Samuel Hopkins Adams - The Clarion

S >> Samuel Hopkins Adams >> The Clarion

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28

Meantime Hal, home at a reasonable hour, in the interest of his new
profession, had taken with him the pleasantest impressions of the
Willards' hospitality. He slept soundly and awoke in buoyant spirits for
the dawning enterprise. On the breakfast table he found, in front of his
plate, a bunchy envelope addressed in a small, strong, unfamiliar hand.
Within was no written word; only a spray of the trailing arbutus, still
unwithered of its fairy-pink, still eloquent, in its wayward, woodland
fragrance, of her who had worn it the night before.

CHAPTER IX

GLIMMERINGS

Ignorance within one's self is a mist which, upon closer approach,
proves a mountain. To the new editor of the "Clarion" the things he did
not know about this enterprise of which he had suddenly become the
master loomed to the skies. Together with the rest of the outer world,
he had comfortably and vaguely regarded a newspaper as a sort of
automatic mill which, by virtue of having a certain amount of grain in
the shape of information dumped into it, worked upon this with an
esoteric type-mechanism, and, in due and exact time, delivered a
definite grist of news. Of the refined and articulated processes of
acquisition, selection, and elimination which went to the turning-out of
the final product, he was wholly unwitting. He could as well have
manipulated a linotype machine as have given out a quiet Sunday's
assignment list: as readily have built a multiple press as made up an
edition.

So much he admitted to McGuire Ellis late in the afternoon of the day
after the Willard party. Fascinated, he had watched that expert
journalist go through page after page of copy, with what seemed
superhuman rapidity and address, distribute the finished product
variously upon hooks, boxes, and copy-boys, and, the immediate task
being finished, lapse upon his desk and fall asleep. Meantime, the owner
himself faced the unpleasant prospect of being smothered under the
downfall of proofs, queries, and scribbled sheets which descended upon
his desk from all sides. For a time he struggled manfully: for a time
thereafter he wallowed desperately. Then he sent out a far cry for help.
The cry smote upon the ear of McGuire Ellis, "Hoong!" ejaculated that
somnolent toiler, coming up out of deep waters. "Did you speak?"

"I want to know what I'm to do with all of these things," replied his
boss, indicating the augmenting drifts.

"Throw 'em on the floor, is _my_ advice," said the employee drowsily.
"The more stuff you throw away, the better paper you get out. That's a
proverb of the business."

"In other words, you think the paper would get along better without me
than with me?"

"But you're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" queried his employee.
Heaving himself out of his chair, he ambled over to Hal's desk and
evolved out of the chaos some semblance of order. "Don't find it as easy
as your enthusiasm painted it," he suggested.

"Oh, I've still got the enthusiasm. If only I knew where to begin."

Ellis rubbed his ear thoughtfully and remarked: "Once I knew a man from
Phoenix, Arizona, who was so excited the first time he saw the ocean
that he borrowed a uniform from an absent friend, shinned aboard a
five-thousand-ton brigantine, and ordered all hands to put out to sea
immediately in the teeth of a whooping gale. But he," added the narrator
in the judicial tone of one who cites mitigating circumstances, "was
drunk at the time."

"Thanks for the parallel. I don't like it. But never mind that. The
question is, What am I going to do?"

"That's the question all right. Are you putting it to me?"

"I am."

"Well, I was just going to put it to you."

"No use. I don't know."

The two men looked each other in the eye, long and steadily. Ellis's
harsh face relaxed to a sort of grin.

"You want me to tell you?"

"Yes."

"What do you think you're hiring, a Professor of Journalism in the
infant class?" The tone of the question offset any apparent ill-nature
in the wording.

"It might be made worth your while."

"All right; I'm hired."

"That's good," said Hal heartily. "I think you'll find I'm not hard to
get along with."

"I think _you'll_ find _I_ am," replied the other with some grimness.
"But I know the game. Well, let's get down to cases. What do you want to
do with the 'Clarion'?"

"Make it the cleanest, decentest newspaper in the city."

"Then you don't think it's that, now."

"No. I know it isn't."

"Did you get that from Dr. Surtaine?"

"Partly."

"What's the other part?"

"First-hand impressions. I've been going through the files."

"When?"

"Since nine o'clock this morning."

"With what idea?"

"Why, having bought a piece of property, I naturally want to know about
it."

"Been through the plant yet? That's your property, too."

"No. I thought I'd find out more from the files. I've bought a
newspaper, not a building."

The characteristic grunt with which Ellis favored his employer in reply
to this seemed to have a note of approval in it.

"Well; now that you own the 'Clarion,'" he said after a pause, "what do
you think of it?"

