by Rex Beach
THE CUB REPORTER
Why he chose Buffalo Paul Anderson never knew, unless perhaps ithad more newspapers than Bay City, Michigan, and because his ticketexpired in the vicinity of Buffalo. For that matter, why he shouldhave given up an easy job as the mate of a tugboat to enter thetortuous paths of journalism the young man did not know, and, lackingthe introspective faculty, he did not stop to analyze his motives. Sofar as he could discover he had felt the call to higher endeavor, andjust naturally had heeded it. Such things as practical experience andeducational equipment were but empty words to him, for he was youngand hopeful, and the world is kind at twenty-one.
He had hoped to enter his chosen field with some financial backing,and to that end, when the desire to try his hand at literature hadstruck him, he had bought an interest in a smoke-consumer which afireman on another tugboat had patented. In partnership with theinventor he had installed one of the devices beneath a sawmill boileras an experiment. Although the thing consumed smoke surprisingly well,it likewise unharnessed such an amazing army of heat-units that itmelted the crown-sheet of the boiler; whereupon the sawmill men, beingsingularly coarse and unimaginative fellows, set upon the patentee andhis partner with ash-rakes, draw-bars, and other ordinary, unpatentedimplements; a lumberjack beat hollowly upon their ribs with a peavy,and that night young Anderson sickened of smoke-consumers, harked anewto the call of journalism, and hiked, arriving in Buffalo with sevendollars and fifty cents to the good.
For seven dollars, counted out in advance, he chartered a furnishedroom for a week, the same carrying with it a meal at each end of theday, which left in Anderson's possession a superfluity of fifty centsto be spent in any extravagance he might choose.
Next day he bought a copy of each newspaper and, carefully scanningthem, selected the one upon which to bestow his reportorial gifts.This done, he weighed anchor and steamed through the town in search ofthe office. Walking in upon the city editor of _The Intelligencer_, hegazed with benevolent approval upon that busy gentleman's broad back.He liked the place, the office suited him, and he decided to have hisdesk placed over by the window.
After a time the editor wheeled, displaying a young, smooth, fat face,out of which peered gray-blue eyes with pin-point pupils.
"Well?" he queried.
"Here I am," said Anderson.
"So it appears. What do you want?"
"Work."
"What kind?"
"Newspapering."
"What can you do?"
"Anything."
"Well, well!" cried the editor. "You don't look much like a newspaperman."
"I'm not one--yet. But I'm going to be."
"Where have you worked?"
"Nowhere! You see, I'm really a playwright."
The editor's face showed a bit of interest. "Playwright, eh? Anderson!Anderson!" he mused. "Don't recall the name."
"No," said Paul; "I've never written any plays yet, but I'm goingto. That's why I want to sort of begin here and get the hang of thiswriting game."
A boy entered with some proofs at that moment and tossed them uponthe table, distracting the attention of the newspaper man. The latterwheeled back to his work and spoke curtly over his shoulder.
"I'm not running a school of journalism. Good-by."
"Maybe you'd like me to do a little space work--?"
"I'd never like you. Get out. I'm busy."
Anderson retired gracefully, jingling his scanty handful of nickelsand dimes, and a half-hour later thrust himself boldly in upon anothereditor, but with no better result. He made the rounds of all theoffices; although invariably rebuffed he became more firmly convincedthan ever that journalism was his designated sphere.
That night after dinner he retired to his room with the eveningpapers, wedged a chair against his bed, and, hoisting his feet uponthe wash-stand, absorbed the news of the day. It was ineffably sweetand satisfying to be thus identified with the profession of letters,and it was immeasurably more dignified than "tugging" on the SaginawRiver. Once he had schooled himself in the tricks of writing, hedecided he would step to higher things than newspaper work, but forthe present it was well to ground himself firmly in the rudiments ofthe craft.
In going through the papers he noted one topic which interested him, a"similar mystery" story on the second page. From what he could gather,he judged that much space had already been given to it; for now,inasmuch as no solution offered, the item was dying slowly, the majorportion of each article being devoted to a rehash of similar unsolvedmysteries.
Anderson read that the body of the golden-haired girl still lay at theMorgue, unidentified. Bit by bit he pieced together the lean storythat she was a suicide and that both the police and the press hadfailed in their efforts to unearth the least particle of informationregarding her. In spite of her remarkable beauty and certain unusualcircumstances connected with her death investigation had led nowhere.
On the following day Anderson again walked into the editorial-roomsof _The Intelligencer_ and greeted the smooth, fat-faced occupantthereof.
"Anything doing yet?" he inquired.
"Not yet," said the newspaper man, with a trace of annoyance in hisvoice. As the applicant moved out he halted him at the door with thewords: "Oh! Wait!"
Anderson's heart leaped. After all, he thought, perseverance would--
"Not yet, nor soon." The editor smiled broadly, and Paul realized thatthe humor in those pin-point eyes was rather cruel.
Five other calls he made that day, to be greeted gruffly in everyinstance except one. One man encouraged him slightly by saying:
"Come back next week; I may have an opening then."
In view of the "pay-as-you-enter" policy in vogue at Anderson'sboarding-house he knew there could be no next week for him, thereforehe inquired:
"How about a little space work in the meantime? I'm pretty good atthat stuff."
"You are?"
"Surest thing you know."
"Did you ever do any?"
"No. But I'm good, just the same."
"Huh!" the editor grunted. "There's no room now, and, come to think ofit, you needn't bother to get around next week. I can't break in newmen."
That evening young Anderson again repaired to his room with hisharvest of daily papers, and again he read them thoroughly. He was byno means discouraged as yet, for his week had just begun--therewere still five days of grace, and prime ministers have been madeovernight, nations have fallen in five days. Six calls a day for fivedays, that meant thirty chances for a job. It was a cinch!
Hidden away among the back pages once more he encountered thegolden-haired-girl story, and although one paper featured it a bitbecause of some imaginary clue, the others treated it casually, makingpublic the information that the body still lay at the Morgue, asilent, irritating thing of mystery.
On the third day Paul made his usual round of calls. He made them morequickly now because he was recognized, and was practically thrown outof each editorial sanctum. His serenity remained unruffled, andhis confidence undisturbed. Of all the six editors, Burns, of _TheIntelligencer_, treated him worst, adding ridicule to his gruffness, arefinement of cruelty which annoyed the young steamboat man. Andersonclenched his hard-knuckled hand and estimated the distance fromeditorial ear to point of literary chin, but realized in time thatsteamboat methods were out of place here in the politer realms ofjournalism.
Four times more he followed his daily routine, and on Monday morningarose early to avoid his landlady. His week was up, his nickels anddimes were gone, nevertheless he spent the day on his customaryrounds. He crept in late at night, blue with the cold and rather dazedat his bad luck; he had eaten nothing since the morning before, andhe knew that he dared not show up at the breakfast-table the nextmorning. For the time being discouragement settled upon him; itsettled suddenly like some heavy smothering thing; it robbed him ofhope and redoubled his hunger. He awoke at daylight, roused by thesense of his defeat, then tiptoed out while yet the landlady was abed,and spent the day
looking for work along the water-front. But winterhad tied up the shipping, and he failed, as he likewise failed atsundry employment agencies where he offered himself in any capacity.
