Samuel Hopkins Adams - The Clarion

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The Great American Pumess, looking much more like a very innocent, soft,
and demurely playful kitten, accepted this ingenuous tribute to her
charms with a smile. "Good-morning," she said. "Is Mr. Surtaine in?"

"Same t'you," responded the courteous Mr. Currier. "Sure he is. Walk
this way, maddim!"

They found the editor at his desk. His absorbed expression brightened
as he jumped up to greet his visitor.

"You!" he cried.

Esme let her hand rest in his and her glance linger in his eyes, perhaps
just a little longer than might have comported with safety in one less
adept.

"How is the paper going?" she inquired, taking the chair which he pulled
out for her.

"Completely to the dogs," said Hal.

"No! Why I thought--"

"You haven't given any advice to the editor for six whole days," he
complained. "How can you expect an institution to run, bereft of its
presiding genius? Is it your notion of a fair partnership to stay away
and let your fellow toilers wither on the bough? I only wonder that the
presses haven't stopped."

"Would this help at all?" The visitor produced from her shopping-bag the
written announcement of the Recreation Club play.

"Undoubtedly it will save the day. Lost Atlantis will thrill to hear,
and deep-sea cables bear the good news to unborn generations. What is
it?"

She frowned upon his levity. "It is an interesting item, a _very_
interesting item of news," she said impressively.

"Bring one in every day," he directed: "in person. We can't trust the
mails in matters of such vital import." And scrawling across the copy a
single hasty word in pencil, he thrust it into a wire box.

"What's that you've written on it?"

"The mystic word 'Must.'"

"Does it mean that it must be printed?"

"Precisely, O Fountain of Intuition. It is one of the proud privileges
which an editor-in-chief has. Otherwise he does exactly what the city
desk or the advertising manager or the head proof-reader or the fourth
assistant office boy tells him. That's because he's new to his job and
everybody in the place knows it."

"Yet I don't think it would be easy for any one to make you do a thing
you really didn't want to do," she observed, regarding him thoughtfully.

"When you lift your eyebrows like that--"

"I thought you weren't to make pretty speeches to me in business hours,"
she reproached him.

"Such a stern and rock-bound partner! Very well. How does the paper suit
your tastes?"

"You've got an awfully funny society column."

"We strive to amuse. But I thought only people outside of society ever
read society columns--except to see if their names were there."

"I read _all_ the paper," she answered severely. "And I'd like to know
who Mrs. Wolf Tone Maher is."

"Ring up 'Information,'" he suggested.

"Don't be flippant. Also Mr. and Mrs. B. Kirschofer, and Miss Amelia
Sproule. All of which give teas in the society columns of the 'Clarion.'
_Or_ dances. _Or_ dinners. And I notice they're always sandwiched in
between the Willards or the Vanes or the Ellisons or the Pierces, or
some of our own crowd. I'm curious."

"So am I. Let's ask Wayne."

Accordingly the city editor was summoned and duly presented to Miss
Elliot. But when she put the question to him, he looked uncomfortable.
Like a good city editor, however, he defended his subordinate.

"It isn't the society reporter's fault," he said. "He knows those people
don't belong."

"How do they get in there, then?" asked Hal.

"Mr. Shearson's orders."

"Is Mr. Shearson the society editor?" asked Esme.

"No. He's the advertising manager."

"Forgive my stupidity, but what has the advertising manager to do with
social news?"

"A big heap lot," explained Wayne. "It's the most important feature of
the paper to him. Wolf Tone Maher is general manager of the Bee Hive
Department Store. We get all their advertising, and when Mrs. Maher
wants to see her name along with the 'swells,' as she would say, Mr.
Shearson is glad to oblige. B. Kirschofer is senior partner in the firm
of Kirschofer & Kraus, of the Bargain Emporium. Miss Sproule is the
daughter of Alexander Sproule, proprietor of the Agony Parlors, three
floors up."

