by John Jakes
The boy turned back. “Late?” He grinned. “I thought you were an American, mister.”
“I am.”
“Then why don’t you know that over here, nobody bosses you around? You take charge of your own life, and do what you have to do to make a nickel.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Munich, mister. By way of Bremerhaven. When I was about so long.” He measured a foot of snowy air with gloves worn through at all the fingertips. “My father says I lay on my mother’s stomach for most of the trip. It cost them the equivalent of twenty-five American dollars to buy two spaces on a mail packet. Two spaces five feet long and two and a half wide, chalked out ’tween the decks. Father says he and Mother got slops for food, and a lot of the newcomers died on the way, but the Goldmans survived, thank you kindly.” In a brash and somehow touching imitation of an adult, he extended his right hand. “My name’s Leo Goldman.”
They shook. Gideon felt the cold of the boy’s hand.
“Gideon Kent, Leo.”
“Yes, sir, happy to make your acquaintance. You born in America, were you?”
“Virginia.”
“Well, I’m only an adopted American, I suppose you could say. But I mean to be a good one. I’m not so rich as a Rothschild yet, and I still live on Hester Street”—the name of a particularly noxious thoroughfare in the lower East Side ghetto—“but I’ll change both those things before I’m much older. I’m going to make my fortune here.”
Gideon didn’t crack a smile. There was a determined look in Leo Goldman’s dark eyes, and he had the feeling the boy would punch him if he laughed at the sober, almost passionate declaration.
“An admirable ambition. Do you know how you’re going to do it?”
“Not yet, sir. I’ll find a way. It’s possible to do it in America, you know. Such an amazing country. Every man his own king—every man his own priest. Or in my case, rabbi. Well, good evening to you, Mr.—”
All at once recognition swept over the boy’s face. He lost his self-assured air and very nearly stammered.
“Kent, you said. Kent. One of the older fellows told me the Kents own this paper.” A tattered glove lifted toward the frosted windows and the presses rumbling beyond. “Are you … ?”
Gideon nodded.
“Well! You’ve made your fortune.”
“To tell the truth, it was made for me,” Gideon answered with a smile. “At the moment I’m trying to learn how to use it properly.” He dug in his pocket and produced a one-dollar shinplaster. “Here. You can’t carry a stack of papers if your hands are frozen. Buy yourself a decent pair of gloves.”
Leo Goldman studied the bill and finally saw its denomination. His eyes grew huge. His voice slid up the scale to a near squeak. “Holy Tammany. I can buy gloves and some bread for my sisters, too.”
“How many sisters do you have?”
“Nine. We all sleep in one room, so I camp out whenever I can.” He began to unfold the dollar. Then his eyes narrowed, and a suspicious old man looked out from the handsome face. “I don’t have to do any—special tricks for this, do I? If I do, I won’t take it.”
“Leo, it’s yours. With no strings on it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kent. Thank you indeed. Good health to you!”
The boy went racing back across the street to the statue of Franklin, where his friends crowded around him to hear of his good fortune. Gideon smiled again. The brief encounter had restored his spirits.
He turned and entered the building. The rumbling presses shook the steps leading up to the editorial rooms. He climbed the steps with confidence, telling himself there wasn’t a Yankee born who could stand up to one of Jeb Stuart’s own.
Chapter III
A Hard Taskmaster
i
THE EDITORIAL OFFICE was one large room stretching from the high arched windows at the front to a partitioned telegraph room at the rear. Gaslit cubicles lined the wall opposite the head of the stairs. The hub of the big, dingy room was a large desk. Two dozen smaller desks surrounding it were all turned so they faced it. These smaller desks had tilted tops, and at several of them men in shirtsleeves or dark jackets were writing longhand copy with pencils, usually amid a litter of notes. Most of the reporters puffed cigars and wore their hats.
Occasionally one of the men shouted for a copy boy. There were two working, Gideon observed as he slowly traversed the room. For all the attention he received, he might have been a derelict instead of part owner. A few people glanced at him, but no one said anything.
