ENTER MR. ED SMITH
It is only with difficulty thus far in my narrative that I have kept
Norton Carr out of it. When you come to know him you will understand
why. He is inseparably bound up with every memory I have of the
printing-office. The other day, when I was describing my first visit to
the establishment of Doane & Doane, I kept seeing the figure of Nort
bending over the gasoline engine. I kept hearing him whistle in the
infectious low monotone he had, and when I spoke of the printing press I
all but called it "Old Harry" (Nort christened the ancient Hoe press,
Old Harry, which every one adopted as being an appropriate name). I even
half expected to have him break out in my pages with one of his absurd
remarks, when I knew well enough that he had no business to be in the
story at all. He hadn't come yet, and Anthy and Fergus and the old
Captain were positively the only ones there.
But Nort, however impatient he may be getting, will have to wait even a
little while yet, for notable events were to occur in the
printing-office just before he arrived, without which, indeed, he never
could have arrived at all. If it had not been for the ploughing and
harrowing of Ed Smith, painful as it was to that ancient and sedate
institution, the Hempfield _Star_, there never would have been any
harvest for Norton Carr, nor for me, nor for Anthy. So good may come
even out of evil.
As I narrate these preliminary events, however, you will do well to keep
in your thought a picture of Nort going about his pleasures--I fear, at
that time, somewhat unsteadily--in the great city, not knowing in the
least that chance, assisted by a troublesome organ within called a soul,
was soon to deposit him in the open streets of a town he had never
heard of in all his life, but which was our own familiar town of
Hempfield.
The thought of Nort looking rather mistily down the common--he was
standing just in front of the Congregational Church--and asking, "What
town am I in, anyhow?" lingers in my memory as one of the amusing things
I have known.
Late in June I began to feel distinctly the premonitory rumblings and
grumblings of the storm which was now rapidly gathering around the
_Star_. It was a very clever Frenchman, I believe--though not clever
enough to make me remember his name--who, upon observing certain
disturbances in the farther reaches of the solar system, calculated by
sheer mathematical genius that there was an enormous planet, infinitely
distant from the sun, which nobody had yet discovered.
It was thus by certain signs of commotion in one of its issues that I
recognized a portentous but undiscovered Neptune, which was plainly
disturbing the course of the _Star_. A big new advertisement stared at
me from the middle of the first page, and there was a certain crisp
quality in some of the reading notices--from which the letters "adv"
had been suspiciously omitted--the origin of which I could not
recognize. The second week the change was even more marked. There were
several smart new headings: "Jots and Tittles from Littleton," I
remember, was one of them, and even the sanctity of the editorial column
had been invaded with an extraordinary production quite foreign to the
Captain's pen. It was entitled:
"_All Together Now! Boost Hempfield!_"
I can scarcely describe how I was affected by these changes; but I
should have realized that any man bold enough to hitch his wagon to a
star must prepare himself for a swift course through the skies, and not
take it amiss if he collides occasionally with the heavenly bodies.
I think it was secretly amusing to Harriet during the weeks that
followed my first great visit to the printing-office to watch the
eagerness with which I awaited the postman on the publication days of
the _Star_. I even went out sometimes to meet him, and took the paper
from his hand. I have been a devoted reader of books these many years,
but I think I have never read anything with sharper interest than I now
began to read the _Star_. I picked out the various items, editorials,
reading notices, and the like, and said to myself: "That's the old
Captain's pungent pen," or "Anthy must have written that," or "I warrant
the Scotchman, Fergus, had a finger in _that_ pie." As I read the
editorials I could fairly see the old Captain at his littered desk, the
cat rubbing against his leg, the canary singing in the cage above him,
and his head bent low as he wrote. And I was disturbed beyond measure by
the signs of an unknown hand at work upon the _Star_.
"I thought, David, you did not care for country newspapers," said my
sister.
She wore that comfortably superior smile which becomes her so well. The
fact is, she _is_ superior.
"Well," said I, "you may talk all you like about Browning and
Carlyle----"
"I have not," said my sister, "referred to Browning or Carlyle."
"You may talk all you like"--I disdained her pointed interruption--"but
for downright human nature here in the country, give me the Hempfield
_Star_."
Once during these weeks I paid a short obligatory visit to the
printing-office, and gave Anthy the name of my uncle in California and
got the envelopes that had been printed for me. I also took in a number
of paragraphs relating to affairs in our neighbourhood, and told Anthy
(only I did not call her Anthy then) that if agreeable I would
contribute occasionally to the _Star_. She seemed exceedingly grateful,
and I liked her better than ever.
I also had a characteristic exchange with Fergus, in which, as usual, I
came off worsted. In those troublous days Fergus was the toiling Atlas
upon whose wiry shoulders rested the full weight of that heavenly body.
