"PEACEFUL MOMENTS"
The man in the street did not appear to know it, but a great crisis was
imminent in New York journalism.
Everything seemed much as usual in the city. The cars ran blithely on
Broadway. Newsboys shouted their mystic slogan, "Wuxtry!" with
undiminished vim. Society thronged Fifth Avenue without a furrow on its
brow. At a thousand street corners a thousand policemen preserved their
air of massive superiority to the things of this world. Of all the four
million not one showed the least sign of perturbation.
Nevertheless, the crisis was at hand. Mr. J. Brabazon Renshaw,
Editor-in-chief of _Peaceful Moments_, was about to leave his post
and start on a three-months' vacation.
_Peaceful Moments_, as its name (an inspiration of Mr. Renshaw's
own) was designed to imply, was a journal of the home. It was the sort
of paper which the father of the family is expected to take back with
him from the office and read aloud to the chicks before bedtime under
the shade of the rubber plant.
Circumstances had left the development of the paper almost entirely to
Mr. Renshaw. Its contents were varied. There was a "Moments in the
Nursery" page, conducted by Luella Granville Waterman and devoted
mainly to anecdotes of the family canary, by Jane (aged six), and
similar works of the younger set. There was a "Moments of Meditation"
page, conducted by the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts; a "Moments among
the Masters" page, consisting of assorted chunks looted from the
literature of the past, when foreheads were bulged and thoughts
profound, by Mr. Renshaw himself; one or two other special pages; a
short story; answers to correspondents on domestic matters; and a
"Moments of Mirth" page, conducted by one B. Henderson Asher--a very
painful affair.
The proprietor of this admirable journal was that Napoleon of finance,
Mr. Benjamin Scobell.
That this should have been so is but one proof of the many-sidedness of
that great man.
Mr. Scobell had founded _Peaceful Moments_ at an early stage in
his career, and it was only at very rare intervals nowadays that he
recollected that he still owned it. He had so many irons in the fire
now that he had no time to waste his brain tissues thinking about a
paper like _Peaceful Moments_. It was one of his failures. It
certainly paid its way and brought him a small sum each year, but to
him it was a failure, a bombshell that had fizzled.
He had intended to do big things with _Peaceful Moments_. He had
meant to start a new epoch in the literature of Manhattan.
"I gottan idea," he had said to Miss Scobell. "All this yellow
journalism--red blood and all that--folks are tired of it. They want
something milder. Wholesome, see what I mean? There's money in it. Guys
make a roll too big to lift by selling soft drinks, don't they? Well,
I'm going to run a soft-drink paper. See?"
The enterprise had started well. To begin with, he had found the ideal
editor. He had met Mr. Renshaw at a down-East gathering presided over
by Mrs. Oakley, and his Napoleonic eye had seen in J. Brabazon the
seeds of domestic greatness. Before they parted, he had come to terms
with him. Nor had the latter failed to justify his intuition. He made
an admirable editor. It was not Mr. Renshaw's fault that the new paper
had failed to electrify America. It was the public on whom the
responsibility for the failure must be laid. They spoiled the whole
thing. Certain of the faithful subscribed, it is true, and continued to
subscribe, but the great heart of the public remained untouched. The
great heart of the public declined to be interested in the meditations
of Mr. Philpotts and the humor of Mr. B. Henderson Asher, and continued
to spend its money along the bad old channels. The thing began to bore
Mr. Scobell. He left the conduct of the journal more and more to Mr.
Renshaw, until finally--it was just after the idea for extracting gold
from sea water had struck him--he put the whole business definitely out
of his mind. (His actual words were that he never wanted to see or hear
of the darned thing again, inasmuch as it gave him a pain in the neck.)
Mr. Renshaw was given a free hand as to the editing, and all matters of
finance connected with the enterprise were placed in the hands of Mr.
Scobell's solicitors, who had instructions to sell the journal, if, as
its owner crisply put it, they could find any chump who was enough of a
darned chump to give real money for it. Up to the present the great
army of chumps had fallen short of this ideal standard of darned
chumphood.
