I STEP BOLDLY INTO THE STORY
It is one of the provoking, but interesting, things about life that it
will never stop a moment for admiration. No sooner do you pause to enjoy
it, or philosophize over it, or poetize about it, than it is up and
away, and the next time you glance around it is vanishing over the
hill--with the wind in its garments and the sun in its hair. If you do
not go on with life, it will go on without you. The only safe way, then,
to follow a story, I mean a story in real life, is to get right into it
yourself. How breathless, then, it becomes, how you long for--and yet
fear--the next chapter, how you love the heroine and hate the villain,
and never for an instant can you tell how it is all coming out!
I should be tempted to say that I arrived at the printing-office at a
psychological moment if it were not for the fact, as I soon learned,
that most of the moments for several months past had been equally
psychological. Indeed, before I had fairly got acquainted with the
printing-office, and with Fergus and Anthy, and was expecting
momentarily to hear the Captain coming in, crying "Fudge," the story
moved on, as majestically as if I hadn't appeared at all.
In a story or a play you can set your stage for your crises, and lead up
to the entrance of your villain with appropriate literary flourishes.
You can artfully let us know beforehand that it is really a villain who
is about to intrude upon your paradise, and dim the voice of the canary
and frighten the cat. But in real life, events and crises have a
disconcerting way of backing into your narrative before ever you are
ready for them, and at the most awkward and inconvenient times.
It was thus that Bucky Penrose came into the printing-office that spring
morning. He was struggling with a small but weighty box filled with
literature in metal. When he had got it well inside, he deposited it,
not at all gently, on a stool, took off his cap, and wiped his forehead.
"Whew, it's hot this morning!" said Bucky.
Now, I dislike to speak of Bucky as a villain, for of all the people in
Hempfield Bucky certainly least looks the part. He has towy hair and
mild, light-blue eyes. He wears a visor cap and carries a long, flat
book which he flaps open for you to sign. He is the expressman.
I could see, however, from the look in Anthy's face that Bucky was
really a hardened villain. And Bucky himself seemed to know it and feel
it, for it was in an apologetic voice that he said:
"The plates is a dollar this week, Miss Doane, and the insides is seven
and a half, C. O. D."
Anthy's hand went to the little leather bag she carried.
"I--I didn't bring up the insides in this load. Mr. Peters said--the
Captain----"
Anthy had taken a step forward, and there was a look of sudden
determination in her face.
"Never mind, Bucky, about the Captain----"
"Well, I thought----"
He was thinking just what the whole of Hempfield was thinking, and dared
not say. The colour came up in Anthy's cheeks, but she only lifted her
chin the higher.
"Tell Mr. Peters to send up the insides at once, Bucky, _at once_. The
money will be ready for him."
"All right, Miss Doane, all right--but I thought----"
"Don't think," growled MacGregor, who had been standing aside and saying
nothing; "it ain't your calling."
Bucky turned fiercely to reply, but Anthy suddenly laid a hand on his
arm.
"In the future, Bucky, don't go to the Captain at all. Come straight to
me."
"'Tain't my fault," grumbled Bucky; "I got to collect."
"Certainly you have," said Anthy; "I'll pay you for the box, and you can
bring the insides later. Tell Mr. Peters."
It was magnificent the way she carried it off; and when at last the
villain had departed, she turned to us with a face slightly flushed, but
in perfect control. I had a sudden curious lift of the heart: for there
is nothing that so stirs the soul of a man as the sight of courage in a
woman. If I had been interested before, I was doubly interested now. It
had been one of those lightning-flash incidents which let us more deeply
into the real life of men than pages of history. I felt that this
printing-office was sacred ground, the scene of battle and trial and
commotion.
At the same time the whole situation struck me with a sudden sense of
amusement and surprise. Back somewhere in my consciousness I had always
felt something of awe for the Power of the Press. A kind of
institutional sanctity seemed to hedge it round about, so that it spoke
with the thunder of authority--and here was the Press quite unable to
pay the expressman seven dollars and a half! I think I must have
entertained much the same view that Captain Doane so delights to express
upon any favourable (or unfavourable) public occasion.
