocks of sheep; a country half normandy, half provence, were it not for the mountains of the pamir on the horizon. but this portion of kachgaria was terribly ravaged by war when its people were struggling for independence. the land flowed with blood, and along by the railway the ground is dotted with tumuli beneath which are buried the victims of their patriotism. but i did not come to central asia to travel as if i were in france! novelty! novelty! the unforeseen! the appalling! it was without the shadow of an accident, and after a particularly fine run, that we entered yarkand station at four o'clock in the afternoon. if yarkand is not the administrative capital of eastern turkestan, it is certainly the most important commercial city of the province. "again two towns together," said i to major noltitz. "that i have from popof." "but this time," said the major, "it was not the russians who built the new one." "new or old," i added, "i am afraid is like the others we have seen, a wall of earth, a few dozen gateways cut in the wall, no monuments or buildings of note, and the eternal bazaars of the east." i was not mistaken, and it did not take four hours to visit both yarkands, the newer of which is called yanji-shahr. fortunately, the yarkand women are not forbidden to appear in the streets, which are bordered by simple mud huts, as they were at the time of the "dadkwahs," or governors of the province. they can give themselves the pleasure of seeing and being seen, and this pleasure is shared in by the farangis--as they call foreigners, no matter to what nation they may belong. they are very pretty, these asiatics, with their long tresses, their transversely striped bodices, their skirts of bright colors, relieved by chinese designs in kothan silk, their high-heeled embroidered boots, their turbans of coquettish pattern, beneath which appear their black hair and their eyebrows united by a bar. a few chinese passengers alighted at yarkand, and gave place to others exactly like them--among others a score of coolies--and we started again at eight o'clock in the evening. during the night we ran the three hundred and fifty kilometres which separate yarkand from kothan. a visit i paid to the front van showed me that the box was still in the same place. a certain snoring proved that kinko was inside as usual, and sleeping peacefully. i did not care to wake him, and i left him to dream of his adorable roumanian. in the morning popof told me that the train, which was now traveling about as fast as an omnibus, had passed kargalik, the junction for the kilian and tong branches. the night had been cold, for we are still at an altitude of twelve hundred metres. leaving guma station, the line runs due east and west, following the thirty-seventh parallel, the same which traverses in europe, seville, syracuse and athens. we sighted only one stream of importance, the kara-kash, on which appeared a few drifting rafts, and files of horses and asses at the fords between the pebbly banks. the railroad crosses it about a hundred kilometres from khotan, where we arrived at eight o'clock in the morning. two hours to stop, and as the town may give me a foretaste of the cities of china, i resolve to take a run through it. it seems to be a turkoman town built by the chinese, or perhaps a chinese town built by turkomans. monuments and inhabitants betray their double origin. the mosques look like pagodas, the pagodas look like mosques. and i was not astonished when the caternas, who would not miss this opportunity of setting foot in china, were rather disappointed. "monsieur claudius," said the actor to me, "there is not a single scene here that would suit the _prise de pékin!_" "but we are not at pekin, my dear caterna." "that is true, and it has to be remembered, if we are to be thankful for little." "'thankful for very little,' as the italians say." "well, if they say that, they are no fools." as we were about to board the car again, i saw popof running toward me, shouting: "monsieur bombarnac!" "what is the matter, popof?" "a telegraph messenger asked me if there was any one belonging to the _twentieth century_ in the train." "a telegraph messenger?" "yes, on my replying in the affirmative, he gave me this telegram for you." "give it me! give it me!" i seize the telegram, which has been waiting for me for some days. is it a reply to my wire sent from merv, relative to the mandarin yen lou? i open it. i read it. and it falls from my hand. this is what it said: "claudius bombarnac, "correspondent, "_twentieth century._ "khotan, chinese turkestan. "it is not the corpse of a mandarin that the train is taking to pekin, but the imperial treasure, value fifteen millions, sent from persia to china, as announced in the paris newspapers eight days ago; endeavor to be better informed for the future." * * * * * chapter xviii. "millions--there are millions in that pretended mortuary van!" in spite of myself, this imprudent phrase had escaped me in such a way that the secret of the imperial treasure was instantly known to all, to the railway men as well as to the passengers. and so, for greater security, the persian government, in agreement with the chinese government, has allowed it to be believed that we were carrying the corpse of a mandarin, when we were really taking to pekin a treasure worth fifteen million of francs. heaven pardon me, what a howler--pardonable assuredly--but what a howler i had been guilty of! but why should i have doubted what popof told me, and why should popof have suspected what the persians had told him regarding this yen lou? there was no reason for our doubting their veracity. i am none the less deeply humiliated in my self-esteem as a journalist, and i am much annoyed at the call to order which i have brought upon myself. i shall take very good care not to breathe a word of my misadventure, even to the major. is it credible? in paris the _twentieth century_ is better informed of what concerns the grand transasiatic than i am! they knew that an imperial treasure is in the van, and i did not! oh! the mistakes of special correspondents! now the secret is divulged, and we know that this treasure, composed of gold and precious stones, formerly deposited in the hands of the shah of persia, is being sent to its legitimate owner, the son of heaven. that is why my lord faruskiar, who was aware of it in consequence of his position as general manager of the company, had joined the train at douchak so as to accompany the treasure to its destination. that is why he and ghangir--and the three other mongols--had so carefully watched this precious van, and why they had shown themselves so anxious when it had been left behind by the breakage of the coupling, and why they were so eager for its recovery. yes, all is explained! that is also why a detachment of chinese soldiers has taken over the van at kachgar, in relief of the persians! that is why pan-chao never heard of yen lou, nor of any exalted personage of that name existing in the celestial empire! we started to time, and, as may be supposed, our traveling companions could talk of nothing else but the millions which were enough to enrich every one in the train. "this pretended mortuary van has always been suspicious to me," said major noltitz. "and that was why i questioned pan-chao regarding the dead mandarin." "i remember," i said; "and i could not quite understand the motive of your question. it is certain now that we have got a treasure in tow." "and i add," said the major, "that the chinese government has done wisely in sending an escort of twenty well-armed men. from kothan to lan teheou the trains will have two thousand kilometres to traverse through the desert, and the safety of the line is not as great as it might be across the gobi." "all the more so, major, as the redoubtable ki-tsang has been reported in the northern provinces." "quite so, and a haul of fifteen millions is worth having by a bandit chief." "but how could the chief be informed of the treasure being sent?" "that sort of people always know what it is their interest to know." "yes," thought i, "although they do not read the _twentieth century._" meanwhile different opinions were being exchanged on the gangways. some would rather travel with the millions than carry a corpse along with them, even though it was that of a first-class mandarin. others considered the carrying of the treasure a danger to the passengers. and that was the opinion of baron weissschnitzerdörfer in a furious attack on popof. "you ought to have told us about it, sir, you ought to have told us about it! those millions are known to be in the train, and they will tempt people to attack us. and an attack, even if repulsed, will mean delay, and delay i will not submit to! no, sir, i will not!" "no one will attack us," replied popof. "no one will dream of doing it!" "and how do you know that? how do you know that?" "be calm, pray." "i will not be calm; and if there is a delay, i will hold the company responsible!" that is understood; a hundred thousand florins damages to monsieur le baron tour de monde. let us pass to the other passengers. ephrinell looked at the matter, of course, from a very practical point of view. "there can be no doubt that our risks have been greatly increased by this treasure, and in case of accident on account of it, the _life travelers' society_, in which i am insured, will, i expect, refuse to pay, so that the grand transasiatic company will have all the responsibility." "of course," said miss bluett; "and if they had not found the missing van the company would have been in a serious difficulty with china. would it not, fulk?" "exactly, horatia!" horatia and fulk--nothing less. the anglo-american couple were right, the enormous loss would have had to be borne by the grand transasiatic, for the company must have known they were carrying a treasure and not a corpse--and thereby they were responsible. as to the caternas, the millions rolling behind did not seem to trouble them. the only reflection they inspired was, "ah! caroline, what a splendid theater we might build with all that money!" but the best thing was said by the reverend nathaniel morse, who had joined the train at kachgar. "it is never comfortable to be dragging a powder magazine after one!" nothing could be truer, and this van with its imperial treasure was a powder magazine that might blow up our train. the first railway was opened in china about and ran from shanghai to fou-tcheou. the grand transasiatic followed very closely the russian road proposed in by tachkend, kouldja, kami, lan tcheou, singan and shanghai. this railway did not run through the populous central provinces which can be compared to vast and humming hives of bees--and extaordinarily prolific bees. as before curving off to lan tcheou; it reaches the great cities by the branches it gives out to the south and southeast. among others, one of these branches, that from tai youan to nanking, should have put these two towns of the chan-si and chen-toong provinces into communication. but at present the branch is not ready for opening, owing to an important viaduct not having finished building. the completed portion gives me direct communication across central asia. that is the main line of the transasiatic. the engineers did not find it so difficult of construction as general annenkof did the transcaspian. the deserts of kara koum and gobi are very much alike; the same dead level, the same absence of elevations and depressions, the same suitability for the iron road. if the engineers had had to attack the enormous chain of the kuen lun, nan chan, amie, gangar oola, which forms the frontier of tibet, the obstacles would have been such that it would have taken a century to surmount them. but on a flat, sandy plain the railway could be rapidly pushed on up to lan tcheou, like a long decauville of three thousand kilometres. it is only in the vicinity of this city that the art of the engineer has had a serious struggle with nature in the costly and troublesome road through the provinces of kan-sou, chan-si and petchili. as we go along i must mention a few of the principal stations at which the train stops to take in coal and water. on the right-hand side the eye never tires of the distant horizon of mountains which bounds the tableland of tibet to the north. on the left the view is over the interminable steppes of the gobi. the combination of these territories constitutes the chinese empire if not china proper, and we shall only reach that when we are in the neighborhood of lan tcheou. it would seem, therefore, as though the second part of the journey would be rather uninteresting, unless we are favored with a few startling incidents. but it seems to me that we are certainly in the possession of the elements out of which something journalistic can be made. at eleven o'clock the train left kothan station, and it was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon when it reached keria, having left behind the small stations of urang, langar, pola and tschiria. in - this road was followed by pevtsoff from kothan to lob-nor at the foot of the kuen lun, which divides chinese turkestan from tibet. the russian traveler went by keria, nia, tchertchen, as we are doing so easily, but then his caravan had to contend with much danger and difficulty--which did not prevent his reporting ten thousand kilometres of surveys, without reckoning altitude and longitude observations of the geographical points. it is an honor for the russian government to have thus continued the work of prjevalsky. from keria station you can see to the southwest the heights of kara korum and the peak of dapsang, to which different geographers assign a height of eight thousand metres. at its foot extends the province of kachmir. there the indus rises in a number of inconsiderable sources which feed one of the greatest rivers of the peninsula. thence from the pamir tableland extends the mighty range of the himalaya, where rise the highest summits on the face of the globe. since we left kothan we have covered a hundred and fifty kilometres in four hours. it is not a high rate of speed, but we cannot expect on this part of the transasiatic the same rate of traveling we experienced on the transcaspian. either the chinese engines are not so fast, or, thanks to their natural indolence, the engine drivers imagine that from thirty to forty miles an hour is the maximum that can be obtained on the railways of the celestial empire. at five o'clock in the afternoon we were at another station, nia, where general pevtsoff established a meterological observatory. here we stopped only twenty minutes. i had time to lay in a few provisions at the bar. for whom they were intended you can imagine. the passengers we picked up were only chinese, men and women. there were only a few for the first class, and these only went short journeys. we had not started a quarter of an hour when ephrinell, with the sferious manner of a merchant intent on some business, came up to me on the gangway. "monsieur bombarnac," he said, "i have to ask a favor of you." eh! i thought, this yankee knows where to find me when he wants me. "only too happy, i can assure you," said i. "what is it about?" "i want you to be a witness--" "an affair of honor? and with whom, if you please?" "miss horatia bluett." "you are going to fight miss bluett!" i exclaimed, with a laugh. "not yet. i am going to marry her." "marry her?" "yes! a treasure of a woman, well acquainted with business matters, holding a splendid commission--" "my compliments, mr. ephrinell! you can count on me--" "and probably on m. caterna?" "he would like nothing better, and if there is a wedding breakfast he will sing at your dessert--" "as much as he pleases," replied the american. "and now for miss bluett's witnesses." "quite so." "do you think major noltitz would consent?" "a russian is too gallant to refuse. i will ask him, if you like." "thank you in advance. as to the second witness, i am rather in a difficulty. this englishman, sir francis trevellyan--" "a shake of the head is all you will get from him." "baron weissschnitzerdörfer?" "ask that of a man who is doing a tour of the globe, and who would never get through a signature of a name of that length!" "then i can only think of pan-chao, unless we try popof--" "either would do it with pleasure. but there is no hurry, mr. ephrinell, and when you get to pekin you will have no difficulty in finding a fourth witness." "what! to pekin? it is not at pekin that i hope to marry miss bluett!" "where, then? at sou tcheou or lan tcheou, while we stop a few hours?" "wait a bit, monsieur bombarnac! can a yankee wait?" "then it is to be--" "here." "in the train?" "in the train." "then it is for me to say, wait a bit!" "not twenty-four hours." "but to be married you require--" "an american minister, and we have the reverend nathaniel morse." "he consents?" "as if he would not! he would marry the whole train if it asked him!" "bravo, mr. ephrinell! a wedding in a train will be delightful." "we should never put off until to-morrow what we can do