Brander Matthews - "Inquiries and Opinions"

Unknown - "The Vedanta Sutras with the Commentary by Sankaracarya"

Wolfram Eberhard - "A history of China., [3d ed. rev. and enl.]"

H. A. Guerber - "Stories of the Wagner Opera"

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

Books of The Times: A Media Mogul With Relentless Moxie
Mr. Friedlaender was a book-loving lawyer and financial adviser whose collection of early printed books caused a stir in bibliophilic circles when it went to auction.

Samuel Hopkins Adams - The Clarion

S >> Samuel Hopkins Adams >> The Clarion




"Yes, you did, you dirty little dollar-snatcher! You got put of it into
jail for peddling raw gin--."

"Don't you go raking up old muck with me, you rotten big poisoner!"
roared McQuiggan: "or you'll get the hot end of it. How about that girl
that went batty after taking Cert--"

"Wait a moment! Father! Please!" Hal broke in, aghast at this display.
"We're not discussing the medical business. We're talking advertising.
McQuiggan, yours is refused. We don't run that class of matter in the
'Clarion.'"

"No? Since when? You'd better consult an oculist, young Surtaine."

"If ever this paper carried such a glaring fake as your Streaky
Mountain--"

"Stop right there! Stop! look! and listen!" He caught up the day's issue
from the floor and flaunted it, riddling the flimsy surface with the
stiffened finger of indictment. "Look at it! Look at this ad.--and
this--and this." The paper was rent with the vehemence of his
indication. "Put my copy next to that, and it'd come to life and squirm
to get away."

"Nothing there but what every paper takes," defended Ellis.

"Every paper'd be glad to take my stuff, too. Why, Streaky Mountain copy
is the Holy Bible compared to what you've got here. Take a slant at
this: 'Consumption Cured in Three Months.'--'Cancer Cured or your Money
Back.'--Catarrh dopes, headache cures, germ-killers, baby-soothers,
nerve-builders,--the whole stinkin' lot. Don't I know 'em! Either sugar
pills that couldn't cure a belly-ache, or hell's-brew of morphine and
booze. Certina ain't the worst of 'em, any more than it's the best. I
may squeeze a few dollars out of easy boobs, but you, Andy Certain, you
and your young whelp here, you're playin' the poor suckers for their
lives. And then you're too lily-fingered to touch a mining proposition
because there's a gamble in it!"

He crumpled the paper in his sinewy hands, hurled it to the floor,
kicked it high over Dr. Surtaine's head, and stalking across to Hal's
desk, slapped down his proofs on it with a violence that jarred the
whole structure.

"You run that," he snarled, "or I'll hire the biggest hall in
Worthington and tell the whole town what I've just been telling you."

His face, furrowed and threatening, was thrust down close to Hal's. Thus
lowered, the eyes came level with a strip of print, pasted across the
inner angle of the desk.

"'Whose Bread I Eat, his Song I Sing,'" he read. "What's that?"

"A motto," said McGuire Ellis. "The complete guide to correct
journalistic conduct. Put there, lest we forget."

"H'm!" said McQuiggan, puzzled. "It's in the right place, all right, all
right. Well, does my ad. go?"

"No," said Hal. "But I'm much obliged to you, McQuiggan."

"You go to hell. What're you obliged to me for?" said the visitor
suspiciously.

"For the truth. I think you've told it to me. Anyway you've made me tell
it to myself."

"I guess I ain't told you much you don't know about your snide
business."

"You have, though. Go ahead and hire your hall. But--take a look at
to-morrow's 'Clarion' before you make your speech. Now, good-day to
you."

McQuiggan, wondering and a little subdued by a certain quiet resolution
in Hal's speech, went, beckoning Ellis after him for explication. Hal
turned to his father.

"I don't suppose," he began haltingly, "that you could have told me all
this yourself."

"What?" asked Dr. Surtaine, consciously on the defensive.

"About the medical ads."

"McQuiggan's a sore-head"--began the Doctor.

