Samuel Hopkins Adams - The Clarion

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"Huh!" grunted Reginald Currier; "I never seen _that_ in no sporting
column."

Once within the sacred precincts, young Mr. Surtaine turned into an
inner room, bumped against a man trailing a kite-tail of proof, who had
issued from a door to the right, asked a question, got a response, and
entered the editor's den. Two littered desks made up the principal
furniture of the place. Impartially distributed between the further desk
and a chair, the form of one lost in slumber sprawled. At the nearer one
sat a dyspeptic man of middle age waving a heavy pencil above a galley
proof.

"Are you the editor?" asked Hal.

"One editor. I'm Mr. Sterne. How the devil did you get in here?"

"Are you responsible for this?" Hal held up the morning's clipping,
headed "Surtaine Fakeries Explained."

"Who are you?" asked Sterne, nervously hitching in his chair.

"I am Harrington Surtaine."

The journalist whistled, a soft, long-drawn note. "Dr. Surtaine's son?"
he inquired.

"Yes."

"That's awkward." "Not half as awkward as it's going to be unless you
apologize privately and publicly."

Mr. Sterne looked at him estimatingly, at the same time wadding up a
newspaper clipping from the desk in front of him. This he cast at the
slumberer with felicitous accuracy.

"Hoong!" observed that gentleman, starting up and caressing his cheek.

"Wake up, Mac. Here's a man from the Trouble Belt, with samples to
show."

The individual thus addressed slowly rose out of his chair, exhibiting a
squat, gnarly figure surmounted by a very large head.

Hal's hand came up out of his pocket, with the dog-whip writhing
unpleasantly after it. Simultaneously, the ex-sleeper projected himself,
without any particular violence but with astonishing quickness, between
the caller and his prey. Without at all knowing whence it was derived,
Hal became aware of a large, black, knobby stick, which it were
inadequate to call a cane, in his new opponent's grasp.

Of physical courage there was no lack in the scion of the Surtaine line.
Neither, however, was he wholly destitute of reasoning powers and
caution. The figure before him was of an unquestionable athleticism; the
weapon of obvious weight and fiber. The situation was embarrassing.

"Please don't lick the editor," said the interrupter of poetic justice
good-humoredly. "Appropriately framed and hung upon the wall, fifteen
cents apiece. Yah-ah-ah-oo!" he yawned prodigiously. "Calm down," he
added.

Hal stared at the squat and agile figure. "You're the office bully and
bouncer, I suppose," he said.

"McGuire Ellis, _at_ your service. Bounce only when compelled. Otherwise
peaceful. _And_ sleepy."

"My business is with this man," said Hal, indicating Sterne. "Put up
your toy, then, and state it in words of one syllable."

For a moment the visitor pondered, drawing the whip through his hands,
uncertainly. "I'm not fool enough to go up against that war-club," he
remarked.

Mr. McGuire Ellis nodded approval. "First sensible thing I've heard you
say," he remarked.

"But neither"--here Hal's jaw projected a little--"am I going to let
this thing drop."

"Law?" inquired Sterne. "If you think there's any libel in what the
'Clarion' has said, ask your lawyer. What do you want, anyway?"

Thus recalled to the more pacific phase of his errand, Hal produced his
document. "If you've got an iota of decency or fairness about you,
you'll print that," he said.

Sterne glanced through it swiftly. "Nothing doing," he stated
succinctly. "Did Dr. Surtaine send you here with that thing?"

"My father doesn't know that I'm here."

"Oho! So that's it. Knight-errantry, eh? Now, let me put this thing to
you straight, Mr. Harrington Surtaine. If your father wants to make a
fair and decent statement, without abuse or calling names, over his own
signature, the 'Clarion' will run it, at fifty cents a word."

"You dirty blackmailer!" said Hal slowly.

"Hard names go with this business, my young friend," said the other
coolly.

"At present you've got me checked. But you don't always keep your paid
bully with you, I suppose. One of these days you and I will meet--"

"And you'll land in jail."

