Mr. Jack Hamlin's Mediation

by Bret Harte

  THE BOOM IN THE "CALAVERAS CLARION"

  The editorial sanctum of the "Calaveras Clarion" opened upon the"composing-room" of that paper on the one side, and gave apparently uponthe rest of Calaveras County upon the other. For, situated on the veryoutskirts of the settlement and the summit of a very steep hill, thepines sloped away from the editorial windows to the long valley of theSouth Fork and--infinity. The little wooden building had invaded Naturewithout subduing it. It was filled night and day with the murmur ofpines and their fragrance. Squirrels scampered over its roof when it wasnot preoccupied by woodpeckers, and a printer's devil had once seen anest-building blue jay enter the composing window, flutter before oneof the slanting type-cases with an air of deliberate selection, and thenfly off with a vowel in its bill.

  Amidst these sylvan surroundings the temporary editor of the "Clarion"sat at his sanctum, reading the proofs of an editorial. As he wasoccupying that position during a six weeks' absence of the bona fideeditor and proprietor, he was consequently reading the proof with someanxiety and responsibility. It had been suggested to him by certaincitizens that the "Clarion" needed a firmer and more aggressive policytowards the Bill before the Legislature for the wagon road to the SouthFork. Several Assembly men had been "got at" by the rival settlement ofLiberty Hill, and a scathing exposure and denunciation of such methodswas necessary. The interests of their own township were also to be"whooped up." All this had been vigorously explained to him, and he hadgrasped the spirit, if not always the facts, of his informants. It isto be feared, therefore, that he was perusing his article more withreference to its vigor than his own convictions. And yet he was not sogreatly absorbed as to be unmindful of the murmur of the pineswithout, his half-savage environment, and the lazy talk of his solecompanions,--the foreman and printer in the adjoining room.

  "Bet your life! I've always said that a man INSIDE a newspaper officecould hold his own agin any outsider that wanted to play rough or triedto raid the office! Thar's the press, and thar's the printin' ink androller! Folks talk a heap o' the power o' the Press!--I tell ye, yedon't half know it. Why, when old Kernel Fish was editin' the 'SierraBanner,' one o' them bullies that he'd lampooned in the 'Banner' foughthis way past the Kernel in the office, into the composin'-room, towreck everythin' and 'pye' all the types. Spoffrel--ye don't rememberSpoffrel?--little red-haired man?--was foreman. Spoffrel fended him offwith the roller and got one good dab inter his eyes that blinded him,and then Spoffrel sorter skirmished him over to the press,--a plainlever just like ours,--whar the locked-up form of the inside was stilla-lyin'! Then, quick as lightnin', Spoffrel tilts him over agin it, andHE throws out his hand and ketches hold o' the form to steady himself,when Spoffrel just runs the form and the hand under the press and downwith the lever! And that held the feller fast as grim death! And whenat last he begs off, and Spoff lets him loose, the hull o' that 'erelampooning article he objected to was printed right onto the skin o' hishand! Fact, and it wouldn't come off, either."

  "Gosh, but I'd like to hev seen it," said the printer. "There ain't anychance, I reckon, o' such a sight here. The boss don't take no riskslampoonin', and he" (the editor knew he was being indicated by someunseen gesture of the unseen workman) "ain't that style."

  "Ye never kin tell," said the foreman didactically, "what might happen!I've known editors to get into a fight jest for a little innercentbedevilin' o' the opposite party. Sometimes for a misprint. Old manPritchard of the 'Argus' oncet had a hole blown through his arm becausehis proofreader had called Colonel Starbottle's speech an 'ignominious'defense, when the old man hed written 'ingenuous' defense."

  The editor paused in his proof-reading. He had just come upon thesentence: "We cannot congratulate Liberty Hill--in its superiorelevation--upon the ignominious silence of the representative of allCalaveras when this infamous Bill was introduced." He referred to hiscopy. Yes! He had certainly written "ignominious,"--that was what hisinformants had suggested. But was he sure they were right? He had avague recollection, also, that the representative alluded to--SenatorBradley--had fought two duels, and was a "good" though somewhatimpulsive shot! He might alter the word to "ingenuous" or "ingenious,"either would be finely sarcastic, but then--there was his foreman, whowould detect it! He would wait until he had finished the entire article.In that occupation he became oblivious of the next room, of a silence,a whispered conversation, which ended with a rapping at the door and theappearance of the foreman in the doorway.

