Samuel Hopkins Adams - The Clarion

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There between the triumphal cocks, where formerly had flaunted the
braggart boast of the old "Clarion," and more latterly had appeared the
gentle legend of the martyred President, was spread in letters of shame
to the eyes of the "Clarion's" owner, the cynic profession of the led
captain, of the prostituted pen, of all those who have or shall sell
mind and soul and honor for hire;--

_"Whose Bread I Eat, his Song I Sing."_

CHAPTER XXIX

CERTINA CHARLEY

Mr. Belford Couch was a man of note. You might search vainly for the
name among the massed thousands of "Who's Who in America," or even in
those biographical compilations which embalm one's fame and picture for
a ten-dollar consideration. Shout the cognomen the length of Fifth
Avenue, bellow it up Walnut and down Chestnut Street, lend it vocal
currency along the Lake Shore Drive, toss it to the winds that storm in
from the Golden Gate to assault Nob Hill, and no answering echo would
you awake. But give to its illustrious bearer his familiar title; speak
but the words "Certina Charley" within the precincts of the nation's
capital and the very asphalt would find a viscid voice wherewith to
acclaim the joke, while Senate would answer House, and Department reply
to Bureau with the curses of the stung ones. For Mr. Belford Couch was
least loved where most laughed at.

From the nature of his profession this arose. His was a singular career.
He pursued the fleeting testimonial through the mazy symptoms of disease
(largely imaginary) and cure (wholly mythical). To extract from the
great and shining ones of political life commendations of Certina; to
beguile statesmen who had never tasted that strange concoction into
asseverating their faith in the nostrum's infallibility for any and all
ailments; to persuade into fulsome print solemnly asinine Senators and
unwarily flattered Congressmen--that was the touchstone of his living.
Some the Demon Rum betrayed into his hands. Others he won by sheer
personal persuasiveness, for he was a master of the suave plea. Again,
political favors or "inside information" made those his debtors from
whom he exacted and extracted the honor of their names for Dr.
Surtaine's upholding. Blackmail, even, was hinted at. "What does it
matter?" thought the deluded or oppressed victim. "Merely a line of
meaningless indorsement to sign my name to." And within a fortnight
advertising print, black and looming, would inform the reading populace
of the whole country that "United States Senator Gull says of Certina:
'It is, in my opinion, unrivaled as a never-failing remedy for coughs
and colds,'" with a picture, coarse-screen, libelously recognizable.

Certina Charley was not a testimonial-chaser alone. Had he been, Dr.
Surtaine would not have retained him at a generous salary, but would
have paid him, as others of his strange species are paid, by the piece;
one hundred dollars for a Representative, two hundred and fifty dollars
for a Senator, and as high as five hundred for a hero conspicuous in the
popular eye. The special employee of Certina was a person of diverse
information and judicious counsel. His chief had not incorrectly
described him as the diplomat of the trade.

No small diplomacy had been required for the planning of the Emergency
Committee scheme, the details of which Mr. Couch had worked out,
himself. It was, as he boasted to Dr. Surtaine, "a clincher."

"Look out for the medicos," he had said to Dr. Surtaine in outlining his
great idea. "They're mean to handle. You can always buy or bluff a
newspaper, but a doctor is different. Some of 'em you can grease, but
they're the scrubs. The real fellers won't touch money, and the worst of
'em just seem to love trouble. Merritt's that kind. But we can fix
Merritt by raising twenty or thirty thousand dollars and handing it over
to him to organize his campaign against the epidemic. From all I can
learn, Merritt has got the goods as a health officer. He knows his
business. There's no man in town could handle the thing better, unless
it's you, Chief, and you don't want to mix up in the active part of it.
Merritt'll be crazy to do it, too. That's where we'll have him roped.
You say to him, 'Take this money and do the work, but do it on the
quiet. That's the condition. If you can't keep our secret, we'll have
you fired and get some man that can.' The Mayor will chuck him if the
committee says so. But it won't be necessary, if I've got Merritt sized
up. He wants to get into this fight so bad that he'll agree to almost
anything. His assistants we can square.