to-day." "yes, i know, time is money." "no! time is time, simply, and i do not care to lose a minute of it." ephrinell clasped my hand, and as i had promised, i went to take the necessary steps regarding the witnesses necessary for the nuptial ceremonial. it needs not be said that the commercials were of full age and free to dispose of themselves, to enter into marriage before a clergyman, as is done in america, and without any of the fastidious preliminaries required in france and other formalistic countries. is this an advantage or otherwise? the americans think it is for the best, and, as cooper says, the best at home is the best everywhere. i first asked major noltitz, who willingly agreed to be miss bluett's witness. "these yankees are astonishing," he said to me. "precisely because they are astonished at nothing, major." i made a similar proposition to pan-chao. "delighted, monsieur bombarnac," he replied. "i will be the witness of this adorable and adored miss bluett! if a wedding between an englishwoman and an american, with french, russian and chinese witnesses, does not offer every guarantee of happiness, where are we likely to meet with it?" and now for caterna. the actor would have consented for any number of weddings. "what a notion for a vaudeville or an operetta!" he exclaimed. "we have the _mariage au tambour_, the _mariage aux olives_, the _mariage aux lanternes_--well, this will be the _mariage en railway_, or the marriage by steam! good titles, all those, monsieur claudius! your yankee can reckon on me! witness old or young, noble father or first lover, marquis or peasant, as you like, i am equal to it--" "be natural, please," said i. "it will have a good effect, considering the scenery." "is madame caterna to come to the wedding?" "why not--as bridesmaid!" in all that concerns the traditional functions we must have no difficulties on the grand transasiatic. it is too late for the ceremony to take place to-day. ephrinell understood that certain conventionalities must be complied with. the celebration could take place in the morning. the passengers could all be invited, and faruskiar might be prevailed on to honor the affair with his presence. during dinner we talked of nothing else. after congratulating the happy couple, who replied with true anglo-saxon grace, we all promised to sign the marriage contract. "and we will do honor to your signatures," said ephrinell, in the tone of a tradesman accepting a bill. the night came, and we retired, to dream of the marriage festivities of the morrow. i took my usual stroll into the car occupied by the chinese soldiers, and found the treasure of the son of heaven faithfully guarded. half the detachment were awake and half were asleep. about one o'clock in the morning i visited kinko, and handed him over my purchases at nia. the young roumanian was in high spirits. he anticipated no further obstacles, he would reach port safely, after all. "i am getting quite fat in this box," he told me. i told him about the ephrinell-bluett marriage, and how the union was to be celebrated next morning with great pomp. "ah!" said he, with a sigh. "they are not obliged to wait until they reach pekin!" "quite so, kinko; but it seems to me that a marriage under such conditions is not likely to be lasting! but after all, that is the couple's lookout." at three o'clock in the morning we stopped forty minutes at tchertchen, almost at the foot of the ramifications of the kuen lun. none of us had seen this miserable, desolate country, treeless and verdureless, which the railway was now crossing on its road to the northeast. day came; our train ran the four hundred kilometres between tchertchen and tcharkalyk, while the sun caressed with its rays the immense plain, glittering in its saline efflorescences. chapter xix. when i awoke i seemed to have had an unpleasant dream. a dream in no way like those we interpret by the _clef d'or_. no! nothing could be clearer. the bandit chief ki tsang had prepared a scheme for the seizure of the chinese treasure; he had attacked the train in the plains of gobi; the car is assaulted, pillaged, ransacked; the gold and precious stones, to the value of fifteen millions, are torn from the grasp of the celestials, who yield after a courageous defence. as to the passengers, another two minutes of sleep would have settled their fate--and mine. but all that disappeared with the vapors of the night. dreams are not fixed photographs; they fade in the sun, and end by effacing themselves. in taking my stroll through the train as a good townsman takes his stroll through the town, i am joined by major noltitz. after shaking hands, he showed me a mongol in the second-class car, and said to me, "that is not one of those we picked up at douchak when we picked up faruskiar and ghangir." "that is so," said i; "i never saw that face in the train before." popof, to whom i applied for information, told me that the mongol had got in at tchertchen. "when he arrived," he said, "the manager spoke to him for a minute, from which i concluded that he also was one of the staff of the grand transasiatic." i had not noticed faruskiar during my walk. had he alighted at one of the small stations between tchertchen and tcharkalyk, where we ought to have been about one o'clock in the afternoon? no, he and ghangir were on the gangway in front of our car. they seemed to be in animated conversation, and only stopped to take a good look toward the northeastern horizon. had the mongol brought some news which had made them throw off their usual reserve and gravity? and i abandoned myself to my imagination, foreseeing adventures, attacks of bandits, and so on, according to my dream. i was recalled to reality by the reverend nathaniel morse, who said to me, "it is fixed for to-day, at nine o'clock; do not forget." that meant the marriage of fulk ephrinell and horatia bluett. really, i was not thinking of it. it is time for me to go and dress for the occasion. all i can do will be to change my shirt. it is enough that one of the husband's witnesses should be presentable; the other, caterna, will be sure to be magnificent! in fact, the actor had gone into the luggage van--how i trembled for kinko!--and there, with popof's assistance, had got out of one of his boxes a somewhat free-and-easy costume, but one certain of success at a wedding: a primrose coat with metal buttons, and a buttonhole, a sham diamond pin in the cravat, poppy-colored breeches, copper buckles, flowered waistcoat, clouded stockings, thread gloves, black pumps, and white beaver hat. what a number of bridegrooms and uncles of bridegrooms our friend had been in this traditional attire! he looked superb, with his beaming face, his close-shaven chin, and blue cheeks, and his laughing eyes and rosy lips. madame caterna was quite as glorious in her array. she had easily discovered a bridesmaid's costume in her wardrobe, bodice with intercrossing stripes, short petticoat in green woolen, mauve stockings, straw hat with artificial flowers, a suspicion of black on the eyelids and of rouge on the cheeks. there you have the provincial stage beauty, and if she and her husband like to play a village piece after the breakfast, i can promise them bravos enough. it was at nine o'clock that this marriage was to take place, announced by the bell of the tender, which was to sound full clang as if it were a chapel bell. with a little imagination, we could believe we were in a village. but whither did this bell invite the witnesses and guests? into the dining car, which had been conveniently arranged for the ceremony, as i had taken good care. it was no longer a dining car; it was a hall car, if the expression is admissible. the big table had been taken away, and replaced by a small table which served as a desk. a few flowers bought at tchertchen had been arranged in the corners of the car, which was large enough to hold nearly all who wished to be present--and those who could not get inside could look on from the gangways. that all the passengers might know what was going on, we had put up a notice at the doors of the first and second-class cars, couched in the following terms: "mr. fulk ephrinell, of the firm of messrs. strong, bulbul & co., of new york city, has the honor to invite you to his wedding with miss horatia bluett, of the firm of messrs. holmes-holme, london, which will take place in the dining car on this the d of may, at nine o'clock precisely. the reverend nathaniel morse, of boston, u.s.a., will officiate. "miss horatia bluett, of the firm of messrs. holmes-holme, of london, has the honor to invite you to her wedding with mr. fulk ephrinell, of the firm of messrs. strong, bulbul & co., of new york city, etc., etc." if i do not make half a dozen pars out of all this i am no newspaper man! meanwhile i learn from popof the precise spot where the ceremony will take place. popof points it out on the map. it is a hundred and fifty kilometres from tcharkalyk station, in the middle of the desert, amid the plains which are traversed by a little stream which flows into the lob nor. for twenty leagues there is no station, and the ceremony is not likely to be interrupted by any stoppage. it need hardly be said that at half-past eight i and caterna were ready for the call. major noltitz and pan-chao had got themselves up in all due form for the solemnity. the major looked as serious as a surgeon who was going to cut off a leg. the chinaman looked as gay as a parisian at a village bridal. doctor tio-king and cornaro, one carrying the other, were to be at this little festivity. the noble venetian was a bachelor, if i am not mistaken, but i do not think he gives any opinion on marriage, at least i have no recollection of its being in the chapter headed "safe and easy means of promptly remedying the different accidents that threaten life." "and," added pan-chao, who has just quoted this cornarian phrase, "i suppose marriage ought to be included among those accidents!" a quarter to nine. no one has yet seen the happy couple. miss bluett is in one of the toilet cabinets in the first van, where she is probably preparing herself. fulk ephrinell is perhaps struggling with his cravat and giving a last polish to his portable jewelry. i am not anxious. we shall see them as soon as the bell rings. i have but one regret, and that is that faruskiar and ghangir should be too busy to join us. why do they continue to look out over the immense desert? before their eyes there stretches not the cultivated steppe of the lob nor region, but the gobi, which is barren, desolate and gloomy, according to the reports of grjimailo, blanc and martin. it may be asked why these people are keeping such an obstinate lookout. "if my presentiments do not deceive me," said major noltitz, "there is some reason for it." what does he mean? but the bell of the tender, the tender bell, begins its joyous appeal. nine o'clock; it is time to go into the dining car. caterna comes near me, and i hear him singing: "it is the turret bell, which sud-denly is sounding." while madame caterna replies to the trio of the _dame blanche_ by the refrain of the _dragons de villars_: "and it sounds, sounds, sounds, it sounds and resounds--" the passengers move in a procession, the four witnesses first, then the guests from the end of the village--i mean of the train; chinese, turkomans, tartars, men and women, all curious to assist at the ceremony. the four mongols remain on the last gangway near the treasure which the chinese soldiers do not leave for an instant. we reach the dining car. the clergyman is seated at the little table, on which is the certificate of marriage he has prepared according to the customary form. he looks as though he was accustomed to this sort of thing, which is as much commercial as matrimonial. the bride and bridegroom have not appeared. "ah!" said i to the actor, "perhaps they have changed their minds." "if they have," said caterna, laughing, "the reverend gentleman can marry me and my wife over again. we are in wedding garments, and it is a pity to have had all this fuss for nothing, isn't it, caroline?" "yes, adolphe--" but this pleasing second edition of the wedding of the caternas did not come off. here is mr. fulk ephrinell, dressed this morning just as he was dressed yesterday--and--detail to note--with a pencil behind the lobe of his left ear, for he has just been making out an account for his new york house. here is miss horatia bluett, as thin, as dry, as plain as ever, her dust cloak over her traveling gown, and in place of jewelry a noisy bunch of keys, which hangs from her belt. the company politely rise as the bride and bridegroom enter. they "mark time," as caterna says. then they advance toward the clergyman, who is standing with his hand resting on a bible, open probably at the place where isaac, the son of abraham, espouses rebecca, the daughter of rachel. we might fancy we were in a chapel if we only had a harmonium. and the music is here! if it is not a harmonium, it is the next thing to it. an accordion makes itself heard in caterna's hands. as an ancient mariner, he knows how to manipulate this instrument of torture, and here he is swinging out the andante from _norma_ with the most accordionesque expression. it seems to give great pleasure to the natives of central asia. never have their ears been charmed by the antiquated melody that the pneumatic apparatus was rendering so expressively. but everything must end in this world, even the andante from _norma_. and the reverend nathaniel morse began to favor the young couple with the speech which had clone duty many times before under similar circumstances. "the two souls that blend together--flesh of my flesh--increase and multiply--" in my opinion he had much better have got to work like a notary: "before us, there has been drawn up a deed of arrangement regarding messrs. ephrinell, bluett & co.--" my thought remained unfinished. there are shouts from the engine. the brakes are suddenly applied with a scream and a grind. successive shocks accompany the stoppage of the train. then, with a violent bump, the cars pull up in a cloud of sand. what an interruption to the nuptial ceremony! everything is upset in the dining car, men, furniture, bride, bridegroom and witnesses. not one kept his equilibrium. it is an indescribable pell-mell, with cries of terror and prolonged groans. but i hasten to point out that there was nothing serious, for the stoppage was not all at once. "quick!" said the major. "out of the train!" * * * * * chapter xx. in a moment the passengers, more or less bruised and alarmed, were out on the track. nothing but complaints and questions uttered in three or four different languages, amid general bewilderment. faruskiar, ghangir and the four mongols were the first to jump off the cars. they are out on the line, kandijar in one hand, revolver in the other. no doubt an attack has been organized to pillage the train. the rails have been taken up for about a hundred yards, and the engine, after bumping over the sleepers, has come to a standstill in a sandhill. "what! the railroad not finished--and they sold me a through ticket from tiflis to pekin? and i came by this transasiatic to save nine days in my trip round the world!" in these phrases, in german, hurled at popof, i recognized the voice of the irascible baron. but this time he should have addressed his reproaches not to the engineers of the company, but to others. we spoke to popof, while major noltitz continued to watch faruskiar and the mongols. "the baron is mistaken," said popof, "the railway is completed, and if a hundred yards of rails have been lifted here, it has been with some criminal intention." "to stop the train!" i exclaim. "and steal the treasure they are sending to pekin!" says caterna. "there is no doubt about that," says popof. "be ready to repulse an attack." "is it ki-tsang and his gang that we have to do with?" i asked. ki-tsang! the name spread among the passengers and caused inexpressible terror. the major said to me in a low voice: "why ki-tsang? why not my lord faruskiar?" "he--the manager of the transasiatic?" "if it is true that the company had to take several of these robber chiefs into its confidence to assure the safety of the trains--" "i will never believe that, major." "as you please, monsieur bombarnac. but assuredly faruskiar knew that this pretended mortuary van contained millions." "come, major, this is no time for joking." no, it was the time for defending, and defending one's self courageously. the chinese officer has placed his men around the treasure van. they are twenty in number, and the rest of the passengers, not counting the women, amount to thirty. popof distributes the weapons which are carried in case of attack. major noltitz, caterna, pan-chao, ephrinell, driver and stoker, passengers, asiatic and european, all resolve to fight for the common safety. on the right of the line, about a hundred yards away, stretches a deep, gloomy thicket, a sort of jungle, in which doubtless are hidden the robbers, awaiting the signal to pounce upon us. suddenly there is a burst of