  "There's a man in the office who wants to see the editor," he said.

  "Show him in," replied the editor briefly. He was, however, consciousthat there was a singular significance in his foreman's manner, and aneager apparition of the other printer over the foreman's shoulder.

  "He's carryin' a shot-gun, and is a man twice as big as you be," saidthe foreman gravely.

  The editor quickly recalled his own brief and as yet blameless recordin the "Clarion." "Perhaps," he said tentatively, with a gentle smile,"he's looking for Captain Brush" (the absent editor).

  "I told him all that," said the foreman grimly, "and he said he wantedto see the man in charge."

  In proportion as the editor's heart sank his outward crest arose. "Showhim in," he said loftily.

  "We KIN keep him out," suggested the foreman, lingering a moment; "meand him," indicating the expectant printer behind him, "is enough forthat."

  "Show him up," repeated the editor firmly.

  The foreman withdrew; the editor seated himself and again took uphis proof. The doubtful word "ignominious" seemed to stand out of theparagraph before him; it certainly WAS a strong expression! He was aboutto run his pencil through it when he heard the heavy step of his visitorapproaching. A sudden instinct of belligerency took possession of him,and he wrathfully threw the pencil down.

  The burly form of the stranger blocked the doorway. He was dressed likea miner, but his build and general physiognomy were quite distinctfrom the local variety. His upper lip and chin were clean-shaven, stillshowing the blue-black roots of the beard which covered the rest of hisface and depended in a thick fleece under his throat. He carried a smallbundle tied up in a silk handkerchief in one hand, and a "shot-gun" inthe other, perilously at half-cock. Entering the sanctum, he put downhis bundle and quietly closed the door behind him. He then drew an emptychair towards him and dropped heavily into it with his gun on hisknees. The editor's heart dropped almost as heavily, although he quitecomposedly held out his hand.

  "Shall I relieve you of your gun?"

  "Thank ye, lad--noa. It's moor coomfortable wi' me, and it's maindangersome to handle on the half-cock. That's why I didn't leave 'im onthe horse outside!"

  At the sound of his voice and occasional accent a flash of intelligencerelieved the editor's mind. He remembered that twenty miles away, inthe illimitable vista from his windows, lay a settlement of Englishnorth-country miners, who, while faithfully adopting the methods,customs, and even slang of the Californians, retained many of theirnative peculiarities. The gun he carried on his knee, however, wasevidently part of the Californian imitation.

  "Can I do anything for you?" said the editor blandly.

  "Ay! I've coom here to bill ma woife."

  "I--don't think I understand," hesitated the editor, with a smile.

  "I've coom here to get ye to put into your paaper a warnin', a notiss,that onless she returns to my house in four weeks, I'll have nowt to dowi' her again."

  "Oh!" said the editor, now perfectly reassured, "you want anadvertisement? That's the business of the foreman; I'll call him." Hewas rising from his seat when the stranger laid a heavy hand on hisshoulder and gently forced him down again.

  "Noa, lad! I don't want noa foreman nor understrappers to take this job.I want to talk it over wi' you. Sabe? My woife she bin up and awaa thesesix months. We had a bit of difference, that ain't here nor there, butshe skedaddled outer my house. I want to give her fair warning, and lether know I ain't payin' any debts o' hers arter this notiss, and I ain'ttakin' her back
arter four weeks from date."

  "I see," said the editor glibly. "What's your wife's name?"

  "Eliza Jane Dimmidge."

  "Good," continued the editor, scribbling on the paper before him;"something like this will do: 'Whereas my wife, Eliza Jane Dimmidge,having left my bed and board without just cause or provocation, thisis to give notice that I shall not be responsible for any debts of hercontracting on or after this date.'"

  "Ye must be a lawyer," said Mr. Dimmidge admiringly.

