A DISASTER
It was after Paul had toiled early and late and put aside enough money
for the new typewriter, and even a little more, that the first calamity
befell the _March Hare_.
When the accounts were found to be short, it was unbelievable. Melville
Carter, the business manager, who handled all the funds, was the soul of
honesty as well as an excellent mathematician. His books were the pride
of the editorial staff. Therefore when he was confronted with the
hundred-dollar deficit, he could scarcely speak for amazement. There
must be some mistake, he murmured over and over. He had kept the
accounts very carefully, and not an expenditure had been made that had
not been talked over first with the board and promptly recorded. There
never had been a large surplus in the bank after the monthly bills were
paid, but there was always a small margin for emergencies. The treasury
had never before gone stone dry. But there it was! Not only was there no
money in the bank, but the _March Hare_ was about fifty dollars in the
hole.
Paul and Melville went over and over the accounts, vainly searching for
the error. But there was no error. The columns seemed to add up quite
correctly. So, however, did the deposit slips from the bank. And the
tragedy was that the two failed to agree. The bank had a hundred dollars
less to the credit of the _March Hare_ than the books said it should
have.
In the meantime, at the bottom of Paul's pocket, lay a bill of fifty
dollars for publishing expenses. What was to be done? The bill must be
paid. It would never do to let the _March Hare_ run behindhand. To begin
to run into debt was an unsafe and demoralizing policy.
Paul's father had urged this advice upon him from the first. The _March
Hare_ must pay its bills as it went along; then its editors would know
where they stood. And so each month the boys had plotted out their
expenses and kept rigidly within the amount of cash they had in reserve.
They had never failed once to have sufficient money to meet their bills.
In fact, their parents had enthusiastically applauded their foresight
and business ability.
And now, suddenly and unaccountably, here they were confronted by an
empty treasury. What was to be done?
Of course the bill was not large. Fifty dollars was not a tremendous
sum. But when you had not the fifty, and no way of getting it, the
amount seemed enormous.
Then there was the balking enigma of it. How had it happened?
"If we only knew what we had done with that hundred, it would not be so
bad," groaned Melville. "It makes me furious not to be able to solve the
puzzle."
"Me, too!" Paul replied gravely.
And worse than all was the humiliation of finding they were not such
clever business men as they had thought themselves to be. That was the
crowning blow!
"A hundred dollars--think of it!" said Paul. "If it had been
twenty-five! But a cool hundred, Mel!"
He broke off speechlessly.
"We can't be that amount short," protested Melville for the twentieth
time. "We simply can't be. I have not paid one bill that the managing
board has not first O.K.-ed. You know how carefully we have estimated
our expenses each month. We have kept a nest-egg in the bank, too, all
the time, in case we did get stuck. I can't understand it. We haven't
branched out into any wild schemes. Of course, after the party we did
make those presents to the school; but we looked over the ground and
made sure that we could afford to do so."
"We certainly thought we could," returned Paul glumly. "Probably,
though, we were too generous. Wouldn't people laugh if they knew the
mess we are in now!"
"Well, they are not going to know it from me," growled Melville. "If I
were to tell my father we were in debt he would say it was about what he
expected. I wouldn't tell him for a farm down East. And how the freshmen
would hoot!"
"I don't think my father would kid us," Paul said slowly, "but I know he
would be awfully disappointed that we had made a business foozle."
"I, for one, say we don't tell anybody," Melville burst out. "I've some
pride and I draw the line at having every Tom, Dick, and Harry shouting
'I told you so!' at me. What do you say, Paul, that we keep this thing
to ourselves? If we have made a bull of it and got ourselves into a
hole, let's get out of it somehow without the whole world knowing it."
"But how?"
"I don't know," Melville returned. "All I know is I'm not for telling
anybody."
"But this bill, Melville? What is to become of that?"
"We must pay it."
"_We_?"
"You and I."
The room was very still; then Melville spoke again.
"Haven't you any ready money, Paul?"
"Y--e--s."
"Have you enough so that we could halve a hundred--pay the fifty-dollar
deficit and put fifty dollars in the bank?"
"You mean you'd pay half of it if I would?"
"Yep."
"I--see."
"Could you manage it--fifty dollars?"
"Yes. Could you, Mel?"
"Well, I haven't the fifty; but I have a Liberty Bond that I could sell
and get the money."
"That seems a shame," objected Paul.
"Oh, I don't care. I'm game. Anything rather than having the whole
school twit me of messing the accounts."
"I don't care about being joshed, either," declared Paul. "Still--"
"Something's fussing you. What is it?"
"Well, you see, Mel, I've been doing extra work at home in order to earn
enough money for a typewriter. I've just got it saved up. It'll have to
go into this, now."