He set most of the type, distributed it again, made up the forms, inked
the rollers, printed the paper (for the most part), did all the job work
which Hempfield afforded, and smoked the worst pipe in America.
When I told him that I was going to write regularly for the _Star_ and
showed him the paragraphs I had brought in (I suspect they _were_ rather
long) this was his remark:
"Oh, Lord, more writers!"
It was on this occasion, too, that I really made the acquaintance of the
Captain. He was in the best of spirits. He told me how he had beaten
the rebels at Antietam. I enjoyed it all very much, and decided that for
the time being I would suspend judgment on the pipe incident.
One day I reached the point where I could stand it no longer. So I
hitched up the mare and drove to town. All the way along the road I
tried to imagine what had taken place in the printing-office.
I thought with a sinking heart that the paper might have been sold, and
that my new friends would go away. I thought that Anthy might be
carrying out some new and vigorous plan of reconstruction, only somehow
I could not feel Anthy's hand in the changes I had seen.
It was all very vivid to me; I had, indeed, a feeling, that afterward
became familiar enough, that the _Star_ was a living being, struggling,
hoping, suffering, like one of us. In truth, it was just that.
No sooner had I turned in at the gate than I perceived that some
mysterious and revolutionary force had really been at work. The gate
itself had acquired two hinges where one had been quite sufficient
before, and inside the office--what a change was there! It was not so
much in actual rearrangement, though the editorial desk looked barren
and windswept; it was rather in the general atmosphere of the place.
Even Tom, the cat, showed it: when I came in at the door he went out
through the window. He was scared! No more would he curl himself
contentedly to sleep in editorial chairs; no more make his bed in the
office wastebasket. Though it was still early in the morning, Fergus was
not reading "Tom Sawyer." No, Fergus was hard at work, and didn't even
look around when I came in.
Anthy was there, too, in her long crisp gingham apron, which I always
thought so well became her. She had just put down her composing stick,
and was standing quite silent, with a curious air of absorption (which I
did not then understand), before the dingy portrait of Lincoln on the
wall just over the cases. On her desk, not far away, a book lay open. I
saw it later: it was Rand's "Modern Classical Philosophers." It
represented Anthy's last struggling effort to keep on with her college
work. In spite of all the difficulties and distractions of the
printing-office, she had never quite given up the hope that some day she
might be able to go back and graduate. It had been her fondest desire,
the deepest purpose of her heart.
As she glanced quickly around at me I surprised on her face a curious
look. How shall I describe it?--a look of exaltation, and of anxiety,
too, I thought. But it passed like a flash, and she gave me a smile of
friendly recognition, and stepped toward me with the frank and outright
way she had. It gave me a curious deep thrill, not, I think, because she
was a woman, a girl, and so very good to look upon, but because I
suddenly saw her, the very spirit of her, as a fine, brave human being,
fighting one of the hard and bitter fights of our common life. I do not
pretend to know very much about women in general, and I think perhaps
there is some truth in one of Nort's remarks, made long afterward:
"David's idea of generalizing about women," said that young upstart, "is
to talk about Anthy without mentioning her name."
Is yours any different, Nort?--or _yours_?
Yes, I think it is true; and this I know because I know Anthy, that,
however beautiful and charming a woman may be, as a woman, that which
finally rings all the bells in the chambers of the souls of men are
those qualities which are above and beyond womanly charm, which are
universal and human: as that she is brave, or simple, or noble in
spirit.
That Anthy was deeply troubled on that summer morning I saw plainly when
the Captain came, in the keen glance she gave him. He, too, seemed
somehow changed, so unlike himself as to be almost gloomy. He gave me a
sepulchral, "Good morning, sir," and sat down at his desk without even
lighting his pipe.
Something tremendous, I could feel, was taking place there in the
printing-office, and I said to Anthy--we had been talking about the
paragraphs I brought in:
"What's been happening to the _Star_ since I was here before?"
"You've discovered it, too!" she said with a whimsical smile. "Well,
we're just now in process of being modernized." At this I heard Fergus
snort behind me.
"Bein' busted, you mean," said he.
Fergus, besides being temperamentally unable to contain his opinions,
had been so long the prop of the mechanical fortunes of the _Star_ that
he was a privileged character.
"I knew something was the matter," I said. "As I was coming in I felt
like saying, 'Fee, fie, fo, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishmun.'"
"Plain Yankee this time," said Fergus.
"Now, Fergus!" exclaimed Anthy severely. "You see," she continued, "we
positively had to do something. The paper has been going downhill ever
since my father's death. Father knew how to make it pay, even with half
the families in town taking the cheap city dailies. But times are
changing, and we've got to modernize or perish."
While she spoke with conviction, her words lacked enthusiasm, and they
had, moreover, a certain cut-and-dried sound. "Times are changing.