"But you might have told me about Certina, as I've been living on
Certina money."

"There's nothing to tell." All the self-assurance had gone out of the
quack's voice.

"Father, does Certina cure Bright's disease?"

"Cure? Why, Boyee, what _is_ a cure?"

"Does it cure it?" insisted Hal.

"Sit down and cool off. You've let that skunk, McQuiggan, get you all
excited."

"This began before McQuiggan."

"Then you've been talking to some jealous doctor-crank."

"For God's sake, Father, answer my plain question."

"Why, there's no such thing as an actual cure for Bright's disease."

"Don't you say in the advertisements that Certina will cure it?"

"Oh, advertisements!" returned the quack with an uneasy smile. "Nobody
takes an advertisement for gospel."

"I'm answered. Will it cure diabetes?"

"No medicine will. No doctor can. They're incurable diseases. Certina
will do as much--"

"Is it true that alcohol simply hastens the course of the disease?"

"Authorities differ," said the quack warily. "But as the disease is
incurable--"

"Then it's all lies! Lies and murder!"

"You're excited, Boy-ee," said the charlatan with haggard forbearance.
"Let me explain for a moment."

"Isn't it pretty late for explanations between you and me?"

"This is the gist of the proprietary trade," said the Doctor, picking
his words carefully. "Most diseases cure themselves. Medicine isn't much
good. Doctors don't know a great deal. Now, if a patent medicine braces
a patient up and gives him courage, it does all that can be done. Then,
the advertising inspires confidence in the cure and that's half the
battle. There's a lot in Christian Science, and a lot in common between
Christian Science and the proprietary business. Both work on the mind
and help it to cure the body. But the proprietary trade throws in a few
drugs to brace up the system, allay symptoms, and push along the good
work. There you have Certina."

Hal shook his head in dogged misery. "It can't cure. You admit it can't
cure. And it may kill, in the very cases where it promises to cure. How
could you take money made that way?"

A flash of cynicism hardened the handsome old face. "Somebody's going to
make a living off the great American sucker. If it wasn't us, it'd be
somebody else." He paused, sighed, and in a phrase summed up and
crystallized the whole philosophy of the medical quack: "Life's a
cut-throat game, anyway."

"And we're living on the blood," said Hal. "It's a good thing," he added
slowly, "that I didn't know you as you are before Milly Neal's death."

"Why so?"

"Because," cried the son fiercely, "I'd have published the whole truth
of how she died and why, in the 'Clarion.'"

"It isn't too late yet," retorted Dr. Surtaine with pained dignity, "if
you wish to strike at the father who hasn't been such a bad father to
you. But would you have told the truth of your part in it?"

"My part in it?" repeated Hal, in dull puzzlement. "You mean the ad?"

"You know well enough what I mean. Boy-ee, Boy-ee,"--there was an edge
of genuine agony in the sonorous voice,--"we've drawn far apart, you and
I. Is all the wrong on my side? Can you judge me so harshly, with your
own conscience to answer?"

"What I've got on my conscience you've put there. You've made me turn
back on every principle I have. I've dishonored myself and my office
for you. You've cost me the respect of the men I work with, and the
faith of the best friend I've got in the world."

"The _best_ friend, Boy-ee?" questioned the Doctor gently.

"The best friend: McGuire Ellis."

Hal's gaze met his father's. And what he saw there all but unmanned him.
From the liquid depths of the old quack's eyes, big and soft like an
animal's, there welled two great tears, to trickle slowly down the set
face.

Hal turned and stumbled from the office.

Hardly knowing whither he went, he turned in at the first open door,
which chanced to be Shearson's. There he sat until his self-control
returned. As the aftermath of his anger there remained with him a grim
determination. It was implicit in his voice, as he addressed Shearson,
who walked in upon him.

"Cut out every line of medical from the paper."

"When?" gasped Shearson.

"Now. For to-morrow's paper."