How often have I heard him since that memorable time! He does it very
impressively, with his right thumb hooked into the buttons of his vest,
his beautiful shaggy head thrown well back, and his somewhat shabby
frock coat drawn up on the left side--for it is his left hand that he
holds so tremulously and impressively aloft--that mighty director of
public opinion, that repository of freedom, that palladium of democracy,
that ruler of the nation. Whenever I hear the Captain, I can never think
of the press without trembling a little at its incredible prescience,
without being awed by the way in which it soaks up the life of the
community and, having held it for a moment in solution, distributes
it--I quote the Captain--"like dew" (sometimes manna) "upon the
populace, iridescent with the glories of the printed word." Nor do I
ever hear him these days, especially in his moments of biting irony,
when he considers those "contemners of the Press" (mostly Democrats) who
never tire of "nefarious practices," without thinking of that first
morning I spent in the printing-office--and the look in Anthy's eyes.
Events after the departure of the mild-eyed Bucky moved swiftly. Anthy
walked down the room, and Fergus, after hesitating for a moment,
followed her. I suppose I should have departed promptly, but I
couldn't--I simply couldn't. After the solitude of my farm and my
thoughts, I cannot tell how fascinating I found these stirring events.
The little drama which followed was all perfectly clear to me, though I
heard not a word, except the last exclamation. As Fergus followed Anthy,
he drew a lean tobacco bag slowly out of his hip pocket--and thrust it
quickly back again, hesitated, then spoke to Anthy. She shook her head
vigorously, and stood up very straight and still. Fergus's hand went
back to his pocket again, hesitated, plunged in. He took a bill from the
lean bag and fumbled it in his hand. Every line in Anthy's firm body
said no. She looked out of the window expectantly. Fergus's looks
followed hers. It was evident that they both expected and desired
something very much.
"There he is now!" exclaimed Anthy, and that was the exclamation I
heard.
He didn't come in crying "Fudge!" as I half expected, but it was none
the less a dramatic moment for me. I heard the preliminary thump, thump,
of his cane on the porch. I heard him clear his throat stentoriously, as
was his custom, and then the Captain, stepping in, looked about him with
a benignant eye.
"Anthy, Anthy," he called. "Where are you, Anthy?"
"Here, Uncle! Glad to see you. The insides are at the station, and we
need----"
"Anthy," interrupted the Captain, impressively waving his hand, "I have
determined upon one thing."
He took off his broad-brimmed hat, and, having with some determination
forced the cat from the editorial chair, sat down. There was evidently
something unusual on his mind. He sat up straight, resting one hand,
which was seen to hold a paper-covered parcel, upon the edge of the
desk. If he saw me at all, he gave no sign. I have never thought he saw
me.
"Anthy----"
He paused a moment, very dignified. Anthy said nothing.
"I have determined," he continued, "that we must economize."
A swift flash swept over Anthy's expressive face, whether of sympathy or
amusement I could not tell. I never knew a time in Anthy's life, even
when the heavy world rested most heavily upon her (except once), when
she wasn't as near to laughter as she was to tears. She had the
God-given grace of seeing that every serious thing in life has a
humorous side.
"You're right, Uncle--especially this very morning----"
"Yes, Anthy," he again interrupted, as though he couldn't afford to be
diverted by immediate considerations. "Yes, we must economize sharply.
Times are not what they were when your father was alive. 'Wealth
accumulates and men decay.' The country press is being strangled, forced
to the wall by the brute wealth of the city. The march of events----"
"Yes, Uncle."
He stopped in the midst of his flight and repeated:
"We must economize--_and I've begun_!"
He said it with great dramatic force, but the effect on Anthy was not
what an unprejudiced observer might have expected. I thought she looked
a bit alarmed.
The Captain cleared his throat, and said with impressive deliberation:
"I've given up smoking cigars!"
Anthy's laugh was clear and strong.
"You have!" she exclaimed.
"And from now on," said the Captain, still very serious, "I shall smoke
a pipe."
With that he took notice for the first time of the package in his hand.
It contained a case, which he opened slowly.
"Isn't it a beauty?" he said, holding up a new briar pipe.
"Yes," she replied faintly; "but, Uncle, how did you get it?"
He cleared his throat.
"One must make a beginning," he said; "economy is positively necessary.
I bought it."