At noon he wandered into the park, and, finding a sheltered spot,sunned himself as best he could. He picked up the sheets of awind-scattered paper and read until the chill December afternoongot into his bones and forced him to his feet. The tale of theunidentified girl at the Morgue recurred to him when he read theannouncement that she would be buried two days later in the Potter'sField. Perhaps the girl had starved for lack of work, he reflected.Perhaps hunger and cold had driven her to her death. Certainly thosetwo were to blame for many a tragedy calculated to mystify warmly cladpolicemen and well-fed reporters.
When he stole, shivering, into his bleak bedroom, late that night, hefound a note pinned upon his pillow. Of course the landlady needed herrent--all landladies were in need of money--and of course he would getout in the morning. He was glad she had not turned him out during theday, for this afforded him sanctuary for another night at least. Afterto-morrow it would be a park bench for his.
He left his valise behind in the morning, rather lamenting the factthat the old lady could not wear the shirts it contained, and hopingthat she would realize a sufficient sum from their sale to pay hisbill.
It was late afternoon when he commenced his listless tramp toward thenewspaper offices. Since Burns had become his pet aversion, he savedhim for the last, framing a few farewell remarks befitting the deathof hopes like his, and rehearsing an exit speech suitable to mark hisdeparture from the field of letters.
When he finally reached _The Intelligencer_ editorial-rooms, Burnsrounded on him angrily.
"For the love of Mike! Are you here again?" he demanded.
"I thought you might like to have some space work--"
"By heavens! You're persistent."
"Yes."
"We editors are an unfeeling lot, aren't we?" the fat young maninquired. "No temperament, no appreciation." He laughed noiselessly.
"Give me a job," Anderson cried, his voice breaking huskily. "I'llmake good. I'll do anything."
"How long do you intend to keep bothering me?" questioned Burns.
Anderson's cheeks were blue and the backs of his legs were tremblingfrom weakness, but he repeated, stolidly: "Give me a job. I--I won'tbother you after that. I'll make good, see if I don't."
"You think well of yourself, don't you?"
"If you thought half as well of me as I do," Paul assured him, "I'd beyour star reporter."
"Star hell!" testily cried the editor. "We haven't got such a thing.They don't know they're alive, except on pay-day. Look at this blondgirl at the Morgue--they've wasted two weeks on that case." He pausedsuddenly, then his soft lips spread, showing his sharp, white teeth.Modifying his tone, he continued: "Say, I rather like you, Anderson,you're such a blamed nuisance. You've half convinced me that you're agenius."
The younger man's hunger, which had given up in despair, raised itshead and bit into his vitals sharply.
"Maybe I--"
"I've a notion to give you a chance."
"That's all I want," the caller quavered, in a panic. "Just give me atoe-hold, that's all," His voice broke in spite of his effort tohold it steady. Burns wasn't a bad sort, after all; just grouchy andirritable. Perhaps this was merely his way.
Burns continued: "Well, I will give you an assignment, a goodassignment, too, and if you cover it I'll put you on permanently. I'lldo more than that, I'll pay you what we pay our best man, if you makegood. That's fair, isn't it?"
He smiled benignly, and the soon-to-be reporter's wits went caperingoff in a hysterical stampede. Anderson felt the desire to wring thefellow's hand.
"All that counts in this office is efficiency," the latter went on."We play no favorites. When a man delivers the goods we boost him;when he fails we fire him. There's no sentiment here, and I hold myjob merely because I'm the best man in the shop. Can you go to workto-night?"
"Why--why--yes, sir!"
"Very well. That's the spirit I like. You can take your time on thestory, and you needn't come back till you bring it."
"Yes, sir."
"Now pay attention, here it is. About two weeks ago a blond girlcommitted suicide in a Main Street boarding-house. The body's down atthe Morgue now. Find out who she is." He turned back to his desk andbegan to work.
The hungry youth behind him experienced a sudden sinking at thestomach. All at once he became hopelessly empty and friendless, and hefelt his knees urging him to sit down. He next became consciousthat the shoulders of Mr. Burns were shaking a bit, as if he hadencountered a piece of rare humor. After an instant, when Andersonmade no move to go, the man at the desk wheeled about, exposing abloated countenance purple with suppressed enjoyment.
"What's the matter?" he giggled. "Don't you want the job? I can't tellyou any more about the girl; that's all we know. The rest is up toyou. You'll find out everything, won't you? Please do, for your ownsake and the sake of _The Intelligencer_. Yes, yes, I'm sure you will,because you're a good newspaper man--you told me so yourself." Hisappreciation of the jest threatened to strangle him.
"Mr. Burns," began the other, "I--I'm up against it. I guess you don'tknow it, but I'm hungry. I haven't eaten for three days."
At this the editor became positively apoplectic.
"Oh yes--yes, I do!" He nodded vigorously. "You show it in your face.That's why I went out of my way to help you. He! He! He! Now you runalong and get me the girl's name and address while I finish thisproof. Then come back and have supper with me at the Press Club."Again he chortled and snickered, whereupon something sullen and fierceawoke in young Anderson. He knew of a way to get food and a bed and aplace to work even if it would only last thirty days, for he judgedBurns was the kind of man who would yell for the police in case of anassault. Paul would have welcomed the prospect of prison fare, but hereasoned that it would be an incomplete satisfaction merely to mashthe pudgy face of Mr. Burns and hear him clamor. What he wanted atthis moment was a job; Burns's beating could hold over. This suicidecase had baffled the pick of Buffalo's trained reporters; it hadfoiled the best efforts of her police; nevertheless, this fat-paunchedfellow had baited a starving man by offering him the assignment. Itwas impossible; it was a cruel joke, and yet--there might be a chanceof success. Even while he was debating the point he heard himself say:
"Very well, Mr. Burns. If you want her name I'll get it for you."
He crammed his hat down over his ears and walked out, leaving theastonished editor gazing after him with open mouth.
Anderson's first impulse had been merely to get out of Burns's office,out of sight of that grinning satyr, and never to come back, butbefore he had reached the street he had decided that it was as well tostarve striving as with folded hands. After all, the dead girl had aname.
Instead of leaving the building, he went to the files of the paperand, turning back, uncovered the original story, which he cut out withhis pen-knife, folded up, and placed in his pocket. This done, hesought the lobby of a near-by hotel, found a seat near a radiator, andproceeded to read the clipping carefully.
