When a Man's Single: A Tale of Literary Life

by J. M. Barrie

  CHAPTER III

  ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD

  One evening, nearly a month after Rob Angus became 'single,' Mr. GeorgeFrederick Licquorish, editor and proprietor of the _Silchester Mirror_,was sitting in his office cutting advertisements out of the _SilchesterArgus_, and pasting each on a separate sheet of paper. Theseadvertisements had not been sent to the _Mirror_, and, as he thoughtthis a pity, he meant, through his canvasser, to call the attention ofthe advertisers to the omission.

  Mr. Licquorish was a stout little man with a benevolent countenance, whowrote most of his leaders on the backs of old envelopes. Every fewminutes he darted into the composing-room, with an alertness that was alibel on his genial face; and when he returned it was pleasant toobserve the kindly, good-natured manner in which he chaffed theprinter's devil who was trying to light the fire. It was, however, alsonoticeable that what the devil said subsequently to another devilwas--'But, you know, he wouldn't give me any sticks.'

  The _Mirror_ and the _Argus_ are two daily newspapers published inSilchester, each of which has the largest circulation in the district,and is therefore much the better advertising medium. Silchester is thechief town of an English midland county, and the _Mirror's_ businessnotepaper refers to it as the centre of a population of half a millionsouls.

  The _Mirror's_ offices are nearly crushed out of sight in a block ofbuildings, left in the middle of a street for town councils to pull downgradually. This island of houses, against which a sea of humanity beatsdaily, 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-roomsof the _Daily Mirror_, and down a dirty stair to its printing-rooms. Itis the door at which you may hammer for an hour without any one's payingthe least attention.

  During the time the boy took to light Mr. Licquorish's fire, a young manin a heavy overcoat knocked more than once at the door in the alley, andthen moved off as if somewhat relieved that there was no response. Hewalked round and round the block of buildings, gazing upwards at thewindows of the composing-room; and several times he ran against otherpedestrians on whom he turned fiercely, and would then have begged theirpardons had he known what to say. Frequently he felt in his pocket tosee if his money was still there, and once he went behind a door andcounted it. There was three pounds seventeen shillings altogether, andhe kept it in a linen bag that had been originally made for carryingworms in when he went fishing. When he re-entered the close he alwaysdrew a deep breath, and if any persons emerged from the _Mirror_ officehe looked after them. They were mostly telegraph boys, who fluttered outand in.

  When Mr. Licquorish dictated an article, as he did frequently, theapprentice-reporter went into the editor's room to take it down, andthe reporters always asked him, as a favour, to shut George Frederick'sdoor behind him. This apprentice-reporter did the police reports and themagazine notices, and he wondered a good deal whether the olderreporters really did like brandy and soda. The reason why John Milton,which was the unfortunate name of this boy, was told to close theeditorial door behind him was that it was close to the door of thereporters' room, and generally stood open. The impression the reporters'room made on a chance visitor varied according as Mr. Licquorish's doorwas ajar or shut. When they heard it locked on the inside, the reportersand the sub-editor breathed a sigh of relief; when it opened they tooktheir legs off the desk.

  The editor's room had a carpet, and was chiefly furnished with bookssent in for review. It was more comfortable, but more gloomy-lookingthan the reporters' room, which had a long desk running along one sideof it, and a bunk for holding coals and old newspapers on the otherside. The floor was so littered with papers, many of them still in theirwrappers, that, on his way between his seat and the door, the reportergenerally kicked one or more into the bunk. It was in this way, unlessan apprentice happened to be otherwise disengaged, that the floor wasswept.

  In this room were a reference library and an old coat. The library waswithin reach of the sub-editor's hand, and contained some fifty books,which the literary staff could consult, with the conviction that theywould find the page they wanted missing. The coat had hung unbrushed ona nail for many years, and was so thick with dust that John Miltoncould draw pictures on it with his finger. According to legend, it wasthe coat of a distinguished novelist, who had once been a reporter onthe _Mirror_, and had left Silchester unostentatiously by his window.

