They are two broad-shouldered men now, and Hag- gart 's back is rounding at the loom. From his broken window he can see Rob at the saw-mill, whistling as the wheel goes round. It is Saturday night, and they are in the square, clean and dapper, talking with other gallants about lasses. They are courting the same maid, and she sits on a stool by the door, knit- ting a stocking, with a lover on each side. They drop in on her mother straining the blaeberry juice through a bag suspended between two chairs. They sheepishly admire while Easie singes a hen ; for love of her they help her father to pit his potatoes ; and then, for love of the other, each gives her up. It is a Friday night, and from a but and ben around which
34 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
the rabble heave and toss, a dozen couples emerge in strangely gay and bright apparel. Rob leads the way with one lass, and Tammas follows with another. It must be Rob's wedding-day.
Dim grow Tammas' eyes on the Whunny hill. The years whirl by, and already he sees a grumpy gravedigger go out to dig Rob's grave. Alas ! for the flash into the past that sorrow gives. As he clutches young Rob's hand the light dies from Tarn- mas' eyes, his back grows round and bent, and the hair is silvered that lay hi tousled locks on a lad's head.
A nipping wind cut the search party and fled down the hill that was changing in color from black to gray. The searchers might have been smugglers laden with whiskey bladders, such as haunted the mountain in bygone days. Far away at Thrums mothers still wrung their hands for Davy, but the men slept.
Heads were bared, and the minister raised his voice in prayer. One of the psalms of David trem- bled in the gray of the morning straight to heaven ; and then two young men, glancing at Mr. Dishart, raised aloft a fallen rowan-tree, to let it fall as it listed. It fell pointing straight down the hiD, and the search party took that direction; all but Rob, who stood motionless with the shoe in his hand. He did not seem to comprehend the minister's beck- oning.
ROB BECOMES FREE. 35
Haggart took him by the arm.
"Rob, man, Rob Angus," he said, "she was but fower year auld."
The stone-breaker unbuttoned his trouser-pocket, and with an unsteady hand drew out his snuff-mull. Rob tried to take it, but his arm trembled, and the muff fell among the heather.
"Keep yourselves from idols," said Lang Tammas sternly.
But the minister was young, and children lisped his name at the white manse among the trees at home. He took the shoe from the saw-miller who had once been independent, and they went down the hill together.
Davy lay dead at the edge of the burn that gurgles on to the saw-mill, one little foot washed by the stream. The Whunny had rocked her to sleep for the last time. Half covered with grass, her baby fist still clutched the letter. When Rob saw her, betook* his darling dead bairn in his arms and faced the others with cracking jaws.
"I dinna ken," said Tammas Haggart, after a pause, "but what it's kind o' nat'ral."
CHAPTER III.
ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD.
ONE evening, nearly a month after Rob Angus be- came "single," Mr. George Frederick Licquorish, editor and proprietor of the Silchester Mirror, was sitting in his office cutting advertisements out of the Silchester Argus, and pasting each on a separate sheet of paper. These advertisements had not been sent to the Mirror, and, as he thought this a pity, he meant, through his canvasser, to call the attention of the advertisers to the omission.
Mr. Licquorish was a stout little man, with a be- nevolent countenance, who wrote most of his leaders on the backs of old envelopes. Every few minutes he darted into the composing-room, with an alertness that was a libel on his genial face; and when he re- turned it was pleasant to observe the kindly, good- natured manner in which he chaffed tho printer's devil who was trying to light the fire. It was, how- ever, also noticeable that what the devil said subse- quently x» another devil was, " But, you know, he wouldn't o^ive me any sticks."
The Mirror and the Argus are two daily news- papers published in Silchester, each of which has the 36
ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 37
largest circulation in tho district, and is therefore much the better advertising medium. Silchester is the chief town of an English midland county, and the Mirror's business note-paper refers to it as the centre of a population of half a million souls.
The Mirror's offices are nearly crushed out of sight in a block of buildings, left in the middle of a street for town councils to pull down gradually. This island of houses, against which a sea of humanity beats daily, is cut in two by a narrow passage, off which several doors open. One of these leads up a dirty stair to the editorial and composing-rooms of the Daily Mirror, and down a dirty stair to its printing-rooms. It is the door at which you may hammer for an hour without any one's paying the least attention.
During the time the boy took to light Mr. Licquor- ish's fire, a young man in a heavy overcoat knocked more than once at the door in the alley, and then moved off as if somewhat relieved that there was no response. He walked round and round the block of buildings, gazing upward at the windows of the com- posing-room ; and several times he ran against other pedestrians on whom he turned fiercely, and would then have begged their pardons had he known what to say. Frequently he felt in his pocket to see if his money was still there, and once he went behind a door and counted it. There was three pounds seven- teen shillings altogether, and he kept it in a linen
38 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
bag that had been originally made for carrying worms in when he went fishing. When he re-entered the close he always drew a deep breath, and if any per- sons emerged from the Mirror office he looked after them. They were mostly telegraph boys, who flut- tered out and in.