It was a meager story, but it contained facts and was free from theconfusion and distortions of the later accounts, which was preciselywhat he wished to guard against. Late one afternoon, so the storywent, the girl had rented a room in a Main Street boarding-house, hadeaten supper and retired. At eleven o'clock the next day, when she didnot respond to a knock on her door, the room had been broken into andshe had been found dead, with an empty morphine-bottle on the bureau.That was all. There were absolutely no clues to the girl's identity,for the closest scrutiny failed to discover a mark on her clothingor any personal articles which could be traced. She had possessed noluggage, save a little hand-satchel or shopping-bag containing a fewcoins. One fact alone stood out in the whole affair. She had paid forher room with a two-dollar Canadian bill, but this faint clue had beenfollowed with no result. No one knew the girl; she
had walked out ofnowhere and had disappeared into impenetrable mystery. Those were thefacts in the case, and they were sufficiently limited to baffle thebest efforts of Buffalo's trained detective force.
It would seem that there can be no human creature so obscure as tohave neither relatives, friends, nor acquaintances, and yet thisappeared to be the case, for a full description of this girl hadbeen blazoned in the papers of every large city, had been exposed incountless country post-offices, and conveyed to the police of everycity of the States and Canada. It was as if the mysterious occupant ofthe Morgue had been born of the winter wind on that fateful eveningtwo weeks before. The country had been dragged by a net of publicity,that marvelous, fine-meshed fabric from which no living man is smallor shrewd enough to escape, and still the sad, white face at theMorgue continued to smile out from its halo of gold as if in gentlemockery.
For a long time Paul Anderson sat staring into the realms ofspeculation, his lips white with hunger, his cheeks hollow andfeverish from the battle he had waged. His power of exclusion wasstrong, therefore he lost himself to his surroundings. Finally,however, he roused himself from his abstraction and realized the ironyof this situation. He, the weakest, the most inexperienced of all themen who had tried, had been set to solve this mystery, and starvationwas to be the fruit of his failure.
He saw that it had begun to snow outside. In the lobby it was warm andbright and vivid with jostling life; the music of a stringed orchestrasomewhere back of him was calling well-dressed men and women in todinner. All of them seemed happy, hopeful, purposeful. He noted,furthermore, that three days without food makes a man cold, even ina warm place, and light-headed, too. The north wind had bitten himcruelly as he crossed the street, and now as he peered out of theplate-glass windows the night seemed to hold other lurking horrorsbesides. His want was like a burden, and he shuddered weakly,hesitating to venture out where the wind could harry him. It was agreat temptation to remain here where there was warmth and laughterand life; nevertheless, he rose and slunk shivering out into thedarkness, then laid a course toward the Morgue.
While Anderson trod the snowy streets a slack-jowled editor sat atsupper with some friends at the Press Club, eating and drinkingheartily, as is the custom of newspaper men let down for a moment fromthe strain of their work. He had told a story, and his caustic wayof telling it had amused his hearers, for each and every one of themremembered the shabby applicant for work, and all of them had wastedbaffling hours on the mystery of this girl with the golden hair.
"I guess I put a crimp in him," giggled Mr. Burns. "I gave him achance to show those talents he recommends so highly."
"The Morgue, on a night like this, is a pretty dismal place for ahungry man," said one of the others. "It's none too cheerful in thedaytime."
The others agreed, and Burns wabbled anew in his chair in appreciationof his humor.
Young Anderson had never seen a morgue, and to-night, owing to hiscondition, his dread of it was child-like. It seemed as if thisparticular charnel-house harbored some grisly thing which stoodbetween him and food and warmth and hope; the nearer he drew to it thegreater grew his dread. A discourteous man, shrunken as if from thechill of the place, was hunched up in front of a glowing stove. Hegreeted Anderson sourly:
"Out into that courtyard; turn to the left--second door," he directed."She's in the third compartment."
Anderson lacked courage to ask the fellow to come along, but stumbledout into a snow-filled areaway lighted by a swinging incandescentwhich danced to the swirling eddies.
Compartment! He supposed bodies were kept upon slabs or tables, orsomething like that. He had steeled himself to see rows of unspeakablesights, played upon by dripping water, but he found nothing of thesort.
The second door opened into a room which he discovered was colder thanthe night outside, evidently the result of artificial refrigeration.He was relieved to find the place utterly bare except for a sort ofcar or truck which ran around the room on a track beneath a row ofsquare doors. These doors evidently opened into the compartmentsalluded to by the keeper.
Which compartment had the fellow said? Paul abruptly discovered thathe was rattled, terribly rattled, and he turned back out of the place.He paused shortly, however, and took hold of himself.
"Now, now!" he said, aloud. "You're a bum reporter, my boy." Aninstant later he forced himself to jerk open the first door at hishand.
For what seemed a full minute he stared into the cavern, as ifpetrified, then he closed the door softly. Sweat had started from hisevery pore. Alone once more in the great room, he stood shivering."God!" he muttered. This was newspaper training indeed.
He remembered now having read, several days before, about an Italianlaborer who had been crushed by a falling column. To one unaccustomedto death in any form that object, head-on in the obscurity of thecompartment, had been a trying sight. He began to wonder if it werereally cold or stiflingly hot.
The boy ground his teeth and flung open the next door, slamming ithurriedly again to blot out what it exposed. Why didn't they keep themcovered? Why didn't they show a card outside? Must he examine everygrisly corpse upon the premises?
He stepped to the third door and wrenched it open. He knew the girl atonce by her wealth of yellow hair and the beauty of her still, whiteface. There was no horror here, no ghastly sight to weaken a man'smuscles and sicken his stomach; only a tired girl asleep. Andersonfelt a great pity as he wheeled the truck opposite the door andreverently drew out the slab on which the body lay. He gazed upon herintently for some time. She was not at all as he had pictured her, andyet there could be no mistake. He took the printed description fromhis pocket and reread it carefully, comparing it point by point. Whenhe had finished he found that it was a composite word photograph,vaguely like and yet totally unlike the person it was intended toportray, and so lacking in character that no one knowing the originalintimately would have been likely to recognize her from it.
So that was why no word had come in answer to all this newspaperpublicity. After all, this case might not be so difficult as it hadseemed; for the first time the dispirited youth felt a faint glow ofencouragement. He began to formulate a plan.
Hurriedly he fumbled for his note-book, and there, in that houseof death, with his paper propped against the wall, he wrote atwo-hundred-word description; a description so photographically exactthat to this day it is preserved in the Buffalo police archives as aperfect model.
He replaced the body in its resting-place and went out. There was nochill in him now, no stumbling nor weakness of any sort. He had founda starting-point, had uncovered what all those trained newspaper menhad missed, and he felt that he had a chance to win.
Twenty minutes later Burns, who had just come in from supper, turnedback from his desk with annoyance and challenge in his little, narroweyes.
"Well?"
"I think I've got her, Mr. Burns."
"Nonsense!"
"Anyhow, I've got a description that her father or her mother orher friends can recognize. The one you and the other papers printeddisguised her so that nobody could tell who she was--it might havecovered a hundred girls."