  It was Penny, the foreman in the composing-room, who set the literarystaff talking about the new reporter. Penny was a lank, loosely-jointedman of forty, who shuffled about the office in slippers, ruled thecompositors with a loud voice and a blustering manner, and was believedto be in Mr. Licquorish's confidence. His politics were respect for theHouse of Lords, because it rose early, enabling him to have it setbefore supper-time.

  The foreman slithered so quickly from one room to another that he was atthe sub-editor's elbow before his own door had time to shut. There wassome copy in his hand, and he flung it contemptuously upon the desk.

  'Look here, Mister,' he said, flinging the copy upon the sub-editor'sdesk, 'I don't want that.'

  The sub-editor was twisted into as little space as possible, tearingtelegrams open and flinging the envelopes aside, much as a housewifeshells peas. His name was Protheroe, and the busier he was the more hetwisted himself. On Budget nights he was a knot. He did voluntarily somuch extra work that Mr. Licquorish often thought he gave him too highwages; and on slack nights he smiled to himself, which showed thatsomething pleased him. It was rather curious that this something shouldhave been himself.

  'But--but,' cried Protheroe, all in a flutter, 'it's town councilmeeting; it--it must be set, Mr. Penny.'

  'Very well, Mister; then that special from Birmingham must beslaughtered.'

  '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 hewashed his hands of the whole thing, as he had done every night for thelast ten years, when there was pressure on his space. Protheroe had beenthere for half of that time, yet he still trembled before the autocratof the office.

  'There's enough copy on the board,' said Penny, 'to fill the paper. Anymore specials coming in?'

  He asked this fiercely, as if of opinion that the sub-editor arrangedwith leading statesmen nightly to flood the composing-room of the_Mirror_ with speeches, and Protheroe replied abjectly, as if he hadbeen caught doing it--'Lord John Manners is speaking to-night atNottingham.'

  The foreman dashed his hand upon the desk.

  'Go it, Mister, go it,' he cried; 'anything else? Tell me Gladstone'sdead next.'

  Sometimes about two o'clock in the morning Penny would get sociable, andthe sub-editor was always glad to respond. On those occasions theytalked with bated breath of the amount of copy that would come in shouldanything happen to Mr. Gladstone; and the sub-editor, if he was in adespondent mood, predicted that it would occur at midnight. Thinking ofthis had made him a Conservative.

  'Nothing so bad as that,' he said, dwelling on the subject, to show theforeman that they might be worse off; 'but there's a column of localcoming in, and a concert in the People's Hall, and----'

  'And you expect me to set all that?' the foreman broke in. 'Why, thehalf of that local should have been set by seven o'clock, and here I'veonly got the beginning of the town council yet. It's ridiculous.'

  Protheroe looked timidly towards the only reporter present, and thenapologetically towards Penny for having looked at the reporter.

  'The stuff must be behind,' growled Tomlinson, nicknamed Umbrage, 'aslong as we're a man short.'

  Umbrage was very short and stout, with a big moon face, and always worehis coat unbuttoned. In the streets, if he was walking fast and therewas a breeze, his coat-tails seemed to be running after him. He squinteda little, from a habit he had of looking sideways at public meetings tosee if the audience was gazing at him. He was 'Juvenal' in the _Mirror_on Friday mornings, and headed his column of local gossip whi
ch had thatsignature, 'Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.'

  'I wonder,' said the sub-editor, with an insinuating glance at theforeman, 'if the new man is expected to-night.'

  Mr. Licquorish had told him that this was so an hour before, but thecunning bred of fear advised him to give Penny the opportunity ofdivulging the news.

  That worthy smiled to himself, as any man has a right to do who has beentold 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 ifMr. Licquorish's door was shut. 'Mr. George Frederick has told me allabout him; he's a Scotsman called Angus, that's never been out of hisnative county.'

