THE EXPLOSION
When I was younger than I am now--not so very long ago, either!--I
thought I should like to make over some of my neighbours. I thought I
could improve on the processes of the Creator, who was apparently wobbly
in his moral standards and weak in his discipline, for he allowed
several people I knew to flourish and be joyful who by good rights ought
to be smacked on their refractory pates; but now, it seems to me, I love
most of all to see my friends coming every day true to themselves:
Harriet illustrating herself, Horace himself. As for the old Captain, I
never wanted a hair of him changed. When men act in character, though
they be beggars or burglars, and do not pose or imitate, we have a kind
of fondness for them.
As I look back on it now I would not even make over Ed Smith. I did not
understand him as well then as I do now, but he was playing his part in
the world as well as ever he knew how to play it.
Sometimes I like to think of human beings as cells in the various parts
of the huge anatomy of society. In any such consideration Ed Smith would
be a stomach cell, and a pretty good one. Whenever the rest of us were
soaring too far aloft it was Ed's function to come stealing in upon us
like the honest odour of corned beef and cabbage. It was Ed's function
to see that we earned every week at least as much as we spent, a
tremendous undertaking when you come to think of it.
The fact is, whether we like it or not, we are all mixed up together in
this world--poets and plumbers, critics and cooks--and the more clearly
we recognize it, the firmer, sounder, truer, will be our grip upon the
significance of human life. Why, many a time, when I've been sitting
here reading in my study, living for the moment in the rarer atmosphere
of the poets, the philosophers, the prophets, I have had to get up and
go out and feed the pigs. I have always thought it, somehow, good for
me.
When Ed Smith arrived at the printing-office early on the following
morning, the fat, round stove, with legs broadly planted in a box of
sand, into which Fergus had poked accumulated scraps and cuttings of the
shop, had just broken into a jolly smile. Fergus himself, his early
morning temper scarcely less rumpled than his hair, was standing near
it, shoulders humped up, like a cold crow. He did not know that Ed Smith
had returned to Hempfield, but his face, when he saw him, betrayed not
the slightest sign of surprise.
Ed was evidently labouring under a considerable pressure of excitement.
"What's all this tomfoolery about printing the truth in the _Star_?" he
burst out.
Fergus began to rumble.
"Tired o' printin' lies, I s'pose," he observed.
Ed always wore his hat a little cocked back, and when he was excited he
put both hands in his pockets and began thrusting out his chest until
you were relieved to discover that he was held together by a chain which
ran across him from the vest pocket that contained his watch to the
pocket where he carried his comb and his toothbrush.
Ed had been working himself up into a fine passion. Only ten days away
and everything gone to the bow-wows. The Poems of Hempfield! He held up
the first page of our precious issue, slapped it smooth with his hand,
and glared at it fiercely.
"The Poems of Hempfield!" he remarked with concentrated irony. "What
this broken-down newspaper has got to learn is that it isn't in business
for the fun of it. Poetry! Truth! What we want is cash, hard, cold
cash!"
At this moment Ed began to glare at the paper still more fiercely.
"Where's that reading notice about the electric light company?" he
demanded.
By an imperceptible motion of a hostile shoulder Fergus indicated the
hold-over stone. Ed rushed over and found the precious item, with leads
askew and one corner pied down. He also found the notice of the
candidacy of D. J. McCullum, Democrat, which the old Captain had so
lightly ordered excluded from our issue of the _Star_.
If Anthy herself had appeared at that moment I don't know what might not
have happened. Poor Ed! He had painfully, by hustle and bustle, pieced
together a business which was about to yield a profit, and had scarcely
turned his back when a lot of blunderers (and worse) had begun to mix
everything up. There wasn't enough business sense in the whole crowd of
them----
Ed had still another cause for irritation. He was miserably jealous, and
for the first time in his life. The incident of the previous night, when
Nort had burst in so unceremoniously upon Anthy, and at sight of him had
fled so precipitately, was wholly beyond his comprehension. A tramp
printer, at next to nothing a week! What could he mean by calling on
Anthy, the proprietor, in such a way, and bursting out with a suggestion
about the paper, as though he owned it.
