Samuel Hopkins Adams - The Clarion

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A light broke in upon the Reverend Norman Hale. "Did you think your son
was Milly Neal's lover? He wasn't."

"Are you sure?" gasped the father.

"As sure as of my faith in Heaven."

The old man straightened up, drawing a breath so profound that it seemed
to raise his stature.

"I wouldn't take a million dollars for that word," he declared.

"But your own part in this?" queried the other in wonderment. "I hated
to have to say--"

"What does it matter?"

"You have no concern for yourself?" puzzled the minister.

"Oh, I'll come out on top. I always come out on top. What got to my
heart was my boy. I thought he'd gone wrong. And now I know he hasn't."

The old charlatan's strong hand fell on his assailant's shoulder, then
slipped down supportingly under his arm.

"You look pretty shaky," said he with winning solicitude. "Let me take
you home in my car. It's waiting outside."

The Reverend Norman Hale accepted, marveling greatly over the complex
miracle of the soul of man--who is formed in the image of his Maker.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE WARNING

Tradition of the "Clarion" office embalms "the evening the typhus story
broke" as a nightmare out of which was born history. Chronologically,
according to the veracious records of Bim the Guardian of Portals, the
tumult began at exactly 10.47, with the arrival of Mr. McGuire Ellis,
traveling up the staircase five steps at a jump and calling in a
strangled voice for Wayne. That usually controlled journalist rushed out
of an inner room in alarm, demanding to know whether New York City had
been whelmed with a tidal wave or the King of England murdered in his
bed, and in an instant was struggling in the grasp of his fellow editor.

"What's left of the epidemic spread?" demanded the new arrival
breathlessly.

"The killed story?"

"What's left of it?" clamored Ellis, dancing all over his colleague's
feet. "Can you find the copy? Notes? Anything?"

"Proofs," said Wayne. "I saved a set."

Ellis sat down in a chair and regarded his underling with an expression
of stupefied benevolence.

"Wayne," he said, "you're a genius. You're the fine flower and perfect
blossom of American journalism. I love you, Wayne. With passionate
fervor, I love you. Now, _gitta move on_!!!" His voice soared and
exploded. "We're going to run it to-morrow!"

"To-morrow? How? It isn't up to date. Nobody's touched it since--"

"Bring it up to date! Fire every man in the office out on it. Tear the
hide off the old paper and smear the story all over the front page. Haul
in your eyes and _start_!"

The whirl of what ensued swamped even Bim's cynic and philosophic calm.
Amidst a buzz of telephones and a mighty scurrying of messengers the
staff of the "Clarion" was gathered into the fold, on a
"drop-everything" emergency call, and instantly dispersed again to the
hospitals, the homes of the health officials, the undertakers'
establishments, the cemeteries, and all other possible sources of
information. The composing-room seethed and clanged. Copy-readers yelled
frantically through tubes, and received columns of proofs which, under
the ruthless slaughter of their blue pencils, returned as "stickfuls,"
that room might be made for the great story. Cable news was slashed
right and left. Telegraph "skeletons" waited in vain for their bones to
be clothed with the flesh of print. The Home Advice Department sank with
all on board, and the most popular sensational preacher in town, who had
that evening made a stirring anti-suffrage speech full of the most
unfailing jokes, fell out of the paper and broke his heart. The carnage
in news was general and frightful. Two pages plus of a story that
"breaks" after 10 P.M. calls for heroic measures.

At 10.53 Mr. Harrington Surtaine arrived, hardly less tempestuously than
his predecessor. He did not even greet Bim as he passed through the
gate, which was unusual; but went direct to Ellis.

"Can we do it, Mac?"

"The epidemic story? Yes. There was a proof saved."

"Good. Can you do the story of the meeting?"

Ellis hesitated. "All of it?"

"Every bit. Leave out nothing."

"Hadn't you better think it over?"

"I've thought."

"It'll hit the old--your father pretty hard."

"I can't help it."

A surge of human pity overswept Ellis's stimulated journalistic
keenness. "You don't _have_ to do this, Hal," he suggested. "No other
paper--"

"I do have to do it," retorted the other. "And worse."

Ellis stared.

"I've got to print the story of Milly's death: the facts just as they
happened. And I've got to write it myself."

The professional zest surged up again in McGuire Ellis. "My Lord!" he
exclaimed. "_What a paper to-morrow's 'Clarion' will be!_ But why? Why?
Why the Neal story--now?"

"Because I can't print the epidemic spread unless I print the other.
I've given my word. I told my father if ever I suppressed news for my
own protection, I'd give up the fight and play the game like all the
other papers. I've tried it. Mac, it isn't my game."