Rapidly, and without noting the editor's growing impatience, Paul readthe two descriptions, then ran on, breathlessly:
"All we have to do is print ten or twenty thousand of these and mailthem out with the morning edition--separate sheets, posters, youunderstand?--so they can be nailed up in every post-office within twohundred miles. Send some to the police of all the cities, and we'llhave a flash in twenty-four hours."
Burns made no comment for a moment. Instead, he looked the young manover angrily from his eager face to his unblacked shoes. His silence,his stare, were eloquent.
"Why? Why not?" Anderson demanded, querulously. "I tell you thisdescription isn't right. It--it's nothing like her, nothing at all."
"Say! I thought I'd seen the last of you," growled the corpulent man."Aren't you on to yourself yet?"
"Do you--mean that your talk th
is evening don't go?" Paul demanded,quietly. "Do you mean to say you won't even give me the chance youpromised?"
"No! I don't mean that. What I said goes, all right, but I told _you_to identify this girl. I didn't agree to do it. What d'you think thispaper is, anyhow? We want stories in this office. We don't care who orwhat this girl is unless there's a story in her. We're not running ajob-print shop nor a mail-order business to identify strayed females.Twenty thousand posters! Bah! And say--don't you know that no two mencan write similar descriptions of anybody or anything? What's thedifference whether her hair is burnished gold or 'raw gold' or hereyes bluish gray instead of grayish blue? Rats! Beat it!"
"But I tell you--"
"What's her name? Where does she live? What killed her? That's what Iwant to know. I'd look fine, wouldn't I, circularizing a dead story?Wouldn't that be a laugh on me? No, Mr. Anderson, author, artist, andplaywright, I'm getting damned tired of being pestered by you, and youneedn't come back here until you bring the goods. Do I make myselfplain?"
It was anger which cut short the younger man's reply. On account ofpetty economy, for fear of ridicule, this editor refused to relievesome withered old woman, some bent and worried old man, who might be,who probably were, waiting, waiting, waiting in some out-of-the-wayvillage. So Anderson reflected. Because there might not be a story init this girl would go to the Potter's Field and her people would neverknow. And yet, by Heaven, they _would_ know! Something told him there_was_ a story back of this girl's death, and he swore to get it. Witha mighty effort he swallowed his chagrin and, disregarding the insultto himself, replied:
"Very well. I've got you this time."
"Humph!" Burns grunted, viciously.
"I don't know how I'll turn the trick, but I'll turn it." For thesecond time that evening he left the office with his jaws setstubbornly.
Paul Anderson walked straight to his boarding-house and bearded hislandlady. "I've got a job," said he.
"I'm very glad," the lady told him, honestly enough. "I feared youwere going to move out."
"Yes!" he repeated. "I've got a job that carries the highest salaryon the paper. You remember the yellow-haired girl who killed herselfawhile ago?" he asked.
"Indeed I do. Everybody knows about that case."
"Well, it got too tough for the police and the other reporters, sothey turned it over to me. It's a bully assignment, and my pay startswhen I solve the mystery. Now I'm starved; I wish you'd rustle me somegrub."
"But, Mr. Anderson, you're bill for this week? You know I get paidin--"
"Tut, tut! You know how newspapers are. They don't pay in advance, andI can't pay you until they pay me. You'll probably have to wait untilSaturday, for I'm a little out of practice on detective stuff. ButI'll have this thing cleared up by then. You don't appreciate--you_can't_ appreciate--what a corking assignment it is."
Anderson had a peculiarly engaging smile, and five minutes later hewas wrecking the pantry of all the edibles his fellow-boarders hadoverlooked, the while his landlady told him her life's history, weptover the memory of her departed husband, and confessed that she hopedto get out of the boarding-house business some time.
A good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast put the young man in finefettle, and about ten o'clock he repaired to a certain rooming-houseon Main Street, the number of which he obtained from the clipping inhis pocket.
A girl answered his ring, but at sight of him she shut the doorhurriedly, explaining through the crack:
"Mrs. MacDougal is out and you can't come in."
"But I want to talk to you."
"I'm not allowed to talk to reporters," she declared. "Mrs. MacDougalwon't let me."
A slight Scotch accent gave Anderson his cue. "MacDougal is a goodScotch name. I'm Scotch myself, and so are you." He smiled hisboarding-house smile, and the girl's eyes twinkled back at him."Didn't she tell you I was coming?"
"Why, no, sir. Aren't you a reporter?"
"I've been told that I'm not. I came to look at a room."
"What room?" the girl asked, quickly. "We haven't any vacant rooms."
"That's queer," Anderson frowned. "I can't be mistaken. I'm sure Mrs.MacDougal said there was one."
The door opened slowly. "Maybe she meant the one on the second floor."
"Precisely." An instant later he was following his guide up-stairs.
Anderson recognized the room at a glance, from its description, butthe girl did not mention the tragedy which had occurred therein, sohe proceeded to talk terms with her, prolonging his stay as long aspossible, meanwhile using his eyes to the best advantage. He inventedan elaborate ancestry which he traced backward through the pages of_Scottish Chiefs_, the only book of the sort he had ever read, and bythe time he was ready to leave the girl had thawed out considerably.
"I'll take the room," he told her, "and I'm well pleased to get it. Idon't see how such a good one stands vacant in this location."
There was an instant's pause, then his companion confessed: "There's areason. You'll find it out sooner or later, so I may as well tell you.That's where the yellow-haired girl you hear so much about killedherself. I hope it won't make any difference to you, Mr.--"
"Gregor. Certainly not. I read about the case. Canadian, wasn't she?"
"Oh yes! There's no doubt of it. She paid her rent with a Canadianbill, and, besides, I noticed her accent. I didn't tell the reporters,however, they're such a fresh lot."
Paul's visit, it appeared, had served to establish one thing, atleast, a thing which the trained investigators had not discovered.Canadian money in Buffalo was too common to excite comment, thereforenone of them had seen fit to follow out that clue of the two-dollarbill.
"The papers had it that she was some wealthy girl," the former speakerran on, "but I know better."
"Indeed? How do you know?"
"Her hands! They were good hands, and she used them as if she knewwhat they were made for."
"Anything else?"
"No. She seemed very sad and didn't say much. Of course I only saw heronce."
Anderson questioned the girl at some further length, but discoverednothing of moment, so he left, declaring that he would probably moveinto the room on the following day.
Prom the rooming-house he went directly to the Morgue, and for asecond time examined the body, confining his attention particularly tothe hands. The right one showed nothing upon which to found a theory,save that it was, indeed, a capable hand with smooth skin andwell-tended nails; but on examining the left Paul noted a markedpeculiarity. Near the ends of the thumb and the first finger the skinwas roughened, abrased; there were numerous tiny black spotsbeneath the skin, which, upon careful scrutiny, he discovered to bemicroscopic blood-blisters.