  It was an old enough form of advertisement, and the remark showedincontestably that Mr. Dimmidge was not a native; but the editor smiledpatronizingly and went on: "'And I further give notice that if she doesnot return within the period of four weeks from this date, I shall takesuch proceedings for relief as the law affords.'"

  "Coom, lad, I didn't say THAT."

  "But you said you wouldn't take her back."

  "Ay."

  "And you can't prevent her without legal proceedings. She's your wife.But you needn't take proceedings, you know. It's only a warning."

  Mr. Dimmidge nodded approvingly. "That's so."

  "You'll want it published for four weeks, until date?" asked the editor.

  "Mebbe longer, lad."

  The editor wrote "till forbid" in the margin of the paper and smiled.

  "How big will it be?" said Mr. Dimmidge.

  The editor took up a copy of the "Clarion" and indicated about an inchof space. Mr. Dimmidge's face fell.

  "I want it bigger,--in large letters, like a play-card," he said."That's no good for a warning."

  "You can have half a column or a whole column if you like," said theeditor airily.

  "I'll take a whole one," said Mr. Dimmidge simply.

  The editor laughed. "Why! it would cost you a hundred dollars."

  "I'll take it," repeated Mr. Dimmidge.

  "But," said the editor gravely, "the same notice in a small space willserve your purpose and be quite legal."

  "Never you mind that, lad! It's the looks of the thing I'm arter, andnot the expense. I'll take that column."

  The editor called in the foreman and showed him the copy. "Can youdisplay that so as to fill a column?"

  The foreman grasped the situation promptly. It would be big business forthe paper. "Yes," he said meditatively, "that bold-faced election typewill do it."

  Mr. Dimmidge's face brightened. The expression "bold-faced" pleased him."That's it! I told you. I want to bill her in a portion of the paper."

  "I might put in a cut," said the foreman suggestively; "something likethis." He took a venerable woodcut from the case. I grieve to say it wasone which, until the middle of the present century, was common enough inthe newspaper offices in the Southwest. It showed the running figure ofa negro woman carrying her personal property in a knotted handkerchiefslung from a stick over her shoulder, and was supposed to represent "afugitive slave."

  Mr. Dimmidge's eyes brightened. "I'll take that, too. It's a littledark-complected for Mrs. P., but it will do. Now roon away, lad," hesaid to the foreman, as he quietly pushed him into the outer officeagain and closed the door. Then, facing the surprised editor, he said,"Theer's another notiss I want ye to put in your paper; but that'satween US. Not a word to THEM," he indicated the banished foreman with ajerk of his thumb. "Sabe? I want you to put this in another part o' yourpaper, quite innocent-like, ye know." He drew from his pocket a graywallet, and taking out a slip of paper read from it gravely, "'If thisshould meet the eye of R. B., look out for M. J. D. He is on your track.When this you see write a line to E. J. D., Elktown Post Office.' I wantthis to go in as 'Personal and Private'--sabe?--like them notisses inthe big 'Frisco papers."

  "I see," said the editor, laying it aside. "It shall go in the sameissue in another column."

  Apparently Mr. Dimmidge expected something more than this reply, forafter a moment's hesitation he said with an odd smile:

  "Ye ain't seein' the meanin' o' that, lad?"

  "No," said the editor lightly; "but I suppose R. B. does, and it isn'tintended that any one else should."

  "Mebbe it is, and mebbe it isn't," said Mr. Dimmidge, with aself-satisfied air. "I don't mind saying atween us that R. B. is the manas I've suspicioned as havin' something to do with my wife goin' away;and ye see, if he writes to E. J. D.--that's my wife's initials--atElktown, I'LL get that letter and so make sure."

  "But suppose your wife goes there first, or sends?"

  "Then I'll ketch her or her messenger. Ye see?"

  The editor did not see fit to oppose any argument to this phenomenalsimplicity, and Mr. Dimmidge, after settling his bill with the foreman,and enjoining the editor to the strictest secrecy regarding the originof the "personal notice," took up his gun and departed, leaving thetreasury of the "Clarion" unprecedentedly enriched, and the editor tohis proofs.

