CHAPTER XXVI.
"THE LITTLE BUSY BEE" GETS AHEAD OF ITS RIVALS.
Two days afterwards, that is, on the 9th of March, some hours afterthe morning papers were in circulation, all London was ringing withthe news of the mysterious murder in Catchpole Square. The name ofSamuel Boyd was on every tongue; the newsboys shouted it out raucouslyand jubilantly, with the full force of their lungs, and the windcarried it into all the highways and byeways of the vast metropolis;it was printed on the variously coloured waybills of the newspapers inscarlet letters, green letters, yellow letters, as large as the widthof the sheets permitted; it was read aloud and discussed in omnibuses,in public-house bars, in the workshops and places of business; it wasbandied about, tossed in the air, caught up and passed on,embellished, illustrated and exaggerated, and rolled over the tongueas the most tempting of tempting morsels. Editorial offices were alivewith it, their swing doors had not a moment's rest, the whole of thestaff were on the _qui vive_, reporters hurried this way and that intheir hunt for facts, fanciful or otherwise, that had the remotestconnection, or no connection at all, with the name of the murdered manand the circumstances of the murder, as far as they were known. Nowwas the chance for the descriptive writer, for the youthful aspirantsfor journalistic fame, for the enterprising interviewer. Things hadbeen rather dull lately. There had been no stirring crime, nobloodthirsty deed, no sensational trial, no tremendous conflagration,no awful shipwreck, no colliery explosion, no terrible railwaycollision, for quite a week, and circulation was languishing. But hereat last was a dish of hot spice to stir the blood, to set tongueswagging, to fire the imagination, to make the pulses glow. A murder!And such a murder! Dark, thrilling, impenetrable, inscrutable,enveloped in delicious mystery. What is one man's meat is anotherman's poison, and Samuel Boyd, who had never in life given a beggar apenny or the price of a meal to a starving man, was the means, indeath, of filling many a platter and frothing up many a pewter pot.Trade revived. People spent more, drank more, smoked more, went to themusic-halls and theatres more, for it was impossible to keep stillwith such an excitement in the air. See the radiant faces of theragged street urchins as they shout it out and dispose of theirsheets, and are not asked for change of a penny--see the journalisticscouts as they follow the trail, true trail, false trail, anytrail--see the crowds in Fleet Street and the Strand and all thenarrow thoroughfares leading riverwards--see the smart newspapercarts, with their dapper ponies flying north, south, east, and westwith their latest editions--see the travellers on the tops ofomnibuses throwing down their coppers and bending over to seize thepapers--see the railway bookstalls besieged by eager buyers, who,rushing to catch a train, pick up half a dozen different journals, inthe hope of finding in one of them two or three lines of differentimport from those contained in all the others--see the men standing atstreet corners, running their eyes down the columns, animated by asimilar hope--see the telegraph wires, blind and deaf to humanpassion, carrying the message of murder, murder, murder, on theirhundreds of miles of silent tongues--see the envy of the hawkers ofwax matches, penny toys, and bone shirt studs, as they watch theroaring trade that is being done by the busy armies of tag, rag, andbobtail, who form the distributing street agency of journalisticliterature, and wish that heaven had sent them such a bit of luck.Sold out again, Jack! Hurrah! Fly off for another quire. As good as aDerby Day, Bill! As good? Ten times better! Where are "all thewinners" now? Shorn of their glory they sink into the background, andno small punter so poor to do them reverence? What are "all thewinners" to a rattling spicy murder?
Never had "The Little Busy Bee" more fully justified its title thanon the present occasion. A daring scheme had suggested itself to oneof the members of the staff, which had been crowned with success.Ahead of all its rivals it was the first to publish the exciting news,and needless to say it made the most of its golden opportunity. Theoffice was besieged; it was like a Jubilee Day. Men and boys foughtand scrambled for the copies as the steam presses belched them forth,and selling them out before they reached the wider thoroughfares,rushed back for more. The day was Saturday, and the whirling tumultlasted till midnight.
The manner of "The Little Busy Bee's" buzzing in its preliminaryeditions was as follows: First, a quotation in large type from"Macbeth." And one cried, "Murder!" Then half a column of the usualsensational headings. Then the account of the daring scheme and thediscovery in the following fashion:
Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery Page 27