"Agony Parlors?" queried the visitor.

"Painless dentistry," explained Wayne. "Mr. Shearson handles all that
matter and sends it down to us."

"Marked 'Must,' I suppose," remarked Miss Elliot, not without malice.
"So the mystic 'Must' is not exclusively a chief-editorial prerogative?"

The editor-in-chief looked annoyed, thereby satisfying his visitor's
momentary ambition. "Hereafter, Mr. Wayne, all copy indorsed 'Must' is
to be referred to me," he directed.

"That kills the 'Must' thing," commented the city editor cheerfully.
"What about 'Must not'?"

"Another complication," laughed Esme. "I fear I'm peering into the dark
and secret places of journalism."

"For example, a story came in last night that was a hummer," said Wayne;
"about E.M. Pierce's daughter running down an apple-cart in her
sixty-horse-power car, and scattering dago, fruit, and all to the four
winds of Heaven. Robbins saw it, and he's the best reporter we have for
really funny stuff."

"Kathleen drives that car like a demon out on a spree," said Esme. "But
of course you wouldn't print anything unpleasant about it."

"Why not?" asked Wayne.

"Well, she belongs to our crowd,--Mr. Surtaine's friends, I mean,--and
it was accidental, I suppose, and so long as the man wasn't hurt--"

"Only a sprained shoulder."

"--and I'm sure Agnes would be more than willing to pay for the damage."

"Oh, yes. She asked the worth of his stock and then doubled it, gave him
the money, and drove off with her mud guards coquettishly festooned with
grapes. That's what made it such a good story."

"But, Mr. Wayne"--Esme's eyes were turned up to his pleadingly: "those
things are funny to tell. But they're so vulgar, in the paper. Think, if
it were your sister."

"If my sister went tearing through crowded streets at forty miles an
hour, I'd have her examined for homicidal mania. That Pierce girl will
kill some one yet. Even then, I suppose we won't print a word of it."

"What would stop us?" asked Hal.

"The fear of Elias M. Pierce. His 'Must not' is what kills this story."

"Let me see it."

"Oh, it isn't visible. But every editor in town knows too much to offend
the President of the Consolidated Employers' Organization, let alone his
practical control of the Dry Goods Union."

"You were at the staff breakfast yesterday, I believe, Mr. Wayne."

"What? Yes; of course I was."

"And you heard what I said?"

"Yes. But you can't do that sort of thing all at once," replied the city
editor uneasily.

"We certainly never shall do it without making a beginning. Please hold
the Pierce story until you hear from me."

"Tell me all about the breakfast," commanded Esme, as the door closed
upon Wayne.

Briefly Hal reported the exchange of ideas between himself and his
staff, skeletonizing his own speech.

"Splendid!" she cried. "And isn't it exciting! I love a good fight.
What fun you'll have. Oh, the luxury of saying exactly what you think!
Even I can't do that."

"What limits are there to the boundless privileges of royalty?" asked
Hal, smiling.

"Conventions. For instance, I'd love to tell you just how fine I think
all this is that you're doing, and just how much I like and admire you.
We've come to be real friends, haven't we? And, you see, I can be of
some actual help. The breakfast was my suggestion, wasn't it? So you owe
me something for that. Are you properly grateful?"

"Try me."

"Then, august and terrible sovereign, spare the life of my little friend
Kathie."

Hal drew back a bit. "I'm afraid you don't realize the situation."

The Great American Pumess shot forth a little paw--such a soft, shapely,
hesitant, dainty, appealing little paw--and laid it on Hal's hand.

"Please," she said.

"But, Esme,"--he began. It was the first time he had used that intimacy
with her. Her eyes dropped.

"We're partners, aren't we?" she said.

"Of course."

"Then you won't let them print it!"

"If Miss Pierce goes rampaging around the streets--"

"Please. For me,--partner."

"One would have to be more than human, to say no to you," he returned,
laughing a little unsteadily. "You're corrupting my upright professional
sense of duty."