For a long time he puzzled over this phenomenon which had escaped allprevious observers, but to save him he could invent no explanation forit. He repaired finally to the office of the attendant and asked forthe girl's clothes, receiving permission to examine a small bundle.
"Where's the rest?" he demanded.
"That's all she had," said the man.
"No baggage at all?"
"Not a thing but what she stood up in. The coroner has her jewelry andthings of that sort."
Anderson searched the contents of the bundle with the utmost care, butfound no mark of any sort. The garments, although inexpensive, werebeautifully neat and clean, and they displayed the most marvelousexamples of needlework he had ever seen. Among the effects was a plushmuff, out of which, as he picked it up, fell a pair of little knittedmittens--or was there a pair? Finding but the one, he shook the muffagain, then looked through the other things.
"Where's the other mitten?" he inquired.
"There 'ain't been but the one," the attendant told him.
"Are you sure?"
"See here, do you think I'm trying to hold out a yarn mitten on you?I say there 'ain't been but the one. I was here when she came, and Iknow."
Discouraged by the paucity of clues which this place offered, And
ersonwent next to the coroner's office.
The City Hall newspaper squad had desks in this place, but Paul paidno attention to them or to their occupants. He went straight to thewicket and asked for the effects of the dead girl.
It appeared that Burns had told his practical joke broadcast, forthe young man heard his name mentioned, and then some one behind himsnickered. He paid no attention, however, for the clerk had handed hima small leather bag or purse, together with a morphine-bottle, aboutthe size and shape of an ordinary vaseline-bottle. The bag was cheapand bore no maker's name or mark. Inside of it was a brooch, a ring, asilver chain, and a slip of paper. Stuck to the bottom of the reticulewas a small key. Paul came near overlooking the last-named article,for it was well hidden in a fold near the corner. Now a key to anunknown lock is not much to go on at best, therefore he gave hisattention to the paper. It was evidently a scrap torn from a sheet ofwrapping-paper, and bore these figures in pencil:
9.25 6.25 ---- 3.00
While he was reading these figures Paul heard a reporter say, loudly,"Now that I have written the paper, who will take it?"
Another answered, "I will."
"Who are you?" inquired the first voice.
"Hawkshaw, the detective."
Anderson's cheeks flushed, but he returned the bag and its contentswithout comment and walked out, heedless of the laughter of thesix reporters. The injustice of their ridicule burnt him like abranding-iron, for his only offense lay in trying the impossible.These fellows had done their best and had failed, yet they jeered athim because he had tackled a forlorn hope. They had taken the trailwhen it was hot and had lost it; now they railed at him when he tookit cold.
All that afternoon he tramped the streets, thinking, thinking, untilhis brain went stale. The only fresh clues he had discovered thusfar were the marks on finger and thumb, the fact that the girl was aCanadian, and that she had possessed but one mitten instead of two.This last, for obvious reasons, was too trivial to mean anything, andyet in so obscure a case it could not be ignored. The fact that shewas a Canadian helped but little, therefore the best point upon whichto hang a line of reasoning seemed to be those black spots on the lefthand. But they stumped Anderson absolutely.
He altered his mental approach to the subject and reflected upon thegirl's belongings. Taken in their entirety they showed nothing savethat the girl was poor, therefore he began mentally to assort them,one by one. First, clothes. They were ordinary clothes; they betrayednothing. Second, the purse. It was like a million other purses andshowed no distinguishing mark, no peculiarity. Third, the jewelry. Itwas cheap and common, of a sort to be found in any store. Fourth, themorphine-bottle. Paul was forced likewise to dismiss consideration ofthat. There remained nothing but the scrap of paper, torn from thecorner of a large sheet and containing these penciled figures:
9.25 6.25 ---- 3.00
It was a simple sum in subtraction, a very simple sum indeed; toosimple, Anderson reflected, for any one to reduce to figures unlessthose figures had been intended for a purpose. He recalled the faceat the morgue and vowed that such a girl could have done the summentally. Then why the paper? Why had she taken pains to tear off apiece of wrapping-paper, jot down figures so easy to remember,and preserve them in her purse? Why, she did so because she wasmethodical, something answered. But, his alter ego reasoned, if shehad been sufficiently methodical to note a trivial transaction socarefully, she would have been sufficiently methodical to use somebetter, some more methodical method. She would not have torn off acorner of thick wrapping-paper upon which to keep her books. There wasbut one answer, memorandum!
All right, memorandum it was, for the time being. Now then, in whatbusiness could she have been engaged where she found it necessary tokeep memoranda of such inconsiderable sums? Oh, Lord! There were amillion! Paul had been walking on thin ice from the start; now it gaveway beneath him, so he abandoned this train of thought and went backonce more to the bundle of clothes. Surely there was a clue concealedsomewhere among them, if only he could find it. They were poorclothes, and yet, judging by their cut, he fancied the girl had lookedexceedingly well in them--nay, even modish. She had evidently spentmuch time on them, as the beautiful needlework attested. At this pointAnderson's mind ran out on to thin ice again, so he reverted to thegirl herself for the _n_th time. She was Canadian, her hands wereuseful, there were tiny blood-blisters on the left thumb and indexfinger, and the skin was roughened and torn minutely, evidently bysome sharp instrument. What instrument? He answered the questionalmost before he had voiced it. A needle, of course!
Paul stopped in his walk so abruptly that a man poked him in the backwith a ladder; but he paid no heed, for his mind was leaping. Thatthickening of the skin, those tiny scratches, those blood-blisters,those garments without mark of maker, yet so stylish in cut and socarefully made, and furthermore that memorandum:
9.25 6.25 ---- 3.00
"Why, she was a dressmaker!" said Anderson, out loud. He went backover his reasoning, but it held good--so good that he would havewagered his own clothes that he was right. Yes, and those figuresrepresented some trifling purchases or commission--for a customer, nodoubt.
It followed naturally that she was not a Buffalo dressmaker, else shewould have been identified long since; nor was it likely that she camefrom any city, for her clothes had not given him the impression ofbeing city-made, and, moreover, the publicity given to the casethrough the press, even allowing for the fact that the printeddescription had been vague, would have been sure to uncover heridentity. No, she was a Canadian country seamstress.
The young man's mind went back a few years to his boyhood on aMichigan farm, where visiting dressmakers used to come and stay by theweek to make his mother's clothes. They usually carried a littleflat trunk filled with patterns, yard sticks, forms, and otherparaphernalia of the trade. Paul remembered that the owners used tobuy the cloths and materials at the country stores, and render astrict accounting thereof to his mother. Well, where was the trunkthat went with this country dressmaker?
The question of baggage had puzzled him from the start. Had the girlbeen possessed of a grip or bundle of any kind at the time of herdeath that question would have been answered. But there was absolutelynothing of the sort in her room. Her complete lack of luggage hadmade him doubt, at first, that she was an out-of-town visitor; but,following his recent conclusions, he decided now that directly theopposite was true. She had come to Buffalo with nothing but a trunk,otherwise she would have taken her hand-luggage with her to the MainStreet rooming-house. It remained to find that trunk.