shouting, the thicket has given passage to the gang in ambush--some sixty mongols, nomads of the gobi. if these rascals beat us, the train will be pillaged, the treasure of the son of heaven will be stolen, and, what concerns us more intimately, the passengers will be massacred without mercy. and faruskiar, whom major noltitz so unjustly suspected? i look at him. his face is no longer the same; his fine features have become pale, his height has increased, there is lightning in his eyes. well! if i was mistaken about the mandarin yen lou, at least i had not mistaken the general manager of the transasiatic or the famous bandit of yunnan. however, as soon as the mongols appeared, popof hurried madame caterna, miss horatia bluett, and the other women into the cars. we took every means for putting them in safety. my only weapon was a six-shot revolver, and i knew how to use it. ah! i wanted incidents and accidents, and impressions of the journey! well, the chronicler will not fail to chronicle, on condition that he emerges safe and sound from the fray, for the honor of reporting in general and the glory of the _twentieth century_ in particular. but is it not possible to spread trouble among the assailants, by beginning with blowing out ki-tsang's brains, if ki-tsang is the author of this ambuscade? that would bring matters to a crisis. the bandits fire a volley, and begin brandishing their arms and shouting. faruskiar, pistol in one hand, kandijar in the other, has rushed onto them, his eyes gleaming, his lips covered with a slight foam. ghangir is at his side, followed by four mongols whom he is exciting by word and gesture. major noltitz and i throw ourselves into the midst of our assailants. caterna is in front of us, his mouth open, his white teeth ready to bite, his eyes blinking, his revolver flourishing about. the actor has given place to the old sailor who has reappeared for the occasion. "these beggars want to board us!" said he. "forward, forward, for the honor of the flag! to port, there, fire! to starboard, there, fire! all together, fire!" and it was with no property daggers he was armed, nor dummy pistols loaded with edouard philippe's inoffensive powder. no! a revolver in each hand, he was bounding along, firing, as he said, right and left and everywhere. pan-chao also exposed himself bravely, a smile on his lips, gallantly leading on the other chinese passengers. popof and the railwaymen did their duty bravely. sir francis trevellyan, of trevellyan hall, took matters very coolly, but ephrinell abandoned himself to true yankee fury, being no less irritated at the interruption to his marriage as to the danger run by his forty-two packages of artificial teeth. and in short, the band of robbers met with a much more serious resistance than they expected. and baron weissschnitzerdörfer? well, he is one of the most furious of us all. he sweats blood and water, his fury carries him away at the risk of his being massacred. many times we have to rescue him. these rails lifted, this train stopped, this attack in the open gobi desert, the delays that it will all occasion, the mailboat lost at tientsin, the voyage round the world spoiled, his plan come to grief before he had half accomplished it! what a shock to his german self-esteem! faruskiar, my hero--i cannot call him anything else--displays extraordinary intrepidity, bearing himself the boldest in the struggle, and when he had exhausted his revolver, using his kandijar like a man who had often faced death and never feared it. already there were a few wounded on both sides, perhaps a few dead among the passengers who lay on the line. i have had my shoulder grazed by a bullet, a simple scratch i have hardly noticed. the reverend nathaniel morse does not think that his sacred character compels him to cross his arms, and, from the way he works, one would not imagine that it was the first time he has handled firearms. caterna has his hat shot through, and it will be remembered that it is his village bridegroom's hat, the gray beaver, with the long fur. he utters a gigantic maritime oath, something about thunder and portholes, and then, taking a most deliberate aim, quietly shoots stone dead the ruffian who has taken such a liberty with his best headgear. for ten minutes or so the battle continues with most alarming alternations. the number of wounded on both sides increases, and the issue is still doubtful. faruskiar and ghangir and the mongols have been driven back toward the precious van, which the chinese guard have not left for an instant. but two or three of them have been mortally wounded, and their officer has just been killed by a bullet in the head. and my hero does all that the most ardent courage can do for the defence of the treasure of the son of heaven. i am getting uneasy at the prolongation of the combat. it will continue evidently as long as the chief of the band--a tall man with a black beard--urges on his accomplices to the attack on the train. up till now he has escaped unhurt, and, in spite of all we can do, he is gaining ground. shall we be obliged to take refuge in the vans, as behind the walls of a fortress, to entrench ourselves, to fight until the last has succumbed? and that will not be long, if we cannot stop the retrograde movement which is beginning on our side. to the reports of the guns there are now added the cries of the women, who in their terror are running about the gangways, although miss bluett and madame caterna are trying to keep them inside the cars. a few bullets have gone through the panels, and i am wondering if any of them have hit kinko. major noltitz comes near me and says: "this is not going well." "no, it is not going well," i reply, "and i am afraid the ammunition will give out. we must settle their commander-in-chief. come, major--" but what we are about to do was done by another at that very instant. this other was faruskiar. bursting through the ranks of the assailants, he cleared them off the line, in spite of the blows they aimed at him. he is in front of the bandit chief, he raises his arm, he stabs him full in the chest. instantly the thieves beat a retreat, without even carrying off their dead and wounded. some run across the plain, some disappear in the thickets. why pursue them, now that the battle has ended in our favor? and i must say that without the admirable valor of faruskiar, i do not expect any of us would have lived to tell the story. but the chief of the bandits is not dead, although the blood flows abundantly from his chest. he has fallen with one knee on the ground, one hand up, with the other he is supporting himself. faruskiar stands over him, towering above him. suddenly he rises in a last effort, his arm threatens his adversary, he looks at him. a last thrust of the kandijar is driven into his heart. faruskiar returns, and in russian, with perfect calmness, remarks: "ki-tsang is dead! so perish all who bear weapons against the son of heaven!" chapter xxi. and so it was ki-tsang who had just attacked the grand transasiatic on the plains of gobi. the pirate of vunnan had learned that a van containing gold and precious stones of enormous value had formed part of this train! and was there anything astonishing in that, considering that the newspapers, even those of paris, had published the fact many days before? so ki-tsang had had time to prepare his attempt, and had lifted a portion of the rails, and would probably have succeeded in carrying off the treasure if faruskiar had not brought him to his feet. that is why our hero had been so uneasy all the morning; if he had been looking out over the desert so persistently, it was because he had been warned of ki-tsang's plans by the last mongol who had joined the train at tchertchen! under any circumstances we had now nothing to fear from ki-tsang. the manager of the company had done justice on the bandit--speedy justice, i admit. but we are in the midst of the deserts of mongolia, where there are no juries as yet, which is a good thing for the mongols. "well," said i to the major, "i hope you have abandoned your suspicions with regard to my lord faruskiar?" "to a certain extent, monsieur bombarnac!" only to a certain extent? evidently major noltitz is difficult to please. but let us hasten on and count our victims. on our side there are three dead, including the chinese officer, and more than twelve wounded, four of them seriously, the rest slightly, so that they can continue their journey to pekin. popof escaped without a scratch, caterna with a slight graze which his wife insists on bathing. the major has the wounded brought into the cars and does the best for them under the circumstances. doctor tio-king offers his services, but they seem to prefer the russian army surgeon, and that i understand. as to those who have fallen it is best for us to take them on to the next station and there render them the last services. the thieves had abandoned their dead. we covered them over with a little sand, and that is all we need say. the place where we had been stopped was halfway between tcharkalyk and tchertchen, the only two stations from which we could procure help. unfortunately they were no longer in telegraphic communication, ki-tsang having knocked down the posts at the same time as he lifted the rails. hence a discussion as to what was the best thing to be done, which was not of long duration. as the engine had run off the rails, the very first thing to do was evidently to get it onto them again; then as there was a gap in the line, the simplest thing to do was to run back to tchertchen, and wait there until the company's workmen had repaired the damage, which they could easily do in a couple of days. we set to work without losing a moment. the passengers were only too glad to help popof and the officials who had at their disposal a few tools, including jacks, levers and hammers, and in three hours the engine and tender were again on the line. the most difficult business is over. with the engine behind we can proceed at slow speed to tchertchen. but what lost time! what delays! and what recriminations from our german baron, what donnervetters and teufels and other german expletives! i have omitted to say that immediately after the dispersal of the bandits we had in a body thanked faruskiar. the hero received our thanks with all the dignity of an oriental. "i only did my duty as general manager of the company," he replied, with a truly noble modesty. and then at his orders the mongols had set to work, and i noticed that they displayed indefatigable ardor, for which they earned our sincere felicitations. meanwhile faruskiar and ghangir were often talking together in a whisper, and from these interviews arose a proposition which none of us expected. "guard," said faruskiar, addressing popof, "it is my opinion that we had much better run on to tcharkalyk than go back; it would suit the passengers much better." "certainly, sir, it would be preferable," said popof; "but the line is broken between here and tcharkalyk, and we cannot get through." "not at present, but we could get the cars through if we could temporarily repair the line." that was a proposal worth consideration, and we assembled to consider it, major noltitz, pan-chao, fulk ephrinell, caterna, the clergyman, baron weissschnitzerdörfer, and a dozen others--all who understood russian. faruskiar spoke as follows: "i have been looking at the portion of the line damaged by the band of ki-tsang. most of the sleepers are still in place. as to the rails, the scoundrels have simply thrown them onto the sand, and by replacing them end to end it would be easy to get the train over to the uninjured track. it would not take a day to do this, and five hours afterward we should be at tcharkalyk." excellent notion, at once approved of by popof, the driver, the passengers, and particularly by the baron. the plan was possible, and if there were a few rails useless, we could bring to the front those we had already run over, and in this way get over the difficulty. evidently this faruskiar is a man, he is our true chief, he is the personage i was in want of, and i will sound his name over the entire universe in all the trumpets of my chronicle! and yet major noltitz is mistaken enough to see in him only a rival to this ki-tsang, whose crimes have just received their final punishment from his hand! we set to work to replace the sleepers that had been shifted aside from where they had left their mark, and we continued our task without intermission. having no fear of being noticed amid the confusion which followed the attack, i went into the luggage van to assure myself that kinko was safe and sound, to tell him what had passed, to caution him on no account to come put of his box. he promised me, and i was at ease regarding him. it was nearly three o'clock when we began work. the rails had been shifted for about a hundred yards. as faruskiar remarked, it was not necessary for us to fix them permanently. that would be the task of the workmen the company would send from tcharkalyk when we reached that station, which is one of the most important on the line. as the rails were heavy we divided ourselves into detachments. first-class and second-class, all worked together with good will. the baron displayed tremendous ardor. ephrinell, who thought no more of his marriage than if he had never thought about it, devoted strict attention to business. pan-chao was second to nobody, and even doctor tio-king strove to make himself useful--in the fashion of the celebrated auguste, the fly on the chariot wheel. "it is hot, this gobi sun!" said caterna. alone sat sir francis trevellyan of trevellyanshire, calm and impassive in his car, utterly regardless of our efforts. at seven o'clock thirty yards of the line had been repaired. the night was closing in. it was decided to wait until the morning. in half a day we could finish the work, and in the afternoon we could be off again. we were in great want of food and sleep. after so rude a task, how rude the appetite! we met in the dining car without distinction of classes. there was no scarcity of provisions, and a large breach was made in the reserves. never mind! we can fill up again at tcharkalyk. caterna is particularly cheery, talkative, facetious, communicative, overflowing. at dessert he and his wife sang the air--appropriate to the occasion--from the _voyage en chine_, which we caught up with more power than precision: "china is a charming land which surely ought to please you." oh! labiche, could you ever have imagined that this adorable composition would one day charm passengers in distress on the grand transasiatic? and then our actor--a little fresh, i admit--had an idea. and such an idea! why not resume the marriage ceremony interrupted by the attack on the train? "what marriage?" asked ephrinell. "yours, sir, yours," replied caterna. "have you forgotten it? that is rather too good!" the fact is that fulk ephrinell, on the one part, and horatia bluett, on the other part, seemed to have forgotten that had it not been for the attack of ki-tsang and his band they would now have been united in the gentle bonds of matrimony. but we were all too tired. the reverend nathaniel morse was unequal to the task; he would not have strength enough to bless the pair, and the pair would not have strength enough to support his blessing. the ceremony could be resumed on the day after to-morrow. between tcharkalyk and lan tcheou there was a run of nine hundred kilometres, and that was quite long enough for this anglo-american couple to be linked together in. and so we all went to our couches or benches for a little refreshing sleep. but at the same time the requirements of prudence were not neglected. although it appeared improbable, now that their chief had succumbed, the bandits might still make a nocturnal attack. there were always these cursed millions of the son of heaven to excite their covetousness, and if we are not on our guard-- but we feel safe. faruskiar in person arranges for the surveillance of the train. since the death of the officer he has taken command of the chinese detachment. he and ghangir are on guard over the imperial treasure, and according to caterna, who is never in want of a quotation from some comic opera: "this night the maids of honor will be guarded well." and, in fact, the imperial treasure was much better guarded than the beautiful athenais de solange between the first and second acts of the _mousquetaires de la reine_. at daybreak next morning we are at work. the weather is superb. the day will be warm. out in the asian desert on the th of may the temperature is such that you can cook eggs if you only cover them with a little sand. zeal was not wanting, and the passengers worked as hard as they had done the night before. the line was gradually completed. one by one the sleepers were replaced, the rails were laid end to end, and about four o'clock in the afternoon the gap was bridged. at once the engine began to advance slowly, the cars following until they were over the temporary track and safe again. now the road is clear to