"He talks awfully young, doesn't he?" said Mr. Ellis, shaking a solemn
head.

"As for blackmail," continued Sterne, a bit eagerly, "there's nothing in
that. We've never asked Dr. Surtaine for a dollar. He hasn't got a thing
on us." "You never asked him for advertising either, I suppose," said
Hal bitterly.

"Only in the way of business. Just as we go out after any other
advertising."

"If he had given you his ads.--"

"Oh, I don't say that we'd have gone after him if he'd been one of our
regular advertisers. Every other paper in town gets his copy; why
shouldn't we? We have to look out for ourselves. We look out for our
patrons, too. Naturally, we aren't going to knock one of our
advertisers. Others have got to take their chances."

"And that's modern journalism!"

"It's the newspaper business," cried Sterne. "No different from any
other business."

"No wonder decent people consider newspaper men the scum of the earth,"
said Hal, with rather ineffectual generalization.

"Don't be young!" besought McGuire Ellis wearily. "Pretend you're a
grown-up man, anyway. You look as if you might have some sense about you
somewhere, if you'd only give it a chance to filter through."

Some not unpleasant quirk of speech and manner in the man worked upon
Hal's humor.

"Why, I believe you're right about the youngness," he admitted, with a
smile. "Perhaps there are other ways of getting at this thing. Just for
a test,--for the last time will you or will you not, Mr. Sterne, publish
this apology?"

"We will not. There's just one person can give me orders."

"Who is that?"

"The owner."

"I think you'll be sorry."

McGuire Ellis turned upon him a look that was a silent reproach to
immaturity.

"Anything more?" queried Sterne. "Nothing," said Hal, with an effort at
courtesy. "Good-day to you both."

"Well, what about it?" asked McGuire Ellis of his chief, as the
visitor's footsteps died away.

"Nothing about it. When'll the next Surtaine roast be ready?"

"Ought to be finished to-morrow."

"Schedule it for Thursday. We'll make the old boy squeal yet. Do you
believe the boy when he says that his father didn't send him?"

"Sounded straight. Pretty straight boy he looked like to me, anyway."

"Pretty fresh kid, _I_ think. And a good deal of a pin-head.
Distributing agency for the old man's money, I guess. He won't get
anywhere."

"Well, I'm not so sure," said Ellis contemplatively. "Of course he acts
gosh-awful young. But did you notice him when he went?"

"Not particularly."

"He was smiling."

"Well?"

"Always look out for a guy that smiles when he's licked. He's got a
come-back to him."

Eleven o'clock that night saw McGuire Ellis lift his head from the
five-minute nap which he allowed himself on evenings of light pressure
after the Washington copy was run off, and blink rapidly. At the same
moment Mr. David Sterne gave utterance to an exclamation, partly of
annoyance, partly of surprise. Mr. Harrington Surtaine, wearing an
expression both businesslike and urbane stood in the doorway.

"Good-evening, gentlemen," he remarked.

Mr. Sterne snorted. Mr. Ellis's lips seemed about to form the
reproachful monosyllable "young." Without further greeting the visitor
took off his hat and overcoat and hung them on a peg. "You make
yourself at home," growled Sterne.

"I do," agreed Hal, and, discarding his coat, hung that on another peg.
"I've got a right to."

Tilting a slumber-burdened head, McGuire Ellis released his adjuration
against youthfulness.

"What's the answer?" demanded Sterne.

"I've just bought out the 'Clarion,'" said Hal.

CHAPTER VII

THE OWNER

Some degree of triumph would perhaps have been excusable in the new
owner. Most signally had he turned the tables on his enemies. Yet it was
with no undue swagger that he seated himself upon a chair of
problematical stability, and began to study the pages of the morning's
issue. Sterne regarded him dubiously.

"This isn't a bluff, I suppose?" he asked.

"Ask your lawyers."

"Mac, get Rockwell's house on the 'phone, will you, and find out if
we've been sold."