Poor Ed! I shall never forget the picture I have of him--I learned about
it long afterward--standing rather stiffly at the doorway, awkwardly
handling his hat, about to say good-night, and yet not going.
"Anthy," he began, "I came back on purpose to--to make a proposition to
you to-night----"
He published his intention by the very sound of his voice, which
trembled a little in spite of the confidence he had felt beforehand.
I fancy I can see Anthy, too, as she stood facing him there at the foot
of the stairs in the old hallway, with the flower-filled urns on the
wall paper. So much of the thing in her eyes as she looked at him
whimsically, it must have been, and yet kindly, Ed could never have
understood. He could never have understood the other Anthy, the Anthy
whose letters to Mr. Lincoln lie here in my desk.
I am not clear as to exactly what happened next, and no more, I think,
was Ed; but he went out and down the steps without having told Anthy
what his "proposition" was, and firmly believing that she did not know
how dangerously near he had come to committing himself. Women know how
to do these things. Ed did not rush away as Nort had done, nor fall over
the honeysuckle bush, nor lose his hat--nor his head. Not Ed! But as he
walked back home a faint suspicion began to rankle in his soul that his
course might not be as clear as he had supposed.
The most irresistible man to women is the one who seems to know least
that they are women at all. But Ed Smith was not of this sort. Ed's
practical thoughts were ever hanging about the idea of marriage. He fell
more or less deeply in love with every pretty girl he met, made
elaborately gallant speeches, brought her flowers, pop corn, and chewing
gum, tried to hold her hand, and began, warily, to consider her as a
prospective Mrs. Smith, weighing her qualifications, quite sensibly, for
that responsible position. Oh, Ed had been a good deal of a "lady's man"
in his time: knew well his many qualifications, and often congratulated
himself that he would never be "caught" until he was "good and ready."
There was more than one girl--he had only to "crook his finger."
While he was away he began to think of Anthy. She was somehow different
from any girl he had ever known. He couldn't quite understand why it
was, but there was something about her, even though she might be a
little "slow" and "quiet" for a man like him. And the more he thought of
her the more excellent reasons occurred to him for yielding to his
feelings. She was the owner of the _Star_, which was already beginning
to show signs of vigorous life, and she was a "mighty smart girl" into
the bargain. She would be an ornament to any man's house.
It was the vague glimmer of the new idea that any girl should not wish
to become Mrs. Smith when she was given a fair opportunity that now
occurred to him painfully, for the first time in his life. The thought
of Nort began to grow upon him, the thought, also, that some of his
rights were being trodden upon. Had he not come to the _Star_ with the
idea that Anthy---- Could he not have made a lot more money by going
with the Dexter _Enterprise_?
It is astonishing how cunningly life prepares for its explosions, how
adroitly it combines the nitre, the charcoal, the sulphur, of human
nature. First it grinds the ingredients separately--as Ed Smith was
being ground, as the spirit of Norton Carr was ground--and then it mixes
them in a mill, say a pleasant country printing-office, with a wren's
nest at the gable end, and there it subjects them to the enormous
pressure of necessity, of passion, of ambition. And when the mixture is
made, though the fuse which life lays may be long, the explosion is sure
to follow. A spark, say a stick of pied type, or a vagabond printer
absurdly looking for the truth of things, or the look in a girl's eyes,
and, bang--the world will never again be exactly what it was before.
Events moved swiftly with the _Star_ of Hempfield that forenoon. You
would not believe that so much could happen in a drowsy country
printing-office, on a drowsy Monday morning, in so short a time. I was
there when Nort came in, all unsuspecting. He came in quietly, not at
all like himself; he was, in fact, low in his spirits. He glanced at Ed
Smith, and began, as usual, to take off his coat in the corner. Ed was
sitting at his desk fiercely at work.
"Carr," said he, scarcely turning his head, "you needn't take off your
coat. Won't need you any longer. Gotta economize. Gotta cut down
expenses. I'll pay you what's coming to you right now."