  'He's one of those compositors taken to literature, is he?' askedUmbrage, who by literature meant reporting, pausing in the middle of asentence he was transcribing from his note-book. 'Just as I expected,'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 outsidersthemselves would speak of reptiles. 'They are the ruin of theprofession, 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 Frederick fell in with him?'said the sub-editor, basking in Penny's geniality.

  'Mr. George Frederick told me everythink about him--everythink,' saidthe foreman proudly. 'It was a parson that recommended him.'

  'A parson!' ejaculated Umbrage, in such a tone that if you had notcaught 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.

  'Oh, Mr. George Frederick has heard a great deal about him,' continuedPenny maliciously, 'and expects him to do wonders. He's a self-mademan.'

  'Oh,' said Umbrage, who could find nothing to object to in that, havingrisen from comparative obscurity himself.

  'Mr. George Frederick,' Penny went on, 'offered him a berth here beforeBilly Tagg was engaged, but he couldn't come.'

  'I suppose,' said Juvenal, with the sarcasm that made him terrible onFridays, '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, itwas 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 freeman now.'

  'Yes, it was his sister's child, and she was found dead,' said thesub-editor, 'on a mountain-side, curiously enough, with GeorgeFrederick's letter in her hand offering Angus the appointment.'

  Protheroe was foolish to admit that he knew this, for it was news to theforeman, but it tries a man severely to have to listen to news that hecould tell better himself. One immediate result of the sub-editor'srashness was that Rob Angus sank several stages in Penny's estimation.

  'I dare say he'll turn out a muff,' he said, and 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's speechthrough a grating on to the sub-editorial desk long before he hadreached the end of it at Nottingham.

  The sub-editor had to revise this as it arrived in flimsy, and write asummary of it at the same time. His summary was set before all thespeech had reached the office, which may seem strange. But when Pennycried 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 attentively listened to, withsome further references to current topics,' flung Lord John to the boy,who rushed with him to Penny, from whose hand he was snatched by acompositor. Fifteen minutes afterwards Lord John concluded his speech atNottingham.

  About half-past nine Protheroe seized his hat and rushed home forsupper. In the passage he nearly knocked himself over by running againstthe young man in the heavy top-coat. Umbrage went out to see if he couldgather any information about a prize-fight. John Milton came in with anotice of a concert, which he stuck conspicuously on the chiefreporter's file. When the chief reporter came in, he glanced through itand made a few alterations, changing 'Mr. Joseph Grimes sang out oftune,' for instance, to 'Mr. Grimes, the favourite vocalist, was inexcellent voice.' The concert was not quite over yet, either; theyseldom waited for the end of anything on the _Mirror_.

  When Umbrage returned, Billy Kirker, the chief reporter, was denouncingJohn 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 asimple thing like that?'

  'Say "cheat,"' suggested Umbrage.

  So Kirker wrote 'cheat.' Though he was the chief of the _Mirror's_reporting department, he had only Umbrage and John Milton at presentunder him.

  As Kirker sat in the reporters' room looking over his diary, with acigarette in his mouth, he was an advertisement for the _Mirror_, and ifhe paid for his velvet coat out of his salary, the paper was in ahealthy financial condition. He was tall, twenty-two years of age, andextremely slight. His manner was languid, though his language wassometimes forcible, but those who knew him did not think him mild. Thisevening his fingers looked bare without the diamond ring that sometimesadorned them. This ring, it was noticed, generally disappeared about themiddle of the month, and his scarf-pin followed it by the twenty-first.With the beginning of the month they reappeared together. The literarystaff was paid monthly.

  Mr. Licquorish looked in at the door of the reporters' room to askpleasantly if they would not like a fire. Had Protheroe been there hewould have said 'No'; but Billy Kirker said 'Yes.' Mr. Licquorish hadthought that Protheroe was there.