"But, Mr. Surtaine--"

"Every--damned--line. And if any of it ever gets back, the man
responsible loses his job."

"Yes, sir," said the cowed and amazed Shearson.

Hal returned to his sanctum, to find Ellis in his own place and Dr.
Surtaine gone.

"Ellis, you put that motto on my desk."

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Lest we forget," repeated Ellis.

"Not much danger of that," replied his employer bitterly. "Now, I want
you to take it down."

"Is that an order?"

"Would you obey it if it were?"

"No."

"You'd resign first?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll take it down myself."

With his letter-opener he pried the offensive strip loose, tore it
across thrice, and scattered the pieces on the floor.

"Mr. Ellis," said he formally, "hereafter no medical advertising will be
accepted for or published in the 'Clarion.' The same rule applies to
fraudulent advertising of any kind. I wish you and the other members of
the staff to act as censors for the advertising."

"Yes, sir," said McGuire Ellis.

He turned back to his desk, and sprawled his elbows on it. His head
lapsed lower and lower until it attained the familiar posture of rest.
But McGuire Ellis was not sleeping. He was thinking.




CHAPTER XXXI

THE VOICE OF THE PROPHET


Two hundred and fifty representative citizens, mostly of the business
type, with a sprinkling of other occupations not including physicians,
sat fanning themselves into a perspiration in the Chamber of Commerce
assembly rooms, and wondering what on earth an Emergency Health Meeting
might be. Congressman Brett Harkins, a respectable nonentity, who was
presiding, had refrained from telling them: deliberately, it would
appear, as his speech had dealt vaguely with the greatness of
Worthington's material prosperity, now threatened--if one might credit
his theory--by a combination of senseless panic and reckless tongues;
and had concluded by stating that Mr. William Douglas, one of the
leaders of our bar, as all the chairman's hearers well knew, would
explain the situation and formulate a plan for the meeting's
consideration.

Explanation, however, did not prove to be Mr. William Douglas's forte.
Coached by that practiced diplomat, Certina Charley, he made a speech
memorable chiefly for what it did not say. The one bright, definite
gleam, amidst rolling columns of oratory, was the proposal that an
Emergency Committee of One Hundred be appointed to cope with the
situation, that the initial sum of twenty-five thousand dollars be
pledged by subscription, and that their distinguished fellow citizen,
Dr. L. Andre Surtaine, be permanent chairman of said committee, with
power to appoint. Dr. Surtaine had generously offered to subscribe ten
thousand dollars to the fund. (Loud and prolonged applause; the word
"thousand" preceding the word "dollars" and itself preceded by any
numeral from one to one million, inclusive, being invariably
provocative of acclaim in a subscription meeting of representative
citizens.) Mr. Douglas took pride in nominating that Midas of Medicine,
Dr. Surtaine. (More and louder applause.) The Reverend Dr. Wales, of Dr.
Surtaine's church, sonorously seconded the nomination. So did Hollis
Myers, of the Security Power Products Company. So, a trifle grumpily,
did Elias M. Pierce. Also Col. Parker, editor of the "Telegram," Aaron
Scheffler, of Scheffler and Mintz, and Councilman Carlin. The presiding
officer inquired with the bland indifference of the assured whether
there were any further nominations. There were not. But turning in his
second-row seat, Festus Willard, who was too important a figure
commercially to leave out, though Dr. Surtaine had entertained doubts of
his "soundness," demanded of McGuire Ellis, seated just behind him, what
it was all about.

"Ask the chairman," suggested Ellis.

"I will," said Willard. He got up and did.

The Honorable Brett Harkins looked uncomfortable. He didn't really know
what it was all about. Moreover, it had been intimated to him that he'd
perhaps better not know. He cast an appealing glance at Douglas.

"That is not exactly the question before the meeting," began Douglas
hastily.

"It is the question I asked," persisted Willard. "Before we elect Dr.
Surtaine or any one else chairman of a committee with a fund to spend, I
want to know what the committee is for."