"No," replied his subordinate in a curious tone, "it isn't your game."

"You'll write the meeting?"

"Yes."

"Save out a column for my story."

Ellis returned to Wayne at the news desk. "Hell's broke loose at the
Emergency Health meeting," he remarked, employing the conventional
phrasing of his craft.

And Wayne, in the same language, inquired:

"How much?"

"Two columns. And a column from the Boss on another story."

"Whew!" whistled Wayne. "We _shall_ have some paper."

From midnight until 2.30 in the morning the reporters on the great story
dribbled in. Each, as he arrived, said a brief word to Wayne, got a curt
direction, slumped into his seat, and silently wrote. It was all very
methodical and quiet and orderly. A really big news event always is
after the first disturbance of adjustment. Newspaper offices work
smoothest when the tension is highest.

At 12.03 A.M. Bim received two flurried Aldermen and the head of a city
department. At 12.35 he held spirited debate with the Deputy
Commissioner of Health. Just as the clock struck one, two advertising
managers, arriving neck and neck, merged their appeals in an ineffectual
attempt to obtain information from the youthful Cerberus, which he
loftily declined to furnish, as to the whereabouts of anyone with power
to ban or bind, on the "Clarion." At 1.30 the Guardian of the Gate had
the honor and pleasure of meeting, for the first time, his Honor the
Mayor of the City. Finally, at 1.59 he "took a chance," as he would have
put it, and, misliking the autocratic deportment of a messenger from
E.M. Pierce, told that emissary that he could tell Mr. Pierce exactly
where to go to--and go there himself. All the while, unmoved amidst
protestation, appeal, and threat, the steady news-machine went on
grinding out unsuppressible history for itself and its city.

Sharp to the regular hour, the presses clanged, and the building
thrilled through its every joint to the pulse of print. Hal Surtaine
rose from his desk and walked to the window. McGuire Ellis also rose,
walked over and stood near him.

"Three pretty big beats to-morrow," he said awkwardly, at length.

"The Milly Neal story won't be a beat," replied Hal.

"No? How's that?"

"I've sent our proofs to all the other papers."

"Well, I'm--What's the idea?

"We lied to them about the story in the first instance. They played
fair, according to the rules, and took our lie. We can't beat 'em on our
own story, now."

"Right you are. Bet none of 'em prints it, though." Wherein he was a
true prophet.

There was a long, uneasy pause.

"Hal," said Ellis hesitantly.

"Well?"

"I'm a fool."

The white weariness of Hal's face lit up with a smile. "Why, Mac--" he
began.

"A pin-head," persisted the other stubbornly. "A block of solid ivory
from the collar up. I'm--I'm _young_ in the head," he concluded, with
supreme effort of self-condemnation.

"It's all right," said his chief, perfectly knowing what Ellis meant.

"Have I said enough?"

"Plenty."

"You didn't put Veltman in your story?"

"No. What was the good?"

"That's right, too."

"Good-night, Mac, I'm for the hotel."

"Good-night, Hal. See you in the morning."

"Yes. I'll be around early."

Ellis's eyes followed his chief out through the door. He returned to his
desk and sat thinking. He saw, with pitiless clearness, the storm
gathering over the "Clarion": the outburst of public hostility, the
depletion of advertisers and subscribers, the official opposition
closing avenues of information, the disastrous probabilities of the
Pierce libel suits, now soon to be pushed; and his undaunted spirit of a
crusader rose and lusted for the battle.

"They may lick us," he said to his paste-pot, the recipient of many a
bitter confidence and thwarted hope in the past; "but we'll show 'em
what a real newspaper is, for once. And"--his eyes sought the door
through which Hal Surtaine had passed--"I've got this much out of it,
anyway: I've helped a boy make himself a Man."

Ten thousand extra copies sped from the new and wonder-working press of
the "Clarion" that night, to be absorbed, swallowed, engulfed by a
mazed populace. In all the city there was perhaps not a man, woman, or
child who, by the following evening, had not read or heard of the
"Clarion's" exposure of the epidemic--except one. Max Veltman lay,
senseless to all this, between stupor and a fevered delirium in which
the spirit of Milly Neal called on him for delayed vengeance.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE GOOD FIGHT

Earthquake or armed invasion could scarce have shocked staid Worthington
more profoundly than did the "Clarion's" exposure. Of the facts there
could be no reasonable doubt. The newspaper's figures were specific, and
its map of infection showed no locality exempt. The city had wakened
from an untroubled sleep to find itself poisoned.