tcharkalyk; what do i say? to pekin. we resume our places. popof gives the signal for departure as caterna trolls out the chorus of victory of the admiral's sailors in _haydee_. a thousand cheers reply to him. at ten o'clock in the evening the train enters tcharkalyk station. we are exactly thirty hours behind time. but is not thirty hours enough to make baron weissschnitzerdörfer lose the mail from tient-tsin to yokohama? chapter xxii. i, who wanted an incident, have had one to perfection. i am thankful enough not to have been one of the victims. i have emerged from the fray safe and sound. all my numbers are intact, barring two or three insignificant scratches. only no. has been traversed by a bullet clean through--his hat. at present i have nothing in view beyond the bluett-ephrinell marriage and the termination of the kinko affair. i do not suppose that faruskiar can afford us any further surprises. i can reckon on the casual, of course, for the journey has another five days to run. taking into account the delay occasioned by the ki-tsang affair that will make thirteen days from the start from uzun ada. thirteen days! heavens! and there are the thirteen numbers in my notebook! supposing i were superstitious? we remained three hours at tcharkalyk. most of the passengers did not leave their beds. we were occupied with declarations relative to the attack on the train, to the dead which the chinese authorities were to bury, to the wounded who were to be left at tcharkalyk, where they would be properly looked after. pan-chao told me it was a populous town, and i regret i was unable to visit it. the company sent off immediately a gang of workmen to repair the line and set up the telegraph posts; and in a day everything would be clear again. i need scarcely say that faruskiar, with all the authority of the company's general manager, took part in the different formalities that were needed at tcharkalyk. i do not know how to praise him sufficiently. besides, he was repaid for his good offices by the deference shown him by the staff at the railway station. at three in the morning we arrived at kara bouran, where the train stopped but a few minutes. here the railway crosses the route of gabriel bonvalot and prince henri of orleans across tibet in - , a much more complete journey than ours, a circular trip from paris to paris, by berlin, petersburg, moscow, nijni, perm, tobolsk, omsk, semipalatinsk, kouldja, tcharkalyk, batong, yunnan, hanoi, saigon, singapore, ceylon, aden, suez, marseilles, the tour of asia, and the tour of europe. the train halts at lob nor at four o'clock and departs at six. this lake, the banks of which were visited by general povtzoff in , when he returned from his expedition to tibet, is an extensive marsh with a few sandy islands, surrounded by two or three feet of water. the country through which the tarim slowly flows had already been visited by fathers hue and gabet, the explorers prjevalski and carey up to the davana pass, situated a hundred and fifty kilometres to the south. but from that pass gabriel bonvalot and prince henri of orleans, camping sometimes at fifteen thousand feet of altitude, had ventured across virgin territories to the foot of the superb himalayan chain. our itinerary lay eastwards toward kara nor, skirting the base of the nan chan mountains, behind which lies the region of tsaidam. the railway dare not venture among the mountainous countries of the kou-kou-nor, and we were on our way to the great city of lan tcheou along, the base of the hills. gloomy though the country might be, there was no reason for the passengers to be so. this glorious sun, with its rays gilding the sands of the gobi as far as we could see, announced a perfect holiday. from lob nor to kara nor there are three hundred and fifty kilometres to run, and between the lakes we will resume the interrupted marriage of fulk ephrinell and horatia bluett, if nothing occurs to again delay their happiness. the dining car has been again arranged for the ceremony, the witnesses are ready to resume their parts, and the happy pair cannot well be otherwise than of the same mind. the reverend nathaniel morse, in announcing that the marriage will take place at nine o'clock, presents the compliments of mr. ephrinell and miss bluett. major noltitz and i, caterna and pan-chao are under arms at the time stated. caterna did not think it his duty to resume his costume, nor did his wife. they were dressed merely for the grand dinner party which took place at eight o'clock in the evening--the dinner given by ephrinell to his witnesses and to the chief first-class passengers. our actor, puffing out his left cheek, informed me that he had a surprise for us at dessert. what? i thought it wise not to ask. a little before nine o'clock the bell of the tender begins to ring. be assured it does not announce an accident. its joyous tinkling calls us to the dining car, and we march in procession toward the place of sacrifice. ephrinell and miss bluett are already seated at the little table in front of the worthy clergyman, and we take our places around them. on the platforms are grouped the spectators, anxious to lose nothing of the nuptial ceremony. my lord faruskiar and ghangir, who had been the object of a personal invitation, had just arrived. the assembly respectfully rises to receive them. they will sign the deed of marriage. it is a great honor, and if it were my marriage i should be proud to see the illustrious name of faruskiar figure among the signatures to the deed. the ceremony begins, and this time the reverend nathaniel morse was able to finish his speech, so regrettably interrupted on the former occasion. the young people rise, mud the clergyman asks them if they are mutually agreed as to marriage. before replying, miss bluett turns to ephrinell, and says: "it is understood that holmes-holme will have twenty-five per cent. of the profits of our partnership." "fifteen," said ephrinell, "only fifteen." "that is not fair, for i agree to thirty per cent, from strong, bulbul & co." "well, let us say twenty per cent., miss bluett." "be it so, mr. ephrinell." "but that is a good deal for you!" whispered caterna in my ear. the marriage for a moment was in check for five per cent.! but all is arranged. the interests of the two houses have been safeguarded. the reverend nathaniel morse repeats the question. a dry "yes" from horatia bluett, a short "yes" from fulk ephrinell, and the two are declared to be united in the bonds of matrimony. the deed is then signed, first by them, then by the witnesses, then by faruskiar, and the other signatures follow. at length the clergyman adds his name and flourish, and that closes the series of formalities according to rule. "there they are, riveted for life," said the actor to me, with a little lift of his shoulder. "for life--like two bullfinches," said the actress, who had not forgotten that these birds are noted for the fidelity of their armours. "in china," said pan-chao, "it is not the bullfinch but the mandarin duck that symbolizes fidelity in marriage." "ducks or bullfinches, it is all one," said caterna philosophically. the ceremony is over. we compliment the newly married pair. we return to our occupation, ephrinell to his accounts, mrs. ephrinell to her work. nothing is changed in the train. there are only two more married people. major noltitz, pan-chao and i go out and smoke on one of the platforms, leaving to their preparations the caternas, who seem to be having a sort of rehearsal in their corner. probably it is the surprise for the evening. there is not much variety in the landscape. all along is this monotonous desert of gobi with the heights of the humboldt mountains on the right reaching on to the ranges of nan chan. the stations are few and far between, and consist merely of an agglomeration of huts, with the signal cabin standing up among them like a monument. here the tender fills up with water and coal. beyond the kara nor, where a few towns appear, the approach to china proper, populous and laborious, becomes more evident. this part of the desert of gobi has little resemblance to the regions of eastern turkestan we crossed on leaving kachgar. these regions are as new to pan-chao and doctor tio-king as to us europeans. i should say that faruskiar no longer disdains to mingle in our conversation. he is a charming man, well informed and witty, with whom i shall become better acquainted when we reach pekin. he has already invited me to visit him at his yamen, and i will then have an opportunity of putting him to the question--that is, to the interview. he has traveled a good deal, and seems to have an especially good opinion of french journalists. he will not refuse to subscribe to the _twentieth century._ i am sure--paris, francs, departments, , foreign, . while the train is running at full speed we talk of one thing and another. with regard to kachgaria, which had been mentioned, faruskiar gave us a few very interesting details regarding the province, which had been so greatly troubled by insurrectionary movements. it was at this epoch that the capital, holding out against chinese covetousness, had not yet submitted to russian domination. many times numbers of celestials had been massacred in the revolts of the turkestan chiefs, and the garrison had taken refuge in the fortress of yanghi-hissar. among these insurgent chiefs there was one, a certain ouali-khan-toulla, whom i have mentioned with regard to the murder of schlagintweit, and who for a time had become master of kachgaria. he was a man of great intelligence, but of uncommon ferocity. and faruskiar told us an anecdote giving us an idea of these pitiless orientals. "there was at kachgar," he said, "an armorer of repute, who, wishing to secure the favors of ouali-khan-toulla, made a costly sword. when he had finished his work he sent his son, a boy of ten, to present the sword, hoping to receive some recompense from the royal hand. he received it. the khan admired the sword, and asked if the blade was of the first quality. 'yes,' said the boy. 'then approach!' said the khan, and at one blow he smote off the head, which he sent back to the father with the price of the blade he had thus proved to be of excellent quality." this story he told really well. had caterna heard it, he would have asked for a turkestan opera on the subject. the day passed without incident. the train kept on at its moderate speed of forty kilometres an hour, an average that would have been raised to eighty had they listened to baron weissschnitzerdörfer. the truth is that the chinese driver had no notion of making up the time lost between tchertchen and tcharkalyk. at seven in the evening we reach kara nor, to stay there fifty minutes. this lake, which is not as extensive as lob nor, absorbs the waters of the soule ho, coming down from the nan chan mountains. our eyes are charmed with the masses of verdure that clothe its southern bank, alive with the flight of numerous birds. at eight o'clock, when we left the station, the sun had set behind the sandhills, and a sort of mirage produced by the warming of the lower zones of the atmosphere prolonged the twilight above the horizon. the dining car has resumed its restaurant appearance, and here is the wedding banquet, instead of the usual fare. twenty guests have been invited to this railway love feast, and, first of them, my lord faruskiar. but for some reason or other he has declined ephrinell's invitation. i am sorry for it, for i hoped that good luck would place me near him. it occurred to me then that this illustrious name was worth sending to the office of the _twentieth century_, this name and also a few lines relative to the attack on the train and the details of the defense. never was information better worth sending by telegram, however much it might cost. this time there is no risk of my bringing a lecture down on myself. there is no mistake possible, as in the case of that pretended mandarin, yen-lou, which i shall never forget--but then, it was in the country of the false smerdis and that must be my excuse. it is agreed that as soon as we arrive at sou-tcheou, the telegraph being repaired at the same time as the line, i will send off a despatch, which will reveal to the admiration of europe the brilliant name of faruskiar. we are seated at the table. ephrinell has done the thing as well as circumstances permit. in view of the feast, provisions were taken in at tcharkalyk. it is not russian cookery, but chinese, and by a chinese chef to which we do honor. luckily we are not condemned to eat it with chopsticks, for forks are not prohibited at the grand transasiatic table. i am placed to the left of mrs. ephrinell, major noltitz to the right of her husband. the other guests are seated as they please. the german baron, who is not the man to refuse a good dinner, is one of the guests. sir francis trevellyan did not even make a sign in answer to the invitation that was tendered him. to begin with, we had chicken soup and plovers' eggs, then swallows' nests cut in threads, stewed spawn of crab, sparrow gizzards, roast pig's feet and sauce, mutton marrow, fried sea slug, shark's fin--very gelatinous; finally bamboo shoots in syrup, and water lily roots in sugar, all the most out-of-the-way dishes, watered by chao hing wine, served warm in metal tea urns. the feast is very jolly and--what shall i say?--very confidential, except that the husband takes no notice of the wife, and reciprocally. what an indefatigable humorist is our actor? what a continuous stream of wheezes, unintelligible for the most part, of antediluvian puns, of pure nonsense at which he laughs so heartily that it is difficult not to laugh with him. he wanted to learn a few words of chinese, and pan-chao having told him that "tching-tching" means thanks, he has been tching-tchinging at every opportunity, with burlesque intonation. then we have french songs, russian songs, chinese songs--among others the "shiang-touo-tching," the _chanson de la reverie_, in which our young celestial repeats that the flowers of the peach tree are of finest fragrance at the third moon, and those of the red pomegranate at the fifth. the dinner lasts till ten o'clock. at this moment the actor and actress, who had retired during dessert, made their entry, one in a coachman's overcoat, the other in a nurse's jacket, and they gave us the _sonnettes_ with an energy, a go, a dash--well, it would only be fair to them if claretie, on the recommendation of meilhac and halevy, offers to put them on the pension list of the comédie française. at midnight the festival is over. we all retire to our sleeping places. we do not even hear them shouting the names of the stations before we come to kan-tcheou, and it is between four and five o'clock in the morning that a halt of forty minutes retains us at the station of that town. the country is changing as the railway runs south of the fortieth degree, so as to skirt the eastern base of the nan shan mountains. the desert gradually disappears, villages are not so few, the density of the population increases. instead of sandy flats, we get verdant plains, and even rice fields, for the neighboring mountains spread their abundant streams over these high regions of the celestial empire. we do not complain of this change after the dreariness of the kara-koum and the solitude of gobi. since we left the caspian, deserts have succeeded deserts, except when crossing the pamir. from here to pekin picturesque sites, mountain horizons, and deep valleys will not be wanting along the grand transasiatic. we shall enter china, the real china, that of folding screens and porcelain, in the territory of the vast province of kin-sou. in three days we shall be at the end of our journey, and it is not i, a mere special correspondent, vowed to perpetual movement, who will complain of its length. good for kinko, shut up in his box, and for pretty zinca klork, devoured by anxiety in her house in the avenue cha-coua! we halt two hours at sou-tcheou. the first thing i do is to run to the telegraph office. the complaisant pan-chao offers to be my interpreter. the clerk tells us that the posts are all up again, and that messages can be sent through to europe. at once i favor the _twentieth century_ with the following telegram: "sou-tcheou, th may, : p.m. "train attacked between tchertchen and tcharkalyk by the gang of the celebrated ki-tsang; travelers repulsed the attack and saved the chinese treasure; dead and wounded on both sides; chief killed by the heroic mongol grandee faruskiar, general manager of the company, whose name should be the object of universal admiration." if this telegram does not gratify the editor of my newspaper, well-- two hours to visit sou-tcheou, that is not much. in turkestan we have seen two towns side by side, an ancient one and a modern one. here, in china, as pan-chao points out, we have two and even three or four, as at pekin, enclosed one within the other. here tai-tchen is the outer town, and le-tchen the inner one. it strikes us at first glance that both look desolate. everywhere are traces