"To cope with the health situation of the city."

"Very well. Now we're getting somewhere. Where's Dr. Merritt? I think we
ought to hear from him on that point."

Murmurs of assent were heard about the room. Dr. Surtaine rose to his
feet.

"If I may be pardoned for speaking to a motion of which I am a part," he
said in his profound and mellow voice.

"I think I can throw light upon the situation. Quite a number of us
have observed with uneasiness the increase of sickness in Worthington.
Sensationalists have gone so far as to whisper that there is an
epidemic. I have myself made a rigid investigation. More than this, my
son, Mr. Harrington Surtaine, has placed the resources of the 'Clarion'
staff at our disposal, and on the strength of both inquiries, I am
prepared to assure this gathering that nothing like an epidemic exists."

"Well, I _am_ damned!" was McGuire Ellis's astounded and none too
low-voiced comment upon this bold perversion of the "Clarion"
enterprise. Stretching upward from his seat he looked about for Hal. The
young editor sat in a far corner, his regard somberly intent upon the
speaker.

"Alarm there has undoubtedly been, and is," pursued Dr. Surtaine. "To
find means to allay it is the purpose of the meeting. We must remove the
cause. Both our morbidity and our mortality rate, though now
retrograding, have been excessive for several weeks, especially in the
Rookeries district. There has been a prevalence of malaria of a severe
type, which, following last winter's epidemic of grip, has proven
unusually fatal. Dr. Merritt believes that he can wipe out the disease
quietly if a sufficient sum is put at his disposal."

This was not authoritative. Merritt had declined to commit himself, but
Dr. Surtaine was making facts of his hopes.

"In this gathering it is hardly necessary for me to refer to the
municipal importance of Old Home Week and to the damage to its prospects
which would be occasioned by any suspicion of epidemic," continued the
speaker. "Whatever may be the division of opinion as to methods, we are
surely unanimous in wishing to protect the interests of the centennial
celebration. And this can best be done through a committee of
representative men, backing the constituted health authorities, without
commotion or disturbance. Have I answered your doubts, Mr. Willard?" he
concluded, turning a brow of benign inquiry upon that gentleman.

"Not wholly," said Festus Willard. "I've heard it stated on medical
authority that there is some sort of plague in the Rookeries."

A murmur of inquiry rose. "Plague? What kind of plague?"--"Who says
so?"--"Does he mean bubonic?"--"No doctor that knows his
business--"--"They say doctors are shut out of the Rookeries."--"Order!
Order!"

Through the confusion cleaved the edged voice of E.M. Pierce, directed
to the chairman:

"Shut that off."

A score took the cue. "Question! Question!" they cried.

"Do I get an answer to my question?" persisted Willard.

"What is your question?" asked the harassed chairman.

"Is there a pestilence in the Rookeries? If so, what is its nature?"

"There is not," stated Dr. Surtaine from his seat. "Who ever says there
is, is an enemy to our fair and healthy city."

This noble sentiment, delivered with all the impressiveness of which the
old charlatan was master, roused a burst of applause. To its rhythm
there stalked down the side aisle and out upon the rostrum the gaunt
figure of the Reverend Norman Hale.

"Mr. Chairman," he said.

"How did that fellow get here?" Dr. Surtaine asked of Douglas.

"We invited all the ministers," was the low response. "I understood he
was seriously ill."

"He is a trouble-maker. Tell Harkins not to let him talk."

Douglas spoke a word in the chairman's ear.

"There's a motion before the house--I mean the meeting," began
Congressman Harkins, when the voice behind him cut in again, hollow and
resonant:

"Mr. Chairman."

"Do you wish to speak to the question?" asked the chairman uncertainly.

"I do."

"No, no!" called Douglas. "Out of order. Question!"

Voices from the seats below supported him. But there were other calls
for a hearing for the newcomer. Curiosity was his ally. The meeting
anticipated a sensation. The chairman, lacking a gavel, hammered on the
stand with a tumbler, and presently produced a modified silence, through
which the voice of the Reverend Norman Hale could be heard saying that
he wished but three minutes.