This problem threatened even greater difficulties than any hitherto,and Paul shivered as the raw Lake wind searched through his clothes.He wondered if it had been as cold as this when the girl arrived inBuffalo. Yes, assuredly. Then why did she go out with only one mitten?His reason told him that the other one had been lost by the police.But the police are careful, as a rule. They had saved every otherarticle found in the girl's possession, even to a brooch and pin andscrap of paper. Probably the girl herself had lost it. But countrydressmakers are careful, too; they are not given to losing mittens,especially in cold weather. It was more reasonable to believe that shehad mislaid it among her belongings; inasmuch as those belongings,according to Paul's logic, were doubtless contained in her trunk, thatwas probably where the missing mitten would be found. But, after all,had she really brought a trunk with her?
Like a flash came the recollection of that key stuck to the bottom ofthe girl's leather purse at the coroner's office. Ten minutes laterPaul was back at the City Hall.
For a second time he was greeted with laughter by the reportorialsquad; again he paid no heed.
"Why, you saw those things not two hours ago," protested the coroner'sclerk, in answer to his inquiry.
"I want to see them again."
"Well, I'm busy. You've had them once, that's enough."
"Friend," said Anderson, quietly, "I want those things and I want themquick. You give them to m
e or I'll go to the man higher up and getthem--and your job along with them."
The fellow obeyed reluctantly. Paul picked the key loose and examinedit closely. While he was thus engaged, one of the reporters behind himsaid:
"Aha! At last he has the key to the mystery."
The general laughter ceased abruptly when the object of this banterthrust the key into his pocket and advanced threateningly toward thespeaker, his face white with rage. The latter rose to his feet; heundertook to execute a dignified retreat, but Anderson seized himviciously, flung him back, and pinned him against the wall, crying,furiously:
"You dirty rat! If you open your face to me again, I'll brain you, andthat goes for all of this death-watch." He took in the other five menwith his reddened eyes. "When you fellows see me coming, hole up.Understand?"
His grip was so fierce, his mouth had such a wicked twist to it, thathis victim understood him perfectly and began to grin in a sickly,apologetic fashion. Paul reseated the reporter at his desk withsuch violence that a chair leg gave way; then he strode out of thebuilding.
For the next few hours Anderson tramped the streets in impotent anger,striving to master himself, for that trifling episode had so upset himthat he could not concentrate his mind upon the subject in hand. Whenhe tried to do so his conclusions seemed grotesquely fanciful andfarfetched. This delay was all the more annoying because on the morrowthe girl was to be buried, and, therefore, the precious hourswere slipping away. He tried repeatedly to attain that abstract,subconscious mood in which alone shines the pure light of inductivereasoning.
"Where is that trunk? Where is that trunk? Where is that trunk?" herepeated, tirelessly. Could it be in some other rooming-house? No. Ifthe girl had disappeared from such a place, leaving her trunk behind,the publicity would have uncovered the fact. It might be lying in thebaggage-room of some hotel, to be sure; but Paul doubted that, for thesame reason. The girl had been poor, too; it was unlikely that shewould have gone to a high-priced hotel. Well, he couldn't examine allthe baggage in all the cheap hotels of the city--that was evident.Somehow he could not picture that girl in a cheap hotel; she was toofine, too patrician. No, it was more likely that she had left hertrunk in some railroad station. This was a long chance, but Paul tookit.
The girl had come from Canada, therefore Anderson went to the GrandTrunk Railway depot and asked for the baggage-master. There were otherroads, but this seemed the most likely.
A raw-boned Irish baggage-man emerged from the confusion, and of asudden Paul realized the necessity of even greater tact here than hehad used with the Scotch girl, for he had no authority of any sortbehind him by virtue of which he could demand so much as a favor.
"Are you a married man?" he inquired, abruptly.
"G'wan! I thought ye wanted a baggage-man," the big fellow replied.
"Don't kid me; this is important."
"Shure, I am, but I don't want any accident insurance. I took a chanceand I'm game."
"Have you any daughters?"
"Two of them. But what's it to ye?"
"Suppose one of them disappeared?"
The baggage-man seized Anderson by the shoulder; his eyes dilated;with a catch in his voice he cried:
"Love o' God, speak out! What are ye drivin' at?"
"Nothing has happened to your girls, but--"
"Then what in hell--?"
"Wait! I had to throw a little scare into you so you'd understand whatI'm getting at. Suppose one of your girls lay dead and unidentifiedin the morgue of a strange city and was about to be buried in thePotter's Field. You'd want to know about it, wouldn't you?"
"Are ye daft? Or has something really happened? If not, it's a damnfool question. What d'ye want?"
"Listen! You'd want her to have a decent burial, and you'd want hermother to know how she came to such a pass, wouldn't you?"
The Irishman mopped his brow uncertainly. "I would that."
"Then listen some more." Paul told the man his story, freely,earnestly, but rapidly; he painted the picture of a shy, lonely girl,homeless, hopeless and despondent in a great city, then the picture oftwo old people waiting in some distant farmhouse, sick at heart anduncertain, seeing their daughter's face in the firelight, hearingher sigh in the night wind. He talked in homely words that left thebaggage-man's face grave, then he told how Burns, in a cruel jest, hadsent a starving boy out to solve the mystery that had baffled the bestdetectives. When he had finished his listener cried:
"Shure it was a rotten trick, but why d'ye come here?"
"I want you to go through your baggage-room with me till we find atrunk which this key will fit."
"Come on with ye. I'm blamed if I don't admire yer nerve. Of courseye understand I've no right to let ye in--that's up to thestation-master, but he's a grouchy divil." The speaker led Paul intoa room piled high with trunks, then summoned two helpers. "We'll moveevery dam' wan of them till we fit your little key," he declared; thenthe four men fell to.
A blind search promised to be a job of hours, so Paul walked down therunway between the piles of trunks, using his eyes as he went. Atleast he could eliminate certain classes of baggage, and thus he mightshorten the search; but half-way down the row he called sharply to thesmashers:
"Come here, quick!" At his tone they came running. "Look! that one inthe bottom row!" he cried. "That's it. Something tells me it is."
On the floor underneath the pile was a little, flat, battered tintrunk, pathetically old-fashioned and out of place among its morestylish neighbors; it was the kind of trunk Paul had seen in hismother's front room on the farm. It was bound about with a bit ofrope.
His excitement infected the others, and the three smashers went at thepile, regardless of damage. Anderson's suspense bid fair to choke him;what if this were not the one? he asked himself. But what if it werethe right one? What if this key he clutched in his cold palm shouldfit the lock? Paul pictured what he would see when he lifted the lid:a collection of forms, hangers, patterns, yard-sticks, a tape measure,and somewhere in it a little black yarn mitten. He prayed blindly forcourage to withstand disappointment.