  This was the first fire in the reporters' room that season, and itsmoked. Kirker, left alone, flung up the window, and gradually becameaware that some one with a heavy tread was walking up and down thealley. He whistled gently in case it should be a friend of his own, but,getting no response, resumed his work. Mr. Licquorish also heard thefootsteps, but though he was waiting for the new reporter, he did notconnect him with the man outside.

  Rob had stopped at the door a score of times, and then turned away. Hehad arrived at Silchester in the afternoon, and come straight to the_Mirror_ office to look at it. Then he had set out in quest oflodgings, and, having got them, had returned to the passage. He was notnaturally a man crushed by a sense of his own unworthiness, but, lookingup at these windows and at the shadows that passed them every moment, hefelt far away from his saw-mill. What a romance to him, too, was in theglare of the gas and in the _Mirror_ bill that was being reduced to pulpon the wall at the mouth of the close! It had begun to rain heavily, buthe did not feel the want of an umbrella, never having possessed one inThrums.

  Fighting down the emotions that had mastered him so often, he turnedonce more to the door, and as he knocked more loudly than formerly, acompositor came out, who told him what to do if he was there onbusiness.

  'Go upstairs,' he said, 'till you come to a door, and then kick.'

  Rob did not have to kick, however, for he met Mr. Licquorish comingdownstairs, and both half stopped.

  'Not Mr. Angus, is it?' asked Mr. Licquorish.

  'Yes,' said the new reporter, the monosyllable also telling that he wasa Scotsman, and that he did not feel comfortable.

  Mr. Licquorish shook him warmly by the hand, and took him into theeditor's room. Rob sat in a chair there with his hat in his hand, whilehis new employer spoke kindly to him about the work that would begin onthe morrow.
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  'You will find it a little strange at first,' he said; 'but Mr. Kirker,the head of our reporting staff, has been instructed to explain theroutine of the office to you, and I have no doubt we shall work welltogether.'

  Rob said he meant to do his best.

  'It is our desire, Mr. Angus,' continued Mr. Licquorish, 'to place everyfacility before our staff, and if you have suggestions to make at anytime on any matter connected with your work, we shall be most happy toconsider them and to meet you in a cordial spirit.'

  While Rob was thanking Mr. Licquorish for his consideration, Kirker inthe next room was wondering whether the new reporter was to havehalf-a-crown a week less than his predecessor, who had begun with sixpounds a month.

  'It is pleasant to us,' Mr. Licquorish concluded, referring to thenovelist, 'to know that we have sent out from this office a number ofmen who subsequently took a high place in literature. Perhaps our systemof encouraging talent by fostering it has had something to do with this,for we like to give every one his opportunity to rise. I hope the daywill come, Mr. Angus, when we shall be able to recall with pride thefact that you began your literary career on the _Mirror_.'

  Rob said he hoped so too. He had, indeed, very little doubt of it. Atthis period of his career it made him turn white to think that he mightnot yet be famous.

  'But I must not keep you here any longer,' said the editor, rising, 'foryou have had a weary journey, and must be feeling tired. We shall seeyou at ten o'clock to-morrow?'

  Once more Rob and his employer shook hands heartily.

  'But I might introduce you,' said Mr. Licquorish, 'to thereporting-room. Mr. Kirker, our chief, is, I think, here.'

  Rob had begun to descend the stairs, but he turned back. He was notcertain what you did when you were introduced to any one, suchformalities being unknown in Thrums; but he held himself in reserve todo as the other did.

  'Ah, Mr. Kirker,' said the editor, pushing open the door of thereporting-room with his foot, 'this is Mr. Angus, who has just joinedour literary staff.'

  Nodding genially to both, Mr. Licquorish darted out of the room; butbefore the door had finished its swing, Mr. Kirker was aware that thenew reporter's nails had a rim of black.

  'What do you think of George Frederick?' asked the chief, after he hadpointed out to Rob the only chair that such a stalwart reporter mightsafely sit on.

  'He was very pleasant,' said Rob.

