The room in which John Shorely edited the _Weekly Sponge_ was not
luxuriously furnished, but it was comfortable. A few pictures decorated
the walls, mostly black and white drawings by artists who were so
unfortunate as to be compelled to work for the _Sponge_ on the
cheap. Magazines and papers were littered all about, chiefly American
in their origin, for Shorely had been brought up in the editorial
school which teaches that it is cheaper to steal from a foreign
publication than waste good money on original contributions. You
clipped out the story; changed New York to London; Boston or
Philadelphia to Manchester or Liverpool, and there you were.
Shorely's theory was that the public was a fool, and didn't know the
difference. Some of the greatest journalistic successes in London
proved the fact, he claimed, yet the _Sponge_ frequently bought
stories from well-known authors, and bragged greatly about it.
Shorely's table was littered with manuscripts, but the attention of the
great editor was not upon them. He sat in his wooden armchair, with his
gaze on the fire and a frown on his brow. The _Sponge_ was not
going well, and he feared he would have to adopt some of the many prize
schemes that were such a help to pure literature elsewhere, or offer a
thousand pounds insurance, tied up in such a way that it would look
lavishly generous to the constant reader, and yet be impossible to
collect if a disaster really occurred.
In the midst of his meditations a clerk entered and announced--"Mr.
Bromley Gibberts."
"Tell him I'm busy just now--tell him I'm engaged," said the editor,
while the perplexed frown deepened on his brow.
The clerk's conscience; however, was never burdened with that message,
for Gibberts entered, with a long ulster coat flapping about his heels.
"That's all right," said Gibberts, waving his hand at the boy, who
stood with open mouth, appalled at the intrusion. "You heard what Mr.
Shorely said. He's engaged. Therefore let no one enter. Get out."
The boy departed, closing the door after him. Gibberts turned the key
in the lock, and then sat down.
"There," he said; "now we can talk unmolested, Shorely. I should think
you would be pestered to death by all manner of idiots who come in and
interrupt you."
"I am," said the editor, shortly.
"Then take my plan, and lock your door. Communicate with the outer
office through a speaking-tube. I see you are down-hearted, so I have
come to cheer you up. I've brought you a story, my boy."
Shorely groaned.
"My dear Gibberts," he said, "we have now----"
"Oh yes, I know all about that. You have matter enough on hand to run
the paper for the next fifteen years. If this is a comic story, you
are buying only serious stuff. If this be tragic, humour is what you
need. Of course, the up-and-down truth is that you are short of money,
and can't pay my price. The _Sponge_ is failing--everybody knows
that. Why can't you speak the truth, Shorely, to me, at least? If you
practiced an hour a day, and took lessons--from me, for instance--you
would be able in a month to speak several truthful sentences one after
the other."
The editor laughed bitterly.
"You are complimentary," he said.
"I'm not. Try again, Shorely. Say I'm a boorish ass."
"Well, you are."
"There, you see how easy it is! Practice is everything. Now, about this
story, will you----"
"I will not. As you are not an advertiser, I don't mind admitting to
you that the paper is going down. You see it comes to the same thing.
We haven't the money as you say, so what's the use of talking?"
Gibberts hitched his chair closer to the editor, and placed his hand on
the other's knee. He went on earnestly--
"Now is the time to talk, Shorely. In a little while it will be too
late. You will have thrown up the _Sponge_. Your great mistake is
trying to ride two horses, each facing a different direction. It can't
be done, my boy. Make up your mind whether you are going to be a thief
or an honest man. That's the first step."
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. Go in for a paper that will be entirely stolen
property, or for one made up of purely original matter."
"We have a great deal of original matter in the _Sponge_."
"Yes, and that's what I object to. Have it all original, or have it all
stolen. Be fish or fowl. At least one hundred men a week see a stolen
article in the _Sponge_ which they have read elsewhere. They then
believe it is all stolen, and you lose them. That isn't business, so I
want to sell you one original tale, which will prove to be the most
remarkable story written in England this year."
"Oh, they all are," said Shorely, wearily. "Every story sent to me is a
most remarkable story, in the author's opinion."
"Look here, Shorely," cried Gibberts, angrily, "you mustn't talk to me
like that. I'm no unknown author, a fact of which you are very well
aware. I don't need to peddle my goods."
"Then why do you come here lecturing me?"
"For your own good, Shorely, my boy," said Gibberts, calming down as
rapidly as he had flared up. He was a most uncertain man. "For your own
good, and if you don't take this story, some one else will. It will
make the fortune of the paper that secures it. Now, you read it while I
wait. Here it is, typewritten, at one-and-three a thousand words, all
to save your blessed eyesight."
Shorely took the manuscript and lit the gas, for it was getting dark.
Gibberts sat down awhile, but soon began to pace the room, much to
Shorely's manifest annoyance. Not content with this, he picked up the
poker and noisily stirred the fire. "For Heaven's sake, sit down,
Gibberts, and be quiet!" cried Shorely, at last.
Gibberts seized the poker as if it had been a weapon, and glared at the
editor.