There was a moment of absolute silence in the office. Tom, the cat, was
asleep by the stove. Fergus and I waited breathlessly. I fully expected
to see Nort explode; I didn't know in just what way, but somehow, in
Nort's way, whatever that might be. But he merely stood there, coat half
off, looking utterly mystified. Ed turned halfway around.
"Here's your money," he said.
The thing in all its crude reality was still incomprehensible to Nort.
He didn't know that such things were ever done in the world.
"You mean----" he stammered.
Ed was very angry. I excuse him somewhat on that ground, and Nort was
only a tramp printer anyway.
"You're fired," he said doggedly, "and here's your wages to date."
I wish I could describe the effect on Nort. It was as though some light
air blew across him. He had looked heavy and depressed when he came in:
now his shoulders straightened, his chin lifted, and the old, reckless
smile came into his face. He swept us all with a look of amused
astonishment, and then, slipping back into his coat, said:
"Well, good-bye, Mr. Smith," and turned and went out of the office.
Ed jumped from his chair.
"Here's your cash," he said.
But Nort had gone out.
"Well, I'll be hanged!" observed Ed, quickly putting the money back in
his pocket.
I am slow, slow! I have always wished since then that I had been quick
enough to do what Fergus did. It was not that I did not love Nort----
When I looked around Fergus was gone. He had slipped out of the back
door. He caught Nort at the gate, and grasped his hand so hard that Nort
said it hurt him for a week afterward. He tried to say something, but
his face worked so that he couldn't. Then he was suddenly ashamed of
himself, and came running back into the office, his hair flying wildly.
Tom, the cat, at that moment rising from his favourite spot near the
stove, Fergus kicked at him vigorously--without hitting him.
Ed now began to stride about the office, head a little lifted, a bold
look in the eye. He saw neither Fergus nor me. He was in a grand mood. I
always imagined he must have felt at that moment something like
Fitz-James when he met Roderick Dhu:
Come one, come all! this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I.
He did not have long to wait. We heard the old Captain on the steps,
thumping his cane, clearing his throat. I shall never forget how he
looked when he came in at the door, his tall, soldierly figure, the
long, shabby black coat, the thick silvery hair under the broad-brimmed
hat, the beaming eye of him. Ever since the publication of his editorial
on William J. Bryan, the Captain had been in great spirits.
"Nort!" he called, as he set down his cane.
No answer.
"Where's Nort?" he boomed. "Fergus, where's Nort? I want to show him my
editorial on Theodore Roosevelt."
Ominous silence.
The old Captain looked up and about him. Fergus was busy at the cases.
"Where's Nort?" asked the old Captain sharply, this time directing his
question at Ed Smith.
"I've fired him," said Ed. "Got to cut down expenses."
"You--fired--Nort?"
The old Captain's voice sounded as though it came from the bottom of a
well.
"Yes," said Ed crisply, "I hired him--and now I've fired him."
Ed was still much in the mood of Fitz-James. He had always been somewhat
contemptuous of the Captain. He not only regarded him as an old fogy, a
vain old fogy, but as a dead weight upon the _Star_. Ed thought his
editorials worse than nothing at all, and had resolved to get rid of the
Captain at the first opportunity. It was too bad, of course,
but--business is business.
When the Captain did not reply, Ed observed at large:
"The trouble with this office is that you all seem to think we are
printing a newspaper for our health."
"Sold more extra copies of the _Star_ last week than ever before," said
Fergus.
"Yes," responded Ed bitterly, "and left out reading notices that would
have brought in more than all your extras put together. That electric
light announcement, and the notice of Dick McCullum's candidacy----"
At this the old Captain broke in with ominous deliberation.
"I want to know," said he, "if it is now the policy of this newspaper to
support Democrats for money, and fool the people of Hempfield with paid
news about greedy corporations?"
"It's _my_ policy," responded Ed, "to tap shoes for anybody that's got
the price. I'm a practical man."
I never can hope to do justice by the scene which followed. The old
Captain strode a step nearer and rested one hand on the corner of Ed
Smith's desk, a majestic figure of wrath.
[Illustration: "Practical!" he explained. "You are a blackguard, sir!
You are a scoundrel, sir!"]
