CHAPTER XVI
TWO VISITORS TO THE OFFICE
There was once an editor of a paper in the Far West who was sitting athis desk, musing pleasantly on life, when a bullet crashed through thewindow and imbedded itself in the wall at the back of his head. A happysmile lighted up the editor's face. "Ah!" he said complacently, "I knewthat personal column of ours would make a hit!"
What the bullet was to the Far West editor, the visit of Mr. MartinParker to the offices of _Peaceful Moments_ was to Smith.
It occurred shortly after the publication of the second number of thenew series, and was directly due to Betty's first and only suggestionfor the welfare of the paper.
If the first number of the series had not staggered humanity, it had atleast caused a certain amount of comment. The warm weather had begun,and there was nothing much going on in New York. The papers wereconsequently free to take notice of the change in the policy of_Peaceful Moments_. Through the agency of Smith's newspaperfriends, it received some very satisfactory free advertisement, and thesudden increase in the sales enabled Smith to bear up with fortitudeagainst the numerous letters of complaint from old subscribers who didnot know what was good for them. Visions of a large new public whichshould replace these Brooklyn and Flatbush ingrates filled his mind.
The sporting section of the paper pleased him most. The personality ofKid Brady bulked large in it. A photograph of the ambitious pugilist,looking moody and important in an attitude of self-defense, filled halfa page, and under the photograph was the legend, "Jimmy Garvin mustmeet this boy." Jimmy was the present holder of the light-weight title.He had won it a year before, and since then had confined himself tosmoking cigars as long as walking sticks and appearing nightly in avaudeville sketch entitled, "A Fight for Honor." His reminiscences werebeing published in a Sunday paper. It was this that gave Smith the ideaof publishing Kid Brady's autobiography in _Peaceful Moments_, anidea which won the Kid's whole-hearted gratitude. Like most pugilistshe had a passion for bursting into print. Print is the fighter'saccolade. It signifies that he has arrived. He was grateful to Smith,too, for not editing his contributions. Jimmy Garvin groaned under thesupervision of a member of the staff of his Sunday paper, who deletedhis best passages and altered the rest into Addisonian English. Thereaders of _Peaceful Moments_ got their Brady raw.
"Comrade Brady," said Smith meditatively to Betty one morning, "has asingularly pure and pleasing style. It is bound to appeal powerfully tothe many-headed. Listen to this. Our hero is fighting one Benson in thelatter's home town, San Francisco, and the audience is rooting hard forthe native son. Here is Comrade Brady on the subject: 'I looked aroundthat house, and I seen I hadn't a friend in it. And then the gong goes,and I says to myself how I has one friend, my old mother down inIllinois, and I goes in and mixes it, and then I seen Benson losing hisgoat, so I gives him a half-scissor hook, and in the next round I picksup a sleep-producer from the floor and hands it to him, and he takesthe count.' That is what the public wants. Crisp, lucid, and to thepoint. If that does not get him a fight with some eminent person,nothing will."
He leaned back in his chair.
"What we really need now," he said thoughtfully, "is a good, honest,muck-raking series. That's the thing to put a paper on the map. Theworst of it is that everything seems to have been done. Have you by anychance a second 'Frenzied Finance' at the back of your mind? Or proofsthat nut sundaes are composed principally of ptomaine and outlyingportions of the American workingman? It would be the making of us."
Now it happened that in the course of her rambles through the cityBetty had lost herself one morning in the slums. The experience hadimpressed itself on her mind with an extraordinary vividness. Her lothad always been cast in pleasant places, and she had never before beenbrought into close touch with this side of life. The sight of actualraw misery had come home to her with an added force from thatcircumstance. Wandering on, she had reached a street which eclipsed incheerlessness even its squalid neighbors. All the smells and noises ofthe East Side seemed to be penned up here in a sort of canyon. Themasses of dirty clothes hanging from the fire-escapes increased theatmosphere of depression. Groups of ragged children covered theroadway.
It was these that had stamped the scene so indelibly on her memory. Sheloved children, and these seemed so draggled and uncared-for.
Smith's words gave her an idea.
"Do you know Broster Street, Mr. Smith?" she asked.
"Down on the East Side? Yes, I went there once to get a story, onered-hot night in August, when I was on the _News_. The Ice Companyhad been putting up their prices, and trouble was expected down there.I was sent to cover it."
He did not add that he had spent a week's salary that night, buying iceand distributing it among the denizens of Broster Street.
"It's an awful place," said Betty, her eyes filling with tears. "Thosepoor children!"
Smith nodded.
"Some of those tenement houses are fierce," he said thoughtfully. LikeBetty, he found himself with a singularly clear recollection of his onevisit to Broster Street. "But you can't do anything."
