‘I have been in the Arctic,’ Dr Doyle protested. ‘Such things occur!’
‘And the tales are quite well-written,’ Mr Dodgson added, in defence of his protégé.
‘I will not publish this sort of thing in Youth’s Companion,’ Mr Basset proclaimed. ‘I want stories of adventure, stories that will rouse the spirit of young Englishmen to take the banner of Empire and fly it across the globe!’ Mr Basset fairly swelled with patriotic pride as he regarded the signed photograph of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, which had been given a prominent place on his desk. ‘The stories I want will encourage boys …’
‘And girls,’ Mr Dodgson put in.
Mr Basset glared over his glasses at the person who had the audacity to interrupt him. ‘Girls do not read Youth’s Companion,’ he stated flatly.
‘I beg to differ,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Miss Alicia Marbury, the daughter of Lord Richard Marbury, has confided to me that she was sustained during her ordeal last summer by the recollection of stories she had read in your excellent publication and others like it.’
Mr Basset stroked his beard and harumphed loudly. ‘Miss Marbury may be an exceptional young lady. Her father is, after all, a noted Liberal and something of a firebrand. However, I maintain that these stories of Dr Doyle are not suitable for any publication and certainly not one meant for the entertainment of the young. I might as well have published those mawkish effusions of that Irish popinjay who just left.’
‘Do you refer to Mr Wilde?’ Mr Dodgson asked.
‘Do you know him?’ Mr Basset’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
‘I do not number him among my acquaintance,’ Mr Dodgson admitted. ‘But he was most conspicuous when he was up at Oxford. He was not at the House … that is, at Christ Church,’ he explained, ‘but he was noticed. That was, after all, his intention.’
‘Oh, he’s noticeable,’ Mr Basset snorted. ‘I have no patience with that sort of tomfoolery. And what did he offer as proof of his ability to write for young people? Two of the most mawkish fairy tales I have ever read, one about a giant in a garden and the other about a talking statue. Disgusting pap!’
Dr Doyle looked confused. ‘Sir, if you reject tales of horror and suspense, and you also reject fairy stories, what do you want?’
‘I want stories of valiant young men fighting Nature and the Elements,’ Mr Basset roared out. He grabbed a copy of Youth’s Companion from the pile on his desk and thrust it at Dr Doyle. ‘Read this, young doctor, and then you will understand what I want. In the meanwhile, go back home to Yorkshire …’
‘Portsmouth,’ Dr Doyle corrected him.
‘… and try not to kill too many of your patients. Good day!’ Mr Basset rose in dismissal. Mr Dodgson stood, bowed, and accepted the rebuff with as much grace as he could. As he opened the door, Messrs Peterson, Howarth, Monteverde and Roberts piled in, shoving Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle aside in their eagerness to have a word with their editor in chief.
‘Haven’t you got anything better to do than to stand about in the anteroom?’ Mr Basset demanded of his loyal staff. ‘We’re supposed to go to press tomorrow, and from what I see we aren’t half ready.’ He indicated the galley proofs on his desk with a sweep of one hand.
‘It’s too cold upstairs,’ Peterson complained. ‘Besides, we’ve just come up with a grand idea, standing about, as you put it.’
‘What sort of an idea?’ Mr Basset took refuge behind his desk.
‘A new sort of magazine,’ Peterson explained.
‘A new way of telling the story,’ Monteverde enthused.
‘A combination of text and illustration,’ Howarth added.
‘In colour!’ Peterson finished for the quartet.
‘In colour?’ Mr Basset echoed.
‘It works this way,’ Peterson told him. ‘Eddie, here, does the illustrations for our stories. The illustrations further the action, so that the reader sees the action instead of having it described to him. The story is laid out, frame by frame, with the dialogue as captions, under the illustrations…’
‘Or, perhaps, written over the characters’ heads, like a … a …’ Howarth fished for a word.
‘A balloon?’ Mr Dodgson provided the answer, fascinated by the concept.
‘That’s it! A balloon!’ Peterson turned to the editor. ‘We’ve got some fine story lines, and Eddie thinks he can come up with the illustrations. We could try one out in the next issue, and perhaps do it as a serial, have the hero hanging over a cliff or something like that, so that the readers would have to buy the next issue to find out what happens next.’