of fire, here and there pagodas or houses half destroyed, a mass of ruins, not the work of time, but the work of war. this shows that sou-tcheou, taken by the mussulmans and retaken by the chinese, has undergone the horrors of those barbarous contests which end in the destruction of buildings and the massacre of their inhabitants of every age and sex. it is true that population rapidly increases in the celestial empire; more rapidly than monuments are raised from their ruins. and so sou-tcheou has become populous again within its double wall as in the suburbs around. trade is flourishing, and as we walked through the principal streets we noticed the well-stocked shops, to say nothing of the perambulating pedlars. here, for the first time, the caternas saw pass along between the inhabitants, who stood at attention more from fear than respect, a mandarin on horseback, preceded by a servant carrying a fringed parasol, the mark of his master's dignity. but there is one curiosity for which sou-tcheou is worth a visit. it is there that the great wall of china ends. after descending to the southeast toward lan-tcheou, the wall runs to the northeast, covering the provinces of kian-sou, chan-si, and petchili to the north of pekin. here it is little more than an embankment with a tower here and there, mostly in ruins. i should have failed in my duty as a chronicler if i had not noticed this gigantic work at its beginning, for it far surpasses the works of our modern fortifications. "is it of any real use, this wall of china?" asked major noltitz. "to the chinese, i do not know," said i; "but certainly it is to our political orators for purposes of comparison, when discussing treaties of commerce. without it, what would become of the eloquence of our legislators?" chapter xxiii. i have not seen kinko for two days, and the last was only to exchange a few words with him to relieve his anxiety. to-night i will try and visit him. i have taken care to lay in a few provisions at sou-tcheou. we started at three o'clock. we have got a more powerful engine on. across this undulating country the gradients are occasionally rather steep. seven hundred kilometres separate us from the important city of lan-tcheou, where we ought to arrive to-morrow morning, running thirty miles an hour. i remarked to pan-chao that this average was not a high one. "what would you have?" he replied, crunching the watermelon seeds. "you will not change, and nothing will change the temperament of the celestials. as they are conservatives in all things, so will they be conservative in this matter of speed, no matter how the engine may be improved. and, besides, monsieur bombarnac, that there are railways at all in the middle kingdom is a wonder to me." "i agree with you, but where you have a railway you might as well get all the advantage out of it that you can." "bah!" said pan-chao carelessly. "speed," said i, "is a gain of time--and to gain time--" "time does not exist in china, monsieur bombarnac, and it cannot exist for a population of four hundred millions. there would not be enough for everybody. and so we do not count by days and hours, but always by moons and watches." "which is more poetical than practical," i remark. "practical, mr. reporter? you westerners are never without that word in your mouth. to be practical is to be the slave of time, work, money, business, the world, everybody else, and one's self included. i confess that during my stay in europe--you can ask doctor tio-king--i have not been very practical, and now i return to asia i shall be less so. i shall let myself live, that is all, as the cloud floats in the breeze, the straw on the stream, as the thought is borne away by the imagination." "i see," said i, "we must take china as it is." "and as it will probably always be, monsieur bombarnac. ah! if you knew how easy the life is--an adorable _dolce far niente_ between folding screens in the quietude of the yamens. the cares of business trouble us little; the cares of politics trouble us less. think! since fou hi, the first emperor in , a contemporary of noah, we are in the twenty-third dynasty. now it is manchoo; what it is to be next what matters? either we have a government or we have not; and which of its sons heaven has chosen for the happiness of four hundred million subjects we hardly know, and we hardly care to know." it is evident that the young celestial is a thousand and ten times wrong, to use the numerative formula; but it is not for me to tell him so. at dinner mr. and mrs. ephrinell, sitting side by side, hardly exchanged a word. their intimacy seems to have decreased since they were married. perhaps they are absorbed in the calculation of their reciprocal interests, which are not yet perfectly amalgamated. ah! they do not count by moons and watches, these anglo-saxons! they are practical, too practical! we have had a bad night. the sky of purple sulphury tint became stormy toward evening, the atmosphere became stifling, the electrical tension excessive. it meant a "highly successful" storm, to quote caterna, who assured me he had never seen a better one except perhaps in the second act of _freyschütz_. in truth the train ran through a zone, so to speak, of vivid lightning and rolling thunder, which the echoes of the mountains prolonged indefinitely. i think there must have been several lightning strokes, but the rails acted as conductors, and preserved the cars from injury. it was a fine spectacle, a little alarming, these fires in the sky that the heavy rain could not put out--these continuous discharges from the clouds, in which were mingled the strident whistlings of our locomotive as we passed through the stations of yanlu, youn tcheng, houlan-sien and da-tsching. by favor of this troubled night i was able to communicate with kinko, to take him some provisions and to have a few minutes' conversation with him. "is it the day after to-morrow," he asked, "that we arrive at pekin?" "yes, the day after to-morrow, if the train is not delayed." "oh, i am not afraid of delays! but when my box is in the railway station at pekin, i have still to get to the avenue cha-coua--" "what does it matter, will not the fair zinca klork come and call for it?" "no. i advised her not to do so." "and why?" "women are so impressionable! she would want to see the van in-which i had come, she would claim the box with such excitement that suspicions would be aroused. in short, she would run the risk of betraying me." "you are right, kinko." "besides, we shall reach the station in the afternoon, very late in the afternoon perhaps, and the unloading of the packages will not take place until next morning--" "probably." "well, monsieur bombarnac, if i am not taking too great a liberty, may i ask a favor of you?" "what is it?" "that you will be present at the departure of the case, so as to avoid any mistake." "i will be there, kinko, i will be there. glass fragile, i will see that they don't handle it too roughly. and if you like i will accompany the case to avenue cha-coua--" "i hardly like to ask you to do that--" "you are wrong, kinko. you should not stand on ceremony with a friend, and i am yours, kinko. besides, it will be a pleasure to me to make the acquaintance of mademoiselle zinca klork. i will be there when they deliver the box, the precious box. i will help her to get the nails out of it--" "the nails out of it, monsieur bombarnac? my panel? ah, i will jump through my panel!" a terrible clap of thunder interrupted our conversation. i thought the train had been thrown off the line by the commotion of the air. i left the young roumanian and regained my place within the car. in the morning-- th of may, a.m.--we arrived at lan-tcheou. three hours to stop, three hours only. "come, major noltitz, come, pan-chao, come, caterna, we have not a minute to spare." but as we are leaving the station we are stopped by the appearance of a tall, fat, gray, solemn personage. it is the governor of the town in a double robe of white and yellow silk, fan in hand, buckled belt, and a mantilla--a black mantilla which would have looked much better on the shoulders of a manola. he is accompanied by a certain number of globular mandarins, and the celestials salute him by holding out their two fists, which they move up and down as they nod their heads. "ah! what is this gentleman going to do? is it some chinese formality? a visit to the passengers and their baggage? and kinko, what about him?" nothing alarming, after all. it is only about the treasure of the son of heaven. the governor and his suite have stopped before the precious van, bolted and sealed, and are looking at it with that respectful admiration which is experienced even in china before a box containing many millions. i ask popof what is meant by the governor's presence, has it anything to do with us? "not at all," says popof; "the order has come from pekin to telegraph the arrival of the treasure. the governor has done so, and he is awaiting a reply as to whether he is to send it on to pekin or keep it provisionally at lan-tcheou." "that will not delay us?" "i don't think so." "then come on," said i to my companions. but if the imperial treasure was a matter of indifference to us, it did not seem to be so to faruskiar. but whether this van started or did not start, whether it was attached to our train or left behind, what could it matter to him? nevertheless, he and ghangir seemed to be much put about regarding it, although they tried to hide their anxiety, while the mongols, talking together in a low tone, gave the governor anything but friendly glances. meanwhile the governor had just heard of the attack on the train and of the part that our hero had taken in defence of the treasure, with what courage he had fought, and how he had delivered the country from the terrible ki-tsang. and then in laudatory terms, which pan-chao translated to us, he thanked faruskiar, complimented him, and gave him to understand that the son of heaven would reward him for his services. the manager of the grand transasiatic listened with that tranquil air that distinguished him, not without impatience, as, i could clearly see. perhaps he felt himself superior to praises as well as recompenses, no matter from how great a height they might come. in that i recognized all the mongol pride. but we need not wait. the treasure van may remain here or go on to pekin, but it makes no difference to us! our business is to visit lan-tcheou. what we did briefly i will more briefly tell. there is an outer town and an inner one. no ruins this time. a very lively city, population swarming like ants and very active, familiarized by the railway with the presence of strangers whom they do not follow about with indiscreet curiosity as they used to do. huge quarters occupy the right of the hoang ho, two kilometres wide. this hoang ho is the yellow river, the famous yellow river, which, after a course of four thousand four hundred kilometres, pours its muddy waters into the gulf of petchili. "is not its mouth near tien tsin, where the baron thinks of catching the mail for yokohama?" asks the major. "that is so," i reply. "he will miss it," says the actor. "unless he trots, our globe-trotter." "a donkey's trot does not last long," says caterna, "and he will not catch the boat." "he will catch it if the train is no later," said the major. "we shall be at tien tsin on the d at six o'clock in the morning, and the steamer leaves at eleven." "whether he misses the boat or not, my friends, do not let us miss our walk." a bridge of boats crosses the river, and the stream is so swift that the footway rises and falls like the waves of the sea. madame caterna, who had ventured on it, began to turn pale. "caroline, caroline," said her husband, "you will be seasick! pull yourself together; pull yourself together!" she "pulled herself together," and we went up towards a pagoda which rises over the town. like all the monuments of this kind, the pagoda resembles a pile of dessert dishes placed one on the other, but the dishes are of graceful form, and if they are in chinese porcelain it is not astonishing. we get an outside view of a cannon foundry, a rifle factory, the workmen being natives. through a fine garden we reach the governor's house, with a capricious assemblage of bridges, kiosks, fountains and doors like vases. there are more pavilions and upturned roofs than there are trees and shady walks. then there are paths paved with bricks, among them the remains of the base of the great wall. it is ten minutes to ten when we return to the station, absolutely tired out; for the walk has been a rough one, and almost suffocating, for the heat is very great. my first care is to look after the van with the millions. it is there as usual behind the train under the chinese guard. the message expected by the governor has arrived; the order to forward on the van to pekin, where the treasure is to be handed over to the finance minister. where is faruskiar? i do not see him. has he given us the slip? no! there he is on one of the platforms, and the mongols are back in the car. ephrinell has been off to do a round of calls--with his samples, no doubt--and mrs. ephrinell has also been out on business, for a deal in hair probably. here they come, and without seeming to notice one another they take their seats. the other passengers are only celestials. some are going to pekin; some have taken their tickets for intermediate stations like si-ngan, ho nan. lou-ngan, tai-youan. there are a hundred passengers in the train. all my numbers are on board. there is not one missing. thirteen, always thirteen! we were still on the platform, just after the signal of departure had been given, when caterna asked his wife what was the most curious thing she had seen at lan-tcheou. "the most curious thing, adolphe? those big cages, hung on to the walls and trees, which held such curious birds--" "very curious, madame caterna," said pan-chao. "birds that talk--" "what--parrots?" "no; criminals' heads." "horrible!" said the actress, with a most expressive grimace. "what would you have, caroline?" said caterna. "it is the custom of the country." chapter xxiv. on leaving lan-tcheou, the railway crosses a well-cultivated country, watered by numerous streams, and hilly enough to necessitate frequent curves. there is a good deal of engineering work; mostly bridges, viaducts on wooden trestles of somewhat doubtful solidity, and the traveler is not particularly comfortable when he finds them bending under the weight of the train. it is true we are in the celestial empire, and a few thousand victims of a railway accident is hardly anything among a population of four hundred millions. "besides," said pan-chao, "the son of heaven never travels by railway." so much the better. at six o'clock in the evening we are at king-tcheou, after skirting for some time the capricious meanderings of the great wall. of this immense artificial frontier built between mongolia and china, there remain only the blocks of granite and red quartzite which served as its base, its terrace of bricks with the parapets of unequal heights, a few old cannons eaten into with rust and hidden under a thick veil of lichens, and then the square towers with their ruined battlements. the interminable wall rises, falls, bends, bends back again, and is lost to sight on the undulations of the ground. at six o'clock we halt for half an hour at king-tcheou, of which i only saw a few pagodas, and about ten o'clock there is a halt of three-quarters of an hour at si-ngan, of which i did not even see the outline. all night was spent in running the three hundred kilometres which separate this town from ho nan, where we had an hour to stop. i fancy the londoners might easily imagine that this town of ho nan was london, and perhaps mrs. ephrinell did so. not because there was a strand with its extraordinary traffic, nor a thames with its prodigious movement of barges and steamboats. no! but because we were in a fog so thick that it was impossible to see either houses or pagodas. the fog lasted all day, and this hindered the progress of the train. these chinese engine-drivers are really very skilful and attentive and intelligent. we were not fortunate in our last day's journey before reaching tien tsin! what a loss of copy! what paragraphs were melted away in these unfathomable vapors! i saw nothing of the gorges and ravines, through which runs the grand transasiatic; nothing of the valley of lou-ngan, where we stopped at eleven o'clock; nothing of the two hundred and thirty kilometres which we accomplished amid the wreaths of a sort of yellow steam, worthy of a yellow country, until we stopped about ten o'clock at night at tai-youan. ah! the disagreeable day. luckily the fog rose early in the evening. now it is night--and a very dark night, too. i go to the refreshment bar and buy a few cakes and a bottle of wine. my intention is to pay a last visit to kinko. we will drink to his health, to his approaching marriage with the fair roumanian. he has traveled by fraud, i know, and if the grand transasiatic only knew! but the