He watched a copy boy hustle a finished manuscript to the central desk. The man seated there scanned it, penciled a few corrections, then wrote something on a separate sheet and pinned it to the story. The boy ran it to an opening in the wall—a kind of dumbwaiter—and placed the copy on a tray. He pulled a cord. The tray started downward. To the composing room, Gideon supposed.
There was continuous, low-level noise in the room, consisting of the rumble of the presses, the chatter of telegraph sounders from the back, and the intermittent buzz of conversation punctuated by yelling or a question called from the central desk. The scene reminded Gideon of a painting done in dark pigments; the figures had a blurred look in the low, smoky gaslight.
His path took him behind the city editor at the central desk. He knew it was rude to pause and peer over the editor’s shoulder, but he was curious. He watched the editor print the last of six decks, or headline subheads. The man was working on an important story, then. Only two or three decks accompanied a routine one.
The editor grew aware of Gideon’s presence. “What the hell do you want?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Payne.”
A pencil stabbed toward one of the cubicles. “Over there. The doorway where you see the young man taking his forty lashes.”
Gideon didn’t understand the remark until he approached the open door of the office. Inside, a coatless reporter, no more than twenty-one, faced someone hidden by the wall of the cubicle. The reporter turned an old stovepipe hat in his fingers. Gideon heard a grating voice.
“—kindly read the offending sentence, Mr. Mordecai. Aloud.”
A hand thrust a proof at the young man. Looking even more nervous, he took it, licked his lips, and read in a quavering tone.
“‘No pronouncements have come from the Treasury Department regarding the Granger position on greenbacks, and none are expected until—until—’”
His voice trailed off.
“You do not deny you committed that rape of the language, Mr. Mordecai?”
“Sir, it was an honest mistake. I was in a hurry to finish.”
“Never be in that much of a hurry, Mr. Mordecai. If some semiliterate wretch reads your imperfect prose and thereby fixes an erroneous principle of grammar in his head for all time, you have hurt him. You have done him irreparable harm with your haste. Pick up a week’s wages at the cashier and carry that thought to your next employer, whoever it is. Good evening.”
“But, Mr. Payne—”
“Good evening.”
The reporter walked out, ignoring Gideon. He jammed his stovepipe on his head and growled, “Snotty, pie-eyed little son of a bitch. I’m a journalist, not a bloody schoolmaster.”
Payne heard. “You’re both, you ill-mannered oaf,” he called. “The sooner you learn it, the sooner you’ll become a competent newspaperman.”
Mumbling oaths, Mr. Mordecai moved away. Gideon knocked and walked in. He caught the little man opening a lower desk drawer. The cubicle reeked of whiskey.
Theophilus Payne shut the drawer with a bang. He was a slightly built man whose feet barely touched the floor when he was seated. A nose like a large pink radish disfigured his lined face; time, dissipation and daily deadlines had all taken a toll.
Payne recognized Gideon. He greeted him in an offhand way, stood up and gave him a limp handshake. The top of his gray head was on a level with Gideon’s shoulder.
“Please be seated, Mr. Kent. Molly tol
d me to expect you, but I wasn’t sure when. Haven’t fretted about it much. I’m not precisely thrilled at the prospect of interviewing a man who wants to replace me.”
Gideon was startled by the editor’s directness. Payne waved and gave him a mordant glance. “Oh, come. Don’t play the innocent. Molly didn’t say so, but I’m sure you fancy yourself as the publisher someday. Should that happen within my lifetime, I intend to see the title bestowed on a man whose professionalism I endorse. I will not put a fool or an incompetent on the staff—even if he does own a quarter of the stock.”
Gideon scowled. “It sounds as though you’ve made up your mind about me.”
Payne held up a hand. “Not yet, sir. Not yet! I’m prepared to do so now, however. If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll adjust my cravat and we’ll go for a stroll. This place is far too noisy for a confidential discussion.”