"Why not?" cried Betty. "Oh, why not? Surely you couldn't have a bettersubject for your series? It's wicked. People only want to be told aboutthem to make them better. Why can't we draw attention to them?"
"It's been done already. Not about Broster Street, but about othertenements. Tenements as a subject are played out. The public isn'tinterested in them. Besides, it wouldn't be any use. You can't tree theman who is really responsible, unless you can spend thousands scaringup evidence. The land belongs in the first place to some corporation orother. They lease it to a lessee. When there's a fuss, they say theyaren't responsible, it's up to the lessee. And he, bright boy, lies solow you can't find out who it is."
"But we could try," urged Betty.
Smith looked at her curiously. The cause was plainly one that lay nearto her heart. Her face was flushed and eager. He wavered, and, havingwavered, he did what no practical man should do. He allowed sentimentto interfere with business. He knew that a series of articles onBroster Street would probably be so much dead weight on the paper,something to be skipped by the average reader, but he put the thoughtaside.
"Very well," he said. "If you care to turn in a few crisp remarks onthe subject, I'll print them."
Betty's first instalment was ready on the following morning. It was acurious composition. A critic might have classed it with Kid Brady'sreminiscences, for there was a complete absence of literary style. Itwas just a wail of pity, and a cry of indignation, straight from theheart and split up into paragraphs.
Smith read it with interest, and sent it off to the printer unaltered.
"Have another ready for next week, Comrade Brown," he said. "It's along shot, but this might turn out to be just what we need."
And when, two days after the publication of the number containing thearticle, Mr. Martin Parker called at the office, he felt that the longshot had won out.
He was holding forth on life in general to Betty shortly before theluncheon hour when Pugsy Maloney entered bearing a card.
"Martin Parker?" said Smith, taking it. "I don't know him. We make newfriends daily."
"He's a guy wit' a tall-shaped hat," volunteered Master Maloney, "an'he's wearing a dude suit an' shiny shoes."
"Comrade Parker," said Smith approvingly, "has evidently not been blindto the importance of a visit to _Peaceful Moments_. He has dressedhimself in his best. He has felt, rightly, that this is no occasion forthe flannel suit and the old straw hat. I would not have it otherwise.It is the right spirit. Show the guy in. We will give him audience."
Pugsy withdrew.
Mr. Martin Parker proved to be a man who might have been any agebetween thirty-five and forty-five. He had a dark face and a blackmustache. As Pugsy had stated, in effect, he wore a morning coat,trousers with a crease which brought a smile of kindly approval toSmith's face, and patent-leather shoes of pronounced shininess.
"I want to
see the editor," he said.
"Will you take a seat?" said Smith.
He pushed a chair toward the visitor, who seated himself with the careinspired by a perfect trouser crease. There was a momentary silencewhile he selected a spot on the table on which to place his hat.
"I have come about a private matter," he said, looking meaningly atBetty, who got up and began to move toward the door. Smith nodded toher, and she went out.
"Say," said Mr. Parker, "hasn't something happened to this paper theselast few weeks? It used not to take such an interest in things, usedit?"
"You are very right," responded Smith. "Comrade Renshaw's methods weregood in their way. I have no quarrel with Comrade Renshaw. But he didnot lead public thought. He catered exclusively to children with wateron the brain and men and women with solid ivory skulls. I feel thatthere are other and larger publics. I cannot content myself withladling out a weekly dole of predigested mental breakfast food. I--"
"Then you, I guess," said Mr. Parker, "are responsible for this BrosterStreet thing?"
"At any rate, I approve of it and put it in the paper. If any huskyguy, as Comrade Maloney would put it, is anxious to aim a swift kick atthe author of that article, he can aim it at me."
"I see," said Mr. Parker. He paused. "It said 'Number one' in thepaper. Does that mean there are going to be more of them?"
"There is no flaw in your reasoning. There are to be several more."
Mr. Parker looked at the door. It was closed. He bent forward.
"See here," he said, "I'm going to talk straight, if you'll let me."
"Assuredly, Comrade Parker. There must be no secrets, no restraintbetween us. I would not have you go away and say to yourself, 'Did Imake my meaning clear? Was I too elusive?'"
Mr. Parker scratched the floor with the point of a gleaming shoe. Heseemed to be searching for words.
"Say on," urged Smith. "Have you come to point out some flaw in thatarticle? Does it fall short in any way of your standard for such work?"
Mr. Parker came to the point.
"If I were you," he said, "I should quit it. I shouldn't go on withthose articles."
"Why?" enquired Smith.
"Because," said Mr. Parker.
He looked at Smith, and smiled slowly, an ingratiating smile. Smith didnot respond.
"I do not completely gather your meaning," he said. "I fear I must askyou to hand it to me with still more breezy frankness. Do you speakfrom purely friendly motives? Are you advising me to discontinue theseries because you fear that it will damage the literary reputation ofthe paper? Do you speak solely as a literary connoisseur? Or are thereother reasons?"