"So much for the official end of it. But what about the run of the
medical profession? If they go around diagnosing typhus, the news'll
spread almost as fast as through the papers. So here's how we'll fix
them. Recommend the City Council to pass an ordinance making it a
misdemeanor punishable by fine, imprisonment, and revocation of license
to practice, for a physician to make a diagnosis of any case as a
pestilential disease. The Council will do it on the committee's say-so."

"Whew!" whistled the old charlatan. "That's going pretty strong, Bel.
The doctors won't stand for that."

"Believe me, they will. It's been tried and it worked fine, on the
Coast, when they had the plague there. That's where I got the notion:
but the revocation of the license is my own scheme. That'll scare 'em
out of their wits. You'll find they don't dare peep about typhus.
Especially as there aren't a dozen doctors in town that ever saw a case
of it."

"That's so," agreed his principal. "I guess you're right after all,
Bel."

"Sure, am I! You say you've got the newspapers fixed."

"Sewed up tight."

"Keno! Our programme's complete. You and Mr. Pierce and the Mayor see
Merritt and get him. Call the meeting for next week. Make some
good-natured, diplomatic feller chairman. Send out the call to about
three hundred of your solidest men. Then we'll elect you permanent
chairman, you can pick your Emergency Committee, put the resolution
about pest-diagnosis up to the City Council--and there you are. My job's
done. I shall _not_ be among those present."

"Done, and mighty well done, Bel. You'll be going back to Washington?"

"No, I guess I better stick around for a while--in case. Besides, I want
a little rest."

Like so many persons of the artistic temperament, Certina Charley was
subject to periods of relaxation. With him these assumed the phase of
strong drink, evenly and rather thickly spread over several days. On the
afternoon before the carefully planned meeting, ten days after Norman
Hale was taken to the hospital, the diplomat of quackery, his shoulders
eased of all responsibility, sat lunching early at the Hotel Dunston.
His repast consisted of a sandwich and a small bottle of well-frapped
champagne. To him, lunching, came a drummer of the patent medicine
trade; a blatant and boastful fellow, from whose methods the diplomat in
Mr. Belford Couch revolted. Nevertheless, the newcomer was a forceful
person, and when, over two ponies of brandy ordered by the luncher in
the way of inevitable hospitality, he launched upon a criticism of some
of the recent Certina legislative strategy as lacking vigor (a reproach
by no means to be laid to the speaker's language), Mr. Couch's tenderest
feelings were lacerated. With considerable dignity for one in his
condition, he bade his guest go farther and fare worse, and in
mitigation of the latter's Parthian taunt, "Kid-glove fussing, 'bo,"
called Heaven and earth and the whole cafe to witness that, abhorrent
though self-trumpeting was to him, no man had ever handled more
delicately a prickly proposition than he had handled the Certina
legislative interests. Gazing about him for sympathy he espied the son
of his chief passing between the tables, and hailed him.

Two casual meetings with Certina Charley had inspired in Hal a mildly
amused curiosity. Therefore, he readily enough accepted an invitation to
sit down, while declining a coincident one to have a drink, on the plea
that he was going to work.

"Say," appealed Charley, "did you hear that cough-lozenge-peddling boob
trying to tell me where to get off, in the proprietary game? Me!"

"Perhaps he didn't know who you are," suggested Hal tactfully.

"Perhaps he don't know the way from his hand to his face with a glass of
booze, either," retorted the offended one, with elaborate sarcasm.
"Everybody in the trade knows me. Sure you won't have a drink?"

"No, thank you."

"Don't drink much myself," announced the testimonial-chaser. "Just once
in a while. Weak kidneys."

"That's a poor tribute from a Certina man."

"Oh, Certina's all right--for those that want it. The best doctor is
none too good for me when I'm off my feed."

