Various - "World's War Events, Volume III"

W. H. H. Murray - "How Deacon Tubman and Parson Whitney Kept New Year's"

Joseph Conrad - "One Day More"

Marc Monnier - "The Wonders of Pompeii"

Books of The Times: The Days of Their Lives: Lesbians Star in Funny Pages
Becky Saletan, publisher of the adult trade division, will leave next week in a sign of further unraveling at the publisher.

Houghton Mifflin Publisher Resigns
Niall Ferguson’s latest book, “The Ascent of Money: A Financial History of the World,” went to press in May 2008, but it shrewdly anticipates many aspects of the current financial crisis.

Books of The Times: It’s Still Making the World Go ’Round
Michael Wolff has written a supercilious yet star-struck portrait of Rupert Murdoch, the planet’s most notorious press baron.

Samuel Hopkins Adams - The Clarion

S >> Samuel Hopkins Adams >> The Clarion




All these and many similar experiences, the "Clarion" published in its
"News of the M. and M." column. It headed them, "Stories of Survivors."
For six weeks the railroad endured the proddings of ridicule. Then the
Fourth Vice-President of the road appeared in Mr. Harrington Surtaine's
sanctum. He was bland and hinted at advertising. Two weeks later the
Third Vice-President arrived. He was vague and hinted at reprisals. The
Second Vice-President presented himself within ten days thereafter,
departed after five unsatisfactory minutes, and reported at
headquarters, with every symptom of an elderly gentleman suffering from
shock, that young Mr. Surtaine had seemed bored. The First
Vice-President then arrived on a special train.

"What do you want, anyway?" he asked.

"Decent passenger service for Worthington," said the editor. "Just what
I've told every other species _and_ number of Vice-President on your
list."

"You get it," said the First Vice-President.

Thus was afforded another example of that super-efficiency which, we are
assured, marks the caste of the American railroad as superior to all
others, and which consists in sending four men and spending several
weeks to do what one could do better in a single day. In the course of a
few weeks the Midland & Big Muddy did bring its service up to a
reasonable standard, and the owner of the "Clarion" savored his first
pleasant proof of the power of the press.

Vastly less important, but swifter and more definite in results and more
popular in effect, was the "Clarion's" anti-hat-check campaign. The
Stickler, Worthington's newest hotel, had established a coat-room with
the usual corps of girl-bandits, waiting to strip every patron of his
outer garments before admitting him to the restaurant, and returning
them only upon the blackmail of a tip. All the other good restaurants
had followed suit. Worthington resented it, as it resented most
innovations; but endured the imposition, for lack of solidarity, until
the "Clarion" took up the subject in a series of paragraphs.

"Do you think," blandly inquired the editorial roosters, "that when you
tip the hat-check girl she gets the tip? She doesn't. It goes to a man
who rents from the restaurant the privilege of bullying you out of a
dime or a quarter. The girl holds you up, because if she doesn't extort
fifteen dollars a week, she loses her job and her own munificent wages
of seven dollars. The 'Clarion' takes pleasure in announcing a series of
portraits of the high-minded pirates of finance whom you support in
luxury, when you 'give up' to the check-girl. Our first portrait, ladies
and gentlemen, is that of Mr. Abe Hotzenmuller, race-track bookmaker and
whiskey agent, who, in the intervals of these more reputable
occupations, extracts alms from the patrons of the Hotel Stickler."

Next in line was "Shirty" MacDonough, a minor politician, "appropriately
framed in silver dimes," as the "Clarion" put it. He was followed by
Eddie Perkins, proprietor of a dubious resort on Mail Street. By this
time coat-room franchises had suffered a severe depreciation. They
dropped almost to zero when the newspaper, having clinched the lesson
home with its "Photo-graft Gallery of Leading Dime-Hunters," exhorted
its readers: "If you think you need your change as much as these men do,
watch for the coupon in to-morrow's 'Clarion,' and Stick it in Your
Hat." The coupon was as follows:

I READ THE CLARION. I WILL NOT GIVE ONE CENT IN TIPS TO ANY
COAT-ROOM GRAFTER. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?