  The paper duly appeared the next morning with the column advertisement,the personal notice, and the weighty editorial on the wagon road. Therewas a singular demand for the paper, the edition was speedily exhausted,and the editor was proportionately flattered, although he was surprisedto receive neither praise nor criticism from his subscribers. Beforeevening, however, he learned to his astonishment that the excitement wascaused by the column advertisement. Nobody knew Mr. Dimmidge, nor hisdomestic infelicities, and the editor and foreman, being equally in thedark, took refuge in a mysterious and impressive evasion of all inquiry.Never since the last San Francisco Vigilance Committee had the officebeen so besieged. The editor, foreman, and even the apprentice, werebuttonholed and "treated" at the bar, but to no effect. All that couldbe learned was that it was a bona fide advertisement, for which onehundred dollars had been received! There were great discussions andconflicting theories as to whether the value of the wife, or thehusband's anxiety to get rid of her, justified the enormous expense andostentatious display. She was supposed to be an exceedingly beautifulwoman by some, by others a perfect Sycorax; in one breath Mr. Dimmidgewas a weak, uxorious spouse, wasting his substance on a creature who didnot care for him, and in another a maddened, distracted, henpecked man,content to purchase peace and rest at any price. Certainly, never wasadvertisement more effective in its publicity, or cheaper in proportionto the circulation it commanded. It was copied throughout the wholePacific slope; mighty San Francisco papers described its size andsetting under the attractive headline, "How they Advertise a Wife in theMountains!" It reappeared in the Eastern journals, under the title of"Whimsicalities of the Western Press." It was believed to have crossedto England as a specimen of "Transatlantic Savagery." The real editorof the "Clarion" awoke one morning, in San Francisco, to find his paperfamous. Its advertising columns were eagerly sought for; he at onceadvanced the rates. People bought successive issues to gaze upon thismonumental record of extravagance. A singular idea, which, however,brought further fortune to the paper, was advanced by an astute criticat the Eureka Saloon. "My opinion, gentlemen, is that the whole blamedthing is a bluff! There ain't no Mr. Dimmidge; there ain't no Mrs.Dimmidge; there ain't no desertion! The whole rotten thing is anADVERTISEMENT o' suthin'! Ye'll find afore ye get through with itthat that there wife won't come back until that blamed husband buysSomebody's Soap, or treats her to Somebody's particular Starch or PatentMedicine! Ye jest watch and see!" The idea was startling, and seizedupon the mercantile mind. The principal merchant of the town, andpurveyor to the mining settlements beyond, appeared the next morning atthe office of the "Clarion." "Ye wouldn't mind puttin' this 'ad' ina column alongside o' the Dimmidge one, would ye?" The young editorglanced at it, and then, with a serpent-like sagacity, veiled, however,by the suavity of the dove, pointed out that the original advertisermight think it called his bona fides into question and withdraw hisadvertisement. "But if we secured you by an offer of double the amountper column?" urged the merchant. "That," responded the locum tenens,"was for the actual editor and proprietor in San Francisco to determine.He would telegraph." He did so. The response was, "Put it in." Whereuponin the next issue, sid
e by side with Mr. Dimmidge's protracted warning,appeared a column with the announcement, in large letters, "WE HAVEN'TLOST ANY WIFE, but WE are prepared to furnish the following goods ata lower rate than any other advertiser in the county," followed by theusual price list of the merchant's wares. There was an unprecedenteddemand for that issue. The reputation of the "Clarion," both as a shrewdadvertising medium and a comic paper, was established at once. For a fewdays the editor waited with some apprehension for a remonstrance fromthe absent Dimmidge, but none came. Whether Mr. Dimmidge recognized thatthis new advertisement gave extra publicity to his own, or that he wasalready on the track of the fugitive, the editor did not know. Thefew curious citizens who had, early in the excitement, penetratedthe settlement of the English miners twenty miles away in search ofinformation, found that Mr. Dimmidge had gone away, and that Mrs.Dimmidge had NEVER resided there with him!