"Well, they call Certina 'the People's Doctor,'" said Hal, quoting an
argument his father had employed.

"One of the Chief's catchwords. And ain't it a corker! He's the best old
boy in the business, on the bunk."

"Just what do you mean by that?" asked Hal coldly.

But Certina Charley was in an expansive mood. It never occurred to him
that the heir of the Certina millions was not in the Certina secrets:
that he did not wholly understand the nature of his father's trade, and
view it with the same jovial cynicism that inspired the old quack.

"Who's to match him?" he challenged argumentatively. "I tell you, they
all go to school to him. There ain't one of our advertising tricks, from
Old Lame-Boy down to the money-back guarantee, that the others haven't
crabbed. Take that 'People's Doctor' racket. Schwarzman copied it for
his Marovian Mixture. Vollmer ran his 'Poor Man's Physician' copy six
months, on Marsh-Weed. 'Poor Man's Doctor'! It's pretty dear treatment,
I tell you."

"Surely not," said Hal.

"Sure _is_ it! What's a doctor's fee? Three dollars, probably."

"And Certina is a dollar a bottle. If one bottle cures--"

"Does _what_? Quit your jollying," laughed Certina Charley unsteadily.

"Cures the disease," said Hal, his suspicions beginning to congeal into
a cold dread that the revelation which he had been unconfessedly
avoiding for weeks past was about to be made.

"If it did, we'd go broke. Do you know how many bottles must be sold to
any one patron before the profits begin to come in? Six! Count them,
six."

"Nonsense! It can't cost so much to make as--"

"Make? Of course it don't. But what does it cost to advertise? You think
I'm a little drink-taken, but I ain't. I'm giving you the straight
figures. It costs just the return on six bottles to get Certina into Mr.
E.Z. Mark's hands, and until he's paid his seventh dollar for his
seventh bottle our profits don't come in. Advertising is expensive,
these days."

"How many bottles does it take to cure?" asked Hal, clinging desperately
to the word.

"Nix on the cure thing, 'bo. You don't have to put up any bluff with me.
I'm on the inside, right down to the bottom."

"Very well. Maybe you know more than I do, then," said Hal, with a grim
determination, now that matters had gone thus far, to accept this
opportunity of knowledge, at whatever cost of disillusionment. "Go
ahead. Open up."

"A real cure couldn't make office-rent," declared the expert with
conviction. "What you want in the proprietary game is a jollier.
Certina's that. The booze does it. You ought to see the farmers in a
no-license district lick it up. Three or four bottles will give a guy a
pretty strong hunch for it. And after the sixth bottle it's all velvet
to us, except the nine cents for manufacture and delivery."

"But it must be some good or people wouldn't keep on buying it," pursued
Hal desperately.

"You've got all the old stuff, haven't you! The good ol' stock
arguments," said Certina Charley, giggling. "The Chief has taught you
the lesson all right. Must be studyin' up to go before a legislative
committee. Well, here's the straight of it. Folks keep on buying Certina
for the kick there is in it. It's a bracer. And it's a repeater, the
best repeater in the trade."

"But it must cure lots of them. Look at the testimonials. Surely they're
genuine."

"So's a rhinestone genuine--as a rhinestone. The testimonials that ain't
bought, or given as a favor, are from rubes who want to see their names
in print."

"At least I suppose it isn't harmful," said Hal desperately.

"No more than any other good ol' booze. It won't hurt a well man. I used
to soak up quite a bit of it myself till my doc gave me an option on
dyin' of Bright's disease or quittin'."

"Bright's disease!" exclaimed Hal.

"Oh, yes, I know: we cure Bright's disease, don't we? Well, if there's
anything worse for old George W. Bright's favorite ailment than raw
alcohol, then my high-priced physizzian don't know his business."

"Let me get this straight," said Hal with a white face. "Do I understand
that Certina--"

"Say, wassa matter?" broke in Certina Charley, in concern; "you look
sick."

"Never mind me. You go on and tell me the truth about this thing."