Gideon started to sit in a visitor’s chair. Payne coughed.
“Mr. Kent. When I ask you to excuse me, that is a request for you to leave. Don’t you understand the nuances of the English language? Hardly what I’d call an auspicious beginning.”
Red-faced, Gideon left.
He didn’t know whether to laugh at the man or curse him. And what was all that folderol about Payne fixing his cravat? He understood when he heard the desk drawer slide open softly. There was the faint squeak of a cork coming out of a bottle. A moment later the drawer shut again.
Soon Payne joined him, struggling into an old frock coat. What appeared to be graham cracker crumbs speckled the left lapel. The editor had done nothing to his cravat.
“I’ll check with Mr. Staniels to see that all’s under control. We’re half an hour from locking up the final form, but it’s a quiet night. Excuse me once again, if you please.”
And off he went toward the central desk, surrounded by an aura of authority and a scent of bourbon.
ii
The snow had slacked off. Just a few flakes sprinkled down to sparkle on the tops of the drifts. Payne’s winter apparel consisted of a plaid muffler, a beaver hat at least twenty years old, and mismatched gloves.
The two men turned south along Park Row. The newsboys had left the Franklin statue, presumably taking someone’s paper to sell. Payne clasped his hands behind his back and peered straight ahead.
“I wanted us out of the office so we might speak freely, Mr. Kent. There is no need for us to act out a farce. You needn’t get my approval for a job on the Union. You know you can force that any time you wish. However”—he shot a humorless look at the younger man—“this much is true. If you do join us against my wishes, I can make it damned difficult for you to get cooperation from anyone. I can, that is, until such time as you discharge me.”
“I wouldn’t want that, Payne. And Molly would never permit it.”
A little glint shone in his eye. “I fear you’re having sport with me.”
“Definitely not. When Molly deferred to you in the matter of hiring me, it wasn’t just a courtesy. She’d rather have you than me.”
“Would she! Comforting, very comforting,” he murmured, and hiccoughed into his glove. Had Payne known all along that he had Molly’s wholehearted backing? Gideon suspected so. Like a good lawyer, Payne might be building a case for his authority a step at a time. He was convinced he was right when the editor said, “If it’s indeed true, then it’s doubly certain I could make your life miserable—should I choose to do so. Frankly, Mr. Kent—”
“Look here, I wish you’d call me Gideon.”
“If ever I think the time is right, sir, I shall. But not until.”
Despite his flaring anger, Gideon accepted the rebuke in silence.
“I am not saying I would make things difficult for you. I am not saying that at all. Yet! However, it’s questionable as to whether we would get along. I have many opinions to which you might take exception. For example, I have never been able to feel kindly toward anyone who hails from a region populated by former secessionists. No, let’s be wholly candid. By traitors.”
“Now just a—”
“Be quiet, sir! I have the floor. Or the street, to be precise. Equally high on my list of dislikes is any form of nepotism. Finally, I know what you have been doing prior to this time, and I must inform you I detest trade unions. My loathing was merely increased when your father forced me to accept two of them under our roof. Jephtha Kent was a courageous and intelligent man. But every human being blunders now and then. Your father’s blunder of five years ago can only be termed colossal. As I interpret the purposes of trade unions, they ultimately hope to provide a guaranteed wage for everyone, including the man whose work is slipshod. A permanent job for everyone, including the indolent—what’s wrong, Mr. Kent?”
Gideon had stopped, fists on his hips. “You, Mr. Payne. Job or no job—you’re a goddamned bigot.”
He was thunderstruck when Payne laughed. “Very true.
So is any man worth his salt. Bigotry must be confined to the editorial columns, however, not slyly sprinkled into the news. That’s a fact you must remember if you come with us.”
If. He gave it special emphasis.
Gideon growled, “I’ll remember.” He kicked a ridge of snow, scattering it. A police wagon passed. Women yelled obscenities from behind the barred windows.
Payne hummed to himself. He acted pleased with his performance thus far. Gideon felt compelled to speak again, regardless of the consequences.