As an immediate result of the journalistic tocsin, the forebodings of
Dr. Surtaine and his associates as to the effects of publicity bade fair
to be justified. Undeniably there was danger of the disease scattering,
through the medium of runaways from the stricken houses. But the
"Clarion" had its retort pat for the tribe of "I-told-you-so," admitting
the prospect of some primary harm to save a great disaster later. More
than one hundred lives, it pointed out, giving names and dates, had
already been sacrificed to the shibboleth of secrecy; the whole city had
been imperiled; the disease had set up its foci of infection in a score
of places, and there were some three hundred cases, in all, known or
suspected. One method only could cope with the situation: the fullest
public information followed by radical hygienic measures.

Of information there was no lack. So tremendous a news feature could not
be kept out of print by the other dailies, all of whom now admitted the
presence of the pestilence, while insisting that its scope had been
greatly exaggerated, and piously deprecating the "sensationalism" of
their contemporary. Thus the city administration was forced to action.
An appropriation was voted to the Health Bureau. Dr. Merritt, seizing
his opportunity, organized a quarantine army, established a detention
camp and isolation hospital, and descended upon the tenement districts,
as terrible (to the imagination of the frantic inhabitants) as a
malevolent god. The Emergency Health Committee, meantime, died and was
forgotten overnight.

Something not unlike panic swept the Rookeries. Wild rumors passed from
mouth to mouth, growing as they went. A military cordon, it was said,
was to be cast about the whole ward and the people pent up inside to
die. Refugees were to be shot on sight. The infected buildings were to
be burned to the ground, and the tenants left homeless. The water-supply
was to be poisoned, to get rid of the exposed--had already been
poisoned, some said, and cited sudden mysterious deaths. Such savage
imaginings of suspicion as could spring only from the ignorant fears of
a populace beset by a secret and deadly pest, roused the district to a
rat-like defiance. Such of the residents as were not home-bound by the
authorities, growled in saloon back rooms and muttered in the streets.
Hatred of the "Clarion" was the burden of their bitterness. Two of its
reporters were mobbed in the hard-hit ward, the day after the
publication of the first article.

Nor was the paper much better liked elsewhere. It was held responsible
for all the troubles. Though the actuality of the quarantine fell far
short of the expectant fears, still there was a mighty turmoil. Families
were separated, fugitives were chased down and arrested, and close upon
the heels of the primary harassment came the threat of economic
complications, as factories and stores all over the city, for their own
protection, dismissed employees known to live within the near range of
the pestilence. In the minds of the sufferers from these measures and of
their friends, the "Clarion" was an enemy to the public. But it was read
with avid impatience, for Wayne, working on the principle that "it is
news and not evil that stirs men," contrived to find some new
sensational development for every issue. Do what the rival papers might,
the "Clarion" had and held the windward course.

Representative Business, that Great Mogul of Worthington, was, of
course, outraged by the publication. Hal Surtaine was an ill bird who
had fouled his own nest. The wires had carried the epidemic news to
every paper in the country, and Worthington was proclaimed "unclean" to
the ears of all. The Old Home Week Committee on Arrangements held a
hasty meeting to decide whether the celebration should be abandoned or
postponed, but could come to no conclusion. Denunciation of the
"Clarion" for its course was the sole point upon which all the speakers
agreed. Also there was considerable incidental criticism of its editor,
as an ingrate, for publishing the article on Milly Neal's death which
reflected so severely upon Dr. Surtaine. As the paper had been bought
with Dr. Surtaine's hard cash, the least Hal could have done, in
decency, was to refrain from "roasting" the source of the money. Such
was the general opinion. The representative business intellect of
Worthington failed to consider that the article had been confined
rigidly to a statement of facts, and that any moral or ethical inference
must be purely a derivative of those facts as interpreted by the reader.
Several of those present at the meeting declared vehemently that they
would never again either advertise in or read the "Clarion." There was
even talk of a boycott. One member was so incautious as to condole with
Dr. Surtaine upon his son's disloyalty. The old quack's regard fell upon
his tactless comforter, dull and heavy as lead.

"My son is my son," said he; "and what's between us is our own business.
Now, as to Old Home Week, it'll be time enough to give up when we're
licked." And, adroit opportunist that he was, he urged upon the meeting
that they support the Health Bureau as the best hope of clearing up the
situation.

Amongst the panic-stricken, meanwhile, moved and worked the volunteer
forces of hygiene, led by the Reverend Norman Hale. Weakened and unfit
though he was, he could not be kept from the battle-ground,
notwithstanding that Dr. Merritt, fearing for his life, had threatened
him with kidnaping and imprisonment in the hospital. At Hale's right
hand were Esme Elliot and Kathleen Pierce. There had been one scene at
Greenvale approaching violence on Dr. Elliot's part and defiance on that
of his niece when her guardian had flatly forbidden the continuance of
her slum work. It had ended when the girl, creeping up under the guns of
his angry eyes, had dropped her head on his shoulder, and said in
unsteady tones:--

"I--I'm not a very happy Esme, Uncle Guardy. If I don't have something
to do--something real--I'll--I'll c-c-cry and get my pretty nose all
red."