"There she is," panted his Irish friend, dragging the object out intothe clear. The other men crowded closer. "Come on, lad. What are yewaitin' for?"
Anderson knelt before the little battered trunk and inserted the key.It was the keenest moment he had ever lived. He turned the key; thenhe was on his feet, cold, calm, his blue eyes glittering.
"Cut those ropes. Quick!" he ordered. "We're right."
The man at his side whipped out a knife and slashed twice.
"Come close, all of you," Paul directed, "and remember everything wefind. You may have to testify."
He lifted the lid. On the top of the shallow tray lay a little blackyarn mitten, the mate to that one in the city Morgue.
Anderson smiled into the faces of the men at his side. "That's it," hesaid, simply.
The tall Irishman laid a hand on his shoulder, saying: "Yer all right,boy. Don't get rattled,"
Paul opened the till and found precisely the paraphernalia he hadexpected: there were forms, hangers, patterns, yard-sticks, and a tapemeasure. In the compartment beneath were some neatly folded clothes,the needlework of which was fine, and in one corner a bundle ofletters which Anderson examined with trembling fingers. They wereaddressed to "Miss Mabel Wilkes, Highland, Ontario, Canada, Care ofCaptain Wilkes."
The amateur detective replaced the letters carefully; he closed andlocked the trunk; then he thanked his companions.
"If I had a dollar in the world," said he, "I'd ask you boys to have adrink, but I'm broke." Then he began to laugh foolishly, hysterically,until the raw-boned man clapped him on the back again.
"Straighten up, lad. Ye've been strained a bit too hard. I'lltelephone for the cops."
In an instant Paul was himself. "You'll do nothing of the sort," hecried. "Why, man, you'll spoil the whole thing. I've worked this outalone, and if the police hear of it they'll notify all the papers andI'll have no story. Burns
won't give me that job, and I'll be hungryagain."
"True! I forgot that fat-headed divil of an editor. Well, you say theword and nobody won't know nothin' from us. Hey, boys?"
"Sure not," the other men agreed. This lad was one of their kind; hewas up against it and fighting for his own, therefore they knew how tosympathize. But Paul had been seized with terror lest his story mightget away from him, therefore he bade them a hasty good-by and spedup-town. His feet could not carry him swiftly enough.
Burns greeted him sourly when he burst into the editorial sanctum. Itwas not yet twenty-four hours since he had sent this fellow away withinstructions not to return.
"Are you back again?" he snarled. "I heard about your assaulting Wellsdown at the City Hall. Don't try it on me or I'll have you pinched."
Paul laughed lightly. "I don't have to fight for my rights any more."
"Indeed! What are you grinning about? Have you found who that girlis?"
"I have."
"_What?_" Burns's jaw dropped limply; he leaned forward in his chair.
"Yes, sir! I've identified her."
The fat man was at first incredulous, then suspicious. "Don't try anytricks on me," he cried, warningly. "Don't try to put anything over--"
"Her name is Mabel Wilkes. She is the daughter of Captain Wilkes, ofHighland, Ontario. She was a country dressmaker and lived with herpeople at that place. Her trunk is down at the Grand Trunk depot withthe rest of her clothes in it, together with the mate to the mittenshe had when she killed herself. I went through the trunk with thebaggage-master, name Corrigan. Here's the key which I got from herpurse at the coroner's office."
Burns fixed his round eyes upon the key, then he shifted them slowlyto Anderson's face. "Why--why--this is amazing! I--I--" He cleared histhroat nervously. "How did you discover all this? Who told you?"
"Nobody told me. I reasoned it out."
"But how--Good Lord! Am I dreaming?"
"I'm a good newspaper man. I've been telling you that every day. Maybeyou'll believe me now."
Burns made no reply. Instead, he pushed a button and Wells, of theCity Hall squad, entered, pausing abruptly at sight of Anderson.Giving the latter no time for words, Mr. Burns issued hisinstructions. On the instant he was the trained newspaper man again,cheating the clock dial and trimming minutes: his words were sharp anddecisive.
"That suicide story has broken big and we've got a scoop. Anderson hasidentified her. Take the first G.T. train for Highland, Ontario, andfind her father, Captain Wilkes. Wire me a full story about the girlMabel, private life, history, everything. Take plenty of space. Haveit in by midnight."
Wells's eyes were round, too; they were glued upon Paul with ahypnotic stare, but he managed to answer, "Yes, sir!" He was no longergrinning.
"Now, Anderson," the editor snapped, "get down-stairs and see if youcan write the story. Pile it on thick--it's a corker."
"Very good, sir, but I'd like a little money," that elated youthdemanded, boldly. "Just advance me fifty, will you? Remember I'm ontop salary."
Burns made a wry face. "I'll send a check down to you," he promised,"but get at that story and make it a good one or I'll fire youtonight."
Anderson got. He found a desk and began to write feverishly. Ahalf-hour later he read what he had written and tore it up. Anotherhalf-hour and he repeated the performance. Three times he wrote thetale and destroyed it, then paused, realizing blankly that as anewspaper story it was impossible. Every atom of interest surroundingthe suicide of the girl grew out of his own efforts to solve themystery. Nothing had happened, no new clues had been uncovered, no onehad been implicated in the girl's death, there was no crime. It wasa tale of Paul Anderson's deductions, nothing more, and it had nonewspaper value. He found he had written about himself instead ofabout the girl.
He began again, this time laboriously eliminating himself, and when hehad finished his story it was perhaps the poorest journalistic effortever written.
Upon lagging feet he bore the copy to Burns's office. But the editorgave him no time for explanation, demanding, fiercely:
"Where's that check I sent you?"
"Here it is." The youth handed it to him. "Make a mistake?"
"I certainly did." Burns tore up the check before saying, "Now you getout, you bum, and stay out, or take the consequences."
"Get out? What for?"
"You know what for." Burns was quivering with rage. "You ran a goodbluff and you nearly put it over; but I don't want to advertise myselfas a jackass, so I shan't have you pinched unless you come back."
"Come back? I intend to stay. What's the matter?"
"I had an idea you were fourflushing," stormed the editor, "so I wentdown to the G.T. depot myself. There's no trunk of the sort there;Corrigan never saw you or anybody like you. Say, why didn't you walkout when you got that check? What made you come back?"
Anderson began to laugh softly. "Good old Corrigan! He's all right,isn't he? Well, he gets half of that check when you rewrite it, if Idon't laugh myself to death before I get to the bank."
"What d'you mean?" Burns was impressed by the other's confidence.
"Nothing, except that I've found one square man in this village. Onesquare guy is a pretty big percentage in a town the size of Buffalo.Corrigan wouldn't let you see the depot if I wasn't along. Put on yourcoat and come with me--yes, and bring a couple of hired men if it willmake you feel any better."
At the depot he called the baggage-master to him, and said:
"Mr. Corrigan, this is Mr. Burns, the city editor of _TheIntelligencer_."