"I won't sit down, and I will make just as much noise as I want to," he
roared. As he stood there defiantly, Shorely saw a gleam of insanity in
his eyes.
"Oh, very well, then," said Shorely, continuing to read the story.
For a moment Gibberts stood grasping the poker by the middle, then he
flung it with a clatter on the fender, and, sitting down, gazed moodily
into the fire, without moving, until Shorely had turned the last page.
"Well," said Gibberts, rousing from his reverie, "what do you think of
it?"
"It's a good story, Gibberts. All your stories are good," said the
editor, carelessly.
Gibberts started to his feet, and swore.
"Do you mean to say," he thundered, "that you see nothing in that story
different from any I or any one else ever wrote? Hang it, Shorely, you
wouldn't know a good story if you met it coming up Fleet Street! Can't
you see that story is written with a man's heart's blood?"
Shorely stretched out his legs and thrust his hands far down in his
trousers' pockets.
"It may have been written as you say, although I thought you called my
attention a moment ago to its type-written character."
"Don't be flippant, Shorely," said Gibberts, relapsing again into
melancholy. "You don't like the story, then? You didn't see anything
unusual in it--purpose, force, passion, life, death, nothing?"
"There is death enough at the end. My objection is that there is too
much blood and thunder in it. Such a tragedy could never happen. No man
could go to a country house and slaughter every one in it. It's
absurd."
Gibberts sprang from his seat and began to pace the room excitedly.
Suddenly he stopped before his friend, towering over him, his long
ulster making him look taller than he really was.
"Did I ever tell you the tragedy of my life? How the property that
would have kept me from want has----"
"Of course you have, Gibberts. Sit down. You've told it to everybody.
To me several times."
"How my cousin cheated me out of----"
"Certainly. Out of land and the woman you loved."
"Oh! I told you that, did I?" said Gibberts, apparently abashed at the
other's familiarity with the circumstances. He sat down, and rested his
head in his hands. There was a long silence between the two, which was
finally broken by Gibberts saying--
"So you don't care about the story?"
"Oh, I don't say that. I can see it is the story of your own life, with
an imaginary and sanguinary ending."
"Oh, you saw that, did you?"
"Yes. How much do you want for it?"
"£50."
"What?"
"£50, I tell you. Are you deaf? And I want the money now."
"Bless your innocent heart, I can buy a longer story than that from the
greatest author living for less than £50. Gibberts, you're crazy."
Gibberts looked up suddenly and inquiringly, as if that thought had
never occurred to him before. He seemed rather taken with the idea. It
would explain many things which had puzzled both himself and his
friends. He meditated upon the matter for a few moments, but at last
shook his head.
"No, Shorely," he said, with a sigh. "I'm not insane, though, goodness
knows, I've had enough to drive me mad. I don't seem to have the luck
of some people. I haven't the talent for going crazy. But to return to
the story. You think £50 too much for it. It will make the fortune of
the paper that publishes it. Let me see. I had it a moment ago, but the
point has escaped my memory. What was it you objected to as unnatural?"
"The tragedy. There is too much wholesale murder at the end."
"Ah! now I have it! Now I recollect!"
Gibberts began energetically to pace the room again, smiting his hands
together. His face was in a glow of excitement.
"Yes, I have it now. The tragedy. Granting a murder like that, one man
a dead shot, killing all the people in a country house; imagine it
actually taking place. Wouldn't all England ring with it?"
"Naturally."
"Of course it would. Now, you listen to me. I'm going to commit that
so-called crime. One week after you publish the story, I'm going down
to that country house, Channor Chase. It is my house, if there was
justice and right in England, and I'm going to slaughter every one in
it. I will leave a letter, saying the story in the _Sponge_ is the
true story of what led to the tragedy. Your paper in a week will be the
most-talked-of journal in England--in the world. It will leap
instantaneously into a circulation such as no weekly on earth ever
before attained. Look here, Shorely, that story is worth £50,000 rather
than £50, and if you don't buy it at once, some one else will. Now,
what do you say?"
"I say you are joking, or else, as I said just now, you are as mad as a
hatter."
"Admitting I am mad, will you take the story?"
"No, but I'll prevent you committing the crime."
"How?"
"By giving you in charge. By informing on you."
"You can't do it. Until such a crime is committed, no one would believe
it could be committed. You have no witnesses to our conversation here,
and I will deny every assertion you make. My word, at present, is as
good as yours. All you can do is to ruin your chance of fortune, which
knocks at every man's door. When I came in, you were wondering what you
could do to put the _Sponge_ on its feet. I saw it in your
attitude. Now, what do you say?"
"I'll give you £25 for the story on its own merits, although it is a
big price, and you need not commit the crime."
"Done! That is the sum I wanted, but I knew if I asked it, you would
offer me £12 10_s_. Will you publish it within the month?"
"Yes."
"Very well. Write out the cheque. Don't cross it. I've no bank
account."
When the cheque was handed to him, Gibberts thrust it into the ticket-
pocket of his ulster, turned abruptly, and unlocked the door. "Good-
bye," he said.