"It can't be a duty to hold a friend up to ridicule, just for a little
accident."

"I'm not so sure," said Hal, again. "However, for the sake of our
partnership, and if you'll promise to come again soon to tell us how to
run the paper--"

"I knew you'd be kind!" There was just the faintest pressure of the
delicate paw, before it was withdrawn. The Great American Pumess was
feeling the thrill of power over men and events. "I think I like the
newspaper business. But I've got to be at my other trade now."

"What trade is that?"

"Didn't you know I was a little sister of the poor? When you've lost all
your money and are ill, I'll come and lay my cooling hand on your
fevered brow and bring wine jelly to your tenement."

"Aren't you afraid of contagious diseases?" he asked anxiously. "Such
places are always full of them."

"Oh, they placard for contagion. It's safe enough. And I'm really
interested. It's my only excuse to myself for living."

"If bringing happiness wherever you go isn't enough--"

"No! No!" She smiled up into his eyes. "This is still a business visit.
But you may take me to my car."

On his way back Hal stopped to tell Wayne that perhaps the Pierce story
wasn't worth running, after all. Unease of conscience disturbed his work
for a time thereafter. He appeased it by the excuse that it was no
threat or pressure from without which had influenced his action. He had
killed the item out of consideration for the friend of his friend. What
did it matter, anyway, a bit of news like that? Who was harmed by
leaving it out? As yet he was too little the journalist to comprehend
that the influences which corrupt the news are likely to be dangerous in
proportion as they are subtle.

Wayne understood better, and smiled with a cynical wryness of mouth upon
McGuire Ellis, who, having passed Hal and Esme on the stairs, had
lingered at the city desk and heard the editor-in-chief's half-hearted
order.

"Still worrying about Dr. Surtaine's influence over the paper?" asked
the city editor, after Hal's departure.

"Yes," said Ellis.

"Don't."

"Why not?"

"Did you happen to notice about the prettiest thing that ever used eyes
for weapons, in the hall?"

"Something of that description."

"Let me present you, in advance, to Miss Esme Elliot, the new boss of
our new boss," said Wayne, with a flourish.

"God save the Irish!" said McGuire Ellis.

CHAPTER XIII

NEW BLOOD

Echoes of the Talk-it-Over Breakfast rang briskly in the "Clarion"
office. It was suggested to Hal that the success of the function
warranted its being established as a regular feature of the shop. Later
this was done. One of the participants, however, was very ill-pleased
with the morning's entertainment. Dr. Surtaine saw, in retrospect and in
prospect, his son being led astray into various radical and harebrained
vagaries of journalism. None of those at the breakfast had foreseen more
clearly than the wise and sharpened quack what serious difficulties
beset the course which Hal had laid out for himself.

Trouble was what Dr. Surtaine hated above all things. Whatever taste for
the adventurous he may have possessed had been sated by his career as an
itinerant. Now he asked only to be allowed to hatch his golden dollars
peacefully, afar from all harsh winds of controversy. That his own son
should feel a more stirring ambition left him clucking, a bewildered hen
on the brink of perilous waters.

But he clucked cunningly. And before he undertook his appeal to bring
the errant one back to shore he gave himself two days to think it over.
To this extent Dr. Surtaine had become a partisan of the new enterprise;
that he, too, previsioned an ideal newspaper, a newspaper which, day by
day, should uphold and defend the Best Interests of the Community, and,
as an inevitable corollary, nourish itself on their bounty. By the Best
Interests of the Community--he visualized the phrase in large print, as
a creed for any journal--Dr. Surtaine meant, of course, business in the
great sense. Gloriously looming in the future of his fancy was the day
when the "Clarion" should develop into the perfect newspaper, the fine
flower of journalism, an organ in which every item of news, every line
of editorial, every word of advertisement, should subserve the one vital
purpose, Business; should aid in some manner, direct or indirect, in
making a dollar for the "Clarion's" patrons and a dime for the
"Clarion's" till. But how to introduce these noble and fortifying ideals
into the mind of that flighty young bird, Hal?