"I guess I been talkin' too much," muttered Certina Charley, dismayed.
He gulped down the last of his champagne with a tremulous hand. "This's
my second bottle," he explained. "An' brandy in between. Say, I thought
you knew all about the business."

"I know enough about it now so that I've got to know the rest."

"You--you won't gimme away to the Chief? I didn't mean to show up his
game. I'm--I'm pretty strong for the old boy, myself."

"I won't give you away. Go on."

"Whaddye want to know, else?"

"Is there _anything_ that Certina is good for?"

"Sure! Didn't I tell you? It's the finest bracer--"

"As a cure?"

"It's just as good as any other prup-proprietary."

"That isn't the question. You say it is harmful in Bright's disease."

"Why, looka here, Mr. Surtaine, you know yourself that booze is poison
to any feller with kidney trouble. Rheumatism, too, for that matter. But
they get the brace, and they think they're better, and that helps push
the trade, too."

"And that's where my money came from," said Hal, half to himself.

"It's all in the trade," cried Certina Charley, summoning his powers to
a defense. "There's lots that's worse. There's the cocaine dopes for
catarrh; they'll send a well man straight to hell in six months. There's
the baby dopes; and the G-U cures that keep the disease going when right
treatment could cure it; and the methylene blue--"

"Stop it! Stop it!" cried Hal. "I've heard enough."

Alcohol, the juggler with men's thoughts, abruptly pressed upon a new
center of ideation in Certina Charley's brain.

"D'you think I like it?" he sniveled, with lachrymose sentimentality.
"I gotta make a living, haven't I? Here's you and me, two pretty decent
young fellers, having to live on a fake. Well," he added with solacing
philosophy, "if we didn't get it, somebody else would."

"Tell me one thing," said Hal, getting to his feet. "Does my father know
all this that you've been telling me?"

"Does the Chief _know_ it? _Does_ he? Why, say, my boy, Ol' Doc
Surtaine, he _wrote_ the proprietary medicine business!"

Misgivings beset the optimistic soul of Certina Charley as his guest
faded from his vision; faded and vanished without so much as a word of
excuse or farewell. For once Hal had been forgetful of courtesy. Gazing
after him his host addressed the hovering waiter:--

"Say, Bill, I guess I been talkin' too much with my face. Bring's
another of those li'l bo'ls."

CHAPTER XXX

ILLUMINATION

Certina Charley, plus an indeterminate quantity of alcohol, had acted
upon Hal's mind as a chemical precipitant. All the young man's hitherto
suppressed or unacknowledged doubts of the Certina trade and its head
were now violently crystallized. Hal hurried out of the hotel, the wrath
in his heart for the deception so long wrought upon him chilled by a
profounder feeling, a feeling of irreparable loss. He thought in that
moment that his love for his father was dead. It was not. It was only
his trust that was dying, and dying hard.

Since that day of his first visit to the Certina factory, Hal's
standards had undergone an intrinsic but unconscious alteration. Brought
up to the patent medicine trade, though at a distance, he thought of it,
by habit, as on a par with other big businesses. One whose childhood is
spent in a glue factory is not prone to be supersensitive to odors. So,
to Harrington Surtaine, those ethical and moral difficulties which would
have bulked huge to one of a different training, were merely inherent
phases of a profitable business. Misgivings had indeed stirred, at
first. For these he had chided himself, as for an over-polite revulsion
from the necessary blatancy of a broadly advertised enterprise. More
searching questions, as they arose within him, he had met with the
counter-evidence of the internal humanism and fair-dealing of the
Certina shop, and of the position of its beloved chief in the commercial
world.

In the face of the Relief Pills exposure, Hal could no longer excuse his
father on the ground that Dr. Surtaine honestly credited his medicines
with impossible efficacies. Still, he had reasoned, the Doctor had been
willing instantly to abandon this nostrum when the harm done by it was
concretely brought home to him. Though this argument had fallen far
short of reconciling Hal to the Surtaine standards, nevertheless it had
served as a makeshift to justify in part his abandonment of the hard-won
principles of the "Clarion," a surrender necessary for the saving of a
loved and honored father in whose essential goodness he had still
believed.