Modernize or perish!"
Anthy did not know it, of course, but she was living at the
psychological moment in our history when the whole country was turning
for salvation to that finished product, that perfect flower, of our
institutions, the Practical Business Man. Was a city sick, or a church
declining in its membership, or a college suffering from slow
starvation, or a newspaper down with neurasthenia, why, call in a
Practical Business Man. Let him administer up-to-date remedies; let him
hustle, push, advertise.
It was thus, as an example of what the historian loves to call "remote
causes," that Mr. Ed Smith came to Hempfield and the _Star_. He was a
graduate of small-town journalism in its most progressive guises, and if
any one was ever entitled to the degree of P. B. M. _cum laude_, it was
Ed Smith.
He had come at Anthy's call--after having made certain eminently sound
and satisfying financial arrangements. When it came finally to the
issue, Anthy had seen that the only alternative to the extinction of the
_Star_ was some desperate and drastic remedy. And Ed Smith was that
desperate and drastic remedy.
"I felt," she said to me, "that I must do everything I could to keep the
_Star_ alive. My father devoted all his life to it, and then, there was
Uncle Newt--how could Uncle Newt live without a newspaper?"
I did not know until long afterward what the sacrifice had meant to
Anthy. It meant not only a surrender of all her immediate hopes of
completing her college work, but she was compelled to risk everything
she had. First, she had borrowed all the money she could raise on the
old home, and with this she paid off the accumulated debts of the
_Star_. With the remainder, which Ed Smith spoke of as Working Capital,
she plunged into the unknown and venturesome seas of modernized
journalism.
She had not gone to these lengths, however, without the advice of old
Judge Fendall of Hempfield, one of her father's close friends, and a man
I have long admired at a distance, a fine, sound old gentleman, with a
vast respect for business and business men. Besides this, Anthy had
known Ed for several years; he had called on her father, had, indeed,
called on _her_.
It was bitter business for the old Captain to find himself, after so
many glorious years, fallen upon such evil days. I have always been
amused by the thought of the first meeting between Ed Smith and the
Captain, as reported afterward by Fergus (with grim joy).
"Do you know," Ed asked the Captain, "the motto that I'd print on that
door?"
The Captain didn't.
"_Push_," said he dramatically; "that's my motto."
I can see the old Captain drawing himself up to his full stature (he was
about once and a half Ed's size).
"Well, sir," said he, "we need no such sign on _our_ door. Our door has
stood wide open to our friends, sir, for thirty years."
When the old Captain began to be excessively polite, and to address a
man as "sir," he who was wise sought shelter. It was the old Antietam
spirit boiling within him. But Ed Smith blithely pursued his way, full
of confidence in himself and in the god he worshipped, and it was one of
Anthy's real triumphs, in those days of excursions and alarms, that she
was able both to pacify the Captain and keep Fergus down.
Ed came in that morning while I was in the printing-office, a cheerful,
quick-stepping, bold-eyed young fellow with a small neat moustache, his
hat slightly tilted back, and a toothbrush in his vest pocket.
"You are the man," he said to me briskly, "that writes the stuff about
the Corwin neighbourhood."
I acknowledged that I was.
"Good stuff," said he, "good stuff! Give us more of it. And can't you
drum up a few new subs out there for us? Those farmers around you ought
to be able to come up with the ready cash."
To save my life I couldn't help being interested in him. It is one of
the absurd contrarieties of human nature that no sooner do we decide
that a man is not to be tolerated, that he is a villain, than we begin
to grow tremendously interested in him. We want to see how he works. And
the more deeply we get interested, the more we begin to see how human he
is, in what a lot of ways he is exactly like us, or like some of the
friends we love best--and usually we wind up by liking him, too.
It was so with Ed Smith. He let into my life a breath of fresh air, and
of new and curious points of view. I think he felt my interest, too, and
as I now look back upon it, I count his friendship as one of the things
that helped to bind me more closely and intimately to the _Star_. While
he was not at all sensitive, still he had already begun to feel that the
glorious progress he had planned for the _Star_ (and for himself) might
not be as easy to secure as he had anticipated. He wanted friends in the
office, friends of those he desired to be friendly with, especially
Anthy. Besides, I was helping fill his columns without expense!
I had a good lively talk with him that morning. Before I had known him
fifteen minutes he had expressed his opinion that the old Captain was a
"back number" and a "dodo," and that Fergus was a good fellow, but a
"grouch." He confided in me that it was his principle, "when in Rome to
do what the Romans do," but I wasn't certain whether this consisted, in
his case, of being a dodo or a grouch. He was full of wise saws and
modern instances, a regular Ben Franklin for wisdom in the art of
getting ahead.