Dr. Surtaine, after studying the problem, decided to employ the instance
of the Mid-State and Great Muddy River Railroad as the entering wedge of
his argument. Hal owned a considerable block of stock, earning the
handsome dividend of eight per cent. Under attacks possibly leading to
adverse legislation, this return might well be reduced and Hal's own
income suffer a shrinkage. Therefore, in the interests of all concerned,
Hal ought to keep his hands off the subject. Could anything be clearer?

Obviously not, the senior Surtaine thought, and so laid it before the
junior, one morning as they were walking down town together. Hal
admitted the assault upon the Mid-and-Mud; defended it, even; added that
there would be another phase of it presently in the way of an attempt on
the part of the paper to force a better passenger service for
Worthington. Dr. Surtaine confessed a melancholious inability to see
what the devil business it was of Hal's.

"It isn't I that's making the fight, Dad. It's the 'Clarion.'"

"The same thing."

"Not at all the same thing. Something very much bigger than I or any
other one man. I found that out at the breakfast."

That breakfast! Socialistic, anarchistic, anti-Christian, were the
climactic adjectives employed by Dr. Surtaine to signify his disapproval
of the occasion.

"Sorry you didn't like it, Dad. You heard nothing but plain facts."

"Plain slush! Just look at this railroad accident article
broad-mindedly, Boyee. You own some Mid-and-Mud stock."

"Thanks to you, Dad."

"Paying eight per cent. How long will it go on paying that if the
newspapers keep stirring up trouble for it? Anti-railroad sentiment is
fostered by just such stuff as the 'Clarion' printed. What if the
engineer _was_ worked overtime? He got paid for it."

"And seven people got killed for it. I understand the legislature is
going to ask why, mainly because of our story and editorial."

"There you are! Sicking a pack of demagogues onto the Mid-and-Mud. How
can it make profits and pay your dividends if that kind of thing keeps
up?"

"I don't know that I need dividends earned by slaughtering people," said
Hal slowly.

"Maybe you don't need the dividends, but there's plenty of people that
do, people that depend on 'em. Widows and orphans, too."

"Oh, that widow-and-orphan dummy!" cried Hal. "What would the poor,
struggling railroads ever do without it to hide behind!"

"You talk like Ellis," reproved his father. "Boyee, I don't want you to
get too much under his influence. He's an impractical will-o'-the-wisp
chaser. Just like all the writing fellows."

By this time they had reached the "Clarion" Building.

"Come in, Dad," invited Hal, "and we'll talk to Ellis about Old Home
Week. He's with you there, anyway."

"Oh, he's all right aside from his fanatical notions," said the other as
they mounted the stairs.

The associate editor nodded his greetings from above a pile of left-over
copy.

"Old Home Week?" he queried. "Let's see, when does it come?"

"In less than six months. It isn't too early to give it a start, is it?"
asked Hal Surtaine.

"No. It's news any time, now."

"More than that," said Dr. Surtaine. "It's advertising. I can turn every
ad. that goes out to the 'Clarion.'"

"Last year we got only the pickings," remarked Ellis.

"Last year your owner wasn't the son of the committee's chairman."

"By the way, Dad, I'll have to resign that secretaryship. Every minute
of my spare time I'm going to put in around this office."

"I guess you're right. But I'm sorry to lose you."

"Think how much more I can do for the celebration with this paper than I
could as secretary."

"Right, again."

"Some one at the breakfast," observed Hal, "mentioned the Rookeries, and
Wayne shut him up. What are the Rookeries? I've been trying to remember
to ask."

The other two looked at each other with raised eyebrows. As well might
one have asked, "What is the City Hall?" in Worthington. Ellis was the
one to answer.

"Hell's hole and contamination. The worst nest of tenements in the
State. Two blocks of 'em, owned by our best citizens. Run by a political
pull. So there's no touching 'em."

