CHAPTER XIV
A CHANGE OF POLICY
The feeling of tranquillity which had come to Betty on her firstacquaintance with _Peaceful Moments_ seemed to deepen as the dayswent by, and with each day she found the sharp pain at her heart lessvehement. It was still there, but it was dulled. The novelty of herlife and surroundings kept it in check. New York is an egotist. It willsuffer no divided attention. "Look at me!" says the voice of the cityimperiously, and its children obey. It snatches their thoughts fromtheir inner griefs, and concentrates them on the pageant that rollsunceasingly from one end of the island to the other. One may despair inNew York, but it is difficult to brood on the past; for New York is theCity of the Present, the City of Things that are Going On.
To Betty everything was new and strange. Her previous acquaintance withthe metropolis had not been extensive. Mr. Scobell's home--or, rather,the house which he owned in America--was on the outskirts ofPhiladelphia, and it was there that she had lived when she was notpaying visits. Occasionally, during horse-show week, or at some othertime of festivity, she had spent a few days with friends who lived inMadison or upper Fifth Avenue, but beyond that, New York was a closedbook to her.
It would have been a miracle in the circumstances, if John and Mervoand the whole of the events since the arrival of the great cable hadnot to some extent become a little dream-like. When she was alone atnight, and had leisure to think, the dream became a reality once more;but in her hours of work, or what passed for work in the office of_Peaceful Moments_, and in the hours she spent walking about thestreets and observing the ways of this new world of hers, it faded.Everything was so bright and busy! Every moment had its fresh interest.
And, above all, there was the sense of adventure. She was twenty-four;she had health and an imagination; and almost unconsciously she wasstimulated by the thrill of being for the first time in her lifegenuinely at large. The child's love of hiding dies hard in us. ToBetty, to walk abroad in New York in the midst of hurrying crowds, justBetty Brown--one of four million and no longer the beautiful MissSilver of the society column, was to taste the romance of disguise, orinvisibility.
During office hours she came near to complete contentment. To an expertstenographer the amount of work to be done would have seemedridiculously small, but Betty, who liked plenty of time for a task,generally managed to make it last comfortably through the day.
This was partly owing to the fact that her editor, when not actually atwork himself, was accustomed to engage her in conversation, and to keepher so engaged until the entrance of Pugsy Maloney heralded the arrivalof some caller.
Betty liked Smith. His odd ways, his conversation, and his extremesolicitude for his clothes amused her. She found his outlook on liferefreshing. Smith was an optimist. Whatever cataclysm might occur, henever doubted for a moment that he would be comfortably on the summitof the debris when all was over. He amazed Betty with his stories ofhis reportorial adventures. He told them for the most part as humorousstories at his own expense, but the fact remained that in aconsiderable proportion of them he had only escaped a sudden andviolent death by adroitness or pure good luck. His conversation openedup a new world to Betty. She began to see that in America, andespecially in New York, anything may happen to anybody. She looked onSmith with new eyes.
"But surely all this," she said one morning, after he had come to theend of the story of a highly delicate piece of interviewing work inconnection with some Cumberland Mountains feudists, "surely all this--"She looked round the room.
"Domesticity?" suggested Smith.
"Yes," said Betty. "Surely it all seems rather tame to you?"
Smith sighed.
"Comrade Brown," he said, "you have touched the spot with an unerringfinger."
Since Mr. Renshaw's departure, the flatness of life had come home toSmith with renewed emphasis. Before, there had always been the quietentertainment of watching the editor at work, but now he was feelingrestless. Like John at Mervo, he was practically nothing but anornament. _Peaceful Moments_, like Mervo, had been set rolling andhad continued to roll on almost automatically. The staff of regularcontributors sent in their various pages. There was nothing for the manin charge to do. Mr. Renshaw had been one of those men who have agenius for being as busy over nothing as if it were some colossal work,but Smith had not that gift. He liked something that he could grip andthat gripped him. He was becoming desperately bored. He felt like amarooned sailor on a barren rock of domesticity.