"When the cash is going around," said he, "I don't see why I shouldn't
have a piece of it. Do you?"
He told me circumstantially all the reasons why he had come to
Hempfield.
"I could have made a lot more money at Atterbury or Harlan Centre; they
were both after me; but, confidentially, I couldn't resist the lady."
Well, Ed _was_ wonderfully full of business. "Rustling" was a favourite
word of his, and he exemplified it. He rustled. He got in several new
advertisements, he published paid reading notices in the local column, a
thing never before done on the _Star_. He persuaded the railroad company
to print its time tables (at "our regular rates"), with the insinuation
that if they didn't he'd ... and he formed a daring plan for organizing
a Board of Trade in Hempfield to boost the town and thus secure both
news and advertising for the _Star_. Oh, he made things lively!
Some men, looking out upon life, get its poetic implications, others see
its moral significance, and here and there a man will see beauty in
everything; but to Ed all views of life dissolved, like a moving
picture, into dollars.
[Illustration: _Ed's innocent suggestion of a house-cleaning was taken
by Fergus as a deadly affront_]
At first Fergus, that thrifty Scotch soul, was inclined to look with
favour upon these new activities, for they promised well for the future
prosperity of the _Star_; but this friendly tolerance was blasted as the
result of a curious incident. Fergus had lived for several years in the
back part of the printing-office. It was a small but comfortable room
which had once been the kitchen of the house. In the course of his
ravening excursions, seeking what he might devour, Ed Smith presently
fell upon Fergus's room. Ed never could understand the enduring solidity
of ancient institutions. Now Fergus's room, I am prone to admit, was not
all that might have been desired, Fergus being a bachelor; but he was
proud of it, and swept it out once a month, as he said, whether it
needed it or not. Ed's innocent suggestion, therefore, of a
house-cleaning was taken by Fergus as a deadly affront. He did not
complain to Anthy, though he told _me_, and from that moment he began a
silent, obstinate opposition to everything that Ed was, or thought, or
did.
If it had not been for Anthy, Ed would indeed have had a hard time of
it. But Anthy managed it, and in those days, hard as they were, she was
finding herself, becoming a woman.
"Fergus," she said, "we're going to stand behind Ed Smith. We've _got_
to work it out. It's our last chance, Fergus."
So Fergus stuck grimly to the cases, actually doing more work than he
had done before in years; Tom, the cat, sat warily on the window sill,
ready at a moment's notice to dive to safety; the old Captain was
gloomy, and wrote fierce editorials on the Democratic party and on all
"new-fangled notions" (especially flying machines and woman suffrage).
His ironies about the "initiative, referendum, and recall" were
particularly vitriolic during this period of his career. Anthy was the
only cheerful person in the office.
It was some time in August, in the midst of these stirring events, when
the _Star_ was deporting itself in such an unprecedented manner, that
the Captain one day brought in what was destined to be one of the most
famous news items, if not _the_ most famous, ever published in the
_Star_.
I was there at the time, and I can testify that he came in quite
unconcernedly, though there was an evident look of disapproval upon his
countenance. It was thus with the Captain, that nothing was news unless
it stirred him to an opinion. An earthquake might have shaken down the
Hempfield townhall or tipped over the Congregational Church, but the
Captain might not have thought of putting the news in the paper unless
it had occurred to him that the selectmen should have been on hand to
prevent the earthquake, upon which he would have had a glorious article,
not on the earthquake, but on the failure of a free American
commonwealth, in this enlightened twentieth century, to secure
efficiency in the conduct of the simplest of its public affairs.
But truly historic events get themselves reported even through the
densest mediums. I saw the Captain with my own eyes as he wrote:
What has become of the officer of the law in Hempfield? A
strange young man was seen coming down Main Street
yesterday afternoon in a condition which made him a sad
example for the lads of Hempfield, many of whom were
following him. Is this an orderly and law-abiding town or is
it not?
I may say in passing that the Captain's inquiry: "What has become of the
officer of the law in Hempfield?" was purely rhetorical. The Captain
knew perfectly well where Steve Lewis was at that critical moment, for
he had looked over the fence of Steve's yard as he passed, and saw that
officer of the law, in a large blue apron, helping his wife hang out the
week's washing. But how could one put that in the _Star_?
Such was the exact wording of that historic item. By some chance it did
not meet the eagle eye of Ed Smith until the completely printed paper,
still moist from the press, was placed in his hands. Then his eye fell
upon it.
"Who wrote this item about a strange young man?" he asked.
"I think the Captain got it," said Anthy.
"Well!" exclaimed Ed, "that must be the very chap I have just hired to
help Fergus."
He paused a moment, reflectively.
"I got him dirt cheap, too," said he.
And this was the way in which Norton Carr was plunged into the whirl of
life at Hempfield.
[Illustration]