  Six weeks passed. The limit of Mr. Dimmidge's advertisement had beenreached, and, as it was not renewed, it had passed out of the pagesof the "Clarion," and with it the merchant's advertisement in the nextcolumn. The excitement had subsided, although its influence was stillfelt in the circulation of the paper and its advertising popularity. Thetemporary editor was also nearing the limit of his incumbency, but hadso far participated in the good fortune of the "Clarion" as to receivean offer from one of the San Francisco dailies.

  It was a warm night, and he was alone in his sanctum. The rest of thebuilding was dark and deserted, and his solitary light, flashing outthrough the open window, fell upon the nearer pines and was lost in thedark, indefinable slope below. He had reached the sanctum by therear, and a door which he also left open to enjoy the freshness ofthe aromatic air. Nor did it in the least mar his privacy. Rather thesolitude of the great woods without seemed to enter through thatdoor and encompassed him with its protecting loneliness. There wasoccasionally a faint "peep" in the scant eaves, or a "pat-pat," endingin a frightened scurry across the roof, or the slow flap of a heavywing in the darkness below. These gentle disturbances did not, however,interrupt his work on "The True Functions of the County Newspaper," theeditorial on which he was engaged.

  Presently a more distinct rustling against the straggling blackberrybushes beside the door attracted his attention. It was followed by alight tapping against the side of the house. The editor started andturned quickly towards the open door. Two outside steps led to theground. Standing upon the lower one was a woman. The upper part of herfigure, illuminated by the light from the door, was thrown into greaterrelief by the dark background of the pines. Her face was unknown tohim, but it was a pleasant one, marked by a certain good-humoreddetermination.

  "May I come in?" she said confidently.

  "Certainly," said the editor. "I am working here alone because it isso quiet." He thought he would precipitate some explanation from her byexcusing himself.

  "That's the reason why I came," she said, with a quiet smile.

  She came up the next step and entered the room. She was plainly butneatly dressed, and now that her figure was revealed he saw that she waswearing a linsey-woolsey riding-skirt, and carried a serviceable rawhidewhip in her cotton-gauntleted hand. She took the chair he offered herand sat down sideways on it, her whip hand now also holding up herskirt, and permitting a hem of clean white petticoat and a smart,well-shaped boot to be seen.

  "I don't remember to have had the pleasure of seeing you in Calaverasbefore," said the editor tentatively.

  "No. I never was here before," she said composedly, "but you've heardenough of me, I reckon. I'm Mrs. Dimmidge." She threw one hand overthe back of the chair, and with the other tapped her riding-whip on thefloor.

  The editor started. Mrs. Dimmidge! Then she was not a myth. An absurdsimilarity between her attitude with the whip and her husband's entrancewith his gun six weeks before forced itself upon him and made her aninvincible presence.

  "Then you have returned to your husband?" he said hesitatingly.

  "Not much!" she returned, with a slight curl of her lip.

  "But you read his advertisement?"

  "I saw that column of fool nonsense he put in your paper--ef that'swhat you mean," she said with decision, "but I didn't come here to seeHIM--but YOU."

  The editor looked at her with a forced smile, but a vague misgiving. Hewas alone at night in a deserted part of the settlement, with a plump,self-possessed woman who had a contralto voice, a horsewhip, and--hecould not help feeling--an evident grievance.

  "To see me?" he repeated, with a faint attempt at gallantry. "You arepaying me a great compliment, but really"--

  "When I tell you I've come three thousand miles from Kansas straighthere without stopping, ye kin reckon it's so," she replied firmly.

  "Three thousand miles!" echoed the editor wonderingly.