The enterprise hit upon the psychological moment. Every check-room
bristled with hats proclaiming defiance, and, incidentally, advertising
the "Clarion." The "cut-out coupon" ran for three weeks. In one month
the Stickler check-room, last to surrender, gave up the ghost, and Mr.
Hotzenmuller sued the proprietor for his money back!

Over the theatrical managers the paper's victory was decisive in this,
that it established honest dramatic criticism in Worthington. But only
at a high cost. Not a line of theater advertising appeared in the
columns after the editorial announcement of independence. Press tickets
were cut off. The "Clarion's" dramatic reporter was turned back from the
gate of the various theaters, after paying for admittance. Nevertheless,
the "Clarion" continued to publish frank criticism of current drama,
through a carefully guarded secret arrangement with the critic of the
"Evening News." About this time a famous star, opening a three days'
engagement, got into difficulties with the scene-shifters' union over an
unjust demand for extra payment, refused to be blackmailed, and canceled
the second performance. One paper only gave the facts, and that was the
"Clarion," generally regarded as the defender and mouthpiece of the
laboring as against the capitalistic interests. Great was the wrath of
the unions. Boycott was threatened; even a strike in the office. In
response, the editorial page announced briefly that its policy of giving
the news accurately and commenting upon it freely exempted no man or
organization. The trouble soon died out, but, while making new enemies
amongst the rabid organization men, strengthened the "Clarion's" growing
repute for independence. One of the most violent objectors was Max
Veltman, whose protest, delivered to Hal and McGuire Ellis, was so
vehement that he was advised curtly and emphatically to confine his
activities and opinions to his own department.

"Look out for that fellow," advised Ellis, as the foreman went away
fuming. "He hates you."

"Only his fanaticism," said Hal.

"More than that. It's personal. I think," added the associate editor
after some hesitancy, "it's 'Kitty the Cutie.' He's jealous, Hal. And I
think he's right. That girl's getting too much interested in you."

Hal flushed sharply. "Nonsense!" he said, and the subject lapsed.

Meantime the manager of the Ralston Opera House, where the labor
trouble had occurred, made tentative proffer of peace in the form of
sending in the theater advertising again. Hal promptly refused to accept
it, by way of an object-lesson, despite the almost tearful protest of
his own business office. This blow almost killed Shearson.

In fact, the unfortunate advertising manager now lived in an atmosphere
of Stygian gloom. Two of the most extensive purchasers of newspaper
space, the Boston Store and the Triangle Store, had canceled their
contracts immediately after the attack on the Pierces, through a "joker"
clause inserted to afford such an opportunity. All the other department
stores threatened to follow suit when the "Clarion" took up the cause of
the Consumers' League.

Mrs. Festus Willard was president of the organization, which had been
practically moribund since its inception, for the sufficient reason that
no mention of its activities, designs, or purposed reforms could gain
admission to any newspaper in Worthington. The Retail Union saw to that
through its all-potent Publication Committee. Perceiving the crescent
emancipation of the "Clarion," Mrs. Willard, after due consultation with
her husband, appealed to Hal. Would he help the League to obtain certain
reforms? Specifically, seats for shopgirls, and extra pay for extra
work, as during Old Home Week, when the stores kept open until 10 P.M.?
Hal agreed, and, in the face of the dismalest forecasts from Shearson,
prepared several editorials. Moreover, "Kitty the Cutie" took up the
campaign in her column, and her series of "Lunch-Time Chats," with their
slangy, pungent, workaday flavor, presented the case of the overworked
saleswomen in a way to stir the dullest sympathies. The event fully
justified Shearson in his role of Cassandra. Half of the remaining
stores represented in the Retail Union notified the "Clarion" of the
withdrawal of their advertising. Thus some twelve hundred dollars a week
of income vanished. Moreover, the Union, it was hinted, would probably
blacklist the "Clarion" officially. And the shop-folk gained nothing by
the campaign. The merchants were strong enough to defeat the League and
its sole backer at every point. This was one of the "Clarion's"
failures.