Now the edifice of his faith was in ruins. If Certina itself, if the
tutelary genius of the House of Surtaine, were indeed but a monstrous
quackery cynically accepted as such by those in the secret, what shred
of defense remained to him who had so prospered by it? Through the
wreckage of his pride, his loyalty, his affection, Hal saw, in place of
the glowing and benign face of Dr. Surtaine, the simulacrum of Fraud,
sleek and crafty, bloated fat with the blood of tragically hopeful
dupes.

One great lesson of labor Hal had already learned, that work is an
anodyne. From his interview with Certina Charley he made straight for
the "Clarion" office. As he hurried up the stairs, the door of
Shearson's room opened upon him, and there emerged therefrom a
brick-red, agile man who greeted him with a hard cordiality.

"Your paper certainly turned the trick. I gotta hand it to you!"

"What trick?" asked Hal, not recognizing the stranger.

"Selling my stock. Streaky Mountain Copper Company. Don't you remember?"

Hal did remember now. It was L.P. McQuiggan.

"More of the same for me, _if_ you please," continued the visitor. "I've
just made the deal with Shearson. He's stuck me up on rates a little.
That's all right, though. The 'Clarion' fetches the dough. I want to
start the new campaign with an interview on our prospects. Is it O.K.?"

"Come up and see Mr. Ellis," said Hal.

Having led him to the editorial office, Hal sat down to work, but found
no escape from his thoughts. There was but one thing to do: he must have
it out at once with Dr. Surtaine. He telephoned the factory for an
appointment. Sharp-eared McQuiggan caught the call.

"That my old pal, Andy?" said he. "Gimme a shot at him while you've got
him on the wire, will you?"

Cheery, not to say chirpy, was the mining promoter's greeting projected
into the transmitter which Hal turned over to him. Straightway, however,
a change came o'er his blithe spirit.

"Something's biting the old geezer," he informed Hal and Ellis. "Seems
to have a grouch. Says he's coming over, pronto--right quick."

Five minutes later, while Mr. McQuiggan was running over some proofs
which he had brought with him, Dr. Surtaine walked into the office.
There was about him a formidable smoothness, as of polished metal. He
greeted his old friend with a nod and a cool "Back again, I see, Elpy."

"And doing business at the old stand," rejoined his friend.
"Worthington's the place where the dollars grow, all right."

"Grow, _and_ stay," said Dr. Surtaine.

"Meaning?" inquired McQuiggan solicitously.

"That you've over-medicated this field."

"Have I got any dollars away from you, Andy?"

"No. But you have from my people."

"Well, their money's as good to buy booze with as anybody else's, I
reckon."

Dr. Surtaine had sat down, directly opposite the visitor, fronting him
eye-to-eye. Nothing loath, McQuiggan accepted the challenge. His hard,
brisk voice, with a sub-tone of the snarl, crossed the Doctor's strong,
heavy utterance like a rapier engaging a battle-axe. Both assumed a
suavity of manner felt to be just at the breaking point. The two
spectators sat, surprised and expectant.

"I don't suppose," said Dr. Surtaine, after a pause, "there's any use
trying to get you to refund."

"Still sticking out for the money-back-if-not-satisfied racket--in the
other fellow's business, eh, Andy? Better practice it in your own."

"Hal,"--Dr. Surtaine turned to his son,--"has McQuiggan brought in a new
batch of copy?"

"So I understand."

"The 'Clarion' mustn't run it."

"The hell it mustn't!" said McQuiggan.

"It's crooked," said the quack bluntly.

The promoter laughed. "A hot one, you are, to talk about crookedness."

"He's paying his advertising bills out of my people's pay envelopes!"
accused Dr. Surtaine.

"How's that, Doc?" asked Ellis.