  "Yes. Three thousand miles from my own folks' home in Kansas, where sixyears ago I married Mr. Dimmidge,--a British furriner as could scarcelymake himself understood in any Christian language! Well, he got roundme and dad, allowin' he was a reg'lar out-and-out profeshnal miner,--hadlived in mines ever since he was a boy; and so, not knowin' what kind o'mines, and dad just bilin' over with the gold fever, we were married andkem across the plains to Californy. He was a good enough man to look at,but it warn't three months before I discovered that he allowed a wifewas no better nor a nigger slave, and he the master. That made me openmy eyes; but then, as he didn't drink, and didn't gamble, and didn'tswear, and was a good provider and laid by money, why I shifted alongwith him as best I could. We drifted down the first year to Sonora, atRed Dog, where there wasn't another woman. Well, I did the nigger slavebusiness,--never stirring out o' the settlement, never seein' a townor a crowd o' decent people,--and he did the lord and master! We playedthat game for two years, and I got tired. But when at last he allowedhe'd go up to Elktown Hill, where there was a passel o' his countrymenat work, with never a sign o' any other folks, and leave me alone at RedDog until he fixed up a place for me at Elktown Hill,--I kicked! I gavehim fair warning! I did as other nigger slaves did,--I ran away!"

  A recollection of the wretched woodcut which Mr. Dimmidge had selectedto personify his wife flashed upon the editor with a new meaning.Yet perhaps she had not seen it, and had only read a copy of theadvertisement. What could she want? The "Calaveras Clarion," although a"Palladium" and a "Sentinel upon the Heights of Freedom" in reference towagon roads, was not a redresser of domestic wrongs,--except through itsadvertising columns! Her next words intensified that suggestion.

  "I've come here to put an advertisement in your paper."

  The editor heaved a sigh of relief, as once before. "Certainly," he saidbriskly. "But that's another department of the paper, and the printershave gone home. Come to-morrow morning early."

  "To-morrow morning I shall be miles away," she said decisively,"and what I want done has got to be done NOW! I don't want to see noprinters; I don't want ANYBODY to know I've been here but you. That'swhy I kem here at night, and rode all the way from Sawyer's Station,and wouldn't take the stage-coach. And when we've settled about theadvertisement, I'm going to mount my horse, out thar in the bushes, andscoot outer the settlement."

  "Very good," said the editor resignedly. "Of course I can deliver yourinstructions to the foreman. And now--let me see--I suppose you wish tointimate in a personal notice to your husband that you've returned."

  "Nothin' o' the kind!" said Mrs. Dimmidge coolly. "I want to placard himas he did me. I've got it all written out here. Sabe?"

  She took from her pocket a folded paper, and spreading it out on theeditor's desk, with a certain pride of authorship read as follows:--

  "Whereas my husband, Micah J. Dimmidge, having given out that I haveleft his bed and board,--the same being a bunk in a log cabin and porkand molasses three times a day,--and having advertised that he'd payno debts of MY contractin',--which, as thar ain't any, might be easiercollected than debts of his own contractin',--this is to certify thatunless he returns from Elktown Hill to his only home in Sonora in
oneweek from date, payin' the cost of this advertisement, I'll know thereason why.--Eliza Jane Dimmidge."

  "Thar," she added, drawing a long breath, "put that in a column of the'Clarion,' same size as the last, and let it work, and that's all I wantof you."

  "A column?" repeated the editor. "Do you know the cost is veryexpensive, and I COULD put it in a single paragraph?"

  "I reckon I kin pay the same as Mr. Dimmidge did for HIS," said the ladycomplacently. "I didn't see your paper myself, but the paper as copiedit--one of them big New York dailies--said that it took up a wholecolumn."

  The editor breathed more freely; she had not seen the infamous woodcutwhich her husband had selected. At the same moment he was struck with asense of retribution, justice, and compensation.

  "Would you," he asked hesitatingly,--"would you like it illustrated--bya cut?"

  "With which?"

  "Wait a moment; I'll show you."

  He went into the dark composing-room, lit a candle, and rummaging in adrawer sacred to weather-beaten, old-fashioned electrotyped advertisingsymbols of various trades, finally selected one and brought it to Mrs.Dimmidge. It represented a bare and exceedingly stalwart arm wielding alarge hammer.

  "Your husband being a miner,--a quartz miner,--would that do?" he asked.(It had been previously used to advertise a blacksmith, a gold-beater,and a stone-mason.)

  The lady examined it critically.

  "It does look a little like Micah's arm," she said meditatively."Well--you kin put it in."

  The editor was so well pleased with his success that he must needs makeanother suggestion. "I suppose," he said ingenuously, "that you don'twant to answer the 'Personal'?"