Basset considered the idea. ‘It has some merit,’ he admitted. ‘But what about literary content? We have to assure the parents of our subscribers that their children are receiving the best literary efforts for their shillings. A story told largely in pictures is hardly new!’
‘But not the kind of story we’re going to tell!’ Peterson fairly climbed over the desk in his enthusiasm. ‘Have you read M Verne’s stories? Flights to the Moon or to the planet Mars! Explorations into the heart of the Amazon jungle to discover dinosaurs still living! Think of that! And in colour …’
‘Colour!’ Basset’s voice rose from basso to counter-tenor. ‘Colour printing?’
‘It wouldn’t be that much more,’ Peterson argued. ‘I hear there’s a new process just developed, and O’Casey’s men can handle anything we give them.’ He leaned over the desk again, dislodging a set of galley proofs from the top of one pile. He automatically bent to retrieve the pages, then looked harder at the top sheet.
His round face grew crimson. ‘Isn’t this my story?’ he said, flipping his way through the pages. ‘It is! This is “King Arthur Comes to London”.’ He shook the offending pages in Basset’s face. ‘This is the story you told me wasn’t good enough for Youth’s Companion. I lined that story out for you at the summer picnic, and you said it would never go over, that I should forget about it, and here it is; you’ve taken my idea and run with it!’
‘And he’s put his own name on it, too,’ Monteverde pointed out, peering at the offending pages over his friend’s shoulder.
Howarth took the pages out of Peterson’s hands, looked them over, then passed them on to Roberts.
‘And it’s illustrated!’ Roberts’s voice shook at the thought of someone else illustrating a story for Youth’s Companion. ‘With colour plates! You never let me do colour plates!’ He slammed the pages down on the desk in fury.
‘You only told me the story,’ Basset grumbled, shifting uneasily in his chair. ‘You never wrote it down.’
‘Only because you told me not to waste my time with it,’ Peterson retorted. ‘Then you loaded me up with so much other work that I never did get back to it. And here it is, under your name, to be published by Portman Penny Press, by your good old friend Nicky, to be sold across the length and breadth of England, wherever the Penny Press can get a foothold! I should have you up on charges!’ He fairly panted in his rage.
‘Of what?’ Basset smiled nastily over his beard. ‘One cannot steal an idea. How do you know that I didn’t make it better than anything you could have written, you helpless hack! If I hadn’t taken you in here you’d still be scribbling penny dreadfuls over at the Penny Press!’
‘I ought to leave you flat, Basset!’ Peterson snarled. ‘See if you can get someone else to write to order for one pound ten a week!’
Basset leaned back in his chair and said smugly, ‘You won’t, Peterson, because you’ve got two children, and there aren’t many steady positions open for a mediocre writer with a taste for the finer things and a wife with social ambitions. As for the rest of you’ – Basset looked them over, like a schoolmaster chastising an unruly class – ‘be glad you are not like those ruffians out there, starving in the streets! None of you could manage to support yourselves without me. Call yourselves editors! A failed playwright, a menu-writer, and as for you’ – he turned to Roberts – ‘if it weren’t for me you’d still be in that shop turning out c
omic Valentines and vulgar Christmas cards!’
Roberts lunged over the desk, his hand clutched around one of the daggers. Howarth and Monteverde clung to each of his arms, trying to control their unruly comrade-in-arms.
Basset continued his tirade. ‘I could find another staff in a minute. Anyone on the street would be in here like a shot if they knew they could bring down a steady wage.’
‘Not if they have to put up with these conditions,’ Peterson shot back. ‘At least at the Penny Press we had a fire in the workroom and a cup of tea in the afternoon. I’ve half a mind to join O’Casey and the rest of the men out on the streets in protest.’
Basset’s face turned red at the thought of such a defection. Dr Doyle stepped forward, to be ready when Mr Basset’s impending apoplectic fit should manifest itself. ‘I suggest you breathe deeply,’ the young doctor said, ‘and that you open your collar and waistcoat.’
Mr Basset looked up, chagrined as he realized that Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle had witnessed the whole scene and echoes had undoubtedly reached as far as the anteroom.