"What's up there now; more murders?" asked the Doctor.

"Somebody'll be calling it that if it goes much further," replied the
newspaper man. "I don't know what the official _alias_ of the trouble
is. If you want details, get Wayne."

In response to a telephone call the city editor presented his lank form
and bearded face at the door of the sanctum. "The Rookeries deaths?" he
said. "Oh, malaria--for convenience."

"Malaria?" repeated Dr. Surtaine. "Why, there aren't any mosquitoes in
that locality now."

"So the health officer, Dr. Merritt, says. But the certificates keep
coming in. He's pretty worried. There have been over twenty cases in No.
7 and No. 9 alone. Three deaths in the last two days."

"Is it some sort of epidemic starting?" asked Hal. "That would be news,
wouldn't it?"

At the word "epidemic," Dr. Surtaine had risen, and now came forward
flapping his hand like a seal.

"The kind of news that never ought to get into print," he exclaimed.
"That's the sort of thing that hurts a whole city."

"So does an epidemic if it gets a fair start," suggested Ellis.

"Epidemic! Epidemic!" cried the Doctor. "Ten years ago they started a
scare about smallpox in those same Rookeries. The smallpox didn't amount
to shucks. But look what the sensationalism did to us. It choked off Old
Home Week, and lost us hundreds of thousands of dollars."

"I was a cub on the 'News' then," said Wayne. "And I remember there were
a lot of deaths from chicken-pox that year. I didn't suppose
people--that is, grown people--died of chicken-pox very often: not more
often, say, than they die of malaria where there are no mosquitoes."

"Suspicion is one thing. Fact is another," said Dr. Surtaine decisively.
"Hal, I hope you aren't going to take up with this nonsense, and risk
the success of the Centennial Old Home Week."

"I can't see what good we should be doing," said the new editor.

"It's big news, if it's true," suggested Wayne, rather wistfully.
"Suppression of a real epidemic."

"Ghost-tales and goblin-shine," laughed the big doctor, recovering his
good humor. "Who's the physician down there?"

"Dr. De Vito, an Italian. Nobody else can get into the Rookeries to see
a case. O'Farrell's the agent, and he sees to that."

"Tip O'Farrell, the labor politician? I know him. And I know De Vito
well. In fact, he does part-time work in the Certina plant. I'll tell
you what, Hal. I'll just make a little expert investigation of my own
down there, and report to you."

"The 'Clarion's' Special Commissioner, Dr. L. Andre Surtaine," said
Ellis sonorously.

"No publicity, boys. This is a secret commission. And here's your chance
right now to make the 'Clarion' useful to the committee, Hal, by keeping
all scare-stuff out of the paper."

"If it really does amount to anything, wouldn't it be better," said Hal,
"to establish a quarantine and go in there and stamp the thing out?
We've plenty of time before Old Home Week."

"No; no!" cried the Doctor. "Think of the publicity that would mean. It
would be a year before the fear of it would die out. Every other city
that's jealous of Worthington would make capital of it and thousands of
people whose money we want would be scared away."

Ellis drew Wayne aside. "What does Dr. Merritt really think? Smallpox?"

"No. The place has been too well vaccinated. It might be scarlet fever,
or diphtheria, or even meningitis. Merritt wants to go in there and open
it up, but the Mayor won't let him. He doesn't dare take the
responsibility without any newspaper backing. And none of the other
papers dares tackle the ownership of the Rookeries."

"Then we ought to. A good, rousing sensation of that sort is just what
the paper needs."

"We won't get it. There's too many ropes on the Boy Boss. First the girl
and now the old man."

"Wait and see. He's got good stuff in him and he's being educated every
day. Give him time."

"Mr. Wayne, I'd like to see the health office reports," called Hal, and
the two went out.

Selecting one of his pet cigars, Dr. Surtaine advanced upon McGuire
Ellis, extending it. "Mac, you're a good fellow at bottom," he said
persuasively.