"It's yellow, and it's sensational, and--it's vulgar."

There was nothing complimentary in the other's snort this time.

"Of course it's vulgar. You can't sell a sweet-scented, prim old-maidy
newspaper to enough people to pay for the z's in one font of type.
People are vulgar. Don't forget that. And you've got to make a
newspaper to suit them. Lesson Number One."

"It needn't be a muckraking paper, need it, forever smelling out
something rotten, and exploiting it in big headlines?"

"Oh, that's all bluff," replied the journalist easily. "We never turn
loose on anything but the surface of things. Why, if any one started in
really to muckrake this old respectable burg, the smell would drive most
of our best citizens to the woods."

"Frankly, Mr. Ellis, I don't like cheap cynicism."

"Prefer to be fed up on pleasant lies?" queried his employee, unmoved.

"Not that either. I can take an unpleasant truth as well as the next
man. But it's got to be the truth."

"Do you know the nickname of this paper?"

"Yes. My father told me of it."

"It was his set that pinned it on us. 'The Daily Carrion,' they call us,
and they said that our triumphal roosters ought to be vultures. Do you
know why?"

"In plain English because of the paper's lies and blackguardism."

"In plainer English, because of its truth. Wait a minute, now. I'm not
saying that the 'Clarion' doesn't lie. All papers do, I guess. They have
to. But it's when we've cut loose on straight facts that we've got in
wrong."

"Give me an instance."

"Well, the sewing-girls' strike."

"Engineered by a crooked labor leader and a notoriety-seeking woman."

"I see the bunch have got to you already, and have filled you up with
their dope. Never mind that, now. We're supposed to be a sort of tribune
of the common people. Rights of the ordinary citizen, and that sort of
thing. So we took up the strike and printed the news pretty straight. No
other paper touched it."

"Why not?"

"Didn't dare. We had to drop it, ourselves. Not until we'd lost ten
thousand dollars in advertising, though, and gained an extra blot on our
reputation as being socialistic and an enemy to capital and all that
kind of rot."

"Wasn't it simply a case of currying favor with the working-classes?"

"According as you look at it." Apparently weary of looking at it at all,
McGuire Ellis tipped back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling.
When he spoke his voice floated up as softly as a ring of smoke. "How
honest are you going to be, Mr. Surtaine?"

"What!"

"I asked you how honest you are going to be."

"It's a question I don't think you need to ask me."

"I do. How else will I find out?"

"I intend the 'Clarion' to be strictly and absolutely honest. That's all
there is to that."

"Don't be so young," said McGuire Ellis wearily. "'Strictly and
absol'--see here, did you ever read 'The Wrecker'?"

"More than once."

"Remember the chap who says, 'You seem to think honesty as simple as
blindman's-buff. I don't. It's some difference of definition, I
suppose'? Now, there's meat in that."

"Difference of definition be hanged. Honesty is honesty."

"And policy is policy. And bankruptcy is bankruptcy."

"I don't see the connection."

"It's there. Honesty for a newspaper isn't just a matter of good
intentions. It's a matter of eternal watchfulness and care and expert
figuring-out of things."

"You mean that we're likely to make mistakes about facts--"

"We're certain to. But that isn't what I mean at all. I mean that it's
harder for a newspaper to be honest than it is for the pastor of a rich
church."

"You can't make me believe that."

"Facts can. But I'm not doing my job. You want to learn the details of
the business, and I'm wasting time trying to throw light into the deep
places where it keeps what it has of conscience. That'll come later. Now
where shall I begin?"

"With the structure of the business."

"All right. A newspaper is divided into three parts. News is the
merchandise which it has to sell. Advertising is the by-product that
pays the bills. The editorial page is a survival. At its best it
analyzes and points out the significance of important news. At its
worst, it is a mouthpiece for the prejudices or the projects of whoever
runs it. Few people are influenced by it. Many are amused by it. It
isn't very important nowadays."

"I intend to make it so on the 'Clarion.'"

Ellis turned upon him a regard which carried with it a verdict of the
most abandoned juvenility, but made no comment. "News sways people more
than editorials," he continued. "That's why there's so much tinkering
with it. I'd like to give you a definition of news, but there isn't any.
News is conventional. It's anything that interests the community. It
isn't the same in any two places. In Arizona a shower is news. In New
Orleans the boll-weevil is news. In Worthington anything about your
father is news: in Denver they don't care a hoot about your father; so,
unless he elopes or dies, or buys a fake Titian, or breaks the
flying-machine record, or lectures on medical quackery, he isn't news
away from home. If Mrs. Festus Willard is bitten by a mad dog, every
dog-chase for the week following is news. When a martyred suffragette
chews a chunk out of the King of England, the local meetings of the
Votes-for-Women Sorority become a live topic. If ever you get to the
point where you can say with certainty, 'This is news; that isn't,'
you'll have no further need for me. You'll be graduated."