Ever since this parting of the ways, Mr. Renshaw had been in his
element. Under his guidance _Peaceful Moments_ had reached a level
of domesticity which made other so-called domestic journals look like
sporting supplements. But at last the work had told upon him. Whether
it was the effort of digging into the literature of the past every
week, or the strain of reading B. Henderson Asher's "Moments of Mirth"
is uncertain. At any rate, his labors had ended in wrecking his health
to such an extent that the doctor had ordered him three months'
complete rest, in the woods or mountains, whichever he preferred; and,
being a farseeing man, who went to the root of things, had absolutely
declined to consent to Mr. Renshaw's suggestion that he keep in touch
with the paper during his vacation. He was adamant. He had seen copies
of _Peaceful Moments_ once or twice, and refused to permit a man
in Mr. Renshaw's state of health to come in contact with Luella
Granville Waterman's "Moments in the Nursery" and B. Henderson Asher's
"Moments of Mirth."
"You must forget that such a paper exists," he said. "You must dismiss
the whole thing from your mind, live in the open, and develop some
flesh and muscle."
Mr. Renshaw had bowed before the sentence, howbeit gloomily, and now,
on the morning of Betty's departure from Mrs. Oakley's house with the
letter of introduction, was giving his final instructions to his
temporary successor.
This temporary successor in the editorship was none other than John's
friend, Rupert Smith, late of the _News_.
Smith, on leaving Harvard, had been attracted by newspaper work, and
had found his first billet on a Western journal of the type whose
society column consists of such items as "Jim Thompson was to town
yesterday with a bunch of other cheap skates. We take this opportunity
of once more informing Jim that he is a liar and a skunk," and whose
editor works with a pistol on his desk and another in his hip-pocket.
Graduating from this, he had proceeded to a reporter's post on a daily
paper in Kentucky, where there were blood feuds and other Southern
devices for preventing life from becoming dull. All this was good, but
even while he enjoyed these experiences, New York, the magnet, had been
tugging at him, and at last, after two eventful years on the Kentucky
paper, he had come East, and eventually won through to the staff of the
_News_.
His presence in the office of _Peaceful Moments_ was due to the
uncomfortable habit of most of the New York daily papers of cutting
down their staff of reporters during the summer. The dismissed had, to
sustain them, the knowledge that they would return, like the swallows,
anon, and be received back into their old places; but in the meantime
they suffered the inconvenience of having to support themselves as best
they could. Smith, when, in the company of half-a-dozen others, he had
had to leave the _News_, had heard of the vacant post of assistant
editor on _Peaceful Moments_, and had applied for and received it.
Whereby he was more fortunate than some of his late colleagues; though,
as the character of his new work unrolled itself before him, he was
frequently doubtful on that point. For the atmosphere of _Peaceful
Moments_, however wholesome, was certainly not exciting, and his
happened to be essentially a nature that needed the stimulus of
excitement. Even in Park Row, the denizens of which street are rarely
slaves to the conventional and safe, he had a well-established
reputation in this matter. Others of his acquaintances welcomed
excitement when it came to them in the course of the day's work, but it
was Smith's practise to go in search of it. He was a young man of
spirit and resource.
His appearance, to those who did not know him, hardly suggested this.
He was very tall and thin, with a dark, solemn face. He was a purist in
the matter of clothes, and even in times of storm and stress presented
an immaculate appearance to the world. In his left eye, attached to a
cord, he wore a monocle.
Through this, at the present moment, he was gazing benevolently at Mr.
Renshaw, as the latter fussed about the office in the throes of
departure. To the editor's rapid fire of advice and warning he listened
with the pleased and indulgent air of a father whose infant son frisks
before him. Mr. Renshaw interested him. To Smith's mind Mr. Renshaw,
put him in any show you pleased, would alone have been worth the price
of admission.
"Well," chirruped the holiday-maker--he was a little man with a long
neck, and he always chirruped--"Well, I think that is all, Mr. Smith.
Oh, ah, yes! The stenographer. You will need a new stenographer."
The _Peaceful Moments_ stenographer had resigned her position
three days before, in order to get married.
"Unquestionably, Comrade Renshaw," said Smith. "A blonde."