Coincident with the ebb of the store advertising occurred a lapse in
circulation, inexplicable to the staff until an analysis indicated that
the women readers were losing interest. It was young Mr. Surtaine who
solved the mystery, by a flash of that newspaper instinct with which
Ellis had early credited him.

"Department store advertising is news," he decided, in a talk with Ellis
and Shearson.

"How can advertising be news?" objected the manager.

"Anything that interests the public is news, on the authority of no less
an expert than Mr. McGuire Ellis. Shopping is the main interest in life
of thousands of women. They read the papers to find out where the
bargains are. Watch 'em on the cars any morning and you'll see them
studying the ads. The information in those ads. is what they most want.
Now that we don't give it to them, they are dropping the paper. So we've
got to give it to them."

"Now you're talking," cried Shearson. "Cut out this Consumers' League
slush and I'll get the stores back."

"We'll cut out nothing. But we'll put in something. We'll print news of
the department stores as news, not as advertising."

"Well, if that ain't the limit!" lamented Shearson. "If you give 'em
advertising matter free, how can you ever expect 'em to pay for it?"

"We're not giving it to the stores. We're giving it to our readers."

"In which case," remarked McGuire Ellis with a grin, "we can afford to
furnish the real facts."

"Exactly," said Hal.

From this talk developed a unique department in the "Clarion." An
expert woman shopper collected the facts and presented them daily under
the caption, "Where to Find Real Bargains," and with the prefatory note,
"No paid matter is accepted for this column." The expert had an
allowance for purchasing, where necessary, and the utmost freedom of
opinion was granted her. Thus, in the midst of a series of items, such
as--"The Boston Store is offering a special sale of linens at
advantageous prices"; "The necktie sale at the Emporium contains some
good bargains"; and "Scheffler and Mintz's 'furniture week' is worth
attention, particularly in the rocking-chair and dining-set
lines"--might appear some such information as this: "In the special
bargain sale of ribbons at the Emporium the prices are slightly higher
than the same lines sold for last week, on the regular counter"; or,
"The heavily advertised antique rug collection at the Triangle is mostly
fraudulent. With a dozen exceptions the rugs are modern and of poor
quality"; or, "The Boston Shop's special sale of rain coats are mostly
damaged goods. Accept none without guarantee."

Never before had mercantile Worthington known anything like this.
Something not unlike panic was created in commercial circles. Lawyers
were hopefully consulted, but ascertained in the first stages of
investigation, that wherever a charge of fraud was brought, the
"Clarion" office actually had the goods, by purchase. All this was
costly to the "Clarion." But it added nearly four thousand solid
circulation, of the buying class, a class of the highest value to any
advertiser. Only with difficulty and by exercise of pressure on the part
of E.M. Pierce, were the weaker members among the withdrawing
advertisers dissuaded from resuming their patronage of the "Clarion."

"I wouldn't have thought it possible," said the dictator, angrily, to
his associates. "The thing is getting dangerous. The damned paper is out
for the truth."

"And the public is finding it out," supplemented Gibbs, his
brother-in-law.

"Wait till my libel suit comes on," said Pierce grimly. "I don't believe
young Mr. Surtaine will have enough money left to indulge in the luxury
of muckraking, after that."

"Won't the old man back him up?"

"Tells me that the boy is playing a lone hand," said Pierce with
satisfaction.

Herein he spoke the fact. While the "Clarion's" various campaigns were
still in mid-career, Dr. Surtaine had made his final appeal to his son
in vain, ringing one last change upon his Paean of Policy.

"What good does it all do you or anybody else? You're stirring up muck,
and you're getting the only thing you ever get by that kind of activity,
a bad smell." He paused for his effect; then delivered himself of a
characteristically vigorous and gross aphorism:

"Boyee, you can't sell a stink, in this town."