"Darned hard luck, old man! Don't do it if you don't want to. Maybe I
can--"
"No, you can't! I wouldn't think of having you pay the whole hundred,
even if you had the money right in your hand. This snarl is as much mine
as yours. We probably haven't planned right. We've overlooked something
and come out short."
"We might let the bill run until another month, I suppose," Melville
presently suggested.
Paul started up.
"No. We mustn't do that on any account. We might be worse off another
month. I say we clear the thing right up and start fair. If you will
turn in your fifty, I will," declared he, with spirit.
"Bully for you! You sure are a sport, Kip."
"I don't see anything else to be done."
There was nothing else. Melville's "Baby Bond" was converted into cash;
Paul's typewriter sacrificed; the fifty-dollar bill was paid; and the
other fifty was put into the bank.
The boys kept their own council and if the _March Hare_ sensed that its
reputation had trembled on the brink of ruin it gave no sign. Gayly it
went on its way.
People began to comment on the paper as being "snappy" and "up to date";
they called it "breezy" and "wholesome." Now and then an appreciative
note from a distant graduate would make glad the editorial sanctum.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the magazine became more and more the
organ of speech for the community. Persons who had never ventured into
print--who, perhaps, never would have ventured--summoned up courage to
send to this more modest paper articles that were received with welcome.
Being first efforts and words that their authors had long desired to
speak they were stamped with a freshness and spontaneity that was
delightful; if at times the form was faulty it was more than compensated
for by the subject matter. Furthermore, many of the contributions were
of excellent quality.
Then there gradually came a day when the timid _March Hare_ had more
desirable material than it had room to print. A part of this was
political, for the school classes in current events had aroused in the
students a keen interest in international affairs. As a consequence good
political articles had been eagerly sought for. Other contributions were
of scientific nature and appeared from time to time in the columns
devoted to such matter. The great mass of material sent in, however, was
unclassified and found its way into the department labeled: _Town
Suggestions_; or into the pages known as: _Our Fathers and Mothers_.
Neither of these departments had originally been featured in the _March
Hare_ plan; they came as a natural outgrowth of the paper. Parents had
things which they wanted to say to one another or to their boys and
girls. There was many a problem to be threshed out, threshed out more
intimately than it could have been in a larger and more formal paper.
The questions debated never failed to interest the elder part of
Burmingham's population and frequently they appealed to the youngsters
as well. In fact, it was not long before these departments were merged
into a sort of forum where an earnest and vigorous interchange of
opinions 'twixt young and old took place.
And all the while that the sprightly _March Hare_ was thus leaping on to
success, Mr. Arthur Presby Carter sat quietly in his office and watched
the antics of this youthful upstart. He was surprised, very much
surprised; indeed he had, perhaps, never been more surprised in all his
life. He had long thought he knew a good deal about the make-up of a
paper,--what would interest and what would not; in fact, he considered
himself an expert in that sphere. He had put years of study into the
matter. Even now he would not have been willing to confess that a
seventeen-year-old boy had taught him anything. That would have been
quite beneath his dignity. But privately he could not deny that this
schoolboy adventurer had opened his eyes to a number of things he had
never considered before.
The _Echo_ was a conservative, old-fashioned paper that had followed
tradition rather than the lead of an alert, progressive public. From a
pinnacle of confident superiority it had spoken to the people, telling
them what they should think, rather than giving ear to their groping and
clamoring desire for a hearing. The _Echo_ never discussed questions
with its readers. Its editor had never deigned to do so, so why should
his publication? To bicker, argue, and debate would have been entirely
at odds with its standards. People did not need to state what opinions
they held; they merely needed to be told what opinions they should hold.
Thus thought Mr. Arthur Presby Carter, and thus had his policy been
immortalized in his paper.
But now, to his amazement and chagrin, a publication had been born that
was undermining his prestige and putting to naught his creeds and
theories. This absurd _March Hare_ was actually becoming the authorized
mouthpiece of the town. It would have been blind not to recognize the
fact. Fools had indeed rushed in where angels feared to tread, as Mr.
Carter himself had jeeringly asserted they sometimes did, and as a
result there had come into being this unique monthly whose subscription
list was constantly swelling.
The publisher shrugged his shoulders. He was a shrewd business man. He
had, he confessed to himself, been trapped into printing this amateur
thing, and once trapped he had been game enough to live up to his
contract; but he had always viewed the new magazine with a patronizing
scorn. For a press of the _Echo's_ reputation to be printing a silly
High School publication had never ceased to be an absurdity in his eyes.