Mr. Renshaw looked annoyed.
"I have told you before, Mr. Smith, I object to your addressing me as
Comrade. It is not--it is not--er--fitting."
Smith waved a deprecating hand.
"Say no more," he said. "I will correct the habit. I have been studying
the principles of Socialism somewhat deeply of late, and I came to the
conclusion that I must join the cause. It looked good to me. You work
for the equal distribution of property, and start in by swiping all you
can and sitting on it. A noble scheme. Me for it. But I am interrupting
you."
Mr. Renshaw had to pause for a moment to reorganize his ideas.
"I think--ah, yes. I think it would be best perhaps to wait for a day
or two in case Mrs. Oakley should recommend someone. I mentioned the
vacancy in the office to her, and she said she would give the matter
her attention. I should prefer, if possible, to give the place to her
nominee. She--"
"--has eighteen million a year," said Smith. "I understand. Scatter
seeds of kindness."
Mr. Renshaw looked at him sharply. Smith's face was solemn and
thoughtful.
"Nothing of the kind," the editor said, after a pause. "I should prefer
Mrs. Oakley's nominee because Mrs. Oakley is a shrewd, practical woman
who--er--who--who, in fact--"
"Just so," said Smith, eying him gravely through the monocle.
"Entirely."
The scrutiny irritated Mr. Renshaw.
"Do put that thing away, Mr. Smith," he said.
"That thing?"
"Yes, that ridiculous glass. Put it away."
"Instantly," said Smith, replacing the monocle in his vest-pocket. "You
object to it? Well, well, many people do. We all have these curious
likes and dislikes. It is these clashings of personal taste which
constitute what we call life. Yes. You were saying?"
Mr. Renshaw wrinkled his forehead.
"I have forgotten what I intended to say," he said querulously. "You
have driven it out of my head."
Smith clicked his tongue sympathetically. Mr. Renshaw looked at his
watch.
"Dear me," he said, "I must be going. I shall miss my train. But I
think I have covered the ground quite thoroughly. You understand
everything?"
"Absolutely," said Smith. "I look on myself as some engineer
controlling a machine with a light hand on the throttle. Or like some
faithful hound whose master--"
"Ah! There is just one thing. Mrs. Julia Burdett Parslow is a little
inclined to be unpunctual with her 'Moments with Budding Girlhood.' If
this should happen while I am away, just write her a letter, quite a
pleasant letter, you understand, pointing out the necessity of being in
good time. She must realize that we are a machine."
"Exactly," murmured Smith.
"The machinery of the paper cannot run smoothly unless contributors are
in good time with their copy."
"Precisely," said Smith. "They are the janitors of the literary world.
Let them turn off the steam heat, and where are we? If Mrs. Julia
Burdett Parslow is not up to time with the hot air, how shall our
'Girlhood' escape being nipped in the bud?"
"And there is just one other thing. I wish you would correct a slight
tendency I have noticed lately in Mr. Asher to be just a trifle--well,
not precisely risky, but perhaps a shade broad in his humor."
"Young blood!" sighed Smith. "Young blood!"
"Mr. Asher is a very sensible man, and he will understand. Well, that
is all, I think. Now, I really must be going. Good-by, Mr. Smith."
"Good-by."
At the door Mr. Renshaw paused with the air of an exile bidding
farewell to his native land, sighed and trotted out.
Smith put his feet upon the table, flicked a speck of dust from his
coat-sleeve, and resumed his task of reading the proofs of Luella
Granville Waterman's "Moments in the Nursery."
* * * * *
He had not been working long, when Pugsy Maloney, the office boy,
entered.
"Say!" said Pugsy.
"Say on, Comrade Maloney."
"Dere's a loidy out dere wit a letter for Mr. Renshaw."
"Have you acquainted her with the fact that Mr. Renshaw has passed to
other climes?"
"Huh?"
"Have you, in the course of your conversation with this lady, mentioned
that Mr. Renshaw has beaten it?"
"Sure, I did. And she says can she see you?"
Smith removed his feet from the table.
"Certainly," he said. "Who am I that I should deny people these little
treats? Ask her to come in, Comrade Maloney."