“But I can’t accept your definition of the purpose of labor unions. If what you said were true of all of them—or even a tenth of them—I’d quit the movement instantly. But you’re wrong.”
“Am I, now? I remain to be convinced. And I shall steadfastly refuse to let anyone turn the paper into a labor rag. Sometimes I think we should change the name. But that would be an affront to Amanda, God rest her. She charged me to start a newspaper that would promote the Federal Union when it was in danger of being torn apart. She never realized how a noble word would be perverted. Believe it or not, Mr. Kent, the world does not revolve around the movement which has recently bemused you. Learn that lesson, too, if you please.”
What a pompous, obnoxious little wretch he is, Gideon thought. Well, Molly had warned him. The editor’s strategy seemed to be based on rattling his opponent. Gideon tried to disarm him with courtesy.
“I realize there are a great many things I’d need to learn—”
Murmured sarcasm: “A considerable understatement.”
Gideon finished through clenched teeth, “Commencing with the trivial. Why on earth do your reporters work with their hats on?”
“So the hats won’t be stolen, of course. A newspaper is not Saratoga Springs or Baden-Baden. It attracts visitors of all social classes and moral persuasions. And criminality is rampant these days. In fact I believe we are just entering a golden age of peculation and chicane. Do you agree?”
In a strangled voice Gideon said, “I don’t know what peculation is. Chicane either.”
“Well.” Payne halted and gave Gideon a long, keen look. “That’s unusual honesty. I like a man smart enough to admit he’s ignorant. As for the words, consult a dictionary.”
Gideon wanted to whoop. He felt he’d passed a kind of test. Perhaps the decisive one.
iii
They walked in silence to the corner of Broadway. Heavy snow began to fall again. From behind, a couple of street boys came running with early editions of the Sun. Payne bought one and thrust it at Gideon.
“Take this home. Read it. Then read it again. Try to figure out why the Sun outsells us, and why I’m working like the devil to catch up.”
It was true! Payne had accepted him. With unconcealed enthusiasm, he exclaimed, “I suppose one reason is that the Sun only costs two pennies, not four.”
“Nonsense. In addition to being half the price, the Sun has half as many pages. It outsells us because it’s livelier and better written. It contains an excellent mix of important news, lurid crime stories and titillating soci
ety gossip. As the wags say, the Sun makes vice attractive in the morning and the Post makes virtue unattractive at night.”
Gideon tucked the paper under his arm. The editor continued, “Now as to starting work—shall we say immediately after the New Year?”
“Fine.”
“Initially you’ll be on a twelve- to fourteen-hour shift, just like everyone else.”
“What?” He knew he shouldn’t risk throwing his victory away. But this was principle. “That’s intolerable, Payne. You know the eight-hour day’s the coming thing. The Federal government has adopted it and is demanding its suppliers do the same. A shorter work day is one of the major trade union demands—”
“As long as you work for me, Mr. Kent, you will have to forget about trade union demands and concern yourself with what I demand.”
“Well, if I ever take over, things will be different.”
“With any luck I shall be dead by then. Spared from witnessing the pathetic spectacle of a man trying to operate a newspaper on which every employee decides for himself what work he wishes to do, for how long, and for what wage. I can tell you exactly what that kind of paper will be like. It will be called the Daily Anarchy and will consist of one sheet. Both sides blank.”
“By God, Payne, I’ll change your mind before I’m done.”
“I doubt it, sir. I sincerely doubt it.” But he was studying Gideon from the left side, and the younger man couldn’t see a look of grudging respect fleet across the editor’s face before he snapped, “Now do you want a job on my terms? You’re not going to get one on your own.”
Gideon felt bad about compromising his convictions. He tried to remember the larger objective. He nodded in a brusque way.
“I want the job.”
There was a practical problem, though. Margaret would abhor the long hours. He needed to find something that would overcome her inevitable opposition. Something to divert her, in some area of their life where he could reasonably effect a compromise.