  'Yes,' said Billy Kirker thoughtfully, 'there's nothing George Frederickwouldn't do for any one if it could be done gratis.'

  'And he struck me as an enterprising sort of man.'

  '"Enterprise without outlay" is the motto of this office,' said thechief.

  'But the paper seems to be well conducted,' said Rob, a littlecrestfallen.

  'The worst conducted in England,' said Kirker cheerfully.

  Rob asked how the _Mirror_ compared with the _Argus_.

  'They have six reporters to our three,' said Kirker, 'but we do doublework and beat them.'

  'I suppose there is a great deal of rivalry between the staffs of thetwo papers?' Rob asked, for he had read of such things.

  'Oh no,' said Kirker, 'we help each other. For instance, if Daddy Walsh,the _Argus_ chief, is drunk, I help him; and if I'm drunk, he helps me.I'm going down to the Frying Pan to see him now.'

  'The Frying Pan?' echoed Rob.

  'It's a literary club,' Kirker explained, 'and very exclusive. If youcome with me I'll introduce you.'

  Rob was somewhat taken aback at what he had heard, but he wanted to beon good terms with his fellow-workers.

  'Not to-night,' he said. 'I think I'd better be getting home now.'

  Kirker lit another cigarette, and saying he would expect Rob at theoffice next morning, strolled off. The new reporter was undecidedwhether to follow him at once, or to wait for Mr. Licquorish'sreappearance. He was looking round the office curiously, when the dooropened and Kirker put his head in.

  'By the bye, old chap,' he said, 'could you lend me five bob?'

  'Yes, yes,' said the new reporter.

  He had to undo the string of his money-bag, but the chief was too fine agentleman to smile.

  'Thanks, old man,' Kirker said carelessly, and again withdrew.

  The door of the editor's room was open as Rob passed.

  'Ah, Mr. Angus,' said Mr. Licquorish, 'here are a number of books forreview; you might do a short notice of some of them.'

  He handed Rob the two works that happened to lie uppermost, and the newreporter slipped them into his pockets with a certain elation. The nightwas dark and wet, but he lit his pipe and hurried up the muddy streetsto the single room that was now his home. Probably his were the onlylodgings in his street that had not the portrait of a young lady on themantelpiece. On his way he passed three noisy young men. They wereKirker and two reporters on the _Argus_ trying which could fling his hathighest in the rain.

  Sitting in his lonely room Rob examined his books with interest. One ofthem was Tennyson's new volume of poems, and a month afterwards the poetlaureate's publishers made Rob march up the streets of Silchester withhis chest well forward by advertising 'The _Silchester Mirror_ says,"This admirable volume."' After all, the great delight of being on thePress is that you can patronise the Tennysons. Doubtless the poetlaureate got a marked copy of Rob's first review forwarded him, and hadan anxious moment till he saw that it was favourable. There had been atime when even John Milton felt a thrill pass through him as he sawMessrs. Besant and Rice boasting that he thought their _Chaplain of theFleet_ a novel of sustained interest, 'which we have read withoutfatigue.'

  Rob sat over his empty grate far on into the night, his mind in ajumble. As he grew more composed the _Mirror_ and its staff sank out ofsight, and he was carrying a dead child in his arms along the leafyWhunny road. His mouth twitched, and his head drooped. He was preparingto go to bed when he sat down again to look at the other book. It was anovel by 'M.' in one thin volume, and Rob thought the title, _The Scornof Scorns_, foolish. He meant to write an honest criticism of it, butnever having reviewed a book before, he rather hoped that this would bea poor one, which he could condemn brilliantly. Poor Rob! he came tothink more of that book by and by.

  At last Rob wound up the big watch that neighbours had come to gaze atwhen his father bought it of a pedlar forty years before, and took offthe old silver chain that he wore round his neck. He went down on hisknees to say his prayers, and then, remembering that he had said themalready, rose up and went to bed.