He stepped to the edge of the platform, and the men below noticed for
the first time that he carried in his right hand a wreath of
metal-mounted, withered flowers. There was no mistaking the nature of
the wreath. It was such as is left lying above the dead for wind and
rain to dissipate. Hale raised it slowly above his head. The silence in
the hall became absolute.

"I brought these flowers from a girl's grave," said the Reverend Norman
Hale. "The girl had sinned. Death was the wage of her sin. She died by
her own hand. So her offense is punished. That account is closed."

"What has all this to do--" began the chairman; but he stopped, checked
by a wave of sibilant remonstrance from the audience.

The speaker went on, with relentless simplicity, still holding the
mortuary symbol aloft:--

"But there is another account not yet closed. The girl was deceived. Not
by the father of her unborn child. That is a different guilt, to be
reckoned with in God's own time. The deception for which she has paid
with her life was not the deception of hot passion, but of cold greed.
A man betrayed her, as he has betrayed thousands of other unfortunates,
to put money into his own pockets. He promised her immunity. He said to
her and to all women, in print, that she need not fear motherhood if she
would buy his medicine. She believed the promise. She paid her dollar.
And she found, too late, that it was a lie.

"So she went to the man. She knew him. And she determined either that he
should help her or that she would be revenged on him. All this she told
me in a note, to be opened in case of her death. He must have refused to
help. He had not the criminal courage to produce the abortion which he
falsely promised in his advertisements. What passed between them I do
not know. But I believe that she attempted to kill him and failed. She
attempted to kill herself and succeeded. The blood of Camilla Neal is on
every cent of Dr. Surtaine's ten-thousand-dollar subscription."

He tossed the wreath aside. It rolled, clattering and clinking, and
settled down at the feet of the Midas of Medicine who stared at it with
a contorted face.

The meeting sat stricken into immovability. It seemed incredible that
the tensity of the silence should not snap. Yet it held.

"I shall vote 'No' on the motion," said the Reverend Norman Hale, still
with that quiet and appalling simplicity. "I came here from a
hand-to-hand struggle with death to vote 'No.' I have strength for only
a word more. The city is stricken with typhus. It is no time for
concealment or evasion. We are at death-grips with a very dreadful
plague. It has broken out of the Rookeries district. There are half a
dozen new foci of infection. In the face of this, silence is deadly. If
you elect Dr. Surtaine and adopt his plan, you commit yourself to an
alliance with fraud and death. You deceive and betray the people who
look to you for leadership. And there will be a terrible price to pay
in human lives. I thank you for hearing me patiently."

No man spoke for long seconds after the young minister sat down,
wavering a little as he walked to a chair at the rear. But through the
representative citizenship of Worthington, in that place gathered,
passed a quiver of sound, indeterminate, obscure, yet having all the
passion of a quelled sob. Eyes furtively sought the face of Dr.
Surtaine. But the master-quack remained frozen by the same bewilderment
as his fellows. Perhaps alone in that crowd, Elias M. Pierce remained
untouched emotionally. He rose, and his square granite face was cold as
abstract reason. There was not even feeling enough in his voice to give
the semblance of a sneer to his words as he said:

"All this is very well in its place, and doubtless does credit to the
sentimental qualities of the speaker. But it is not evidence. It is an
unsupported statement, part of which is admittedly conjecture. Allowing
the alleged facts to be true, are we to hold a citizen of Dr. Surtaine's
standing and repute responsible for the death of a woman caused by her
own immorality? The woman whose death Mr. Hale has turned to such
oratorical account was, I take it, a prostitute--"

"That is a damned lie!"

Hal Surtaine came down the aisle in long strides, speaking as he came.

"Milly Neal was my employee and my father's employee. If she went astray
once, who are you to judge her? Who are any of us to judge her? I took
part of that blood-money. The advertisement was in my paper, paid for
with Surtaine money. What Mr. Hale says is the living truth. No man
shall foul her memory in my hearing."