When Mr. Licquorish dictated an article, as he did frequently, the apprentice reporter went into the editor's room to take it down, and the reporters always asked him, as a favor, to shut George Fred- erick's door behind him. This apprentice reporter did the police reports and the magazine notices, and he wondered a good deal whether the older reporters really did like brandy and soda. The reason why John Milton, which was the unfortunate name of this boy, was told to close the editorial door behind him was that it was close to the door of the reporters' room, and generally stood open. The impression the reporters' room made on a chance visitor varied ac- cording as Mr. Licquorish's door was ajar or shut. When they heard it locked on the inside, the reporters and the sub-editor breathed a sigh of relief ; when it opened they took their legs off the desk.
The editor's room had a carpet, and was chiefly furnished with books sent in for review. It was more comfortable, but more gloomy-looking than the reporters' room, which had along desk running along one side of it, and a bunk for holding coals and old newspapers on the other side. The floor was so lit-
ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 39
tered with papers, many of them still in their wrap- pers, that, on his way between his seat and the door, the reporter generally kicked one or more into the bunk. It was in this way, unless an apprentice hap- pened to be otherwise disengaged, that the floor was swept.
In this room were a reference library and an old coat. The library was within reach of the sub-edi- tor's hand, and contained some fifty books, which the literary staff could consult, with the conviction that they would find the page they wanted missing. The coat had hung unbrushed on a nail for many years, and was so thick with dust that John Milton could draw pictures on it with his finger. Accord- ing to legend, it was the coat of a distinguished novelist, who had once been a reporter on the Mir- ror, and had left Silchester unostentatiously by his window.
It was Penny, the foreman in the composing-room, who set the literary staff talking about the new re- porter. Penny was a lank, loosely jointed man of forty, who shuffled about the office in slippers, ruled the compositors with a loud voice and a blustering manner, and was believed to be in Mr. Licquorish's confidence. His politics were respect for the House of Lords, because it rose early, enabling him to have it set before supper time.
>
The foreman slithered so quickly from one room to another that he was at the sub-editor's elbow before
40 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
his own door had time to shut. There was some copy in his hand, and he flung it contemptuously upon the desk.
"Look here, mister," he said, flinging the copy upon the sub-editor's desk, " I don't want that."
The sub-editor was twisted into as little space as possible, tearing telegrams open and flinging the en- velopes aside, much as a housewife shells peas. His name was Protheroe, and the busier he was the more he twisted himself. On Budget nights he was a knot. He did voluntarily so much extra work that Mr. Licquorish often thought he gave him too high wages ; and on slack nights he smiled to himself, which showed that something pleased him. It was rather curious that this something should have been himself.
"But but," cried Protheroe, all in a flutter, "it's town council meeting ; it it must be set, Mr. Penny. "
" Very well, mister ; then that special from Birm- ingham must be slaughtered."
"No, no, Mr. Penny; why, that's a speech by Bright."
Penny sneered at the sub-editor, and flung up his arms to imply that he washed his hands of the whole thing, as he had done every night for the last ten years, when there was pressure on his space. Protheroe had been there for half of that time, yet he still trembled before the autocrat of the office.
"There's enough copy on the board," said Penny, "to fill the paper. Any more specials coming in?"
ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 41
He asked this fiercely, as if of opinion that the sub- editor arranged with leading statesmen nightly to flood the composing-room of the Mirror with speeches, and Protheroe replied abjectly, as if he had been caught doing it " Lord John Manners is speaking at Nottingham.'"'
The foreman dashed his hand upon the desk.
"Go it, mister, go it," he cried; "anything else? Tell me Gladstone's dead next."
Sometimes about two o'clock in the morning Penny would get sociable, and the sub-editor was always glad to respond. On those occasions they talked with bated breath of the amount of copy that would come in should anything happen to Mr. Gladstone ; and the sub-editor, if he was in a despondent mood, pre- dicted that it would occur at midnight. Thinking of this had made him a Conservative.
" Nothing so bad as that," he said, dwelling on the subject, to show the foreman that thoy might be worse off; "but there's a column of local coming ir,. and a concert in the People's Hall, and
"And you expect me to set all that?" the foreman broke in. " Why, the half of that local should have been set by seven o'clock, and here I've only got the beginning of the town council yet. It's ridiculous."
Protheroe looked timidly toward the only reporter present, and then apologetically toward Penny for having looked at the reporter.
"The stuff must be behind," growled Tomlinson,
42 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
nicknamed Umbrage, "as long as we're a man short."
Umbrage was very short and stout, with a big moon face, and always wore his coat unbuttoned. In the streets, if be was walking fast and there was a breeze, his coat-tails seemed to be running after him. He squinted a little, from a habit he had of looking sideways at public meetings to see if the au- dience was gazing at him. He was "Juvenal" in the Mirror on Friday mornings, and headed his column of local gossip which had that signature, " Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy."
"I wonder," said the sub-editor, with an insinuat- ing glance at the foreman, " if the new man is ex- pected to-night."
Mr. Licquorish had told him that this was so an hour before, but the cunning bred of fear advised him to give Penny the opportunity of divulging the news.
That worthy smiled to himself, as any man has a right to do who has been told something in confidence by his employer.
