PHAETON DRIVES THE CHARIOT OF THE "STAR"
I find myself loitering unaccountably over every memory of those days in
the office of the _Star_. Not a week passed that I did not make two or
three or more trips from my farm to Hempfield, sometimes tramping by the
short cut across the fields and through the lanes, sometimes driving my
old mare in the town road, and always with the problems of Anthy and
Nort uppermost in my mind. Sometimes when I could get away, and
sometimes when I couldn't (Harriet smiling discreetly), I went up in the
daytime to lend a hand in the office (especially on press days), and
often in the evening I went for a talk with Nort or Anthy or the old
Captain, or else for a good comfortable silence with Fergus while he sat
tipped back in his chair on the little porch of the office, and smoked a
pipe or so--and the daylight slowly went out, the moist evening odours
rose up from the garden, and the noises in the street quieted down.
As I have said, the incident of the fan marked the end of the era of
Nort the subdued. From that time onward, for a time, it was Nort the
ascendant--yes, Nort the obstreperous! As I look back upon it now I have
an amusing vision of one after another of us hanging desperately to the
coat tails of our Phaeton to prevent him from driving the chariot of the
_Star_ quite to destruction.
It was this way with Nort. He had begun to recover from the remorse and
discouragement which had brought him to Hempfield. If he had been in the
city he would probably have felt so thoroughly restored and so virtuous
that he would have sought out his old companions and plunged with
renewed zest into the old life of excitement. But being in the quiet of
the country he had to find some outlet for his high spirits, some food
for his curious, lively, inventive mind. What a fascinator he was in
those days, anyway! I think he put his spell upon all of us, even to a
certain extent upon Ed Smith at first. To me, in particular, who have
grown perhaps too reflective, too introspective, with the years of
quietude on my farm, he seemed incredibly alive, so that I was never
tired of watching him. He was like the boy I had been, or dreamed I had
been, and could never be again.
And yet I did not then accept him utterly, as the loyal old Captain had
done. I was not sure of him. His attitude toward life in those days,
while I dislike the comparison, was similar to that of Ed Smith, though
the end was different. If Ed was looking for his own aggrandizement,
Nort was not the less eagerly in pursuit of his own amusement and
pleasure. I had a feeling that he would play with us a while because we
amused him, and when he got tired or bored--that would be the end of us.
Up to that moment Nort had never really become entangled with life: life
had never hurt him. Things and events were like moving pictures, which
he enjoyed hotly, which amused him uproariously, or which bored him
desperately.
As fate would have it--Ed Smith's fate--Nort's opportunity came in
August. It was the occasion, as I remember it, of some outing of the
State Editors' Association, and Ed planned to be absent for two weeks.
He evidently felt that he could now entrust the destinies of the _Star_
for a brief time to his associates. But he tore himself away with
evident reluctance. How could the _Star_ be safely left to the mercies
of the old Captain (who had been its titular editor for thirty years),
or to Anthy (who was merely its owner), to say nothing of such
disturbing elements as Fergus and Nort and me?
A deep sigh of relief seemed to rise from the office of the _Star_. One
fancied that Dick, the canary, chirped more cheerfully, and Fergus swore
that he found Tom, the cat, sleeping in the editorial chair within three
hours after Ed departed. As for the Captain, he came in thumping his
cane and clearing his throat with something of his old-time energy, and
even Anthy wore a different look.
I can see Nort yet leaning against the imposing stone, one leg crossed
over the other, his bare inky arms folded negligently, his thick hair
tumbling about on his head--and amusement darkening in his eyes. Fergus
was cocked up on a stool by the cases; the Captain, who had just
finished an editorial further pulverizing the fragments of William J.
Bryan, was leaning back in his chair comfortably smoking his pipe; and
Anthy, having slipped off her apron, was preparing to go home for
supper.
[Illustration: "_Well!" exclaimed Nort, drawing a long breath, "I never
imagined it would feel so good to be orfunts_"]
"Well!" exclaimed Nort, drawing a long breath, "I never imagined it
would feel so good to be orfunts."
The laugh which followed this remark was as irresistible as it was
spontaneous. It expressed exactly what we all felt. I glanced at Anthy.
She evidently considered it her duty to frown upon such disloyalty, but
couldn't. She was laughing, too. It seemed to break the tension and
bring us all close together.
It will be seen from this how Nort had been growing since he came with
us, a mere vagabond, to help Fergus. He had become one of us.
"Don't see how we're ever goin' to get out a paper," remarked Fergus.
This bit of irony was lost on the old Captain.
"Fudge!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Get out a paper! We were publishing
the _Star_ in Hempfield before ever Ed Smith was born."
"I'll tell you what, Cap'n--and Miss Doane," said Nort, "we ought to get
out a paper this week that will show Ed a thing or two, stir things up
a bit."
I saw Anthy turn toward him with a curious live look in her eyes. Youth
had spoken to youth.
"We could do it!" she said, with unexpected energy. "We could just do
it."
Nort unfurled his legs and walked nervously down the office.