"Quit it!" cried the gruff doctor desperately. "What d'ye mean by acting
that way! Go on. Do as you like. But if Merritt lets anything happen to
you--"

"Nothing will happen, Guardy. I'll be careful," promised the girl.

"Well, I don't know whatever's come over you, lately," retorted her
uncle, troubled.

"Neither do I," said Esme.

She went forth and enlisted Kathleen Pierce, whose energetic and
restless mind was ensnared at once by what she regarded as the romantic
possibilities of the work, and the two gathered unto themselves half a
dozen of the young males of the species, who readily volunteered, partly
for love and loyalty to the chieftainesses of their clan, partly out of
the blithe and adventurous spirit of youth, and of them formed an
automobile corps, for scouting, messenger service, and emergency
transportation, as auxiliary to Hale and Merritt; an enterprise which
subsequently did yeoman work and taught several of the gilded youth
something about the responsibilities of citizenship which they would
never have learned in any other school.

Tip O'Farrell was another invaluable aide. He had one brief encounter,
on enlistment, with the health officer.

"You ought to be in jail," said Dr. Merritt.

"What fer?" demanded O'Farrell.

"Smuggling out bodies without a permit."

"Ferget it," advised the politician. "I tried my way, an' it wasn't good
enough. Now I'll try yours. You can't afford to jug me."

"Why can't I?"

"I'm too much use to you."

"So far you've been just the other thing."

"Ain't I tellin' you I'm through with that game? On the level! Doc,
these poor boobs down here _know_ me. They'll do as I tell 'em. Gimme a
chance."

So O'Farrell, making his chance, did his work faithfully and well
through the dismal weeks to follow. It takes all kinds of soldiers to
fight an epidemic.

Those two sturdy volunteers, Miss Elliot and Miss Pierce, were driving
slowly along the fringe of the Rookeries,--yes, slowly, notwithstanding
that Kathleen Pierce was acting as her own chauffeur,--having just
delivered a consignment of emergency nurses from a neighboring city to
Dr. Merritt, when the car slowed down.

"Did you see that?" inquired Miss Pierce, indicating, with a jerk of her
head, the general topography off to starboard.

"See what?" inquired her companion. "I didn't notice anything except a
hokey-pokey seller, adding his mite to the infant mortality of the
district."

"Esme, you talk like nothing human lately!" accused her friend. "You're
a--a--regular health leaflet! I meant that man going into the corner
tenement. I believe it was Hal Surtaine."

"Was it?"

"And you needn't say, 'Was it?' in that lofty, superior tone, like an
angel with a new halo, either," pursued her aggrieved friend. "You know
it was. What do you suppose he's doing down here?"

"The epidemic is the 'Clarion's' special news. He spends quite a little
time in this district, I believe."

"Oh, you believe! Then you've seen him lately?"

"Yes."

Miss Pierce stared rigidly in front of her and made a detour of
magnificent distance to avoid a push-cart which wasn't in her way
anyhow. "Esme," she said.

"Yes?"

"Did you give me away to him?"

"No. He didn't give me an opportunity."

"Oh!" There was more silence. Then, "Esme, I was pretty rotten about
that, wasn't I?"

"Why, Kathie, I think you ought to have written to him."

"I meant to write and own up, no matter if I did tell you I wouldn't.
But I kept putting it off. Esme, did you notice how thin and worn he
looks?"

The other winced. "He's had a great deal to worry him."

"Well, he hasn't got our lawsuit to worry him any more. That's off."

"Off?" A light flashed into Esme's face. "Your father has dropped it?"

"Yes. He had to. I told him the accident was my fault, and if I was put
on the stand I'd say so. I'm not so popular with Pop as I might be, just
now. But, Esme, I _didn't_ mean to run away and leave her in the gutter.
I got rattled, and Brother was crying and I lost my head."

"That will save the 'Clarion,'" said Esme, with a deep breath.

Kathleen looked at her curiously, and then made a singular remark. "Yes;
that's what I did it for."

"But what interest have you in saving the 'Clarion'?" demanded Esme,
bewildered.

"The failure of the 'Clarion' would be a disaster to the city," observed
Miss Pierce in copy-book style.