Presently the drawl of Mr. Ellis was heard, pleading with a fair and
anonymous Central, whom he addressed with that charming impersonality
employed toward babies, pet dogs, and telephone girls, as "Tootsie," to
abjure juvenility, and give him 322 Vincent, in a hurry.

"You'll excuse me, Mr. Surtaine," said Sterne, in a new and ingratiating
tone, for which Hal liked him none the better, "but verifying news has
come to be an instinct with me."

"It's straight," said Ellis, turning his heavy face to his principal,
after a moment's talk over the wire. "Bought _and_ sold, lock, stock,
and barrel."

"Have you had any newspaper experience, Mr. Surtaine?" inquired Sterne.

"Not on the practical side."

"As owner I suppose you'll want to make changes."

"Undoubtedly."

"They all do," sighed Sterne. "But my contract has several months--"
"Yes: I've been over the contracts with a lawyer. Yours and Mr.
Ellis's. He says they won't hold."

"All newspaper contracts are on the cheese," observed McGuire Ellis
philosophically. "Swiss cheese, at that. Full of holes."

"I don't admit it," protested Sterne. "Even so, to turn a man out--"

A snort of disgust from Ellis interrupted the plea. The glare with which
that employee favored his boss fairly convicted the seamed and graying
editor of willful and captious immaturity.

"Contract or no contract, you'll both be fairly treated," said the new
owner shortly.

"Who, me?" inquired Ellis. "You can go rapidly to hell and take my
contract with you. I know when I'm fired."

"Who fired you?"

"I did. To save you the satisfaction."

"Very good of you, I'm sure," drawled Hal in a tone of lofty
superiority, turning away. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he
could see McGuire Ellis making pantomime as of one spanking a baby with
fervor. Amusement helped him to the recovery of his temper.

"Working under an amateur journalist will just suit Sterne," observed
Ellis, in a tone quite as offensive as Hal's.

"Cut it out, Mac," suggested his principal. "There's no occasion for
hard words."

"Amateur isn't the hardest word in the dictionary," said Hal quietly.
"Perhaps I'll become a professional in time."

"Buying a newspaper doesn't make a newspaper man."

"Well, I'm not too old to learn. But see here, Mr. Ellis, doesn't your
contract hold you?"

"The contract that you said was no good? Do you expect it to work all
one way?"

"Well, professional honor, then, I should suppose--"

"Professional honor!" cut in Ellis, with scathing contempt. "You step
in here and buy a paper out of a freak of revenge--"

"Hold on, there! How can you know my motive?"

"What else could it be?"

Hal was silent, finding no answer.

"You see! To feed your mean little spite, you've taken over control of
the biggest responsibility, for any one with any decent sense of
responsibility, that a man could take on his shoulders. And what will
you make of it? A toy! A rich kid's plaything."

"Well, what would you make of it, yourself?" asked Hal.

"A teacher and a preacher. A force to tear down and to build up. To rip
this old town wide open, and remould it nearer to the heart's desire!
That's what a newspaper might be, and ought to be, and could be, by God
in Heaven, if the right man ever had a free hand at it."

"Don't get profane, my boy," tittered Sterne.

"You think that's swearing?" retorted Ellis. "Yes; _you_ would. But I
was nearer praying then than I've ever been since I came to this office.
We'll never live to see that prayer answered, you and I."

"Perhaps," began Hal.

"Oh, perhaps!" Ellis snatched the word from his lips. "Perhaps you're
the boy to do it, eh? Why, it's your kind that's made journalism the
sewer of the professions, full of the scum and drainings of every other
trade's failures. What chance have we got to develop ideals when you
outsiders control the whole business?"

"Hullo!" observed Sterne with a grin. "Where do you come in on the
idealist business, Mac? This is new talk from you."

"New? Why wouldn't it be new? Would I waste it on you, Dave Sterne?"

"You certainly never have since I've known you."