"What would you put in her?" asked the practical Fergus.
"Put in her!" exclaimed Nort. "What couldn't you put in her? Put some
life in her, I say. Stir things up."
"I have just written an editorial on William J. Bryan," remarked the
Captain with deliberation.
"My father always used to say," said Anthy, "that the little things of
life are really the big things. I didn't used to think so; it used to
hurt me to see him waste his life writing items about the visits of the
Backuses--you know what visitors the Backuses are--and the big squashes
raised by Jim Palmer, and the meetings of the Masons and the Odd
Fellows; but I believe he was successful with the _Star_ because he
packed it full of just such little personal news."
"Your father," I said, "was interested in people, in everything they
did. It was what he _was_."
"I see that now," said Anthy.
"And when you come to think of it," I said, "we are more interested in
people we know than in people we don't know. We can't escape our own
neighbourhoods--and most of us don't want to."
"That's all right," said Nort; "but it seems to me since I've been in
this town that it is just the things that are most interesting of all
that don't get into the _Star_. Why, there's more amusing and thrilling
news about Hempfield published every day up there on the veranda of the
Hempfield House than gets into the _Star_ in a month. I could publish a
paper, at least once, that would----"
"I have always said," interrupted the Captain, "that the basic human
interest was politics. Politics is the life of the people. Politics----"
Fergus's face cracked open with a smile.
"We might print a few poems."
He said it in such a tone of ironical humour and it seemed so absurd
that we all laughed, except Nort.
Nort stopped suddenly, with his eyes gleaming.
"Why not, Fergus?" he exclaimed. "Great idea, Fergus."
With that he took up an envelope from the desk.
"Listen to this now," he said, "it came this morning; the Cap'n showed
it to me."
He read aloud with great effect:
A PLEA FOR THE BALLOT
There was a maiden all forlorn,
Who milked a cow with a crumpled horn,
She churned the butter, and made the cheese,
And taught her brothers their A B C's.
She worked and scrubbed till her back was broke,
And paid her tax, but she couldn't vote.
Oh! you men look wise and laugh us to scorn,
We'll get the ballot as sure as you're born.
"I can guess who wrote _that_!" laughed Anthy. "It was Sophia
Rhinehart."
"You're right," said Nort, "and I say, print it."
"There's a whole drawer full of poetry like that here in the desk,"
observed the Captain.
"I'll tell you, let's print it all!" said Nort. "This town is full of
poetry. Let's let it out. That's a part of the life of Hempfield which
the _Star_ hasn't considered."
For the life of me I could not tell at the moment whether Nort was
joking or not, but Fergus was troubled with no such uncertainty. He took
his pipe out of his mouth, poked down the fire with his thumb, and
observed:
"'Tain't poetry."
Anthy laughed. "No," she said, "it isn't Robert Burns. Fergus measures
everything by 'The Twa Dogs.'"
"Whur'll ye do better?" responded Fergus.
"No," said Nort, warming up to his argument and convincing himself, I
think, as he went along, "but I say it's interesting, and it's by people
in Hempfield, and it's news. What could be a better personal item than a
poem by--who was it, Miss Doane?"
"Sophia Rhinehart."
"The poet Sophia! Think of all of Sophia's cousins and uncles and aunts,
and all the people in Hempfield, who will be shocked to know that Sophia
has written a poem on woman suffrage."
"That's what I object to," boomed the Captain, "it's nonsense."
As I look back upon it now, it seems absurd, the irresistible way in
which Nort swept the orfunts of the _Star_ before him in his enthusiasm.
A country newspaper office is one of the most democratic institutions in
the world. The whole force, from proprietor down, works together and
changes work. The editor is also compositor, and the compositor and
office boy are reporters. No one poses as having any very superior
knowledge, and it sometimes happens that a printer, like Fergus,
comfortably drawing his regular wages, is better off for weeks at a time
than the harassed proprietor himself.
Nort drew the poems, a big disorderly package of them, out of the
editorial drawer, and read some of them aloud in his best manner, his
face gleaming with amusement. Occasionally he would glance across at
Anthy as if for approval. Anthy's face was a study. While it was evident
that she was puzzled and uncertain, I could see that Nort was carrying
her wholly with him. It was the common spirit of youth, adventure,
daring--the common joy of revolt.
The upshot of the matter was that the office worked early and late
during the next two or three days setting poetry. We chose mostly the
short poems, including a veritable school of limericks, and in each case
printed the name of the author in good large type. Some of the verses,
to judge by their appearance, must have been in the office for several
years--from the days of Anthy's father. Anthy's father had never
destroyed the verses sent to him; he kept them, but rarely printed any
of them. He had so deep a fondness for human beings, understood them so
well, and Hempfield had come to be so much his own family to him, that
he kept all these curious outreachings, whether of sorrow, or humour, or
of mere empty exuberance or sentimentality. Often he laughed at
them--but he kept them. Anthy had much the same deep feeling--which the
Nort of that time could not have understood. She felt that there was
something not quite sound about Nort's brilliant scheme, but when she
objected or protested about some particular poem, Nort always swept her
away with his eager, "Oh, put her in, put her in!"