A visitor who called at the office at this time did nothing to removethis sensation of being outside everything that made life worth living.Betty, returning to the office one afternoon, found Smith in thedoorway, just parting from a thickset young man. There was a rathergloomy expression on the thickset young man's face.
Smith, too, she noted, when they were back in the inner office, seemedto have something on his mind. He was strangely silent.
"Comrade Brown," he said at last, "I wish this little journal of ourshad a sporting page."
Betty laughed.
"Less ribaldry," protested Smith pained. "This is a sad affair. You sawthe man I was talking to? That was Kid Brady. I used to know him when Iwas out West. He wants to fight anyone in the country at a hundred andthirty-three pounds. We all have our hobbies. That is Comrade Brady's."
"Is he a boxer?"
"He would like to be. Out West, nobody could touch him. He's in thechampionship class. But he has been pottering about New York for amonth without being able to get a fight. If we had a sporting page on_Peaceful Moments_ we could do him some good, but I don't see howwe can write him up," said Smith, picking up a copy of the paper, andregarding it gloomily, "in 'Moments in the Nursery' or 'Moments withBudding Girlhood.'"
He put up his eyeglass, and stared at the offending journal with theair of a vegetarian who has found a caterpillar in his salad.Incredulity, dismay, and disgust fought for precedence in hisexpression.
"B. Henderson Asher," he said severely, "ought to be in some sort of ahome. Cain killed Abel for telling him that story."
He turned to another page, and scrutinized it with deepening gloom.
"Is Luella Granville Waterman by any chance a friend of yours, ComradeBrown? No? I am glad. For it seems to me that for sheer, concentratedpiffle, she is in a class by herself."
He read on for a few moments in silence, then looked up and fixed Bettywith his monocle. There was righteous wrath in his eyes.
"And people," he said, "are paying money for this! _Money!_ Evennow they are sitting down and writing checks for a year's subscription.It isn't right! It's a skin game. I am assisting in a carefully plannedskin game!"
"But perhaps they like it," suggested Betty.
Smith shook his head.
"It is kind of you to try and soothe my conscience, but it is useless.I see my position too clearly. Think of it, Comrade Brown! Thousands ofpoor, doddering, half-witted creatures in Brooklyn and Flatbush, whoought not really to have control of their own money at all, are gettingbuncoed out of whatever it is per annum in exchange for--how shall Iput it in a forcible yet refined and gentlemanly manner?--for cat'smeat of this description. Why, selling gold bricks is honest comparedwith it. And I am temporarily responsible for the black business!"
He extended a lean hand with melodramatic suddenness toward Betty. Theunexpectedness of the movement caused her to start back in her chairwith a little exclamation of surprise. Smith nodded with a kind ofmournful satisfaction.
"Exactly!" he said. "As I expected! You shrink from me. You avoid mypolluted hand. How could it be otherwise? A conscientious green-goodsman would do the same." He rose from his seat. "Your attitude," hesaid, "confirms me in a decision that has been in my mind for somedays. I will no longer calmly accept this terrible position. I will tryto make amends. While I am in charge, I will give our public somethingworth reading. All these Watermans and Ashers and Parslows must go!"
"Go!"
"Go!" repeated Smith firmly. "I have been thinking it over for
days.You cannot look me in the face, Comrade Brown, and say that there is asingle feature which would not be better away. I mean in the paper, notin my face. Every one of these punk pages must disappear. Letters mustbe despatched at once, informing Julia Burdett Parslow and the others,and in particular B. Henderson Asher, who, on brief acquaintance,strikes me as an ideal candidate for a lethal chamber--that, unlessthey cease their contributions instantly, we shall call up the policereserves. Then we can begin to move."
Betty, like most of his acquaintances, seldom knew whether Smith wastalking seriously or not. She decided to assume, till he should dismissthe idea, that he meant what he said.
"But you can't!" she exclaimed.
"With your kind cooperation, nothing easier. You supply the mechanicalwork. I will compose the letters. First, B. Henderson Asher. 'DearSir'--"
"But--" she fell back on her original remark--"but you can't. What willMr. Renshaw say when he comes back?"