"And what was she to you? You haven't told us that yet?" There was a
rancid sneer in Pierce's insinuation.

Hal turned from the aisle and went straight for him. A little man rose
in his way. It was Mintz, who had given him the heartening word after
the committee meeting. In his blind fury Hal struck him a staggering
blow. But the little Jew was plucky. He closed with the younger man, and
clinging to him panted out his good advice.

"Don'd fighd 'im, nod here. It's no good. Go to the pladform an' say
your say. We'll hear you."

But it was impossible to hear any one now. Uproar broke loose. Men
shouted, stormed, cursed; the meeting was become a rabble. Above the din
could be distinguished at intervals the voice of the Honorable Brett
Harkins, who, in frantic but not illogical reversion to the idea of a
political convention, squalled for the services of the sergeant-at-arms.
There was no sergeant-at-arms.

Mintz's pudgy but clogging arms could restrain an athlete of Hal's power
only a brief moment; but in that moment sanity returned to the
fury-heated brain.

"I beg your pardon, Mintz," he said; "you're quite right. I thank you
for stopping me."

He returned to the aisle, pressing forward, with what purpose he could
hardly have said, when he felt the sinewy grasp of McGuire Ellis on his
shoulder.

"Tell 'em the whole thing," fiercely urged Ellis. "Be a man. Own up to
the whole business, between you and the girl."

"I don't know what you mean!" cried Hal.

"Don't be young," groaned Ellis; "you've gone halfway. Clean it up. Then
we can face the situation with the 'Clarion.' Tell 'em you were her
lover."

"Milly's? I wasn't. It was Veltman."

"Good God of Mercy!"

"Did you think--"

"Yes;--Lord forgive me! Why didn't you tell me?"

"How could I tell you suspected--"

"All right! I know. We'll talk it out later. The big thing now is,
what's the paper going to do about this meeting?"

"Print it."

Into Ellis's face flashed the fervor of the warrior who sees victory
loom through the clouds of hopeless defeat.

"You mean that?"

"Every word of it. And run the epidemic spread--"

Before he could finish, Ellis was fighting his way to a telephone.

Hal met his father's eyes, and turned away with a heartsick sense that,
in the one glance, had passed indictment, conviction, a hopeless
acquiescence, and the dumb reproach of the trapped criminal against
avenging justice. He turned and made for the nearest exit, conscious of
only two emotions, a burning desire to be away from that place and a
profound gladness that, without definite expression of the change, the
bitter alienation of McGuire Ellis was past.

As Hal left, there arose, out of the turmoil, one clear voice of reason:
the thundering baritone of Festus Willard moving an adjournment. It
passed, and the gathering slowly dispersed. Avoiding the offered
companionship of Congressman Harkins and Douglas, Dr. Surtaine took
himself off by a side passage. At the end of it, alone, stood the
Reverend Norman Hale, leaning against the sill of an open window. The
old quack rushed upon him.

"Keep off!" warned the young minister, throwing himself into an attitude
of defense.

"No, no," protested Dr. Surtaine: "don't think I meant _that_. I--I want
to thank you."

"Thank _me_?" The minister put his hand to his head. "I don't
understand."

"For leaving my boy out of it."

"Oh! That. I didn't see the necessity of dragging him in."

"That was kind. You handled me pretty rough. Well, I'm used to rough
work. But the boy--look here, you knew all about this Milly Neal
business, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Maybe you could tell me," went on the old quack miserably. "I can
understand Hal's getting into a--an affair with the girl--being kinda
carried away and losing his head. What I can't get is his--his quittin'
her when she was in trouble."

"I still don't understand," protested the minister. "My head isn't very
good. I've been ill, you know."

"You let him off without telling his name to-night. And that made me
think maybe he wasn't in wrong so far as I thought. Maybe there
were--what-ye-call-'em?--mitigating circumstances. Were there?"

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