Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “Kin ye buy one thet’ll spell, Skim?” she asked, as she made a neat roll of the manuscript and tied a pink hair ribbon around it.

  Skim put on a collar and necktie and took his story across to the newspaper office.

  “I got a conter-bution fer the paper,” he said to Patsy, who asked him his business.

  “What, something original, Skim?” she asked in surprise.

  “Ye’ve hit it right, Miss Doyle; it’s a story.”

  “Oh!”

  “A detective story.”

  “Dear me! Then you’ll have to see Mrs. Weldon, who is our literary editor.”

  Louise, who was sitting close by, looked up and held out her hand for the beribboned roll.

  “I don’t jes’ know,” remarked Skim, as he handed it across the table, “whether it’s a thirty dollar deal, er a fifty.”

  Having forgotten Beth’s editorial, Louise did not understand this remark, but she calmly unrolled Skim’s manuscript and glanced at the scrawled heading with an amused smile.

  “‘Suspecting Algernon,’“ she read aloud.

  “‘It were a dark and teedjus night in the erly springtime while the snow were falling soft over the moon litt lanskape.’ Why, Skim, how came you to write this?”

  “It were the money,” he said boldly. “I kin do one a day like this, at thirty dollers apiece, an’ never feel the wear an’ tear.”

  Patsy giggled, but Louise stared with a wondering, puzzled expression at the crabbed writing, the misspelled words and dreadful grammar. Indeed, she was a little embarrassed how to handle so delicate a situation.

  “I’m afraid we cannot use your story, Mr. Clark,” she said gently, and remembering the formula that usually accompanied her own rejected manuscripts she added: “This does not necessarily imply a lack of merit in your contribution, but is due to the fact that it is at present unavailable for our use.”

  Skim stared at her in utter dismay.

  “Ye mean ye won’t take it?” he asked with trembling lips.

  “We have so much material on hand, just now, that we cannot possibly purchase more,” she said firmly, but feeling intensely sorry for the boy. “It may be a good story — ”

  “It’s the bes’ story I ever heard of!” declared Skim.

  “But we have no place for it in the Millville Tribune,” she added, handing him back the roll.

  Skim was terribly disappointed. Never, for a single moment, had he expected “sech a throwdown as this.”

  “Seems to me like a bunco game,” he muttered savagely. “First ye say in yer blamed ol’ paper a story’s wuth thirty to fifty dollars, an’ then when I bring ye a story ye won’t pay a red cent fer it!”

  “Stories,” suggested Louise, “are of various qualities, depending on the experience and talent of the author. An excellent story is often refused because the periodical to which it is offered is overstocked with similar material. Such conditions are often trying, Skim; I’ve had a good many manuscripts rejected myself.”

  But the boy would not be conciliated.

  “I’ll send it to Munsey’s, thet’s what I’ll do; an’ then you’ll be durn sorry,” he said, almost ready to cry.

  “Do,” urged Louise sweetly. “And if they print it, Mr. Clark, I’ll agree to purchase your next story for fifty dollars.”

  “All right; the fifty’s mine. I got witnesses, mind ye!” and he flounced out of the room like an angry schoolboy.

  “Oh, Louise,” exclaimed Patsy, reproachfully, “why didn’t you let me see the thing? It would have been better than a circus.”

  “Poor boy!” said the literary editor, with a sigh. “I didn’t want to humiliate him more than I could help. I wonder if he really will have the audacity to send it to Munsey’s?”

  And now the door opened to admit Peggy McNutt, who had been watching his chance to stump across to the printing office as soon as Skim left there. For Peggy had reasoned, not unjustly, that if Skim Clark could make a fortune as an author he, Marshall McMahon McNutt, had a show to corral a few dollars in literature himself. After lying awake half the night thinking it over, he arose this morning with the firm intention of competing with Skim for the village laurels. He well knew he could not write a shuddery detective story, such as Skim had outlined, but that early poem of his, which the boy had seemed to regard so disdainfully, was considered by Peggy a rather clever production. He repeated it over and over to himself, dwelling joyously on its perfect rhyme, until he was convinced it was a good poem and that Skim had enviously slandered it. So he wrote it out in big letters on a sheet of foolscap and determined to offer it to “them newspaper gals.”