He took the deep breath prescribed by Dr Doyle, and said, ‘I do apologize, Mr, er’ – he glanced at the card on the desk – ‘Mr Dodgson. And your attentions will not be needed, Dr Doyle. I am quite all right. Levin!’
Mr Levin edged into the office. ‘Yes, Mr Basset?’
‘I want to have a word with you.’ Mr Basset’s tone was ominously calm.
‘Yes, sir. Mr Basset, the typewritten copy for next week’s issue is here, and the young woman expects to be paid. If you please, sir, I must get the cash box.’ The secretary sidled over to the desk and attempted to reach the sacred drawer where the ready money was kept.
‘What’s this about women in the office?’ Mr Basset’s voice rose again. ‘I thought I told you …’
‘Miss Harvey is a skilled typewriter, who works from her home,’ Levin explained. ‘She placed an advertisement in the newspapers. I thought it might be useful to have the handwritten manuscripts type-written before they went to compositors.’
‘A good compositor can work perfectly well from manuscript,’ Mr Basset stated flatly, as if this argument had already been won.
Mr Levin disagreed. ‘There have been too many typos,’ he objected. ‘The last one was really bad. The story dealt with a farm winch, and the compositor printed it as farm wench. We can’t have that sort of thing in Youth’s Companion.’ He lifted his eyebrows in disdain at the vulgarity of typesetters.
‘And how much am I supposed to pay this female?’ Mr Basset grumbled, as he fumbled on his watch-chain for the keys to the strongbox.
‘She gets twopence per page; she has typed a hundred and twenty pages, which would mean twenty shillings, or a pound for the entire manuscript,’ Levin reeled off.
‘A whole pound?’ Basset looked up from his labours. ‘I want to see this typing before I part with that kind of money.’
He strode back into the anteroom, where Miss Harvey sat on the wooden bench, stubbornly waiting for her money. Before he could say anything more, yet another young woman timidly knocked on the office door, a plain-looking girl barely out of her teens, in a fur jacket and hat, clutching a cardboard portfolio.
‘I was told I could leave some drawings off,’ she said hesitantly.
‘Who are you?’ Mr Basset roared at her.
Mr Roberts explained, ‘This is Miss Potter. I think she shows promise. We met at the Natural History museum. I suggested she bring her portfolio in.’ For Mr Roberts, this was an oration, and the others gazed at Miss Potter with renewed respect.
‘And I suppose this is the work in question?’ Mr Basset pointed to the portfolio the young woman held under her arm.
Miss Potter nodded wordlessly, undid the strings of the portfolio and pulled out a few pencil drawings. Mr Dodgson drew near, for a better look.
‘Quite nicely done,’ he said approvingly. ‘Charmingly domestic. I especially like the rabbit.’
Mr Basset was not in the mood for charming rabbits. ‘If this is the best you can do, young woman, I would suggest you go home and take up another form of recreation. You will never be an artist, Miss Potter, and anyone who told you you could was lying to you. Good day!’
Miss Potter’s eyes filled with tears. Mr Roberts glowered at Basset, as if to say, You know nothing about art and less about teaching it!
As Roberts led the stricken Miss Potter down the stairs, Basset turned on Miss Harvey. ‘As for you,’ he declared, ‘you are a wretched typist. I detect typographical errors on the first three pages. I will not pay more than a penny apiece for these, and I will not pay at all until they are redone.’
‘But I must have something…. I must get back to Mama …’ Miss Harvey spluttered. She looked about for support and found none.
Mr Basset gave a final glare around the room and stalked into his office, slamming the door behind him.
‘What shall I do?’ Miss Harvey said miserably. ‘I spent my last penny on the Underground, and I cannot walk all the way back to Chelsea.’
Mr Levin fumbled in his pockets and came up with a few coins. ‘This will get you back home,’ he said apologetically. ‘I shall see to it that you are paid as soon as Mr Basset is satisfied.’
‘Ha!’ Peterson gave a crack of mirthless laughter. ‘You won’t stand up to the Hound. And don’t think you’re any more important to him than the rest of us poor slaves, Levin. You may put on a clean collar every day and sport a dandy waistcoat, but you’re still just office staff, the same as any of us.’