"Where does a paper get its news?"

"Through mechanical channels, mostly. If you read all the papers in
town,--and you'll have to do it,--you'll see that they've got just about
the same stuff. Why shouldn't they have? The big, clumsy news-mill
grinds pretty impartially for all of them. There's one news source at
Police Headquarters, another at the City Hall, another in the financial
department, another at the political headquarters, another in the
railroad offices, another at the theaters, another in society, and so
on. At each of these a reporter is stationed. He knows his own kind of
news as it comes to him, ready-made, and, usually, not much else. Then
there's the general, unclassified news of the city that drifts in partly
by luck, partly by favor, partly through the personal connections of the
staff. One paper is differentiated from another principally by getting
or missing this sort of stuff. For instance, the 'Banner' yesterday had
a 'beat' about you. It said that you had come back and were going to
settle down and go into your father's business."

"That's not true."

"Glad to hear it. Your hands will be full with this job. But it was
news. Everybody is interested in the son of our leading citizen. The
'Banner' is strong on that sort of local stuff. I think I'll jack up our
boys in the city room by hinting that there may be a shake-up coming
under the new owner. Knowing they're on probation will make 'em
ambitious."

"And the news of the outside world?"

"Much the same principle as the local matter and just as machine-like.
The 'Clarion' is a unit in a big system, the National News Exchange
Bureau. Not only has the bureau its correspondents in every city and
town of any size, but it covers the national sources of news with
special reporters. Also the international. Theoretically it gives only
the plainest facts, uncolored by any bias. As a matter of fact, it's
pretty crooked. It suppresses news, and even distorts it. It's got a
secret financial propaganda dictated by Wall Street, and its policies
are always open to suspicion."

"Why doesn't it get honest reporters?"

"Oh, its reporters are honest enough. The funny business is done higher
up, in the executive offices."

"Isn't there some other association we can get into?"

"Not very well, just now. The Exchange franchise is worth a lot of
money. Besides," he concluded, yawning, "I don't know that they're any
worse than we are."

Hal got to his feet and walked the length of the office and back, five
times. At the end of this exercise he stood, looking down at his
assistant.

"Ellis, are you trying to plant an impression in my mind?"

"No."

"You're doing it."

"Of what sort?"

"I hardly know. Something subtle, and lurking and underhanded in the
business. I feel as if you had your hands on a curtain that you might
pull aside if you would, but that you don't want to shock my--my
youthfulness."

"Plain facts are what you want, aren't they?"

"Exactly."

"Well, I'm giving them to you as plain as you can understand them. I
don't want to tell you more than you're ready to believe."

"Try it, as an experiment."

"Who do you suppose runs the newspapers of this town?"

"Why, Mr. Vane runs the 'Banner.' Mr. Ford owns the 'Press.' The
'Telegram'--let me see--"

"No; no; no," cried Ellis, waving his hands in front of his face. "I
don't mean the different papers. I mean all of 'em. The 'Clarion,' with
the others."

"Nobody runs them all, surely."

"Three men run them all; Pierce, Gibbs, and Hollenbeck."

"E.M. Pierce?"

"Elias Middleton Pierce."

"I had luncheon with him yesterday, and with Mr. Gibbs--"

"Ah! That's where you got your notions about the strike."

"--and neither of them spoke of any newspaper interests."

"Catch them at it! They're the Publication Committee of the Retail Dry
Goods Union."

"What is that?"

"The combination of local department stores. And, as such, they can
dictate to every Worthington newspaper what it shall or shall not
print."

"Nonsense!"

"Including the 'Clarion.'"

"There you're wrong, anyway."

"The department stores are the biggest users of advertising space in the
city. No paper in town could get along without them. If they want a
piece of news kept out of print, they tell the editor so, and you bet
it's kept out. Otherwise that paper loses the advertising."

"Has it ever been done here?"

"Has it? Get Veltman down to tell you about the Store Employees'
Federation."

"Veltman? What does he know of it? He's in the printing-department,
isn't he?"

"Composing-room; yes. Outside he's a labor agitator and organizer. A bit
of a fanatic, too. But an A1 man all right. Get the composing-room," he
directed through the telephone, "and ask Mr. Veltman to come to Mr.
Surtaine's office."

As the printer entered, Hal was struck again with his physical beauty.

"Did you want to see me?" he asked, looking at the "new boss" with
somber eyes.