"Perhaps I can help to get rid of it," said Hal.

"Not you! Nobody thanks you for your pains. They take notice for a
while, because their noses compel 'em to. Then they forget. What thanks
does the public give a newspaper? But the man you've roasted--he's after
you, all the time. A sore toe doesn't forget. Look at Pierce."

"Pierce has bothered me," confessed Hal. "He's shut me off from the
banks. None of them will loan the 'Clarion' a cent. I have to go out of
town for my money."

"Can you blame him? I'd have done the same if he'd roasted you as you
roasted his girl."

"News, Dad," said Hal wearily. "It was news."

"Let's not go over that again. You'll stick to your policy, I suppose,
till it ruins you. About finances, by the way, where do you stand?"

"Stand?" repeated Hal. "I wish we did. We slip. Downhill; and pretty
fast."

"Why wouldn't you? Fighting your own advertisers."

"Some advertising has come in, though. Mostly from out of town."

"Foreign proprietary," said Dr. Surtaine, using the technical term for
patent-medicine advertising from out of town, "isn't it? I've been doing
a little missionary work among my friends in the trade, Hal; persuaded
them to give the 'Clarion' a try-out. The best of it is, they're getting
results."

"They ought to. Do you know we're putting on circulation at the rate of
nearly a thousand a week?"

"Expensive, though, isn't it?"

"Pretty bad. The paper costs a lot more to get out. We've enlarged our
staff. Now we need a new press. There's thirty-odd thousand dollars, in
one lump."

"How long can you go on at this rate?"

"Without any more advertising?"

"You certainly aren't gaining, by your present policy."

"Well, I can stick it out through the year. By that time the advertising
will be coming in. It's _got_ to come to the paper that has the
circulation, Dad."

"Hum!" droned the big doctor, dubiously. "Have you reckoned the Pierce
libel suits in?"

"He can't win them."

"Can't he? I don't know. He intends to try. And he feels pretty cocky
about it. E.M. Pierce has something up his sleeve, Boyee."

"That would be a body-blow. But he can't win," repeated Hal. "Why, I saw
the whole thing myself."

"Just the same you ought to have the best libel lawyer you can get from
New York. All the good local men are tied up with Pierce or afraid of
him."

"Can't afford it."

To this point the big man had been leading up. "I've been thinking over
this Pierce matter, Hal, and I've made up my mind. Pierce is getting to
think he's the whole thing around here. He's bullied this town all his
life, just as he's bullied his employees until they hate him like
poison. But now he's gone up against the wrong game. Roast Certina, will
he? The pup! Why, if he'd ever run his factories or his store or his
Consolidated Employees' Organization one hundredth part as decently as
I've run our business, he wouldn't have to stay in nights for fear some
one might sneak a knife into him out of the dark."

This was something less than just to Elias M. Pierce, who, whatever his
other faults, had never been a fearful man.

"Libel, eh?" continued the genius of Certina, quietly but formidably.
"We'll teach him a few things about libel, before he's through. Here's
my proposition, Boyee. You can fight Pierce, but you can't fight all
Worthington. Every enemy you make for the 'Clarion' becomes an ally of
Pierce. Quit all these other campaigns. Stop roasting the business men
and advertisers. Drop your attack on the Mid and Mud: you've got 'em
licked, anyway. Let up on the street railway: I notice you're taking a
fall out of them on their overcrowding. Treat the theaters decently:
they're entitled to a fair chance for their money. Cut out this
Consumers' League foolishness (I'm surprised at Milly Neal--the way
she's lost her head over that). Make friends instead of foes. And go
after Elias M. Pierce, to the finish. Do this, and I'll back you with
the whole Certina income. Come on, now, Boyee. Be sensible."

Hal's reply came without hesitation. "I'm sorry, Dad: but I can't do it.
I've told you I'd stand or fall on what you've already given me. If I
can't pull through on that, I can't pull through at all. Let's
understand each other once and for all, Dad. I've got to try this thing
out to the end. And I won't ask or take one cent from you or any one
else, win or lose."