"Call it easing up my mind if you like. I can afford that luxury, now
that you 're not my boss any longer. Not but what it's all Greek to
you."

"Had a drink to-day, Mac?"

"No, damn you. But I'm going out of here and take a hundred. First,
though, I'm going to tell young Bib-and-Tucker over there a thing or two
about his new toy. Oh, yes: you can listen, too, Sterne, but it won't
get to your shelled-in soul."

"You in'trust muh, strangely," said Sterne, and looked over to Hal for
countenance of his uneasy amusement.

But the new owner did not appear amused. He had faced around in his
chair and now sat regarding the glooming and exalted Ellis with an
intent surprise.

"A plaything! That's what you think you've bought, young Mr. Harrington
Surtaine. One of two things you'll do with it: either you'll try to run
it yourself, and you'll dip deeper and deeper into Poppa's medicine-bag
till he gets sick of it and closes you up; or you'll hire some practical
man to manage it, and insist on dividends that'll keep it just where it
is now. And that's pretty low, even for a Worthington paper."

"It won't live on blackmail, at any rate," said Hal, his mind reverting
to its original grievance.

"Maybe it will. You won't know it if it does. Anyhow, it'll live on
suppression and distortion and manipulation of news, because it'll have
to, if it's going to live at all."

"You mean that is the basis of the newspaper business as it is to-day?"

"Generally speaking. It certainly is in Worthington."

"You're frank, at any rate. Where's all your glowing idealism now?"

"Vanished into mist. All idealism goes that way, doesn't it?"

"Not if you back it up with work. You see, Mr. Ellis, I'm something of
an idealist myself."

"The Certina brand of idealism. Guaranteed under the Pure Thought and
Deed Act."

"Our money may have been made a little--well, blatantly," said Hal,
flushing. "But at least it's made honestly." He was too intent on his
subject to note either Sterne's half-wink or Ellis's stare of blank
amazement. "And I'm going to run this newspaper on the same high
principles. I don't quite reconcile your standards with the practices of
this paper, Mr. Ellis--"

"Mac has nothing to do with the policy of the paper, Mr. Surtaine," put
in Sterne. "He's only an employee."

"Then why don't you get work on some paper that practices your
principles?"

"Hard to find. Not having been born with a silver spoon, full of
Certina, in my mouth, I have to earn my own living. It isn't profitable
to make a religion of one's profession, Mr. Surtaine. Not that I think
you need the warning. But I've tried it, and I know."

"Do you know, it's rather a pity you don't like me," said Hal, with
ruminative frankness. "I think I could use some of that religion of
yours."

"Not on the market," returned Ellis shortly.

"You see," pursued the other, "it's really my own money I've put into
this paper: half of all I've got."

"How much did you pay for it?" inquired Ellis: "since we're telling each
other our real names."

"Two hundred and thirty thousand dollars."

"Whee-ee-ee-ew!" Both his auditors joined in the whistle.

"They asked two-fifty."

"Half of that would have bought," said Sterne.

Hal digested that information in silence for a minute. "I suppose I was
easy. Hurry never yet made a good bargain. But, now that I've got this
paper I'm going to run it myself."

"On the rocks," prophesied McGuire Ellis. "Utter and complete shipwreck.
I'm glad I'm off."

"Is it your habit, Mr. Ellis, to run at the first suggestion of
disaster?"

Ellis looked his questioner up and down. "Say the rest of it," he
barked.

"Why, it seems to me you're still an officer of this ship. Doesn't it
enter into your ethics somewhere that you ought to stick by her until
the new captain can fill your place, and not quit in the face of the
shipwreck you foresee?"

"Humph," grunted McGuire Ellis, "I guess you're not quite as young as I
thought you were. How long would you want me to stay?"

"About a year."

"What!"

"On an unbreakable contract. To be editorial manager. You see, I'm
prepared to buy ideals."

"What about my opinion of amateur journalism?"

"You'll just have to do the best you can about that."

"Give me till to-morrow to think it over."

"All right."