grand transasiatic will not know. during the stoppage faruskiar and ghangir are walking on the platform and looking at the train. but it is not the van at the rear that is attracting their attention, but the van in front, and they seem to be much interested in it. are they suspicious of kinko? no! the hypothesis is unlikely. the driver and stoker seem to be the object of their very particular attention. they are two brave chinamen who have just come on duty, and perhaps faruskiar is not sorry to see men in whom he can trust, with this imperial treasure and a hundred passengers behind them! the hour for departure strikes, and at midnight the engine begins to move, emitting two or three loud whistles. as i have said, the night is very dark, without moon, without stars. long clouds are creeping across the lower zones of the atmosphere. it will be easy for me to enter the van without being noticed. and i have not been too liberal in my visits to kinko during these twelve days on the road. at this moment popof says to me: "are you not going to sleep to-night, monsieur bombarnac?" "i am in no hurry," i reply; "after this foggy day, spent inside the car, i am glad of a breath of fresh air. where does the train stop next?" "at fuen-choo, when it has passed the junction with the nanking line." "good night, popof." "good night, monsieur bombarnac." i am alone. the idea occurs to me to walk to the rear of the train, and i stop for an instant on the gangway in front of the treasure van. the passengers, with the exception of the chinese guard, are all sleeping their last sleep--their last, be it understood, on the grand transasiatic. returning to the front of the train, i approach popof's box, and find him sound asleep. i then open the door of the van, shut it behind me, and signal my presence to kinko. the panel is lowered, the little lamp is lighted. in exchange for the cakes and wine i receive the brave fellow's thanks, and we drink to the health of zinca klork, whose acquaintance i am to make on the morrow. it is ten minutes to one. in twelve minutes, so popof says, we shall pass the junction with the nanking branch. this branch is only completed for five or six kilometres, and leads to the viaduct over the tjon valley. this viaduct is a great work--i have the details from pan-chao--and the engineers have as yet only got in the piers, which rise for a hundred feet above the ground. as i know we are to halt at fuen-choo, i shake hands with kinko, and rise to take my leave. at this moment i seem to hear some one on the platform in the rear of the van. "look out, kinko!" i say in a whisper. the lamp is instantly extinguished, and we remain quite still. i am not mistaken. some one is opening the door of the van. "your panel," i whisper. the panel is raised, the car is shut, and i am alone in the dark. evidently it must be popof who has come in. what will he think to find me here? the first time i came to visit the young roumanian i hid among the packages. well, i will hide a second time. if i get behind ephrinell's boxes it is not likely that popof will see me, even by the light of his lantern. i do so; and i watch. it is not popof, for he would have brought his lantern. i try to recognize the people who have just entered. it is difficult. they have glided between the packages, and after opening the further door, they have gone out and shut it behind them. they are some of the passengers, evidently; but why here--at this hour? i must know. i have a presentiment that something is in the wind perhaps by listening? i approach the front door of the van, and in spite of the rumbling of the train i hear them distinctly enough-- thousand and ten thousand devils! i am not mistaken! it is the voice of my lord faruskiar. he is talking with ghangir in russian. it is indeed faruskiar. the four mongols have accompanied him. but what are they doing there? for what motive are they on the platform which is just behind the tender? and what are they saying? what they are saying is this. of these questions and answers exchanged between my lord faruskiar and his companions, i do not lose a word. "when shall we be at the junction?" "in a few minutes." "are you sure that kardek is at the points?" "yes; that has been arranged." what had been arranged? and who is this kardek they are talking about? the conversation continues. "we must wait until we get the signal," says faruskiar. "is that a green light?" asks ghangir. "yes--it will show that the switch is over." i do not know if i am in my right senses. the switch over? what switch? a half minute elapses. ought i not to tell popof? yes--i ought. i was turning to go out of the van, when an exclamation kept me back. "the signal--there is the signal!" says ghangir. "and now the train is on the nanking branch!" replies faruskiar. the nanking branch? but then we are lost. at five kilometres from here is the tjon viaduct in course of construction, and the train is being precipitated towards an abyss. evidently major noltitz was not mistaken regarding my lord faruskiar. i understand the scheme of the scoundrels. the manager of the grand transasiatic is a scoundrel of the deepest dye. he has entered the service of the company to await his opportunity for some extensive haul. the opportunity has come with the millions of the son of heaven i yes! the whole abominable scheme is clear enough to me. faruskiar has defended the imperial treasure against ki-tsang to keep it from the chief of the bandits who stopped the train, whose attack would have interfered with his criminal projects! that is why he had fought so bravely. that is why he had risked his life and behaved like a hero. and thou, poor beast of a claudius, how thou hast been sold! another howler! think of that, my friend! but somehow we ought to prevent this rascal from accomplishing his work. we ought to save the train which is running full speed towards the unfinished viaduct, we ought to save the passengers from a frightful catastrophe. as to the treasure faruskiar and his accomplices are after, i care no more than for yesterday's news! but the passengers--and myself--that is another affair altogether. i will go back to popof. impossible. i seem to be nailed to the floor of the van. my head swims-- is it true we are running towards the abyss? no! i am mad. faruskiar and his accomplices would be hurled over as well. they would share our fate. they would perish with us! but there are shouts in front of the train. the screams of people being killed. there is no doubt now. the driver and the stoker are being strangled. i feel the speed of the train begin to slacken. i understand. one of the ruffians knows how to work the train, and he is slowing it to enable them to jump off and avoid the catastrophe. i begin to master my torpor. staggering like a drunken man, i crawl to kinko's case. there, in a few words, i tell him what has passed, and i exclaim: "we are lost!" "no--perhaps" he replies. before i can move, kinko is out of his box. he rushes towards the front door; he climbs on to the tender. "come along! come along!" he shouts. i do not know how i have done it, but here i am at his side, on the foot-plate, my feet in the blood of the driver and stoker, who have been thrown off on to the line. faruskiar and his accomplices are no longer here. but before they went one of them has taken off the brakes, jammed down the regulator to full speed, thrown fresh coals into the fire-box, and the train is running with frightful velocity. in a few minutes we shall reach the tjon viaduct. kinko, energetic and resolute, is as cool as a cucumber. but in vain he tries to move the regulator, to shut off the steam, to put on the brake. these valves and levers, what shall we do with them? "i must tell popof!" i shout. "and what can he do? no; there is only one way--" "and what is that?" "rouse up the fire," says kinko, calmly; "shut down the safety valves, and blow up the engine." and was that the only way--a desperate way--of stopping the train before it reached the viaduct? kinko scattered the coal on to the fire bars. he turned on the greatest possible draught, the air roared across the furnace, the pressure goes up, up, amid the heaving of the motion, the bellowings of the boiler, the beating of the pistons. we are going a hundred kilometres an hour. "get back!" shouts kinko above the roar. "get back into the van." "and you, kinko?" "get back, i tell you." i see him hang on to the valves, and put his whole weight on the levers. "go!" he shouts. i am off over the tender. i am through the van. i awake popof, shouting with all my strength: "get back! get back!" a few passengers suddenly waking from sleep begin to run from the front car. suddenly there is an explosion and a shock. the train at first jumps back. then it continues to move for about half a kilometre. it stops. popof, the major, caterna, most of the passengers are out on the line in an instant. a network of scaffolding appears confusedly in the darkness, above the piers which were to carry the viaduct across the tjon valley. two hundred yards further the train would have been lost in the abyss. chapter xxv. and i, who wanted "incident," who feared the weariness of a monotonous voyage of six thousand kilometres, in the course of which i should not meet with an impression or emotion worth clothing in type! i have made another muddle of it, i admit! my lord faruskiar, of whom i had made a hero--by telegraph--for the readers of the _twentieth. century_. decidedly my good intentions ought certainly to qualify me as one of the best paviers of a road to a certain place you have doubtless heard of. we are, as i have said, two hundred yards from the valley of the tjon, so deep and wide as to require a viaduct from three hundred and fifty to four hundred feet long. the floor of the valley is scattered over with rocks, and a hundred feet down. if the train had been hurled to the bottom of that chasm, not one of us would have escaped alive. this memorable catastrophe--most interesting from a reporter's point of view--would have claimed a hundred victims. but thanks to the coolness, energy and devotion of the young roumanian, we have escaped this terrible disaster. all? no! kinko has paid with his life for the safety of his fellow passengers. amid the confusion my first care was to visit the luggage van, which had remained uninjured. evidently if kinko had survived the explosion he would have got back into his box and waited till i put myself in communication with him. alas! the coffer is empty--empty as that of a company which has suspended payment. kinko has been the victim of his sacrifice. and so there has been a hero among our traveling companions, and he was not this faruskiar, this abominable bandit hidden beneath the skin of a manager, whose name i have so stupidly published over the four corners of the globe! it was this roumanian, this humble, this little, this poor fellow, whose sweetheart will wait for him in vain, and whom she will never again see! well, i will do him justice! i will tell what he has done. as to his secret, i shall be sorry if i keep it. if he defrauded the grand transasiatic, it is thanks to that fraud that a whole train has been saved. we were lost, we should have perished in the most horrible of deaths if kinko had not been there! i went back on to the line, my heart heavy, my eyes full of tears. assuredly faruskiar's scheme--in the execution of which he had executed his rival ki-tsang--had been cleverly contrived in utilizing this branch line leading to the unfinished viaduct. nothing was easier than to switch off the train if an accomplice was at the points. and as soon as the signal was given that we were on the branch, all he had to do was to gain the foot-plate, kill the driver and stoker, slow the train and get off, leaving the steam on full to work up to full speed. and now there could be no doubt that the scoundrels worthy of the most refined tortures that chinese practice could devise were hastening down into the tjon valley. there, amid the wreck of the train, they expected to find the fifteen millions of gold and precious stones, and this treasure they could carry off without fear of surprise when the night enabled them to consummate this fearful crime. well! they have been robbed, these robbers, and i hope that they will pay for their crime with their lives, at the least. i alone know what has passed, but i will tell the story, for poor kinko is no more. yes! my mind is made up. i will speak as soon as i have seen zinca klork. the poor girl must be told with consideration. the death of her betrothed must not come upon her like a thunderclap. yes! to-morrow, as soon as we are at pekin. after all, if i do not say anything about kinko, i may at least denounce faruskiar and ghangir and the four mongols. i can say that i saw them go through the van, that i followed them, that i found they were talking on the gangway, that i heard the screams of the driver and stoker as they were strangled on the foot-plate, and that i then returned to the cars shouting: "back! back!" or whatever it was. besides, as will be seen immediately, there was somebody else whose just suspicions had been changed into certainty, who only awaited his opportunity to denounce faruskiar. we are now standing at the head of the train, major noltitz, the german baron, caterna, ephrinell, pan-chao, popof, about twenty travelers in all. the chinese guard, faithful to their trust, are still near the treasure which not one of them has abandoned. the rear guard has brought along the tail lamps, and by their powerful light we can see in what a state the engine is. if the train, which was then running at enormous velocity, had not stopped suddenly--and thus brought about its destruction--it was because the boiler had exploded at the top and on the side. the wheels being undamaged, the engine had run far enough to come gradually to a standstill of itself, and thus the passengers had been saved a violent shock. of the boiler and its accessories only a few shapeless fragments remained. the funnel had gone, the dome, the steam chest; there was nothing but torn plates, broken, twisted tubes, split cylinders, and loose connecting rods--gaping wounds in the corpse of steel. and not only had the engine been destroyed, but the tender had been rendered useless. its tank had been cracked, and its load of coals scattered over the line. the luggage-van, curious to relate, had miraculously escaped without injury. and looking at the terrible effects of the explosion, i could see that the roumanian had had no chance of escape, and had probably been blown to fragments. going a hundred yards down the line i could find no trace of him--which was not to be wondered at. at first we looked on at the disaster in silence; but eventually conversation began. "it is only too evident," said one of the passengers, "that our driver and stoker have perished in the explosion." "poor fellows!" said popof. "but i wonder how the train could have got on the nanking branch without being noticed?" "the night was very dark," said ephrinell, "and the driver could not see the points." "that is the only explanation possible," said popof, "for he would have tried to stop the train, and, on the contrary, we were traveling at tremendous speed." "but," said pan-chao, "how does it happen the nanking branch was open when the tjon viaduct is not finished? had the switch been interfered with?" "undoubtedly," said popof, "and probably out of carelessness." "no," said ephrinell, deliberately. "there has been a crime--a crime intended to bring about the destruction of the train and passengers--" "and with what object?" asked popof. "the object of stealing the imperial treasure," said ephrinell. "do you forget that those millions would be a temptation to scoundrels? was it not for the purpose of robbing the train that we were attacked between tchertchen and tcharkalyk?" the american could not have been nearer the truth. "and so," said popof, "after ki-tsang's attempt, you think that other bandits--" up to now major noltitz had taken no part in the discussion. now he interrupted popof, and in a voice heard by all he asked: "where is faruskiar?" they all looked about and tried to discover what had become of the manager of the transasiatic. "and where is his friend ghangir?" asked the major. there was no reply. "and where are the four mongols who were in the rear van?" asked major noltitz. and none of them presented themselves. they called my lord faruskiar a second time. faruskiar made no response. popof entered the car where this personage was generally to be found. it was empty. empty? no. sir francis trevellyan was calmly seated in his place, utterly indifferent to all that happened. was it any business of his? not at all. was he not entitled to consider that the russo-chinese railways were the very apex of absurdity and disorder? a switch opened, nobody knew by whom! a train on the wrong line! could anything be more ridiculous than this russian mismanagement? "well, then!" said major noltitz, "the rascal who sent us on to the nanking line, who would