"Sufficient unto the day. I have a suspicion that he will be thefirst to approve. His vacation will have made him see thingsdifferently--purified him, as it were. His conscience will be aliveonce more."
"But--"
"Why should we worry ourselves because the end of this venture iswrapped in obscurity? Why, Columbus didn't know where he was going towhen he set out. All he knew was some highly interesting fact about anegg. What that was, I do not at the moment recall, but I understand itacted on Columbus like a tonic. We are the Columbuses of thejournalistic world. Full steam ahead, and see what happens. If ComradeRenshaw is not pleased, why, I shall have been a martyr to a goodcause. It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done,so to speak. Why should I allow possible inconvenience to myself tostand in the way of the happiness which we propose to inject into thoseBrooklyn and Flatbush homes? Are you ready then, once more? 'DearSir--'"
Betty gave in.
When the letters were finished, she made one more objection.
"They are certain to call here and make a fuss," she said, "Mr. Asherand the rest."
"You think they will not bear the blow with manly fortitude?"
"I certainly do. And I think it's hard on them, too. Suppose theydepend for a living on what they make from _Peaceful Moments?_"
"They don't," said Smith reassuringly. "I've looked into that. Have nopity for them. They are amateurs--degraded creatures of substance whotake the cocktails out of the mouths of deserving professionals. B.Henderson Asher, for instance, is largely interested in gents'haberdashery. And so with the others. We touch their pride, perhaps,but not their purses."
Betty's soft heart was distinctly relieved by the information.
"I see," she said. "But suppose they do call, what will you do? It willbe very unpleasant."
Smith pondered.
"True," he said. "True. I think you are right there. My nervous systemis so delicately attuned that anything in the shape of a brawl wouldreduce it to a frazzle. I think that, for this occasion only, we willpromote Comrade Maloney to the post of editor. He is a stern, hard,rugged man who does not care how unpopular he is. Yes, I think thatwould be best."
He signed the letters with a firm hand, "per pro P. Maloney, editor."
Then he lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair.
"An excellent morning's work," he said. "Already I begin to feel thedawnings of a new self-respect."
Betty, thinking the thing over, a little dazed by the rapidity ofSmith's method of action, had found a fresh flaw in the scheme.
"If you send Mr. Asher and the others away, how are you going to bringthe paper out at all? You can't write it all yourself."
Smith looked at her with benevolent admiration.
"She thinks of everything," he murmured. "That busy brain is neverstill. No, Comrade Brown, I do not propose to write the whole papermyself. I do not shirk work when it gets me in a corner and I can'tside-step, but there are limits. I propose to apply to a few of my latecompanions of Park Row, bright boys who will be delighted to comeacross with red-hot stuff for a moderate fee."
"And the proprietor of the paper? Won't he make any objection?"
Smith shook his head with a touch of reproof.
"You seem determined to try to look on the dark side. Do you insinuatethat we are not acting in the proprietor's best interests? When he getshis check for the receipts, after I have handled the paper awhile, hewill go singing about the streets. His beaming smile will be a byword.Visitors will be shown it as one of the sights. His only doubt will bewhether to send his money to the bank or keep it in tubs and roll init. And anyway," he added, "he's in Europe somewhere, and never seesthe paper, sensible man."
He scratched a speck of dust off his coat-sleeve with his finger nail.
"This is a big thing," he resumed. "Wait till you see the first numberof the new series. My idea is that _Peaceful Moments_ shall becomea pretty warm proposition. Its tone shall be such that the public willwonder why we do not print it on asbestos. We shall comment on all thelive events of the week--murders, Wall Street scandals, glove fights,and the like, in a manner which will make our readers' spines thrill.Above all, we shall be the guardians of the people's rights. We shallbe a spot light, showing up the dark places and bringing intoprominence those who would endeavor in any way to put the people inDutch. We shall detect the wrongdoer, and hand him such a series ofresentful wallops that he will abandon his little games and become amodel citizen. In this way we shall produce a bright, readable littlesheet which will make our city sit up and take notice. I think so. Ithink so. And now I must be hustling about and seeing our newcontributors. There is no time to waste."
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