For the top of the page Fergus set a heading, proofed it, and showed it
to Nort.
"Not big enough," said Nort. "Got anything larger?"
Fergus thought he had, and presently returned with a heading in regular
poster type:
POEMS OF HEMPFIELD
I can see Nort yet, holding it up for us to view, and shouting:
"Bully boy, Fergus, that'll get 'em!"
We introduced the poetry with a statement that for several years the
_Star_ had received poems, written by the citizens of the town and
county, very few of which had been published. We presented them to our
readers as one expression of the life, thought, and interests of our
town.
On Wednesday--we went to press Wednesday afternoon--Nort came in from
dinner with a broad smile on his face.
"Got another poem," he said.
"Humph," growled Fergus, who knew that he would have to set it up.
"I stopped at the corner as I came along, and old John Tole was standing
out in front of his store." Here Nort, thrusting both hands into his
rear trousers pockets, leaned a little back and gave a perfect imitation
of the familiar figure of our town druggist. "'Mr. Tole,' I said, 'the
_Star_ is going to print the poems of Hempfield this week. Haven't you a
favourite poem you can put in?' Well, you should have seen the old
fellow grin. 'Yes,' says he, 'I've got a favour-ite poem.' I asked him
what it was. He kept on smiling, and finally he said:
'I keep a plaster, in case of disaster,
And also a pill, in case of an ill.'"
Nort shook with laughter.
"George! I wish you could have heard him repeat it: 'And also a pi-ll in
case of an i-ll.'"
He had the whole office laughing with him.
"I say, let's put it in the _Star_! 'John Tole's Favourite Poem,' What
do you say, Miss Doane?"
He stood there such a figure of irresponsible and contagious youth as I
can never forget.
"Tole hasn't favoured the _Star_ with any advertising for over twenty
years," observed the Captain.
"We'll advertise him, anyhow," said Nort.
And so it went in, at a special place in the middle of the page. Fergus
grumbled and growled, of course, but was really more interested and
excited, I think, than he had been before in years. "Fergus's great
idea," "Fergus's brilliant thought," was the way Nort referred to the
printing of the poetry. For two people so utterly unlike, Fergus and
Nort got an extraordinary amount of amusement out of each other.
In order to make room for the poetry something else, of course, had to
be left out, and partly by chance and partly through the antagonism of
the Captain, we omitted two paragraphs that Ed Smith had left on the
stone for use in the next issue of the paper. One was a flattering
comment on the new electric light company that was about to supply
Hempfield and other nearby towns with current.
"Seems to me," said Fergus, "we've had enough electric light news for a
while."
"Cut her out, then," said Nort, as though he owned the paper.
The other was a cleverly worded paragraph about the candidacy of a
certain D. J. McCullum for the legislature. When the Captain saw it he
snorted with indignation.
"A regular old Democrat!" he exclaimed. "Now what was Ed Smith thinking
of--putting a piece like that in the paper?"
We little knew what consequences were to follow upon a matter so
apparently trivial as the omission of these few sticks of type from the
_Star_.
At last the forms were locked, and Nort and Fergus carried them over to
the press. It was an exciting occasion. Fergus at the press!
Usually Fergus contents himself by going about wearing his own crown of
stiff red hair, but on press days he takes down an antique derby hat,
the rim of which long ago disappeared. Small triangular holes have been
cut in the crown for ventilators, and the outside is decorated with dabs
of vari-coloured printer's ink. This bowl of a helmet Fergus sets upon
his head, tilted a little back, so that he looks like a dervish. He now
selects a long black cigar--it is only on press days that he discards
his precious pipe--and having lighted it holds it in his mouth so that
it points upward at an acute angle. He avoids the smoke which would
naturally rise into his left eye by inclining his head a little to one
side. He tinkers the rollers, he examines the inkwells, he tightens in
the forms. He is very dignified, very sententious. It is an important
occasion when Fergus goes to press. At last, when all is ready, Fergus
stands upright for a moment, a figure of power and authority.
"Let 'er go," he says presently.
Nort pulls the lever: the fly moves majestically through the air, the
rollers clack, and the very floor shakes with the emotion, the pain, of
producing a free press in a free country.
But it is only for one or two impressions. Fergus suddenly raises his
hand.
"Stop her, stop her," he commands, and when she has calmed down, Fergus,
comparing the imprint with the form, and armed with paste pot and paper,
or with block and mallet, adds the final artistic touches.
Sometimes, sitting here in my study, if I am a little lonely, I have
only to call up the picture I have of Fergus at the press, and I am
restored and comforted by the thought that there are still pleasant and
amusing things in this world.
So we printed off the famous issue containing the poetry of
Hempfield--and folded and mailed the papers. Nort, working like a
demon, was the soul of the office. He made the work that week seem more
interesting and important; he made an adventure and a romance out of the
common task of a country printing-office.
[Illustration]