  "'Personal'?" she repeated quickly, "what's that? I ain't seen no'Personal.'" The editor saw his blunder. She, of course, had never seenMr. Dimmidge's artful "Personal;" THAT the big dailies naturally had notnoticed nor copied. But it was too late to withdraw now. He broughtout a file of the "Clarion," and snipping out the paragraph with hisscissors, laid it before the lady.

  She stared at it with wrinkled brows and a darkening face.

  "And THIS was in the same paper?--put in by Mr. Dimmidge?" she askedbreathlessly.

  The editor, somewhat alarmed, stammered "Yes." But the next moment hewas reassured. The wrinkles disappeared, a dozen dimples broke out wherethey had been, and the determined, matter-of-fact Mrs. Dimmidge burstinto a fit of rosy merriment. Again and again she laughed, shakingthe building, startling the sedate, melancholy woods beyond, until theeditor himself laughed in sheer vacant sympathy.

  "Lordy!" she said at last, gasping, and wiping the laughter from her weteyes. "I never thought of THAT."

  "No," explained the editor smilingly; "of course you didn't. Don't yousee, the papers that copied the big advertisement never saw that littleparagraph, or if they did, they never connected the two together."

  "Oh, it ain't that," said Mrs. Dimmidge, trying to regain her composureand holding her sides. "It's that blessed DEAR old dunderhead of aDimmidge I'm thinking of. That gets me. I see it all now. Only, sakesalive! I never thought THAT of him. Oh, it's just too much!" and sheagain relapsed behind her handkerchief.

  "Then I suppose you don't want to reply to it," said the editor.

  Her laughter instantly ceased. "Don't I?" she said, wiping her face intoits previous complacent determination. "Well, young man, I reckon that'sjust what I WANT to do! Now, wait a moment; let's see what he said,"she went on, taking up and reperusing the "Personal" paragraph. "Well,then," she went on, after a moment's silent composition with movinglips, "you just put these lines in."

  The editor took up his pencil.

  "To Mr. J. D. Dimmidge.--Hope you're still on R. B.'s tracks. Keepthere!--E. J. D."

  The editor wrote down the line, and then, remembering Mr. Dimmidge'svoluntary explanation of HIS "Personal," waited with some confidence fora like frankness from Mrs. Dimmidge. But he was mistaken.

  "You think that he--R. B.--or Mr. Dimmidge--will understand this?" he atlast asked tentatively. "Is it enough?"

  "Quite enough," said Mrs. Dimmidge emphatically. She took a roll ofgreenbacks from her pocket, selected a hundred-dollar bill and then afive, and laid them before the editor. "Young man," she said, with acertain demure gravity, "you've done me a heap o' good. I never spentmoney with more satisfaction than this. I never thought much o' the'power o' the Press,' as you call it, afore. But this has been a rightcomfortable visit, and I'm glad I ketched you alone. But you understandone thing: this yer visit, and WHO I am, is betwixt you and me only."

  "Of course I must say that the advertisement was AUTHORIZED," returnedthe editor. "I'm only the temporary editor. The proprietor is away."

  "So much the better," said the lady complacently. "You just say youfound it on your desk with the money; but don't you give me away."

  "I can promise you that the secret of your personal visit is safe withme," said the young man, with a bow, as Mrs. Dimmidge rose. "Let me seeyou to your horse," he added. "It's quite dark in the woods."

  "I can see well enough alone, and it's just as well you shouldn't knowHOW I kem or HOW I went away. Enough for you to know that I'll be milesaway before that paper comes out. So stay where you are."

  She pressed his hand frankly and firmly, gathered up her riding-skirt,slipped backwards to the door, and the next moment rustled away into thedarkness.

  Early the next morning the editor handed Mrs. Dimmidge's advertisement,and the woodcut he had selected, to his foreman. He was purposely briefin his directions, so as to avoid inquiry, and retired to his sanctum.In the space of a few moments the foreman entered with a slightembarrassment of manner.

  "You'll excuse my speaking to you, sir," he said, with a singularmixture of humility and cunning. "It's no business of mine, I know; butI thought I ought to tell you that this yer kind o' thing won't pay anymore,--it's about played out!"