"Tell Mr. Surtaine about the newspapers and the Store Federation, Max,"
said Ellis.

The German shook his head. "Nothing new in that," he said, with the very
slightest of accents. "We can't organize them unless the newspapers give
us a little publicity."

"Explain it to me, please. I know nothing about it," said Hal.

"For years we've been trying to organize a union of department store
employees."

"Aren't they well treated?"

"Not quite as well as hogs," returned the other in an impassive voice.
"The girls wanted shorter hours and extra pay for overtime at holiday
time and Old Home Week. Every time we've tried it the stores fire the
organizers among their employees."

"Hardly fair, that."

"This year we tried to get up a public meeting. Reverend Norman Hale
helped us, and Dr. Merritt, the health officer, and a number of women.
It was a good news feature, and that was what we wanted, to get the
movement started. But do you think any paper in town touched it? Not
one."

"But why?"

"E.M. Pierce's orders. He and his crowd."

"Even the 'Clarion,' which is supposed to have labor sympathies?"

"The 'Clarion'!" There was a profundity of contempt in Veltman's voice;
and a deeper bitterness when he snapped his teeth upon a word which
sounded to Hal suspiciously like the Biblical characterization of an
undesirable citizeness of Babylon.

"In any case, they won't give the 'Clarion' any more orders."

"Oh, yes, they will," said Veltman stolidly.

"Then they'll learn something distinctly to their disadvantage."

The splendid, animal-like eyes of the compositor gleamed suddenly. "Do
you mean you're going to run the paper honestly?"

Hal almost recoiled before the impassioned and incredulous surprise in
the question.

"What is 'honestly'?"

"Give the people who buy your paper the straight news they pay for?"

"Certainly, the paper will be run that way."

"As easy as rolling off a log," put in McGuire Ellis, with suspicious
smoothness.

Veltman looked from one to the other. "Yes," he said: and again
"Yes-s-s." But the life had gone from his voice. "Anything more?"

"Nothing, thank you," answered Hal.

"Brains, fire, ambition, energy, skill, everything but balance," said
Ellis, as the door closed. "He's the stuff that martyrs are made of--or
lunatics. Same thing, I guess."

"Isn't he a trouble-maker among the men?"

"No. He's a good workman. Something more, too. Sometimes he writes
paragraphs for the editorial page; and when they're not too radical, I
use 'em. He's brought us in one good feature, that 'Kitty the Cutie'
stuff."

"I'd thought of dropping that. It's so cheap and chewing-gummy."

"Catches on, though. We really ought to run it every day. But the girl
hasn't got time to do it."

"Who is she?"

"Some kid in your father's factory, I understand. Protegee of Veltman's,
He brought her stuff in and we took it right off the bat."

"Well, I'll tell you one thing that is going."

"What?"

"The 'Clarion's' motto. 'We Lead: Let Those Who Can Follow.'" Hal
pointed to the "black-face" legend at the top of the first editorial
column.

"Got anything in its place?"

"I thought of 'With Malice Toward None: With Charity for All.'"

"Worked to death. But I've never seen it on a newspaper. Shall I tell
Veltman to set it up in several styles so you may take your pick?"

"Yes. Let's start it in to-morrow."

That night Harrington Surtaine went to bed pondering on the strange
attitude of the newspaper mind toward so matter-of-fact a quality as
honesty; and he dreamed of a roomful of advertisers listening in sodden
silence to his own grandiloquent announcement, "Gentlemen: honesty is
the best policy," while, in a corner, McGuire Ellis and Max Veltman
clasped each other in an apoplectic agony of laughter.

On the following day the blatant cocks of the shrill "Clarion" stood
guard at either end of the paper's new golden text.

CHAPTER X

IN THE WAY OF TRADE

Dr. Surtaine sat in Little George's best chair, beaming upon the world.
By habit, the big man was out of his seat with his dime and nickel in
the bootblack's ready hand, almost coincidently with the final clip-clap
of the rhythmic process. But this morning he lingered, contemplating
with an unobtrusive scrutiny the occupant of the adjoining chair, a
small, angular, hard man, whose brick-red face was cut off in the
segment of an abrupt circle, formed by a low-jammed green hat. This
individual had just briskly bidden his bootblack "hurry it up" in a tone
which meant precisely what it said. The youth was doing so.

"George," said Dr. Surtaine, to the proprietor of the stand.

"Yas, suh."

"Were you ever in St. Jo, Missouri?"

"Yas, suh, Doctah Suhtaine; oncet."

"For long?"

"No, suh."

"Didn't live there, did you?"

"No, suh."

"George," said his interlocutor impressively, "you're lucky."