  “I got a pome, Miss Patsy,” he said, with unusual diffidence, for he was by no means sure the “gals” would not agree with Skim’s criticism.

  “What! Another contributor?” she exclaimed playfully. “Has the whole town suddenly turned literary, Peggy?”

  “No; jest me ‘n’ Skim. Skim says my pome’s no good; but I sort o’ like it, myself.”

  “Let me see it,” said Patsy, ignoring this time the literary editor, who was glad to be relieved of the responsibility of disappointing another budding author.

  Peggy handed over the foolscap, and Patsy eagerly read the “pome.”

  “Listen, Louise! Listen, Beth!” she called, delightedly. “Here is certainly a real ‘pome,’ and on aviation — the latest fad:

  ”‘SKY HIGH

  BY MARSHALL MCMAHON MCNUTT

  of Millville

  dealer in Real Estate Spring Chickens &c.

  1.

  I sigh

  Too fly

  Up high

  In the sky.

  2.

  But my

  Wings air shy

  And so I cry

  A sad goodby

  Too fly-

  Ing.’“

  A chorus of hilarious laughter followed the reading, and then Patsy wiped her eyes and exclaimed:

  “Peggy, you are not only a poet but a humorist. This is one of the best short poems I ever read.”

  “It’s short ‘cause I run out o’ rhymes,” admitted Peggy.

  “But it’s a gem, what there is of it.”

  “Don’t, dear,” remonstrated Louise; “don’t poke fun at the poor man.”

  “Poke fun? Why, I’m going to print that poem in the Tribune, as sure as my name’s Patricia Doyle! It’s too good for oblivion.”

  “I dunno,” remarked Peggy, uncertainly, “whether it’s wuth fifty dollars, er about — ”

  “About forty-nine less,” said Patsy. “A poem of that length brings about fifty cents in open market, but I’ll be liberal. You shall have a whole dollar — and there it is, solid cash.”

  “Thank ye,” returned Peggy, pocketing the silver. “It ain’t what I expected, but — ”

  “But what, sir?”

  “But it’s like findin’ it, for I didn’t expect nuth’n’. I wish I could do more of ‘em at the same price; but I did thet pome when I were young an’ hed more ambition. I couldn’t think of another like it to save my neck.”

  “I am glad of that, Peggy. One of this kind is all a paper dare print.

  We mustn’t get too popular, you know.”

  “I s’pose you’ll print my name as the one what did it?” he inquired anxiously.

  “I shall print it just as it’s written, advertisement and all.”

  She did, and Peggy bought two extra copies, at a cent apiece. He framed all three and hung one in his office, one in the sitting room and a third in his bedroom, where he could see it the first thing when he wakened each morning. His fellow villagers were very proud of him, in spite of the “knocking” of the Clarks. Skim was deeply mortified that Peggy’s “bum pome” had been accepted and his own masterly composition “turned down cold.” The widow backed her son and told all the neighbors that “Peggy never hed the brains to write thet pome, an’ the chances air he stole it from the ‘Malvern Weekly Journal.’ Them gal edyturs wouldn’t
know,” she added scornfully; “they’s as ignerunt as Peggy is, mostly.”

  A few days later McNutt entered the printing office with an air of great importance.

  “Goodness me! I hope you haven’t done it again, Peggy,” cried Patsy, in alarm.

  “No; I got fame enough. What I want is to hev the wordin’ on my business cards changed,” said he. “What’ll it cost?”

  “What change do you wish made?” asked Patsy, examining the sample card.

  “Instead of ‘Marshall McMahon McNutt, dealer in Real Estate an’ Spring

  Chickens,’ I want to make it read: ‘dealer in Real Estate, Spring

  Chickens an’ Poetry.’ What’ll it cost. Miss Patsy?”

  “Nothing,” she said, her eyes dancing; “We’ll do that job free of charge, Peggy!”

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE PENALTIES OF JOURNALISM

  Two strange men appeared in Millville — keen, intelligent looking fellows — and applied to Joe Wegg for jobs. Having received a hint from Mr. Merrick, Joe promptly employed the strangers to prepare the old mill for the reception of the machinery for the lighting plant, and both of them engaged board at the hold.

  “Thursday,” said Hetty, as she watched the pressman that night, “there’s a New York detective here — two of them, I think.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I recognized one of them, who used to prowl around the city looking for suspicious characters. They say they’ve come to work on the new electric plant, but I don’t believe it.”