"What's the price," asked Ellis, "of the cigar and the compliment
together? In other words, what do you want of me?"

"Keep your hands off the boy."

"Didn't I offer fair and square to match you for his soul? You insisted
on fight."

"If you'd just let him alone," pursued the quack, "he'd come around
right side up with care. He's sound and sensible at bottom. He's got a
lot of me in him. But you keep feeding him up on your yellow journal
ideas. What'll they ever get him? Trouble; nothing but trouble. Even if
you should make a sort of success of the paper with your wild
sensationalism it wouldn't be any real good to Hal. It wouldn't get him
anywhere with the real people. It'd be a sheet he'd always have to be a
little ashamed of. I tell you what, Mac, in order to respect himself a
man has got to respect his business."

"Just so," said McGuire Ellis. "Do you respect your business, Doc?"

"Do I!! It makes half a million a year clear profit."

The associate editor turned to his work whistling softly.

CHAPTER XIV

THE ROOKERIES

Two conspicuous ornaments of Worthington's upper world visited
Worthington's underworld on a hot, misty morning of early June. Both
were there on business, Dr. L. Andre Surtaine in the fulfillment of his
agreement with his son--the exact purpose of the visit, by the way,
would have inspired Harrington Surtaine with unpleasant surprise, could
he have known it; and Miss Esme Elliot on a tour of inspection for the
Visiting Nurses' Association, of which she was an energetic official.
Whatever faults or foibles might be ascribed to Miss Elliot, she was no
faddist. That which she undertook to do, she did thoroughly and well;
and for practical hygiene she possessed an inborn liking and aptitude,
far more so than, for example, her fortuitous fellow slummer of the
morning, Dr. Surtaine, whom she encountered at the corner where the
Rookeries begin. The eminent savant removed his hat with a fine
flourish, further reflected in his language as he said:--

"What does Beauty so far afield?"

"Thank you, if you mean me," said Esme demurely.

"Do you see something else around here that answers the description?"

"No: I certainly don't," she replied, letting her eyes wander along the
street where Sadler's Shacks rose in grime and gauntness to offend the
clean skies. "I am going over there to see some sick people."

"Ah! Charity as well as Beauty; the perfect combination."

The Doctor's pomposity always amused Esme. "And what does Science so far
from its placid haunts?" she mocked. "Are you scattering the blessings
of Certina amongst a grateful proletariat?"

"Not exactly. I'm down here on some other business."

"Well, I won't keep you from it, Dr. Surtaine. Good-bye."

The swinging doors of a saloon opened almost upon her, and a short,
broad-shouldered foreigner, in a ruffled-up silk hat, bumped into her
lightly and apologized. He jogged up to Dr. Surtaine.

"Hello, De Vito," said Dr. Surtaine.

"At the service of my distinguish' confrere," said the squat Italian.
"Am I require at the factory?"

"No. I've come to look into this sickness. Where is it?"

"The opposite eemediate block."

Dr. Surtaine eyed with disfavor the festering tenement indicated. "New
cases?"

"Two, only."

"Who's treating them?"

"I am in charge. Mr. O'Farrell employs my services: so the pipple have
not to pay anything. All the time which I am not at the Certina factory,
I am here."

"Just so. And no other doctor gets in?"

"There is no call. They are quite satisfied."

"And is the Board of Health satisfied?"

The employee shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. "How is it you
Americans say? 'What he does not know cannot hurt somebody.'"

"Is O'Farrell agent for all these barracks?" Dr. Surtaine inquired as
they walked up the street.

"All. Many persons own, but Mr. O'Farrell is boss of all. This Number 4,
Mr. Gibbs owns. He is of the great department store. You know. A ver'
fine man, Mr. Gibbs."

"A very fine fool," retorted the Doctor, "to let himself get mixed up
with such rotten property. Why, it's a reflection on all us men of
standing."

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