"Practical!" he exploded. "You are a blackguard, sir! You are a
scoundrel, sir!"
He paused, drawing deep breaths.
"You're a traitor--you're a _Democrat_."
With all his assurance, Ed was completely taken back. He actually looked
frightened. The Captain's tone now changed to one of irony.
"I suppose," he said, "you believe in flying machines."
Ed hesitated.
"And in woman suffrage!"
The art of scorn has fallen sadly into disrepute in these later days.
Scorn fares hardly in an age of doubt and democracy. I can rarely feel
it myself; but as it came rolling out of the old Captain that morning,
I'll admit there was something grand about it.
By this time Ed had begun to recover himself.
"Well, we got to live, haven't we?" he asked.
It was very rare that the old Captain swore, for he was a sound
Churchman, and when he did swear it was with a sort of reverence.
"No, by God," said the Captain, "we haven't got to live, we haven't got
to live; but, by God! we've got to stand for the nation--and the
Constitution--and the Republican party!"
He paused, threw back his beautiful old head, and shook his mane just a
little. (How he would have liked to see himself at that moment!)
"The _Weekly Star_ of Hempfield," he said, "will remain an incorruptible
exponent of American institutions. The people may cease to believe in
God and the Constitution, but the _Star_ will remain firm and staunch.
We shed our blood upon the field of Antietam: we stand ready to shed it
again--for the nation, the Grand Old Party, and the high protective
tariff. Though beaten upon by stormy seas, we shall remain impregnable."
I cannot describe how impregnable the old Captain looked, standing there
by Ed's desk, one clenched fist raised aloft. He was at his best, and
his best was better than you will often find in these days.
But the old Captain could no more understand Ed Smith than Ed could
understand him. He would rather have laid his right hand upon living
coals of fire than to have taken what he considered a "dirty dollar" for
advertising. And yet in his day, no man in Westmoreland County was a
keener political manipulator than he. He had traded his influence quite
simply and frankly for the public printing. Was it not the natural
reward of the faithful party worker? Had he not stumped the state for
Blaine? Had not congressmen come to his door with their hats in their
hands offering him favours in exchange for his support? And he had
travelled always on railroad passes, as was his due as an influential
editor, and voted, when a member of the legislature, with sincere belief
in the greatness of all captains of industry, for every railroad bill
that came up.
But the idea of taking crude money for reading notices favourable to the
electric lighting contract in Hempfield, or of publishing for payment
the cards of Democrats--it was not in his lexicon. Times change, and the
methods of men.
When the old Captain once got started on the freedom of the press he was
hard to stop; but as he talked Ed's courage began to return, for he
could never take the old Captain quite seriously. At the first pause he
broke in with a faint attempt at jocularity.
"Who's editing this paper, anyway, Captain?"
The old Captain looked at him in astonishment.
"Why, I am," said he. "I've edited the Hempfield _Star_ for thirty
years."
I think he really believed it.
"And what is more," he continued, "the _Star_ is about to part company
with Ed Smith."
Ed bounced out of his chair.
"What do you mean?" he cried--and there was a sure note of fear in his
voice that was not lost upon the Captain.
"You're discharged, sir!"
Ed caught his breath.
"You can't do it!" he cried. "You can't do it: you don't own the paper!
I've got a contract----"
The old Captain drew himself to his full height and pointed with one
long arm at the door:
"_Go!_" said he.
It was grand.
He then turned to Fergus. "Fergus call up my niece on the telephone. I
wish to speak to her."
He walked up the length of the room and back again, his hands clasped
behind him under his coat tails. He did not once look at Ed.
"Is this Anthy?" he asked, when Fergus handed him the telephone. "Anthy,
I have just discharged Ed Smith. He will no longer cumber this office."
He paused.
"No, I said I have just discharged him. He was only small potatoes,
anyway, and few in the hill."
He put down the telephone: Ed made as if to speak, but the old Captain
waved him aside.
"Fergus," he said, "I have an editorial ready for this week's _Star_.
Now let's get down to business."
Having delivered himself, he was light, he was gay.
[Illustration]