"All right, Boyee," returned his father sorrowfully. "You're wrong, dead
wrong. But I like your nerve. Only, let me tell you this. You think
you're going to keep on printing the news and the whole news and all
that sort of thing. I tell you, it can't be done."

"Why can't it be done?"

"Because, sooner or later, you'll bump up against your own interests so
hard that you'll have to quit."

"I don't see that at all, sir."

"No, you don't. But one of these days something in the news line will
come up that'll hit you right between the eyes, if ever it gets into
print. Then see what you'll do."

"I'll print it."

"No, you won't, Boyee. Human nature ain't built that way. You'll smother
it, and be glad you've got the power to."

"Dad, you believe I'm honest, don't you?"

"Too blamed honest in some ways."

"But you'd take my word?"

"Oh, that! Yes. For anything."

"Then I put my honor on this. If ever the time comes that I have to
suppress legitimate news to protect or aid my own interests, I'll own up
I'm beaten: I'll quit fighting, and I'll make the 'Clarion' a very
sucking dove of journalism. Is that plain?"

"Shake, Boyee. You've bought a horse. Just the same, I hate to let up on
Pierce. Sure you won't let me hire a New York lawyer for the libel
suit?"

"No. Thank you just as much, Dad. That's a 'Clarion' fight, and the
'Clarion's' money has got to back it."

It was the gist of this decision which, some days later, had reached
E.M. Pierce, and caused him such satisfaction. With the "Clarion"
depending upon its own resources, unbacked by the great reserve wealth
of Certina's proprietor, he confidently expected to wreck it and force
its suspension by an overwhelming verdict of damages. For, as Dr.
Surtaine had surmised, he held a card up his sleeve.




CHAPTER XX

THE LESSER TEMPTING


Seven days of the week did Mr. Harrington Surtaine labor, without by any
means doing all his work. For to the toil which goes to the making of
many newspapers there is no end; only ever a fresh beginning. Had he
brought to the enterprise a less eager appetite for the changeful
adventure of it, the unremitting demand must soon have dulled his
spirit. Abounding vitality he possessed, but even this flagged at times.
One soft spring Sunday, while the various campaigns of the newspaper
were still in mid-conflict, he decided to treat himself to a day off.
So, after a luxurious morning in bed, he embarked in his runabout for an
exploration around the adjacent country.

Having filled his lungs with two hours of swift air, he lunched, none
too delicately, at a village fifty miles distant, and, on coming out of
the hotel, was warned by a sky shaded from blue to the murkiest gray,
into having the top of his car put up. The rain chased him for thirty
miles and whelmed him in a wild swirl at the thirty-first. Driving
through this with some caution, he saw ahead of him a woman's figure, as
supple as a willow withe, as gallant as a ship, beating through the fury
of the elements. Hal slowed down, debating whether to offer conveyance,
when he caught a glint of ruddy waves beneath the drenched hat, and the
next instant he was out and looking into the flushed face and dancing
eyes of Milly Neal.

"What on earth are you doing here?" he cried.

"Can't you see?" she retorted merrily. "I'm a fish."

"You need to be. Get in. You're soaked to the skin," he continued,
dismayed, as she began to shiver under the wrappings he drew around her.
"Never mind. I'll have you home in a few minutes."

But the demon of mischance was abroad in the storm. Before they had
covered half a mile the rear tire went. Milly was now shaking dismally,
for all her brave attempts to conceal it. A few rods away a sign
announced "Markby's Road-House." Concerned solely to get the girl into a
warm and dry place, Hal turned in, bundled her out, ordered a private
room with a fireplace, and induced the proprietor's wife by the
persuasions of a ten-dollar bill to provide a change of clothing for the
outer, and hot drinks for the inner, woman.