  "I don't think I understand you," said the editor loftily, but withan inward misgiving. "You don't mean to say that a regular, actualadvertisement"--

  "Of course, I know all that," said the foreman, with a peculiar smile;"and I'm ready to back you up in it, and so's the boy; but it won'tpay."

  "It HAS paid a hundred and five dollars," said the editor, taking thenotes from his pocket; "so I'd advise you to simply attend to your dutyand set it up."

  A look of surprise, followed, however, by a kind of pitying smile,passed over the foreman's face. "Of course, sir, THAT'S all right, andyou know your own business; but if you think that the new advertisementwill pay this time as the other one did, and whoop up another columnfrom an advertiser, I'm afraid you'll slip up. It's a little 'off color'now,--not 'up to date,'--if it ain't a regular 'back number,' as you'llsee."

  "Meantime I'll dispense with your advice," said the editor curtly, "andI think you had better let our subscribers and advertisers do the same,or the 'Clarion' might also be obliged to dispense with your SERVICES."

  "I ain't no blab," said the foreman, in an aggrieved manner, "and Idon't intend to give the show away even if it don't PAY. But I thoughtI'd tell you, because I know the folks round here better than you do."

  He was right. No sooner had the advertisement appeared than the editorfound that everybody believed it to be a sheer invention of his own to"once more boom" the "Clarion." If they had doubted MR. Dimmidge, theyutterly rejected MRS. Dimmidge as an advertiser! It was a stale jokethat nobody would follow up; and on the heels of this came a letter fromthe editor-in-chief.

  MY DEAR BOY,--You meant well, I know, but the second Dimmidge "ad" wasa mistake. Still, it was a big bluff of yours to show the money, and Isend you back your hundred dollars, hoping you won't "do it again."Of course you'll have to keep the advertisement in the paper for twoissues, just as if it were a real thing, and it's lucky that there'sjust now no pressure in our columns. You might have told a better storythan that hogwash about your finding the "ad" and a hundred dollarslying loose on your desk one morning. It was rather thin, and I don'twonder the f
oreman kicked.

  The young editor was in despair. At first he thought of writing to Mrs.Dimmidge at the Elktown Post-Office, asking her to relieve him of hisvow of secrecy; but his pride forbade. There was a humorous concern, notwithout a touch of pity, in the faces of his contributors as he passed;a few affected to believe in the new advertisement, and asked him vague,perfunctory questions about it. His position was trying, and he was notsorry when the term of his engagement expired the next week, and he leftCalaveras to take his new position on the San Francisco paper.

  He was standing in the saloon of the Sacramento boat when he felt asudden heavy pressure on his shoulder, and looking round sharply, beheldnot only the black-bearded face of Mr. Dimmidge, lit up by a smile, butbeside it the beaming, buxom face of Mrs. Dimmidge, overflowing withgood-humor. Still a little sore from his past experience, he was aboutto address them abruptly, when he was utterly vanquished by the heartypressure of their hands and the unmistakable look of gratitude in theireyes.

  "I was just saying to 'Lizy Jane," began Mr. Dimmidge breathlessly,"if I could only meet that young man o' the 'Clarion' what brought ustogether again"--

  "You'd be willin' to pay four times the amount we both paid him,"interpolated the laughing Mrs. Dimmidge.

  "But I didn't bring you together," burst out the dazed young man, "andI'd like to know, in the name of Heaven, what brought you together now?"

  "Don't you see, lad," said the imperturbable Mr. Dimmidge, "'Lizy Janeand myself had qua'lled, and we just unpacked our fool nonsense in yourpaper and let the hull world know it! And we both felt kinder skeert andshamed like, and it looked such small hogwash, and of so little account,for all the talk it made, that we kinder felt lonely as two separatedfools that really ought to share their foolishness together."

  "And that ain't all," said Mrs. Dimmidge, with a sly glance at herspouse, "for I found out from that 'Personal' you showed me that thisparticular old fool was actooally jealous!--JEALOUS!"

  "And then?" said the editor impatiently.

  "And then I KNEW he loved me all the time."