‘Perhaps,’ Levin said, nettled. ‘But there is always Mr Portman. I can always go to him and …’
‘And do what? Tell him that his old Winchester schoolmate is a bully and a thief? I’d like to see you try!’ Peterson turned to Mr Dodgson with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry you had to see all that, sir. Basset’s not always so bad.’
‘Oh yes, he is,’ Howarth muttered, and Monteverde nodded in agreement. They heard Roberts’s tread on the stairs and looked at each other knowingly.
‘Eddie’s in another pet,’ Peterson said philosophically. ‘And I suppose I’ll have to pour the oil on troubled waters once Basset finishes with Levin.’ He turned back to the fire again.
Mr Dodgson turned to his friend and said, ‘Dr Doyle, I fear I have dragged you to London on a fool’s errand. I apologize for wasting your time as well as mine in making the acquaintance of Mr Samuel Basset. Perhaps we will take some tea, and then I can see you to your train for Portsmouth.’
Dr Doyle nodded in agreement, and the two moved toward the door as an outraged yell came from the direction of the inner office. ‘Levin! Get in here at once!’
Mr Levin jumped like a startled deer. ‘At once, Mr Basset.’
Miss Harvey stared after him as he bolted into the inner office.
‘What’s got into him?’ Monteverde asked the world in general.
‘I think Basset just read the ledgers,’ Peterson said, with a malicious grin. ‘I don’t think they quite match with what Basset thinks they should be.’
‘Cooking the books, is he?’ Howarth commented.
‘Paying people under the table, more likely,’ Monteverde said with a shrug. ‘Basset’s such a squeezer, he resents every penny spent.’
‘Well, our salaries won’t make or break the bank,’ Peterson said philosophically. ‘Pity he’s in such a mood because I’ve just heard I’m to be a father again….’
‘Really? Congratulations!’ Monteverde and Howarth chimed in.
‘All very well for you two, you’re bachelors,’ Peterson sighed. ‘Myrna’s having a hard enough time now making ends meet, and when I tell her about Basset stealing my book idea she’ll be livid. I thought I could negotiate a rise, but with Basset in this mood, it’s impossible.’
‘You don’t suppose he’d really fire the lot of us, do you?’ Howarth asked anxiously.
Peterson smirked and shook his head. ‘You saw how he treated Wilde, and Wilde’s a coming man. The Hound
won’t have anyone on the staff who’s a better writer than he is, except for me and you, of course. As for getting line and copy editors from Portman Penny Press, Nicky might have a thing to say about that. No, he’ll do what he’s always done, make a good deal of noise and come around in the end. I just wish he’d do it faster, that’s all.’
Levin emerged from the office, breathless and pale. His hands shook as he placed a pile of ledgers on his desk. He ran one hand over his hair, then twitched his cravat back into place.
‘Mr Basset wishes to speak with you, Mr Peterson,’ he said formally.
‘Mr Levin, what has happened?’ Miss Harvey asked.
‘Mr Basset has discovered that I have been, as he puts it, usurping his authority. His reaction to my hiring you to do our typewriting was not what I had expected it to be. He was not pleased at all that the manuscripts were being typed outside the confines of the office, and when I suggested that you might be hired to do the typing here, the words were, “Over my dead body”.’
‘I had no idea he was so … so against females,’ Miss Harvey said, with a glance at the door behind which the ogre lurked.
‘What is more, he was particularly upset about my contacts with our contributors, which he claimed was his business and no one else’s. And he’s been counting the money in the box and claims there are certain discrepancies.’
‘Been nicking the pocket change, have you?’ Peterson asked jovially.
Levin ignored him. ‘I have never heard such language,’ he spluttered. ‘I have been compared to Brutus and Judas, when all I wanted to do was to make the magazine better by attracting more contributors. Mr Basset took it in bad part that I had taken the liberty of corresponding with them myself.’
‘Oh dear,’ Mr Dodgson fussed. ‘I thought I was welcome here, but it seems I have made a dreadful mistake. I should never have come in unannounced, and I shall never do so again.’
Levin managed to smile at the scholar in his distress. ‘It was not your fault, sir. It would have come out eventually. I did not think Mr Basset would react quite as strongly as he has done.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’ Howarth asked.
The Problem of the Surly Servant Page 32