"Yas, suh," agreed the negro with a noncommittal grin.

"While you can buy accommodations in a graveyard or break into a
penitentiary, don't you ever live in St. Jo Missouri, George."

The man in the adjacent seat half turned toward Dr. Surtaine and looked
him up and down, with a freezing regard.

"It's the sink-hole and sewer-pipe of creation, George. They once
elected a chicken-thief mayor, and he resigned because the town was too
mean to live in. Ever know any folks there, George?"

"Don't have no mem'ry for 'em, Doctah."

"You're lucky again. They're the orneriest, lowest-down, minchin',
pinchin', pizen trash that ever tainted the sweet air of Heaven by
breathing it, George."

"You don' sesso, Doctah Suhtaine, suh."

"I do sess precisely so, George. Does the name McQuiggan mean anything
to you?"

"Don' mean nothin' at-tall to me, Doctah."

"You got away from St. Jo in time, then. Otherwise you might have met
the McQuiggan family, and never been the same afterward."

"Ef you don' stop youah feet a-fidgittin', Boss," interpolated the
neighboring bootblack, addressing the green-hatted man in aggrieved
tones, "I cain't do no good wif this job."

"McQuiggan was the name," continued the volunteer biographer. "The best
you could say of the McQuiggans, George, was that one wasn't much
cusseder than the others, because he couldn't be. Human nature has its
limitations, George."

"It suttinly have, suh."

"But if you had to allow a shade to any of 'em, it would probably have
gone to the oldest brother, L.P. McQuiggan. Barring a scorpion I once
sat down on while in swimming, he was the worst outrage upon the scheme
of creation ever perpetrated by a short-sighted Providence."

"Get out of that chair!"

The little man had shot from his own and was dancing upon the pavement.

"What for?" Dr. Surtaine's tone was that of inquiring innocence.

"To have your fat head knocked off."

With impressive agility for one of his size and years, the challenged
one descended. He advanced, "squared," and suddenly held out a muscular
and plump hand.

"Hullo, Elpy."

"Huh?"

The other glared at him, baleful and baffled.

"Hullo, I said. Don't you know me?"

"No, I don't. Neither will your own family after I get through with
you."

"Come off, Elpy; come off. I licked you once in the old days, and I
guess I could do it now, but I don't want to. Come and have a drink with
old Andy."

"Andy? Andy the Spieler? Andy Certain?"

"Dr. L. Andre Surtaine, at your service. _Now_, will you shake?"

Still surly, Mr. McQuiggan hung back. "What about that roast?" he
demanded.

"Wasn't sure of you. Twenty years is a long time. But I knew if it was
you you'd want to fight, and I knew if you didn't want to fight it
wasn't you. I'll buy you one in honor of the best little city west of
the Mississip, and the best bunch of sports that ever came out of it,
the McQuiggans of St. Jo, Missouri. Does that go?"

"It goes," replied the representative of the family concisely.

Across the cafe table Dr. Surtaine contemplated his old acquaintance
with friendly interest.

"The same old scrappy Elpy," he observed. "What's happened to you, since
you used to itinerate with the Iroquois Extract of Life?"

"Plenty."

"You're looking pretty prosperous."

"Have to, in my line."

"What is it?"

Mr. McQuiggan produced a card, with the legend:--

+-----------------------------------------+
| |
| McQuiggan & Straight |
| STREAKY MOUNTAIN COPPER COMPANY |
| Orsten, Palas County, Nev. |
| |
| |
| L.P. MCQUIGGAN ARTHUR STRAIGHT |
| _President_ _Vice-Pres. & Treas._ |
| |
+-----------------------------------------+

"Any good?" queried the Doctor.

"Best undeveloped property in the State."

"Why don't you develop it?"

"Capital."

"Get the capital."

"Will you help me?"

"Sure."

"How?"

"Advertise."

"Advertising costs money."

"And brings two dollars for every one you spend."

"Maybe," retorted the other, with a skeptical air. "But my game is still
talk."

"Talk gets dimes; print gets dollars," said his friend sententiously.

"You have to show me."

"Show you!" cried the Doctor. "I'll write your copy myself."

"_You_ will? What do you know about mining?"

"Not a thing. But there isn't much I don't know about advertising. I've
built up a little twelve millions, plus, on it. And I can sell your
stock like hot cakes through the 'Clarion.'"

"What's the 'Clarion'?"

"My son's newspaper."

"Thereby keeping the graft in the family, eh?"

"Don't be a fool, Elpy. I'm showing you profits. Besides doing you a
good turn, I'd like to bring in some new business to the boy. Now you
take half-pages every other day for a week and a full page Sunday--"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28