  Thursday worked a while in silence.

  “Mr. Merrick must have sent for them,” he suggested.

  “Yes. I think he suspects about the bomb.”

  “He ought to discharge me,” said Thursday.

  “No; he’s man enough to stand by his guns. I like Mr. Merrick. He didn’t become a millionaire without having cleverness to back him and I imagine he is clever enough to thwart Skeelty and all his gang.”

  “Perhaps I ought to go of my own accord,” said Thursday.

  “Don’t do that. When you’ve found a friend like Mr. Merrick, stick to him. I imagine those detectives are here to protect you, as well as the printing plant. It won’t be so easy to set a bomb the next time.”

  Smith looked at her with a smile. There was a glint of admiration in his eyes.

  “You’re not a bad sleuth yourself, Hetty,” he remarked. “No detective could have acted more wisely and promptly than you did that night.”

  “It was an accidental discovery, Thursday. Sometimes I sleep.”

  That was a good deal of conversation for these two to indulge in. Hetty was talkative enough, at times, and so was Thursday Smith, when the humor seized him; but when they were together they said very little. The artist would stroll into the pressroom after the compositors had finished their tasks and watch the man make up the forms, lock them, place them on the press and run off the edition. Then he would glance over the paper while Thursday washed up and put on his coat, after which he accompanied her to the door of her hotel and with a simple “good night” proceeded up the street to his own lodging.

  There are surprises in the newspaper business, as our girl journalists were fast discovering. It was a real calamity when Miss Briggs, who had been primarily responsible for getting the Millville Daily Tribune into proper working order, suddenly resigned her position. They had depended a great deal on Miss Briggs, so when the telegraph editor informed them she was going back to New York, they were positively bewildered by her loss. Questions elicited the fact that the woman was nervous over the recent explosion and looked for further trouble from the mill hands. She also suspected the two recent arrivals to be detectives, and the town was so small and so absolutely without police protection that she would not risk her personal safety by remaining longer in it.

  “Perhaps I’m homesick,” she added. “It’s dreadfully lonely here when I’m not at work, and for that reason I’ve tried to keep busy most of the time. Really, I’m astonished to think I’ve stood this isolation so long; but now that my mind is made up, I’m going, and it is useless to ask me to remain.”

  They offered her higher wages, and Mr. Merrick himself had a long talk with her, but all arguments were unavailing.

  “What shall we do, Thursday?” asked Patsy in despair. “None of us understands telegraphy.”

  “Hetty Hewitt does,” he suggested.

  “Hetty! I’m afraid if I asked her to assume this work she also would leave us.”

  “No; she’ll stay,” he said positively.

  “But she can’t edit the telegraph news. Suppose she took the messages, who would get the night news in shape for the compositors? My uncle would not like to have me remain here until midnight, but even if he would permit it I have not yet mastered the art of condensing the dispatches and selecting just such items as are suitable for the Tribune.”

  “I’ll do that, Miss Doyle,” promised Smith.

  “I’ve been paying especial attention to the work of Miss Briggs, for I had an idea she was getting uneasy. And I can take all the day messages, too. If Hetty will look after the wires evenings I can do the rest of the telegraph editor’s work, and my own, too.”

  “Good gracious, Thursday!” exclaimed Patsy; “you’ll be running the whole paper, presently.”

  “No; I can’t do the typesetting. But if the Dwyer girls stick to their job — and they seem quite contented here — I’ll answer for the rest of the outfit.”

  “I’m glad the Dwyer girls seem contented,” she answered; “but I’m afraid to depend upon anyone now — except you.”

  He liked that compliment, but said nothing further. After consulting with Louise and Beth, Patsy broached the subject to Hetty, and the artist jumped at the opportunity to do something to occupy her leisure time. The work brought her in contact with Thursday Smith more than ever, and when Miss Briggs departed bag and baggage for New York, the paper suffered little through her defection.