As he disappeared, Shorely noticed how long his ulster was, and how it
flapped about his heels. The next time he saw the novelist was under
circumstances that could never be effaced from his memory.
The _Sponge_ was a sixteen-page paper, with a blue cover, and the
week Gibberts' story appeared, it occupied the first seven pages. As
Shorely ran it over in the paper, it impressed him more than it had
done in manuscript. A story always seems more convincing in type.
Shorely met several men at the Club, who spoke highly of the story, and
at last he began to believe it was a good one himself. Johnson was
particularly enthusiastic, and every one in the Club knew Johnson's
opinion was infallible.
"How did _you_ come to get hold of it?" he said to Shorely, with
unnecessary emphasis on the personal pronoun.
"Don't you think I know a good story when I see it?" asked the editor,
indignantly.
"It isn't the general belief of the Club," replied Johnson, airily;
"but then, all the members have sent you contributions, so perhaps that
accounts for it. By the way, have you seen Gibberts lately?"
"No; why do you ask?"
"Well, it strikes me he is acting rather queerly. If you asked me, I
don't think he is quite sane. He has something on his mind."
"He told me," said the new member, with some hesitation--"but really I
don't think I'm justified in mentioning it, although he did not tell it
in confidence--that he was the rightful heir to a property in----"
"Oh, we all know that story!" cried the Club, unanimously.
"I think it's the Club whiskey," said one of the oldest members. "I
say, it's the worst in London."
"Verbal complaints not received. Write to the Committee," put in
Johnson. "If Gibberts has a friend in the Club, which I doubt, that
friend should look after him. I believe he will commit suicide yet."
These sayings troubled Shorely as he walked back to his office. He sat
down to write a note, asking Gibberts to call. As he was writing,
McCabe, the business manager of the _Sponge_, came in.
"What's the matter with the old sheet this week?" he asked.
"Matter? I don't understand you."
"Well, I have just sent an order to the printer to run off an extra ten
thousand, and here comes a demand from Smith's for the whole lot. The
extra ten thousand were to go to different newsagents all over the
country who have sent repeat orders, so I have told the printer now to
run off at least twenty-five thousand, and to keep the plates on the
press. I never read the _Sponge_ myself, so I thought I would drop
in and ask you what the attraction was. This rush is unnatural.
"Better read the paper and find out," said Shorely.
"I would, if there wasn't so much of your stuff in it," retorted
McCabe.
Next day McCabe reported an almost bewildering increase in orders. He
had a jubilant "we've-done-it-at-last" air that exasperated Shorely,
who felt that he alone should have the credit. There had come no answer
to the note he had sent Gibberts, so he went to the Club, in the hope
of meeting him. He found Johnson, whom he asked if Gibberts were there.
"He's not been here to-day," said Johnson; "but I saw him yesterday,
and what do you think he was doing? He was in a gun-shop in the Strand,
buying cartridges for that villainous-looking seven-shooter of his. I
asked him what he was going to do with a revolver in London, and he
told me, shortly, that it was none of my business, which struck me as
so accurate a summing-up of the situation, that I came away without
making further remark. If you want any more stories by Gibberts, you
should look after him."
Shorely found himself rapidly verging into a state of nervousness
regarding Gibberts. He was actually beginning to believe the novelist
meditated some wild action, which might involve others in a
disagreeable complication. Shorely had no desire to be accessory either
before or after the fact. He hurried back to the office, and there
found Gibberts' belated reply to his note. He hastily tore it open, and
the reading of it completely banished what little self-control he had
left.
"Dear Shorely,--I know why you want to see me, but I have so many
affairs to settle, that it is impossible for me to call upon you.
However, have no fears; I shall stand to my bargain, without any
goading from you. Only a few days have elapsed since the publication of
the story, and I did not promise the tragedy before the week was out. I
leave for Channor Chase this afternoon. You shall have your pound of
flesh, and more.--Yours,
"BROMLEY GIBBERTS."
Shorely was somewhat pale about the lips when he had finished this
scrawl. He flung on his coat, and rushed into the street. Calling a
hansom, he said--
"Drive to Kidner's Inn as quickly as you can. No. 15."
Once there, he sprang up the steps two at a time, and knocked at
Gibberts' door. The novelist allowed himself the luxury of a "man," and
it was the "man" who answered Shorely's imperious knock.
"Where's Gibberts?"
"He's just gone, sir."
"Gone where?"
"To Euston Station, I believe, sir; and he took a hansom. He's going
into the country for a week, sir, and I wasn't to forward his letters,
so I haven't his address."
"Have you an 'ABC'?"
"Yes, sir; step inside, sir. Mr. Gibberts was just looking up trains in
it, sir, before he left."
Shorely saw it was open at C, and, looking down the column to Channor,
he found that a train left in about twenty minutes. Without a word, he
dashed down the stairs again. The "man" did not seem astonished. Queer
fish sometimes came to see his master.
"Can you get me to Euston Station in twenty minutes?"