Half an hour later when he had affixed a new tire to the wheel, he and
Milly sat, warmed and comforted before blazing logs, waiting for her
clothes to dry out.

"I know I look a fright," she mourned. "That Mrs. Markby must buy her
dresses by the pound."

She gazed at him comically from above a quaint and nondescript garment,
to which she had given a certain daintiness with a cleverly placed
ribbon or two and an adroit use of pins. Privately, Hal considered that
she looked delightfully pretty, with her provocative eyes and the deep
gleam of red in her hair like flame seen through smoke.

"Do you often go out wading, ten miles from home?" he asked.

"Not very. I was running away."

"I didn't see any one in pursuit."

"They knew too much." Her firm little chin set rather grimly. "Do you
want to hear about it?"

"Yes. I'm curious," confessed Hal.

"I went to lunch with another girl and a couple of drummers, out at
Callender's Pond Hotel. She said she knew the men and they were all
right. They weren't. They got too fresh altogether. So I told Florence
she could do as she pleased, but I was for home and the trolley. I
guess I could have made it with a life-preserver," she laughed.

Hal was surprisedly conscious of a rasp of anger within him. "You ought
not to put yourself into such a position," he declared.

She threw him a covert glance from the corner of her sparkling eyes.
"Oh, I guess I can take care of myself," she decided calmly. "I always
have. When fresh drummers begin to talk private dining-room and cold
bottles, I spread my little wings and flit."

"To another private room," mocked Hal. "Aren't you afraid?"

"With you? You're different." There sounded in her voice the purring
note of utter content which is the subtlest because the most unconscious
flattery of womankind.

A silence fell between them. Hal stared into the fire.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked presently.

"Yes."

"Do you want something to eat? Or drink? What did you have to drink?" he
added, glancing at the empty glass on the table.

"Certina."

"Certina?" he queried, uncertain at first whether she was joking. "How
could you get Certina here?"

"Why not? They keep it at all these places. There's quite a bar-trade in
it."

"Is that so?" said Hal, with a vague feeling of disturbance of ideas.
"Which job do you like best: the Certina or the newspaper, Miss Neal?"

"My other boss calls me Milly," she suggested.

"Very well,--Milly, then."

"Oh, I'm for the office. It's more exciting, a lot."

"Your stuff," said Hal, in the language of the cult, "is catching on."

"You don't like it, though," she countered quickly.

"Yes, I do. Much better than I did, anyway. But the point is that it's
a success. Editorially I _have_ to like it."

"I'd rather you liked it personally."

"Some of it I do. The 'Lunch-Time Chats'--"

"And some of it you think is vulgar."

"One has to suit one's style to the matter," propounded Hal. "'Kitty the
Cutie' isn't supposed to be a college professor."

"I hate to have you think me vulgar," she insisted.

"Oh, come!" he protested; "that isn't fair. I don't think _you_ vulgar,
Milly."

"I like to have you call me Milly," she said.

"It seems quite natural to," he answered lightly.

"I've thought sometimes I'd like to try my hand at a regular news
story," she went on, in a changed tone. "I think I've got one, if I
could only do it right; one of those facts-behind-the-news stories that
you talked to us about. Do you remember meeting me with Max Veltman the
other night?"

"Yes."

"Did you think it was queer?"

"A little."

"A girl I used to know back in the country tried to kill herself. She
wrote me a letter, but it didn't get to me till after midnight, so I
called up Max and got him to go with me down to the Rookeries district
where she lives. Poor little Maggie! She got caught in one of those
sewing-girl traps."

"Some kind of machinery?"

"Machinery? You don't know much about what goes on in your town, do
you?"

"Not as much as an editor ought to know--which is everything."

"I'll bring you Maggie's letter. That tells it better than I can. And I
want to write it up, too. Let me write it up for the paper." She leaned
forward and her eyes besought him. "I want to prove I can do something
besides being a vulgar little 'Kitty the Cutie.'"

Copyright (c) 2007. topmasterworks.com. All rights reserved.