have hurled us into the tjon valley, to walk off with the imperial treasure, is faruskiar." "faruskiar!" the passengers exclaimed. and most of them refused to believe it. "what!" said popof. "the manager of the company who so courageously drove off the bandits and killed their chief ki-tsang with his own hand?" then i entered on the scene. "the major is not mistaken. it was faruskiar who laid this fine trap for us." and amid the general stupefaction i told them what i knew, and what good fortune had enabled me to ascertain. i told them how i had overheard the plan of faruskiar and his mongols, when it was too late to stop it, but i was silent regarding the intervention of kinko. the moment had not come, and i would do him justice in due time. to my words there succeeded a chorus of maledictions and menaces. what! this seigneur faruskiar, this superb mongol, this functionary we had seen at work! no! it was impossible. but they had to give in to the evidence. i had seen; i had heard; i affirmed that faruskiar was the author of this catastrophe in which all our train might have perished, was the most consummate bandit who had ever disgraced central asia! "you see, monsieur bombarnac," said major noltitz, "that i was not mistaken in my first suspicion." "it is only too true," i replied, without any false modesty, "that i was taken in by the grand manners of the abominable rascal." "monsieur claudius," said caterna, "put that into a romance, and see if anybody believes it likely." caterna was right; but unlikely as it may seem, it was. and, besides, i alone knew kinko's secret. it certainly did seem as though it was miraculous for the locomotive to explode just on the verge of the abyss. now that all danger had disappeared we must take immediate measures for running back the cars on to the pekin line. "the best thing to do is for one of us to volunteer--" "i will do that," said caterna. "what is he to do?" i asked. "go to the nearest station, that of fuen choo, and telegraph to tai-youan for them to send on a relief engine." "how far is it to fuen choo?" asked ephrinell. "about six kilometres to nanking junction, and about five kilometres beyond that." "eleven kilometres," said the major; "that is a matter of an hour and a half for good walkers. before three o'clock the engine from tai-youan ought to be here. i am ready to start." "so am i," said popof! "i think several of us ought to go. who knows if we may not meet faruskiar and his mongols on the road?" "you are right, popof," said major noltitz, "and we should be armed." this was only prudent, for the bandits who ought to be on their way to the tjon viaduct could not be very far off. of course, as soon as they found that their attempt had failed, they would hasten to get away. how would they dare--six strong--to attack a hundred passengers, including the chinese guard? twelve of us, including pan-chao, caterna, and myself, volunteered to accompany major noltitz. but by common accord we advised popof not to abandon the train, assuring him that we would do all that was necessary at fuen choo. then, armed with daggers and revolvers--it was one o'clock in the morning--we went along the line to the junction, walking as fast as the very dark night permitted. in less than two hours we arrived at fuen choo station without adventure. evidently faruskiar had cleared off. the chinese police would have to deal with the bandit and his accomplices. would they catch him? i hoped so, but i doubted. at the station pan-chao explained matters to the stationmaster, who telegraphed for an engine to be sent from tai-youan to the nanking line. at three o'clock, just at daybreak, we returned to wait for the engine at the junction. three-quarters of an hour afterwards its whistle announced its approach, and it stopped at the bifurcation of the lines. we climbed up on to the tender, and half an hour later had rejoined the train. the dawn had come on sufficiently for us to be able to see over a considerable distance. without saying anything to anybody, i went in search of the body of my poor kinko. and i could not find it among the wreck. as the engine could not reach the front of the train, owing to their being only a single line, and no turning-table, it was decided to couple it on in the rear and run backwards to the junction. in this way the box, alas! without the roumanian in it, was in the last carriage. we started, and in half an hour we were on the main line again. fortunately it was not necessary for us to return to tai-youan, and we thus saved a delay of an hour and a half. at the junction the engine was detached and run for a few yards towards pekin, then the vans and cars, one by one, were pushed on to the main line, and then the engine backed and the train proceeded, made up as before the accident. by five o'clock we were on our way across petchili as if nothing had happened. i have nothing to say regarding this latter half of the journey, during which the chinese driver--to do him justice--in no way endeavored to make up for lost time. but if a few hours more or less were of no importance to us, it was otherwise with baron weissschnitzerdörfer, who wanted to catch the yokohama boat at tien tsin. when we arrived there at noon the steamer had been gone for three-quarters of an hour; and when the german globe-trotter, the rival of bly and bisland, rushed on to the platform, it was to learn that the said steamer was then going out of the mouths of the pei-ho into the open sea. unfortunate traveler! we were not astonished when, as gaterna said, the baron "let go both broadsides" of teutonic maledictions. and really he had cause to curse in his native tongue. we remained but a quarter of an hour at tien tsin. my readers must pardon me for not having visited this city of five hundred thousand inhabitants, the chinese town with its temples, the european quarter in which the trade is concentrated, the pei-ho quays where hundreds of junks load and unload. it was all faruskiar's fault, and were it only for having wrecked my reportorial endeavors he ought to be hanged by the most fantastic executioner in china. nothing happened for the rest of our run. i was very sorry at the thought that i was not bringing kinko along with me, and that his box was empty. and he had asked me to accompany him to mademoiselle zinca klork! how could i tell this unfortunate girl that her sweetheart would never reach pekin station? everything ends in this world below, even a voyage of six thousand kilometres on the grand transasiatic; and after a run of thirteen days, hour after hour, our train stopped at the gates of the capital of the celestial empire. chapter xxvi. "pekin!" shouted popof. "all change here." and caterna replied with truly parisian unction: "i believe you, my boy!" and we all changed. it was four o'clock in the afternoon. for people fatigued with three hundred and twelve hours of traveling, it was no time for running about the town--what do i say?--the four towns inclosed one within the other. besides, i had plenty of time. i was going to stop some weeks in this capital. the important thing was to find a hotel in which one could live passably. from information received i was led to believe that the hotel of _ten thousand dreams_, near the railway station, might be sufficiently in accord with western notions. as to mademoiselle klork, i will postpone my visit till to-morrow. i will call on her before the box arrives, and even then i shall be too soon, for i shall take her the news of kinko's death. major noltitz will remain in the same hotel as i do. i have not to bid him farewell, nor have i to part with the caternas, who are going to stay a fortnight before starting for shanghai. as to pan-chao and dr. tio-king, a carriage is waiting to take them to the yamen in which the young chinaman's family live. but we shall see each other again. friends do not separate at a simple good-by, and the grip of the hand i gave him as he left the car will not be the last. mr. and mrs. ephrinell lose no time in leaving the station on business, which obliges them to find a hotel in the commercial quarter of the chinese town. but they do not leave without receiving my compliments. major noltitz and i go up to this amiable couple, and the conventional politenesses are reciprocally exchanged. "at last," said i to ephrinell, "the forty-two packages of strong, bulbul & co. have come into port. but it is a wonder the explosion of our engine did not smash your artificial teeth." "just so," said the american, "my teeth had a narrow escape. what adventures they have had since we left tiflis? decidedly this journey has been less monotonous than i expected." "and," added the major, "you were married on the way--unless i am mistaken!" "wait a bit!" replied the yankee in a peculiar tone. "excuse me; we are in a hurry." "we will not keep you, mr. ephrinell," i replied, "and to mrs. ephrinell and yourself allow us to say au revoir!" "au revoir!" replied the americanized lady, rather more dryly at her arrival than at her departure. then, turning, she said: "i have no time to wait, mr. ephrinell." "nor have i, mrs. ephrinell," replied the yankee. mr.! mrs.! and not so long ago they were calling each other fulk and horatia. and then, without taking each other's arm, they walked out of the station. i believe he turned to the right and she to the left; but that is their affair. there remains my no. , sir francis trevellyan, the silent personage, who has not said a word all through the piece--i mean all through the journey. i wanted to hear his voice, if it was only for one second. eh! if i am not mistaken, here is the opportunity at last. there is the phlegmatic gentleman contemptuously looking up and down the cars. he has just taken a cigar from his yellow morocco case, but when he looks at his match-box he finds it empty. my cigar--a particularly good one--is alight, and i am smoking it with the blessed satisfaction of one who enjoys it, and regretting that there is not a man in all china who has its equal. sir francis trevellyan has seen the light burning at the end of my cigar, and he comes towards me. i think he is going to ask me for a light. he stretches out his hand, and i present him with my cigar. he takes it between his thumb and forefinger, knocks off the white ash, lights up, and then, if i had not heard him ask for a light, i at least expected him to say, "thank you, sir!" not at all! sir francis trevellyan takes a few puffs at his own cigar, and then nonchalantly throws mine on to the platform. and then without even a bow, he walks leisurely off out of the railway station. did you say nothing? no, i remained astounded. he gave me neither a word nor a gesture. i was completely dumfounded at this ultra-britannic rudeness, while major noltitz could not restrain a loud outburst of laughter. ah! if i should see this gentleman again. but never did i see again sir francis trevellyan of trevellyan hall, trevellyanshire. half an hour afterwards we are installed at the hotel of _ten thousand dreams_. there we are served with a dinner in chinese style. the repast being over--towards the second watch--we lay ourselves on beds that are too narrow in rooms with little comfort, and sleep not the sleep of the just, but the sleep of the exhausted--and that is just as good. i did not wake before ten o'clock, and i might have slept all the morning if the thought had not occurred to me that i had a duty to fulfil. and what a duty! to call in the avenue cha coua before the delivery of the unhappy case to mademoiselle zinca klork. i arise. ah! if kinko had not succumbed, i should have returned to the railway station--i should have assisted, as i had promised, in the unloading of the precious package. i would have watched it on to the cart, and i would have accompanied it to the avenue cha coua, i would even have helped in carrying him up to mademoiselle zinca klork! and what a double explosion of joy there would have been when kinko jumped through the panel to fall into the arms of the fair roumanian! but no! when the box arrives it will be empty--empty as a heart from which all the blood has escaped. i leave the hotel of _ten thousand dreams_ about eleven o'clock, i call one of those chinese carriages, which look like palanquins on wheels, i give the address of mademoiselle klork, and i am on the way. you know, that among the eighteen provinces of china petchili occupies the most northerly position. formed of nine departments, it has for its capital pekin, otherwise known as chim-kin-fo, an appellation which means a "town of the first order, obedient to heaven." i do not know if this town is really obedient to heaven, but it is obedient to the laws of rectilineal geometry. there are four towns, square or rectangular, one within the other. the chinese town, which contains the tartar town, which contains the yellow town, or houng tching, which contains the red town, or tsen-kai-tching, that is to say, "the forbidden town." and within this symmetrical circuit of six leagues there are more than two millions of those inhabitants, tartars or chinese, who are called the germans of the east, without mentioning several thousands of mongols and tibetans. that there is much bustle in the streets, i can see by the obstacles my vehicle encounters at every step, itinerating peddlers, carts heavily laden, mandarins and their noisy following. i say nothing of those abominable wandering dogs, half jackals, half wolves, hairless and mangy, with deceitful eyes, threatening jaws, and having no other food than the filthy rubbish which foreigners detest. fortunately i am not on foot, and i have no business in the red town, admittance to which is denied, nor in the yellow town nor even in the tartar town. the chinese town forms, a rectangular parallelogram, divided north and south by the grand avenue leading from the houn ting gate to the tien gate, and crossed east and west by the avenue cha-coua, which runs from the gate of that name to the cpuan-tsa gate. with this indication nothing could be easier than to find the dwelling of mademoiselle zinca klork, but nothing more difficult to reach, considering the block in the roads in this outer ring. a little before twelve i arrived at my destination. my vehicle had stopped before a house of modest appearance, occupied by artisans as lodgings, and as the signboard said more particularly by strangers. it was on the first floor, the window of which opened on to the avenue, that the young roumanian lived, and where, having learned her trade as a milliner in paris, she was engaged in it at pekin. i go up to the first floor. i read the name of madame zinca klork on a door. i knock. the door is opened. i am in the presence of a young lady who is perfectly charming, as kinko said. she is a blonde of from twenty-two to twenty-three years old, with the black eyes of the roumanian type, an agreeable figure, a pleasant, smiling face. in fact, has she not been informed that the grand transasiatic train has been in the station ever since last evening, in spite of the circumstances of the journey, and is she not awaiting her betrothed from one moment to another? and i, with a word, am about to extinguish this joy. i am to wither that smile. mademoiselle klork is evidently much surprised at seeing a stranger in her doorway. as she has lived several years in france, she does not hesitate to recognize me as a frenchman, and asks to what she is indebted for my visit. i must take care of my words, for i may kill her, poor child. "mademoiselle zinca--" i say. "you know my name?" she exclaims. "yes, mademoiselle. i arrived yesterday by the grand transasiatic." the girl turned pale; her eyes became troubled. it was evident that she feared something. had kinko been found in his box? had the fraud been discovered? was he arrested? was he in prison? i hastened to add: "mademoiselle zinca--certain circumstances have brought to my knowledge--the journey of a young roumanian--" "kinko--my poor kinko--they have found him?" she asks in a trembling voice. "no--no--" say i, hesitating. "no one knows--except myself. i often visited him in the luggage-van at night; we were companions, friends. i took him a few provisions--" "oh! thank you, sir!" says the lady, taking me by the hands. "with a frenchman kinko was sure of not being betrayed, and even of receiving help! thank you, thank you!" i am more than ever afraid of the mission on which i have come. "and no one suspected the presence of my dear kinko?" she asks. "no one." "what would you have had us do, sir? we are not rich. kinko was without money over there at tiflis, and i had not enough to send him his fare. but he is here at last. he will get work, for he is a good workman, and as soon as we can we will pay the company--" "yes; i know, i know." "and then we are going to get married, monsieur. he loves me so much, and i love him. we met one another in paris. he was so kind to me. then when he went back to tiflis i asked him to come to me in that box. is the poor fellow ill?" "no, mademoiselle zinca, no." "ah! i shall be happy to pay the carriage of my dear