"Kathie! You should make two jabs in the air with your forefinger when
you quote. Otherwise you're a plagiarist. Let me see." Esme pondered.
"Hugh Merritt," she decided.

Kathleen kept her eyes steady ahead, but a flood of color rose in her
face.

"I had an awful fight over it with him before--before I gave in," she
said.

"Are you going to marry Hugh?" demanded Esme bluntly.

The color deepened until even the velvety eyes seemed tinged with it. "I
don't know. _He_ isn't exactly popular with Pop, either."

Esme reached over and gave her friend a surreptitious little hug, which
might have cost a crossing pedestrian his life if he hadn't been a brisk
dodger.

"Hugh Merritt is a _man_," said she in a low voice: "He's brave and he's
straight and he's fine. And oh, Kathie, dearest, if a man of that kind
loves you, don't you ever, ever let anything come between you."

"Hello!" said Kathleen in surprise. "That don't sound much like the
Great American Man-eating Pumess of yore. There's been a big change in
you since you sidetracked Will Douglas, Esme. Did you really care? No,
of course, you didn't," she answered herself. "He's a nice chap, but he
isn't particularly brave or fine, I guess."

A light broke in upon her:

"Esme! Is it, after all--"

"No, no, no, no, NO!" cried the victim of this highly feminine
deduction, in panic. "It isn't any one."

"No, of course it isn't, dear. I didn't mean to tease you. Hello! what
have we here?"

The car stopped with a jar on a side street, some distance from the
quarantined section. Seated on the curb a woman was wailing over the
stiffened form of a young child. The boy's teeth were clenched and his
face darkly suffused.

"Convulsions," said Esme.

The two girls were out of the car simultaneously. The agonized mother,
an Italian, was deaf to Esme's persuasions that the child be turned over
to them.

"What shall we do?" she asked, turning to Kathleen in dismay. "I think
he's dying, and I can't make the woman listen."

Something of her father's stern decisiveness of character was in
Kathleen Pierce.

"Don't be a fool!" she said briskly to the mother, and she plucked the
child away from her. "Start the car, Esme."

The woman began to shriek. A crowd gathered. O'Farrell providentially
appeared from around a corner. "Grab her, you," she directed O'Farrell.

The politician hesitated. "What's the game?" he began. Then he caught
sight of Esme. "Oh, it's you, Miss Elliot. Sure. Hi! Can it!" he
shouted, fending off the distracted mother. "They'll take the kid to the
hospital. See? You go along quiet, now."

Speeding beyond all laws, but under protection of their red cross, they
all but ran down Dr. Merritt and stopped to take him in. He confirmed
Esme's diagnosis.

"It'll be touch and go whether we save him," said he.

Esme carried the stricken child into the hospital ward. The two
volunteers waited outside for word. In an hour it came. The boy would
probably live, thanks to their promptitude.

"But you ought not to be picking up chance infants around the district,"
he protested. "It isn't safe."

"Oh, we belong to the St. Bernard tribe," retorted Miss Pierce. "We
take 'em as we find 'em. Hugh, come and lunch with us."

The grayish young man looked at her wistfully. "Haven't time," he said.

"No: I didn't suppose you'd step aside from the thorny path, even to
eat," she retorted; and Esme, hearing the new tone under the flippant
words, knew that all was well with the girl, and envied her with a great
and gentle envy.

CHAPTER XXXIV

VOX POPULI

These were the days when Hal Surtaine worked with a sense of wild
freedom from all personal bonds. He had definitely broken with his
father. He had challenged every interest in Worthington from which there
was anything to expect commercially. He had peremptorily banished Esme
Elliot from his heart and his hopes, though she still forced entrance to
his thoughts and would not be denied, there, the precarious rights of an
undesired guest. He was now simply and solely a journalist with a mind
single to his purpose, to go down fighting the best fight there was in
him. Defeat, he believed, was practically certain. He would make it a
defeat of which no man need be ashamed.

The handling of the epidemic news, Hal left to his colleagues, devoting
his own pen to a vigorous defense of the "Clarion's" position and
assertion of its policy, in the editorial columns. Concealment and
suppression, he pointed out, had been the chief factor in the disastrous
spread of the contagion. Early recognition of the danger and a frank
fighting policy would have saved most of the sacrificed lives. The blame
lay, not with those who had disclosed the peril, but with those who had
fostered it by secrecy; probing deeper into it, with those who had
blocked such reform of housing and sanitation as would have checked a
filth disease like typhus. In time this would be indicated more
specifically. Tenements which netted twelve per cent to their owners and
bred plagues, the "Clarion" observed editorially, were good private but
poor public investments. Whereupon a number of highly regarded
Christian citizens began to refer to the editor as an anarchist.

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