"Uncle, you _didn't_ spend Frank Toby's subscription for a pipe!"
The Captain looked a little offended.
"Anthy, it was a bargain. It was marked down from two dollars."
Anthy turned partly aside, quite unconscious of either Fergus or me, and
such a look of discouragement and distress swept over her face as I
cannot describe. But it was only for an instant. The Captain was still
holding up the pipe for her admiration. She laid her hand again quickly
on his shoulder.
"It _is_ a beauty," she said.
"I knew you'd like it," exclaimed the Captain benevolently. "When I saw
it in the window I said, 'Anthy'd like that pipe.' I knew it. So I
bought it."
"But, Uncle--how we _did_ need the money this morning of all mornings!
The insides are here, we must have them----"
"So I say," said the Captain with great firmness, "we must economize
sharply. And I've begun. Let's all get down now to work. Fergus, I've
answered the fellow on the Sterling _Democrat_. I've left nothing of him
at all--not a pinfeather."
With that he took a new pouch of tobacco from his pocket, and began to
fill his new pipe. The cat rubbed familiarly against his leg.
Silence in the office, interrupted a moment later by the second
appearance of that villain, Bucky Penrose, who thrust his head in the
door and called out:
"Lend a hand, Fergus. I got the insides."
Fergus looked at Anthy. She had grown pale.
"Go on, Fergus."
It is this way with me, that often I think of the great thing to do
after I get home and into bed. But it came to me suddenly--an
inspiration that made me a little dizzy for a moment--and I stepped into
the story.
"I forgot a part of my errand," I said, "when we were--interrupted. I
want to subscribe to your paper, right away."
Anthy looked at me keenly for a moment, her colour slowly rising.
"Whom shall we send it to?" she asked in the dryest, most businesslike
voice, as though subscriptions were flowing in all the time.
For the life of me I couldn't think of anybody. I never was more at sea
in my life. I don't know yet how it occurred to me, but I said,
suddenly, with great relief:
"Why, send it to Doctor McAlway."
"He is already a subscriber, one of our oldest," she responded crisply.
We stood there, looking at each other desperately.
"Well," said I, "send it--send it to my uncle--in California."
At that Anthy laughed; we both laughed. But she was evidently very
determined.
"I appreciate--I know," she began, "but I can't----"
"See here," I said severely. "You're in the newspaper business, aren't
you?"
"Yes."
"Then I propose to subscribe for your paper. I demand my rights. And
besides"--it came to me with sudden inspiration--"I must have,
immediately, a thousand envelopes with my name printed in the corner."
With that I drew my pocketbook quickly from my pocket and handed her a
bill. She took it doubtfully--but at that moment there was a tremendous
bump on the porch, and the voice of Fergus shouting directions. When the
two men came in with their burden I was studying a fire insurance
advertisement on the wall, and Anthy was stepping confidently toward the
door.
I wish I could picture the look on Fergus's face when Bucky presented
his book and Anthy gave him a bill requiring change. Fergus stood
rubbing one finger behind his ear--a sign that there were things in the
universe that puzzled him.
While these thrilling events and hairbreadth escapes had been taking
place, while the doomed _Star_ was being saved to twinkle for another
week, the all-unconscious Captain had been sitting at his desk rumbling
and grumbling as he opened the exchanges. This was an occupation he
affected greatly to despise, but which he would not have given over for
the world. By the time he had read about a dozen of his esteemed
contemporaries he was usually in a condition in which he could, as he
himself put it, "wield a pungent pen." He had arrived at that nefarious
sheet, the Sterling _Democrat_, and was leaning back in his chair
reading the utterly preposterous lucubrations of Brother Kendrick, which
he always saved to the last to give a final fillip to his spirits.
Suddenly he dashed the paper aside, sat up straight, and cried out with
tremendous vigour:
"Fudge!"
It was glorious; it came quite up to my highest expectations. But
somehow, at that moment, it was enough for me to see and hear the
Captain, without getting any better acquainted. I wasn't sure, indeed,
that I cared to know him at all. I didn't like his new pipe--which shows
how little I then understood the Captain!
As I was going out, for even the most interesting incidents must have an
end, I stepped over and said to Anthy in a low voice:
"I'll see that you get the address of--my uncle in California."
[Illustration]