"He's a Yorkshireman, I believe," continued the crafty Protheroe.
"That's all you know," said the foreman, first glancing back to see if Mr. Licquorish's door was shut. " Mr. George Frederick has told me all about him; he's a Scotsman called Angus, that's never been out of his native county."
ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 43
" He's one of those compositors taken to literature, is he?" asked Umbrage, who by literature meant re- porting, pausing in the middle of a sentence he was transcribing from his note-book. "Just as I ex- pected," he added contemptuously.
" No," said the foreman, thawing in the rays of such ignorance ; " Mr. George Frederick says he's never been on a newspaper before."
" An outsider !" cried Umbrage, in the voice with which outsiders themselves would speak of reptiles. "They are the ruin of the profession, they are."
"He'll make you all sit up, mister," said Penny, with a chuckle. " Mr. George Frederick has had his eye on him for a twelvemonth."
" I don't suppose you know how Mr. George Fred- erick fell in with him?" said the sub-editor, basking in Penny's geniality.
" Mr. George Frederick told me everything about him everything," said the foreman proudly. "It was a parson that recommended him."
" A parson !" ejaculated Umbrage, in such a tone that if you had not caught the word you might have thought he was saying "An outsider!" again.
"Yes, a parson whose sermon this Angus took down in shorthand, I fancy." , " What was he doing taking down a sermon?"
" I suppose he was there to hear it."
"And this is the kind of man who is taking to literature nowadays !" Umbrage cried.
44 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
" Oh, Mr. George Frederick has heard a great deal about him," continued Penny maliciously, "and ex- pects him to do wonders. He's a self-made man."
"Oh," said Umbrage, who could find nothing to obect to in that, having risen from comparative ob- scurity himself.
"Mr. George Frederick," Penny went on, "offered him a berth here before Billy Tagg was engaged, but he couldn't come."
"I suppose," said Juvenal, with the sarcasm that made him terrible on Fridays, "the Times offered him something better, or was it the Spectator that wanted an editor?"
" No, it was family matters. His mother or his sister, or let me see, it was his sister's child was dependent on him, and could not be left. Something happened to her, though. She's dead, I think, so he's a free man now."
" Yes, it was his sister's child, and she was found dead," said the sub-editor, "on a mountain-side, curi- ously enough, with George Frederick's letter in her hand offering Angus the appointment."
Protheroe was foolish to admit that he knew this, for it was news to the foreman, but it tries a man severely to have to listen to news that he could tell better himself. One immediate result of the sub- editor's rashness was that Rob Angus sunk several stages in Penny's estimation.
"I dare say he'll turn out a muff," he said, and
ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 45
flung out of the room, with another intimation that the copy must be cut down.
The evening wore on. Protheroe had half a dozen things to do at once, and did them.
Telegraph boys were dropping the beginning of Lord John Manners' speech through a grating on to the sub-editorial desk long before he had reached the end of it at Nottingham.
The sub-editor had to revise this as it arrived in flimsy, and write a summary of it at the same time. His summary was set before all the speech had reached the office, which may seem strange. But when Penny cried aloud for summary, so that he might get that column off his hands, Protheroe made guesses at many things, and, risking, "the right hon. gentleman concluded his speech, which was at- tentively listened to, with some further references to current topics," flung Lord John to the boy, who rushed with him to Penny, from whose hand he was snatched by a compositor. Fifteen minutes after- wards Lord John concluded his speech at Notting- ham.
About half-past nine Protheroe seized his hat and rushed home for supper. In the passage he nearly knocked himself over by running against the young man in the heavy top-coat. Umbrage went
out to see if he could gather any information about a prize- fight. John Milton came in with a notice of a con- cert, which he stuck conspicuously on the chief
46 WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE.
reporter's file. When the chief reporter came in, he glanced through it and made a few alterations, chang- ing " Mr. Joseph Grimes sang out of tune," for in- stance, to " Mr. Grimes, the favorite vocalist, was in excellent voice. " The concert was not quite over yet, either ; they seldom waited for the end of anything on the Mirror.
When Umbrage returned, Billy Kirker, the chief reporter, was denouncing John Milton for not being able to tell him how to spell "deceive."
"What is the use of you?" he asked indignantly, " if you can't do a simple thing like that?"
"Say 'cheat,' " suggested Umbrage.
So Kirker wrote "cheat." Though he was the chief of the J/zrror's reporting department, he had only Umbrage and John Milton at present under him.
As Kirker sat in the reporters' room looking over his diary, with a cigarette in his mouth, he was an advertisement for the Mirror, and if he paid for his velvet coat out of his salary, the paper was in a healthy financial condition. He was tall, twenty- two years of age, and extremely slight. His manner was languid, though his language was sometimes forcible, but those who knew him did not think him mild. This evening his fingers looked bare without the diamond ring that sometimes adorned them. This ring, it was noticed, generally disappeared about the middle of the month, and his scarf-pin fol-
ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 47
lowed it by the twenty-first. With the beginning of the month they reappeared together. The literary staff was paid monthly.
Barrie, J M - When A Man's Single Page 3