Mr. Parker leaned forward.
"The gentleman whom I represent--"
"Then this is no matter of your own personal taste? There is another?"
"See here, I'm representing a gentleman who shall be nameless, and I'vecome on his behalf to tip you off to quit this game. These articles ofyours are liable to cause him inconvenience."
"Financial? Do you mean that he may possibly have to spend some of hisspare doubloons in making Broster Street fit to live in?"
"It's not so much the money. It's the publicity. There are reasons whyhe would prefer not to have it made too public that he's the owner ofthe tenements down there."
"Well, he knows what to do. If he makes Broster Street fit for anot-too-fastidious pig to live in--"
Mr. Parker coughed. A tentative cough, suggesting that the situationwas now about to enter upon a more delicate phase.
"Now, see here, sir," he said, "I'm going to be frank. I'm going to putmy cards on the table, and see if we can't fix something up. Now, seehere. We don't want any unpleasantness. You aren't in this business foryour health, eh? You've got your living to make, same as everybodyelse, I guess. Well, this is how it stands. To a certain extent, Idon't mind owning, since we're being frank with one another, you've gotus--that's to say, this gentleman I'm speaking of--in a cleft stick.Frankly, that Broster Street story of yours has attracted attention--Isaw it myself in two Sunday papers--and if there's going to be any moreof them--Well, now, here's a square proposition. How much do you wantto stop those articles? That's straight. I've been frank with you, andI want you to be frank with me. What's your figure? Name it, and if youdon't want the earth I guess we needn't quarrel."
He looked expectantly at Smith. Smith, gazing sadly at him through hismonocle, spoke quietly, with the restrained dignity of some old Romansenator dealing with the enemies of the Republic.
"Comrade Parker," he said, "I fear that you have allowed yourintercourse with this worldly city to undermine your moral sense. It isuseless to dangle rich bribes before the editorial eyes. _PeacefulMoments_ cannot be muzzled. You doubtless mean well, according toyour somewhat murky lights, but we are not for sale, except at fifteencents weekly. From the hills of Maine to the Everglades of Florida,from Portland, Oregon, to Melonsquashville, Tennessee, one sentence isin every man's mouth. And what is that sentence? I give you threeguesses. You give it up? It is this: '_Peaceful Moments_ cannot bemuzzled!'"
Mr. Parker rose.
"Nothing doing, then?" he said.
"Nothing."
Mr. Parker picked up his hat.
"See here," he said, a grating note in his voice, hitherto smooth andconciliatory, "I've no time to fool away talking to you. I've given youyour chance. Those stories are going to be stopped. And if you've anysense in you at all, you'll stop them yourself before you get hurt.That's all I've got to say, and that goes."
He went out, closing the door behind him with a bang that addedemphasis to his words.
"All very painful and disturbing," murmured Smith. "Comrade Brown!" hecalled.
Betty came in.
"Did our late visitor bite a piece out of you on his way out? He was inthe mood to do something of the sort."
"He seemed angry," said Betty.
"He _was_ angry," said Smith. "Do you know what has happened,Comrade Brown? With your very first contribution to the paper you havehit the bull's-eye. You have done the state some service. Friend Parkercame as the representative of the owner of those Broster Street houses.He wanted to buy us off. We've got them scared, or he wouldn't haveshown his hand with such refreshing candor. Have you any engagements atpresent?"
"I was just going out to lunch, if you could spare me."
"Not alone. This lunch is on the office. As editor of this journal Iwill entertain you, if you will allow me, to a magnificent banquet._Peaceful Moments_ is grateful to you. _Peaceful Moments,"_he added, with the contented look the Far West editor must have worn asthe bullet came through the window, "is, owing to you, going some now."
* * * * *
When they returned from lunch, and reentered the outer office, PugsyMaloney, raising his eyes for a moment from his book, met them with theinformation that another caller had arrived and was waiting in theinner room.
"Dere's a guy in dere waitin' to see youse," he said, jerking his headtowards the door.
"Yet another guy? This is our busy day. Did he give a name?"
"Says his name's Maude," said Master Maloney, turning a page.
"Maude!" cried Betty, falling back.
Smith beamed.
"Old John Maude!" he said. "Great! I've been wondering what on earthhe's been doing with himself all this time. Good-old John! You'll likehim," he said, turning, and stopped abruptly, for he was speaking tothe empty air. Betty had disappeared.
"Where's Miss Brown, Pugsy?" he said. "Where did she go?"
Pugsy vouchsafed another jerk of the head, in the direction of theouter door.
"She's beaten it," he said. "I seen her make a break for de stairs.Guess she's forgotten to remember somet'ing," he added indifferently,turning once more to his romance of prairie life. "Goils isbone-heads."
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