"That's what he told me," grinned the Irishman, utterly ignoring theyoung editor; "but you didn't give him no references, and I wouldn'ttake a chance."
Burns maintained a dignified silence; he said little even when thecontents of the trunk were displayed to him. Nor did he open his mouthon the way back to the office. But when he was seated at his desk andhad read Anderson's copy he spoke.
"This is the rottenest story ever turned in at this office," said he.
"I know it is," Paul agreed, frankly, then explained his difficulty inwriting it.
"I'll do it myself," Burns told him. "Now, you go home and reportto-morrow."
A very tired but a very happy young man routed out the landlady of acheap boarding-house that night and hugged her like a bear, explainingjoyously that he had done a great big thing. He waltzed her down thehall and back, while she clutched wildly at her flapping flannelwrapper and besought him to think of her other boarders. He waltzedher out of her bedroom slippers, gave her a smacking big kiss on herwrinkled cheek, then left her, breathless and scandalized, but allaflutter.
The city had read the story when Anderson awoke the next morning, for_The Intelligencer_ had made a clean "beat," and Burns had played upthe story tremendously, hence it was with jumping pulses that Paulscanned the front page of that journal. The further he read, however,the greater grew his indignation.
The history of Mabel Wilkes, under the magic touch of Burns, had,to be sure, become a wonderful, tragic story; but nowhere in it wasmention made of Paul Anderson. In the patient and ingenious solutionof the mystery of the girl's identity no credit was given to him. Thecleverness and the perseverance of _The Buffalo Intelligencer_ wasexploited, its able reportorial staff was praised, its editorialshrewdness extolled, but that was all. When he had concluded readingthe article Anderson realized that it was no more than a boost for thecity editor, who it was plain to be seen, had uncovered the storybit by bit, greatly to the confusion of the police and the detectivebureau.
It astounded as well as angered Paul to realize how cleverly Burns hadcovered him up, therefore the sense of injustice was strong in himwhen he entered the office. His enemy recognized his mood, and seemedto gloat over it.
"That was good work you did," he purred, "and I'll keep you on as longas you show ability. Of course you can't write yet, so I'll let youcover real-estate transactions and the market. I'll send for you whenyou're needed."
&nbs
p; Anderson went back to his desk in silent rage. Real estate! Burnsevidently intended to hold him down. His gloomy meditations weresomewhat lightened by the congratulations of his fellow-reporters, whorather timidly ventured to introduce themselves. They understood thefacts and they voiced a similar indignation to his. Burns had playedhim a rotten trick, they agreed. Not content with robbing his newreporter of the recognition which was justly his, the fellow wasevidently determined to vent his spite in other ways. Well, that waslike Burns. They voiced the opinion that Anderson would have a toughjob getting through interference of the kind that their editor wouldthrow in his way.
Hour after hour Paul sat around the office nursing his disappointment,waiting for Burns to send him out. About two o'clock Wells hurriedinto the office, bringing with him the afternoon papers still wet fromthe press. In his eyes was an unwonted sparkle. He crossed directly toAnderson and thrust out his palm.
"Old man, I want to shake with you," said he. "And I want to apologizefor being a rotter."
Paul met him half-way, and the fellow went on:
"Burns gave us the wrong tip on you--said you were a joke--that's whywe joshed you. But you showed us up, and I'm glad you did."
"Why--thank you!" stammered the new reporter, upon whom this manlyapology had a strong effect. "It--it was more luck than anything."
"Luck nothing! You're a genius, and it's a dirty shame the way theboss tried to steal your credit. However, it seems he overreachedhimself." Wells began to laugh.
"_Tried_ to steal it! Good Lord! he did steal it! How do you mean heoverreached himself?"
"Haven't you seen the afternoon papers?"
"No."
"Well! Read 'em!" Mr. Wells spread his papers out before Paul, whoseastonished eyes took in for a second time the story of the Wilkessuicide. But what a story!
He read his own name in big, black type; he read head-lines that toldof a starving boy sent out on a hopeless assignment as a cruel joke;he read the story as it had really occurred, only told in the thirdperson by an author who was neither ashamed nor afraid to givecredit where it was due. The egotistical pretense of _The BuffaloIntelligencer_ was torn to shreds, and ridicule was heaped upon itseditor. Paul read nervously, breathlessly, until Wells interruptedhim.
"I'm to blame for this," said he. "I couldn't stand for such a crookeddeal. When I got in this morning and saw what that fat imbecile haddone to you I tipped the true facts off to the others--all of thefacts I knew. They got the rest from Corrigan, down at the Grand Trunkdepot. Of course this means my job, if the old man finds it out; but Idon't give a damn."
As yet Anderson was too dazed to grasp what had happened to him, butthe other continued:
"The boys have had it in for Burns, on the quiet, for months, and nowI guess they're even."
"I--I don't know how to thank you," stammered Anderson.
"Don't try. You're a born reporter, and the other papers will give youa job even if the baby hippo in yonder fires you."
A boy touched Paul on the arm with the announcement, "Mr. Burns wantsto see you."
"Oho!" cried Wells. "He's got the bad news. Gee! I'd like to hear whathe says. I'll bet he's biting splinters out of his desk. Let me knowwhat comes off, will you?"
When Anderson entered the office of his editor he was met by awhite-faced man whose rage had him so by the throat that speech for amoment was impossible. Beneath Mr. Burns's feet, and strewn broadcastabout the room, were the crumpled sheets of the afternoon papers.Burns glared at the newcomer for a moment, then he extended a shakingfinger, crying, furiously:
"You did this!"
"Did what?"
"You put up this job. You made a fool of me!"
"No, sir! I did not. Your parents saw to that."
"Don't tell me you didn't, you--you damned ungrateful--" Burns seemedabout to assault his reporter, but restrained himself. "You're fired!Do you understand? Fired--discharged."
"Say, Burns--"
"Not a word. I'm done with you. I--"
"Just a minute," young Anderson cried, in a tone that stilled theother. "I'm fired, am I, for something I didn't do? Very well!I'm glad of it, for now you can't stand in my way. You tried todouble-cross me and failed. You robbed me of what was mine and gotcaught at it. You're a big man, in your way, Burns, but some daypeople will tell you that the biggest thing you ever did was to firePaul Anderson. That's how small you'll be, and that's how big I'mgoing to grow. You've 'welched' on your own word; but there's onething you gave me that you can't take away, and that's the knowledgethat I'm a newspaper man and a good one. Now just one thing more: I'mbroke today, but I'm going to lick you as soon as I save up enough forthe fine."
With studied insolence the speaker put on his hat, slammed the doorbehind him, and walked out of _The Intelligencer_ office, leaving theapoplectic editor thereof secure in the breathless knowledge that foronce in his life he had heard the truth spoken. Mr. Burns wondered howlong it would take that young bully to save up ten dollars and costs.