Ellis put down the hat and cane which he had picked up preparatory to
his departure.

"Not going out after those hundred drinks, eh, Mac?" laughed Sterne.

"Indefinitely postponed," replied the other.

"The first thing to do," said Hal decisively, "is to make amends. Mr.
Sterne, the 'Clarion' is to print a full retraction of the attacks upon
my father, at once."

"Yes, sir," assented Sterne, slavishly responsive to the new authority.

Not so McGuire Ellis. "If you do that you'll make a fool of your own
paper," he said bluntly.

"Make a fool of the paper by righting a rank injustice?"

"Just the point. It isn't a rank injustice."

"See here, Mr. Sterne: isn't it a fact that this attack was made because
my father doesn't advertise with you?"

The editor twisted uneasily in his chair. "A newspaper's got to look
out for its own interests," he asserted defensively.

"Please answer my question."

"Well--yes; I suppose it is so."

"Then you're simply operating a blackmailing scheme to get the Certina
advertising for the 'Clarion.'"

"The Certina advertising?" repeated Sterne in obvious surprise.

"Certina doesn't advertise locally. Most patent medicines don't. It's a
sort of fashion of the trade not to," explained Ellis.

"What on earth is all this about, then?"

The two newspaper men exchanged a glance. Obviously the new boss
understood little of his progenitor's extensive business interests.
"Might as well know sooner as later," decided Ellis, aloud. "It's the
Neverfail Company of Cincinnati that we got turned down on."

"What is the Neverfail Company?"

"One of Dr. Surtaine's alia--one of the names he does business under.
Every other paper in town gets their copy. We don't. Hence the roast."

"What sort of business is it?"

"Relief Pills. Here's the ad. in this morning's 'Banner.'"

The name struck chill on Hal's memory. He stared at the sinister oblong
of type, vaguely sensing in its covert promises the taint, yet failing
to apprehend the full villainy of the lure.

"Whatever the advertising is," said he, "the principle is the same."

"Precisely," chirped Ellis.

"And you call that decent journalism?"

"No: my extremely youthful friend, I do not. What's more, I never did."

"If you want a retraction published," said Sterne, spreading wide his
hands as one offering fealty, "wouldn't it be just as well to preface
it with an announcement of the taking-over of the paper by yourself?"

"That itself would be tantamount to an announced reversal of policy,"
mused Hal.

Again Sterne and Ellis glanced at each other, but with a different
expression this time. The look meant that they had recognized in the
intruder a flash of that mysterious sense vaguely known as "the
newspaper instinct," with which a few are born, but which most men
acquire by giving mortgages on the blest illusions of youth.

"Cor-_rect_," said Ellis.

"Let the retraction rest for the present. I'll decide it later."

The door was pushed open, and a dark man of perhaps thirty, with a
begrimed and handsome face, entered. In one hand he held a proof.

"About this paragraph," he said to Sterne in a slightly foreign accent.
"Is it to run to-morrow?"

"What paragraph is that?"

"The one-stick editorial guying Dr. Surtaine."

"Kill it," said Sterne hastily. "This is Mr. Harrington Surtaine. Mr.
Surtaine, this is Max Veltman, foreman of our composing-room."

Slowly the printer turned his fine, serious face from one to the other.
"Ah," he said presently. "So it is arranged. We do not print this
paragraph. Good!"

Impossible to take offense at the tone. Yet the smile which accompanied
it was so plainly a sneer that Hal's color rose.

"Mr. Surtaine is the new owner of the 'Clarion,'" explained Ellis.

"In that case, of course," said Veltman quietly. "Good-night,
gentlemen."

"Good-looking chap," remarked Hal. "But what a curious expression."

"Veltman's a thinker and a crank," said Ellis. "If he had a little more
balance he'd make his mark. But he's a sort of melancholiac. Ill-health,
nerves, and a fixed belief in the general wrongness of creation."

"Well. I'll get to know more about the shop to-morrow," said Hal. "I'm
for home and sleep just now. See you at--what time, by the way?"