"Why, when he was here before, he spent some time around the Certina
plant and got acquainted with the department managers and a lot of the
others, and damn me!" cried Dr. Surtaine, grinning in spite of his
wrath, "if he didn't sting 'em all for stock."

"How do you know they're stung?" inquired Ellis.

"From an expert on the ground. I got anxious when I found my own people
were in it, and had a man go out there from Phoenix. He reports that the
Streaky Mountain hasn't got a thing but expectations and hardly that."

"Well, you didn't say there was anything more, did you?" inquired the
bland McQuiggan.

"I? I didn't say?"

"Yes, _you_. You got up the ads."

"Well--well--well, of all the nerve!" cried Dr. Surtaine, grievously
appealing to the universe at large. "I got 'em up! You gave me the
material, didn't you?"

"Sure, did I. Hot stuff it was, too."

"Hot bunk! And to flim-flam my own people with it, too!"

"Anybody that works in your joint ought to be wise to the bunk game,"
suggested McQuiggan.

"I'll tell you one thing: you don't run any more of it in this town."

"Maybe I don't and then again maybe I do. It won't be as good as your
copy, p'r'aps. But it'll get _some_ coin, I reckon. Take a look," he
taunted, and tossed his proofs to the other.

The quack broke forth at the first glance. "Look here! You claim fifty
thousand tons of copper in sight."

"So there is."

"With a telescope, I suppose."

"Well, telescope's sight, ain't it? You wouldn't try to hear through
one, would you?"

"And $200,000.00 worth, ready for milling," continued the critic.

"Printer's error in the decimal point," returned the other, with airy
impudence. "Move it two to the left. Keno! There you have it: $2000.00."

"Very ingenious, Mr. McQuiggan," said Hal. "But you're practically
admitting that your ads. are faked."

"Admittin' nothin'! I offer you the ads. and I've got the ready stuff to
pay for 'em."

"And you think that is all that's necessary?"

"Sure do I!"

"Mr. McQuiggan," remarked Ellis, "has probably been reading our able
editorial on the reformed and chastened policy of the 'Clarion.'"

Hal turned an angry red. "That doesn't commit us to accepting swindles."

"Don't it?" queried McQuiggan. "Since when did you get so
pick-an'-choosy?"

"Straight advertising," announced Dr. Surtaine, "has been the unvarying
policy of this paper since my son took it over."

"Straight!" vociferated McQuiggan. "_Straight?_ Ladies and gents: the
well-known Surtaine Family will now put on their screamin' farce
entitled 'Honesty is the Best Policy.'"

"When you're through playing the clown--" began Hal.

"Straight advertising," pursued the other. "Did I really hear them sweet
words in Andy Certain's voice? No! Say, somebody ring an alarm-clock on
me. I can't wake up."

"I think we've heard enough from you, McQuiggan," warned Hal.

"Do you!" The promoter sprang from his chair and all the latent venom of
his temper fumed and stung in the words he poured out. "Well, take
another think. I've got some things to tell you, young feller. Don't you
come the high-and-holy on me. You and your smooth, big, phony
stuffed-shirt of a father."

"Here, you!" shouted the leading citizen thus injuriously designated,
but the other's voice slashed through his protest like a blade through
pulp.

"Certina! Ho-oh! Warranted to cure consumption, warts, heart-disease,
softening of the brain, and the bloody pip! And what is it? Morphine and
booze."

"You're a liar," thundered the outraged proprietor: "Ten thousand
dollars to any one who can show a grain of morphine in it."

"Changed the formula, have you? Pure Food Law scared you out of the
dope, eh? Well, even at that it's the same old bunk. What about your
testimonials? Fake 'em, and forge 'em, and bribe and blackmail for 'em
and then stand up to me and pull the pious plate-pusher stuff about
being straight. Oh, my Gawd! It'd make a straddle-bug spit at the sun,
to hear you. Why, I'm no saint, but the medical line was too strong for
my stomach. I got out of it."

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