  “Newspaper folk,” remarked Major Doyle, who was now at the farm enjoying his vacation and worshipping at the shrine of the managing editor in the person of his versatile daughter, “are the most unreliable of any class in the world. So I’ve often been told, and I believe it. They come and go, by fits and starts, and it’s a wonder the erratic rascals never put a paper out of business. But they don’t. You never heard of a newspaper that failed to appear just because the mechanical force deserted and left it in the lurch. By hook or crook the paper must be printed — and it always is. So don’t worry, mavourneen; when your sallow-faced artist and your hobo jack-of-all-trades desert you, there’ll still be a way to keep the Millville Tribune going, and therefore the world will continue to whirl on its axis.”

  “I don’t believe Thursday will ever desert, and Hetty likes us too well to leave us in the lurch; but suppose those typesetters take a notion to flit?”

  “Then,” said matter-of-fact Beth, “we’ll fill the paper with ready-made plate stuff and telegraph for more compositors.”

  “That’s it,” agreed the major, “Those people are always to be had. But don’t worry till the time comes. As me grandfather, the commodore, once said: ‘Never cross a bridge till ye come to it.’“

  “It wasn’t your grandfather who originated that remark,” said Uncle

  John.

  “It was, sir! I defy you to prove otherwise.”

  “I’m not certain you ever had a grandfather; and he wasn’t a commodore, anyhow.”

  “Sir!” cried the major, glaring at his brother-in-law, “I have his commission, somewhere — laid away.”

  “Never mind,” said Patsy, cheerfully, for these fierce arguments between her father and uncle — who were devotedly attached to one another — never disturbed her in the least, “the Tribune’s running smoothly just now, and the work is keeping us delightfully busy. I think that never in my life have I enjoyed myself more than since I became a journalist.”

  “Is the thing paying dividends?” inq
uired the major.

  Arthur laughed.

  “I’ve just been figuring up the last month’s expenditures and receipts,” said he. “The first month didn’t count, for we were getting started.”

  “And what’s the result?” asked the Major.

  “Every paper we send out — for one cent — costs us eighty-eight cents to manufacture.”

  There was a painful silence for a time, broken by the major’s suggestive cough.

  “I hope,” said the old soldier, solemnly, “that the paper’s circulation is very small.”

  “The smallest of any daily paper in all the civilized word, sir,” declared the bookkeeper.

  “Of course,” remarked Louise, with dignity; “that is what distinguishes it. We did not undertake this publication to make money, and it does not cost us more than we are willing to pay for the exceptional experiences we are gaining.”

  The major raised his eyebrows; Arthur whistled softly; Uncle John smiled; but with one accord they dropped the disagreeable subject.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  OPEN WARFARE

  Joe Wegg’s machinery and dynamos arrived promptly and the electric plant was speedily installed at the old mill. So energetically had the young man supervised his work that poles and wires were all in place as far up the road as Thompson’s Crossing and a branch line run to the Wegg Farm, by the time the first test was made.

  All Millville celebrated that first night when its streets shone resplendent under the glare of electric lights. There was a public bonfire near the mill, speeches were made, and afterward Mr. Merrick served a free supper to the villagers, in the hall over Sam Cotting’s General Store, where the girls assisted in waiting upon the guests, and everybody was happy and as hilarious as the fumes of good coffee could make them.

  More speeches were made in the hall, and one of these was by Peggy McNutt, who had painted his wooden foot blue with red stripes in honor of the occasion. He said, according to the report afterward printed in the Tribune:

  “Feller Citizens! This ‘ere town’s bloomin’ like a new mown rose. I’ll bet anybody anything there ain’t another town in Ameriky what’s gone ahead like we hev in the past few months that’s jest past. (Applause.) If I do say it myself, we’re the mos’ — eh — the mos’ — eh — progressioning community in — in — this community. Our community hes put out a daily paper what’s a credit to — to — our community, especially the poetry; we’ve got a paper mill at Royal what makes paper fer New Yoruk; an’ now, to cap the climate, our community hes lighted our community with ‘lectric lights fit fer Lundon, New Yoruk, Canada or — or — or — our community. (Laughter and cries of “Cut out the community, Peggy!”) No! Never, feller citizens, will I cut out a community what’s done so much fer our — our community. If I do say it myself, the eyes of the com — of the world is upon us, an’ I’m proud of the things that’s ben did by our feller citizens, with my full approval, in this ‘ere — this ‘ere — er — community!” (Cheers and a sandwich, which last offering was received by Mr. McNutt in his back hair as he turned to descend from the rostrum.)