He had regarded the first issues with derision. Then slowly his disdain
had melted into astonishment, respect, admiration. There evidently was
a spirit in Burmingham of which he had never suspected the
existence,--an intelligence, an open-mindedness, a searching after
truth. Hitherto the subscribers to any paper had been represented in his
mind by a long list of names in purple ink, or else, by their money
equivalent. Now, suddenly, these names became persons, voices, opinions.
No one could take up the _March Hare_ and not be conscious of a
throbbing of hearts. It sounded through every page--that beating of
hearts--fathers, mothers, girls, boys speaking with simple sincerity of
the things they held dearest in their lives.
Why, it was a miracle, this living flesh and blood that glowed so warmly
and sympathetically through the dead mediums of paper and ink!
How had the enchantment been wrought? the magnate asked himself. To be
sure, he had never tried through the columns of the _Echo_ to get into
actual touch with those into whose homes his paper traveled. He had
never cared who they were, what they thought, or how they lived. The
problems puzzling their brains were nothing to him. But he now owned
with characteristic honesty that had he cared to obtain from them this
free expression of opinion and learn the reactions their minds were
constantly reflecting, he would have been at a loss as to how to
proceed.
Yet here, through the instrumentality of a mere boy, a boy the age of
his own son, the elusive result had been accomplished!
Where lay the magic?
The _March Hare_ was not a paper that could speak with authority on any
subject, nor was it a magazine of distinct literary merit. On the
contrary it naively confessed that it was young and did not know. It
explained with frankness that it had not the wisdom to speak; that
instead it merely echoed the thought of its readers.
It was this "echoing idea" that was new to Mr. Arthur Presby Carter. He
had always spoken. To listen to the opinions of others he had considered
tiresome. Very few persons had opinions that were worth listening to.
Nevertheless, after dissecting the reasons for the _March Hare's_
popularity, and lopping off the minor elements of its uniqueness and
wide appeal, the elder man faced the real psychological secret of the
junior paper's success: it listened and did not talk; it was a dialogue
instead of a monologue,--an exact reversal of his policy.
Moreover, this dialogue, contrary to his previous beliefs, presented
amazingly interesting opinions. Here were the past and the present
generation arguing on the policy of the new America,--what its
government, its statesmanship, its ideals should be. The Past was rich
in advice, experience; the Present in hope, faith, courage. Youth, the
citizen of to-morrow, had a thousand theories for righting the nation's
faults; and some of these theories were not wholly visionary.
Did his paper, Mr. Carter wondered, call out in the hearts and minds of
those who read it a similar response of patriotism and high ideals? Did
it reach the great human _best_ that lies deep in every individual?
Alas, he feared it did not. It was too autocratic. It aimed not to
stimulate but to silence discussion and it probably did so, descending
upon its audience with a confident finality that admitted of no
argument.
The _March Hare_, on the other hand, was apologetically modest. Nobody
quailed before it. Even the least of the intellectuals feared not to
lift up his voice in its presence and demand a hearing.
Such a novel and rare product was worth perpetuating. From a money
standpoint alone the paper might become in time a paying investment. It
was, of course, a bit crude at present; but the kernel was there; so,
too, was the long list of subscribers,--an asset to which he was not
blind.
Suppose he was to buy out this schoolboy enterprise at the end of the
year and take it into his own hands? Might it not be nursed into a
publication that would have a lasting place in the community and become
a property of value?
He would improve it--that would go without saying--touch it up and
polish it; doubtless he would think best to revise some of its
departments; and--well, he would probably change its name and its cover
design. He could not continue to perpetuate such an absurdity as that
title. Perhaps he would christen it the _Burmingham Monthly_.
The notion of purchasing the amateur product appealed to his sense of
humor. The more he thought of it, the stronger became his desire to own
the paper. Strange he had never before considered publishing a monthly
magazine. Yes, he would get out the few remaining issues of the _March
Hare_ under its present name and then he would buy out the whole thing
for a small sum and take it over. The boys would undoubtedly be glad
enough to sell it, flattered to have the chance, no doubt. A check that
would provide the editorial staff with some hockey sticks or tennis
shoes would without question satisfy them. What use would they have for
a paper after they graduated?
Thus reasoned Mr. Arthur Presby Carter to himself in the solitude and
silence of his editorial sanctum. And after he had disposed of the
matter to his entire satisfaction, he took up a letter from his desk and
decided with the same deliberation to purchase also certain oil
properties in Pennsylvania. For Mr. Arthur Presby Carter was a man of
broad financial interests and a large bank account. The Echo was only
one of his many business enterprises, and buying _March Hares_ or oil
wells was all one to him, a means of adding more dollars to his
accumulating hoard.