kinko." "yes--pay the carriage--" "it will not be long now?" "no; this afternoon probably." i do not know what to say. "monsieur," says mademoiselle, "we are going to get married as soon as the formalities are complied with; and if it is not abusing your confidence, will you do us the honor and pleasure of being present?" "at your marriage--certainly. i promised my friend kinko i would." poor girl! i cannot leave her like this. i must tell her everything. "mademoiselle zinca--kinko--" "he asked you to come and tell me he had arrived?" "yes--but--you understand--he is very tired after so long a journey--" "tired?" "oh! do not be alarmed--" "is he ill?" "yes--rather--rather ill--" "then i will go--i must see him--i pray you, sir, come with me to the station--" "no; that would be an imprudence--remain here--remain--" zinca klork looked at me fixedly. "the truth, monsieur, the truth! hide nothing from me--kinko--" "yes--i have sad news--to give you." she is fainting. her lips tremble. she can hardly speak. "he has been discovered!" she says. "his fraud is known--they have arrested him--" "would to heaven it was no worse. we have had accidents on the road. the train was nearly annihilated--a frightful catastrophe--" "he is dead! kinko is dead!" the unhappy zinca falls on to a chair--and to employ the imaginative phraseology of the chinese--her tears roll down like rain on an autumn night. never have i seen anything so lamentable. but it will not do to leave her in this state, poor girl! she is becoming unconscious. i do not know where i am. i take her hands. i repeat: "mademoiselle zinca! mademoiselle zinca!" suddenly there is a great noise in front of the house. shouts are heard. there is a tremendous to do, and amid the tumult i hear a voice. good heavens! i cannot be mistaken. that is kinko's voice! i recognize it. am i in my right senses? zinca jumps up, springs to the window, opens it, and we look out. there is a cart at the door. there is the case, with all its inscriptions: _this side up, this side down, fragile, glass, beware of damp_, etc., etc. it is there--half smashed. there has been a collision. the cart has been run into by a carriage, as the case was being got down. the case has slipped on to the ground. it has been knocked in. and kinko has jumped out like a jack-in-the-box--but alive, very much alive! i can hardly believe my eyes! what, my young roumanian did not perish in the explosion? no! as i shall soon hear from his own mouth, he was thrown on to the line when the boiler went up, remained there inert for a time, found himself uninjured--miraculously--kept away till he could slip into the van unperceived. i had just left the van after looking for him in vain, and supposing that he had been the first victim of the catastrophe. then--oh! the irony of fate!--after accomplishing a journey of six thousand kilometres on the grand transasiatic, shut up in a box among the baggage, after escaping so many dangers, attack by bandits, explosion of engine, he was here, by the mere colliding of a cart and a carriage in a pekin street, deprived of all the good of his journey--fraudulent it may be--but really if--i know of no epithet worthy of this climax. the carter gave a yell at the sight of a human being who had just appeared. in an instant the crowd had gathered, the fraud was discovered, the police had run up. and what could this young roumanian do who did not know a word of chinese, but explain matters in the sign language? and if he could not be understood, what explanation could he give? zinca and i ran down to him. "my zinca--my dear zinca!" he exclaims, pressing the girl to his heart. "my kinko--my dear kinko!" she replies, while her tears mingle with his. "monsieur bombarnac!" says the poor fellow, appealing for my intervention. "kinko," i reply, "take it coolly, and depend on me. you are alive, and we thought you were dead." "but i am not much better off!" he murmurs. mistake! anything is better than being dead--even when one is menaced by prison, be it a chinese prison. and that is what happens, in spite of the girl's supplications and my entreaties. and kinko is dragged off by the police, amid the laughter and howls of the crowd. but i will not abandon him! no, if i move heaven and earth, i will not abandon him. chapter xxvii. if ever the expression, "sinking in sight of port," could be used in its precise meaning, it evidently can in this case. and i must beg you to excuse me. but although a ship may sink by the side of the jetty, we must not conclude that she is lost. that kinko's liberty is in danger, providing the intervention of myself and fellow passengers is of no avail, agreed. but he is alive, and that is the essential point. but we must not waste an hour, for if the police is not perfect in china, it is at least prompt and expeditious. soon caught, soon hanged--and it will not do for them to hang kinko, even metaphorically. i offer my arm to mademoiselle zinca, and i lead her to my carriage, and we return rapidly towards the _hotel of the ten thousand dreams_. there i find major noltitz and the caternas, and by a lucky chance young pan-chao, without dr. tio-king. pan-chao would like nothing better than to be our interpreter before the chinese authorities. and then, before the weeping zinca, i told my companions all about kinko, how he had traveled, how i had made his acquaintance on the journey. i told them that if he had defrauded the transasiatic company it was thanks to this fraud that he was able to get on to the train at uzun ada. and if he had not been in the train we should all have been engulfed in the abyss of the tjon valley. and i enlarged on the facts which i alone knew. i had surprised faruskiar at the very moment he was about to accomplish his crime, but it was kinko who, at the peril of his life, with coolness and courage superhuman, had thrown on the coals, hung on to the lever of the safety valves, and stopped the train by blowing up the engine. what an explosion there was of exclamatory ohs and ahs when i had finished my recital, and in a burst of gratitude, somewhat of the theatrical sort, our actor shouted: "hurrah for kinko! he ought to have a medal!" until the son of heaven accorded this hero a green dragon of some sort, madame caterna took zinca's hand, drew her to her heart and embraced her--embraced her without being able to restrain her tears. just think of a love story interrupted at the last chapter! but we must hasten, and as caterna says, "all on the scene for the fifth"--the fifth act, in which dramas generally clear themselves up. "we must not let this brave fellow suffer!" said major noltitz; "we must see the grand transasiatic people, and when they learn the facts they will be the first to stop the prosecution." "doubtless," i said, "for it cannot be denied that kinko saved the train and its passengers." "to say nothing of the imperial treasure," added caterna, "the millions of his majesty!" "nothing could be truer," said pan-chao. "unfortunately kinko has fallen into the hands of the police, and they have taken him to prison, and it is not easy to get out of a chinese prison." "let us be off," i replied, "and see the company." "see here," said madame caterna, "is there any need of a subscription to defray the cost of the affair?" "the proposal does you honor, caroline," said the actor, putting his hand in his pocket. "gentlemen," said pretty zinca klork, her eyes bathed in tears, "do save him before he is sentenced--" "yes, my darling," said madame caterna, "yes, my heart, we will save your sweetheart for you, and if a benefit performance--" "bravo, caroline, bravo!" exclaimed caterna, applauding with the vigor of the sub-chief of the claque. we left the young roumanian to the caresses, as exaggerated as they were sincere, of the worthy actress. madame caterna would not leave her, declaring that she looked upon her as her daughter, that she would protect her like a mother. then pan-chao, major noltitz, caterna, and i went off to the company's offices at the station. the manager was in his office, and we were admitted. he was a chinese in every acceptation of the word, and capable of every administrative chinesery--a functionary who functioned in a way that would have moved his colleagues in old europe to envy. pan-chao told the story, and, as he understood russian, the major and i took part in the discussion. yes! there was a discussion. this unmistakable chinaman did not hesitate to contend that kinko's case was a most serious one. a fraud undertaken on such conditions, a fraud extending over six thousand kilometres, a fraud of a thousand francs on the grand transasiatic company and its agents. we replied to this chinesing chinee that it was all very true, but that the damage had been inconsiderable, that if the defrauder had not been in the train he could not have saved it at the risk of his life, and at the same time he could not have saved the lives of the passengers. well, would you believe it? this living china figure gave us to understand that from a certain point of view it would have been better to regret the deaths of a hundred victims-- yes! we knew that! perish the colonies and all the passengers rather than a principle! in short, we got nothing. justice must take its course against the fraudulent kinko. we retired while caterna poured out all the locutions in his marine and theatrical vocabulary. what was to be done? "gentlemen," said pan-chao, "i know how things are managed in pekin and the celestial empire. two hours will not elapse from the time kinko is arrested to the time he is brought before the judge charged with this sort of crime. he will not only be sent to prison, but the bastinado--" "the bastinado--like that idiot zizel in _si j'etais roi?"_ asked the actor. "precisely," replied pan-chao. "we must stop that abomination," said major noltitz. "we can try at the least," said pan-chao. "i propose we go before the court when i will try and defend the sweetheart of this charming roumanian, and may i lose my face if i do not get him off." that was the best, the only thing to do. we left the station, invaded a vehicle, and arrived in twenty minutes before a shabby-looking shanty, where the court was held. there was a crowd. the affair had got abroad. it was known that a swindler had come in a box in a grand transasiatic van free, gratis, and for nothing from tiflis to pekin. every one wished to see him; every one wanted to recognize the features of this genius--it was not yet known that he was a hero. there he is, our brave companion, between two rascally looking policemen, yellow as quinces. these fellows are ready to walk him off to prison at the judge's order, and to give him a few dozen strokes on the soles of his feet if he is condemned to that punishment. kinko is thoroughly disheartened, which astonishes me on the part of one i know to be so energetic. but as soon as he sees us his face betrays a ray of hope. at this moment the carter, brought forward by the police, relates the affair to a good sort of fellow in spectacles, who shakes his head in anything but a hopeful way for the prisoner, who, even if he were as innocent as a new-born child, could not defend himself, inasmuch as he did not know chinese. then it is that pan-chao presents himself. the judge recognized him and smiled. in fact, our companion was the son of a rich merchant in pekin, a tea merchant in the toung-tien and soung-fong-cao trade. and these nods of the judge's head became more sympathetically significant. our young advocate was really pathetic and amusing. he interested the judge, he excited the audience with the story of the journey, he told them all about it, and finally he offered to pay the company what was due to them. unfortunately the judge could not consent. there had been material damages, moral damages, etc., etc. thereupon pan-chao became animated, and although we understood nothing he said, we guessed that he was speaking of the courage of kinko, of the sacrifice he had made for the safety of the travelers, and finally, as a supreme argument, he pleaded that his client had saved the imperial treasure. useless eloquence? arguments were of no avail with this pitiless magistrate, who had not acquitted ten prisoners in is life. he spared the delinquent the bastinado; but he gave him six months in prison, and condemned him in damages against the grand transasiatic company. and then at a sign from this condemning machine poor kinko was taken away. let not my readers pity kinko's fate. i may as well say at once that everything was arranged satisfactorily. next morning kinko made a triumphal entry into the house in the avenue cha-coua, where we were assembled, while madame caterna was showering her maternal consolations on the unhappy zinca klork. the newspapers had got wind of the affair. the _chi bao_ of pekin and the _chinese times_ of tien-tsin had demanded mercy for the young roumanian. these cries for mercy had reached the feet of the son of heaven--the very spot where the imperial ears are placed. besides, pan-chao had sent to his majesty a petition relating the incidents of the journey, and insisting on the point that had it not been for kinko's devotion, the gold and precious stones would be in the hands of faruskiar and his bandits. and, by buddha! that was worth something else than six months in prison. yes! it was worth , taels, that is to say, more than , francs, and in a fit of generosity the son of heaven remitted these to kinko with the remittal of his sentence. i decline to depict the joy, the happiness, the intoxication which this news brought by kinko in person, gave to all his friends, and particularly to the fair zinca klork. these things are expressible in no language--not even in chinese, which lends itself so generously to the metaphorical. and now my readers must permit me to finish with my traveling companions whose numbers have figured in my notebook. nos. and , fulk ephrinell and miss horatia bluett: not being able to agree regarding the various items stipulated in their matrimonial contract, they were divorced three days after their arrival in pekin. things were as though the marriage had never been celebrated on the grand transasiatic, and miss horatia bluett remained miss horatia bluett. may she gather cargoes of heads of hair from chinese polls; and may he furnish with artificial teeth every jaw in the celestial empire! no. , major noltitz: he is busy at the hospital he has come to establish at pekin on behalf of the russian government, and when the hour for separation strikes, i feel that i shall leave a true friend behind me in these distant lands. nos. and , the caternas: after a stay of three weeks in the capital of the celestial empire, the charming actor and actress set out for shanghai, where they are now the great attraction at the french residency. no. , baron weissschnitzerdörfer, whose incommensurable name i write for the last time: well, not only did the globe-trotter miss the steamer at tien-tsin, but a month later he missed it at yokohama; six weeks after that he was shipwrecked on the coast of british columbia, and then, after being thrown off the line between san francisco and new york, he managed to complete his round of the world in a hundred and eighty-seven days instead of thirty-nine. nos. and , pan-chao and dr. tio-king: what can i say except that pan-chao is always the parisian you know, and that if he comes to france we shall meet at dinner at durand's or marguery's. as to the doctor, he has got down to eating only the yolk of an egg a day, like his master, cornaro, and he hopes to live to a hundred and two as did the noble venetian. no. , sir francis trevellyan, and no. , seigneur faruskiar: i have never heard of the one who owes me an apology and a cigar, nor have i heard that the other has been hanged. doubtless, the illustrious bandit, having sent in his resignation of the general managership of the grand transasiatic, continues his lucrative career in the depths of the mongol provinces. now for kinko, my no. : i need hardly say that my no. was married to zinca klork with great ceremony. we were all at the wedding, and if the son of heaven had richly endowed the young roumanian, his wife received a magnificent present in the name of the passengers of the train he had saved. that is the faithful story of this journey. i have done my best to do my duty as special correspondent all down the line, and perhaps my editors may be satisfied, notwithstanding the slip or two you have heard about. as to me, after spending three weeks in pekin, i returned to france by sea. and now i have to make a confession, which is very painful to my self-esteem. the morning after i arrived in the chinese capital i received a telegram thus worded, in reply to the one i had sent from lan-tcheou: _claudius bombarnac, pekin, china._ _twentieth century requests its correspondent, claudius bombarnac, to present its compliments and respects to the heroic seigneur faruskiar_. but i always say that this telegram never reached him, so that he has been spared the unpleasantness of having to reply to it. the end.