"Noon," said Sterne. "If that suits you."

"Perfectly. Good-night."

Arrived at home, Hal went straight to the big ground-floor library
where, as the light suggested, his father sat reading.

"Dad, do you want a retraction printed?"

"Of the 'Clarion' article?"

"Yes."

"From 'Want' to 'Get' the road runs rocky," said the senior Surtaine
whimsically.

"I've just come from removing a few of the rocks at the 'Clarion'
office."

"Go down to lick the editor?" Dr. Surtaine's eyes twinkled.

"There may have been some such notion in the back of my head."

"Expensive exercise. Did you do it?"

"No. He had a club."

"If I were running a slander-machine like the 'Clarion' I'd want
six-inch armor-plate and a quick-fire battery. Well, what did you do?"

"Bought the paper."

"You needn't have gone down town to do that. It comes to the office."

"You don't understand. I've bought the 'Clarion,' presses, plant,
circulation, franchise, good-will, ill-will, high, low, jack, and
the game."

"You! What for?"

"Why," said Hal thoughtfully; "mainly because I lost my temper, I
believe."

"Sounds like a pretty heavy loss, Boy-ee."

"Two hundred and thirty thousand dollars. Oh, the prodigal son hasn't
got anything on me, Dad, when it comes to scattering patrimonies," he
concluded a little ruefully.

"What are you going to do with it, now you've got it?"

"Run it. I've bought a career."

"Now you're talking." The big man jumped up and set both hands on Hal's
shoulders. "That's the kind of thing I like to hear, and in the kind of
way it ought to be said. You go to it, Hal. I'll back you, as far as you
like."

"No, sir. I thank you just the same: this is my game."

"Want to play it alone, do you?"

"How else can I make a career of it?"

"Right you are, Boyee. But it takes something behind money to build up a
newspaper. And the 'Clarion' 'll take some building up."

"Well, I've got aspiration enough, if it comes to that," smiled Hal.

"Aspiration's a good starter: but it's perspiration that makes a
business go. Are you ready to take off your coat and work?"

"I certainly am. There's a lot for me to learn."

"There is. Everything. Want some advice from the Old Man?"

"I most surely do, Dad."

"Listen here, then. A newspaper is a business proposition. Never forget
that. All these hifalutin' notions about its being a palladium and the
voice of the people and the guardian of public interests are good enough
to talk about on the editorial page. Gives a paper a following, that
kind of guff does. But the duty of a newspaper is the duty of any other
business, to make money. There's the principle, the policy, the
politics, ethics, and religion of the newspaper in a nutshell. Now, how
are you going to make money with the 'Clarion'?"

"By making it a better paper than the others."

"Hm! Better. Yes: that's all right, so long as you mean the right thing
by 'better.' Better for the people that want to use it and can pay for
using it."

"The readers, you mean?"

"The advertisers. It's the advertisers that pay for the paper, not the
readers. You've got to have circulation, of course, to get the
advertising. But remember this, always: circulation is only a means to
an end. It never yet paid the cost of getting out a daily, and it never
will."

"I know enough of the business to understand that."

"Good! Look at the 'Clarion,' as it is. It's got a good circulation. And
that lets it out. It can't get the advertising. So it's losing money,
hand over fist."

"Why can't it?"

"It's yellow. It doesn't treat the business interests right."

"Sterne says they always look after their own advertisers."

"Oh, that! Naturally they have to. Any newspaper will do that. But they
print a lot of stuff about strikes and they're always playing up to the
laboring man and running articles about abuses and pretending to be the
friend of the poor and all that slush, and the better class of business
won't stand for it. Once a paper gets yellow, it has to keep on.
Otherwise it loses what circulation it's got. No advertiser wants to use
it then. The department stores do go into the 'Clarion' because it gets
to a public they can't reach any other way. But they give it just as
little space as they can. It isn't popular."

"Well, I don't intend to make the paper yellow."

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