"IF PEOPLE ONLY _KNEW_!"
A little after three o'clock on the afternoon of the day which first saw
Judith Wynrod a newspaper proprietor, Good walked into the office of
_The Dispatch_ and asked to see Mr. Bassett, the managing editor.
"Will you be good enough to indicate the purpose of your visit on this
slip," said the old pensioner at the information desk.
Good took the pencil held out to him and in a bold hand wrote: "Mr. Good
wishes to see Mr. Bassett."
Cerberus smiled faintly, as if courtesy alone prevented him from totally
ignoring so feeble a jest. "That will hardly suffice, Mr. Good. We have
our rules, you know," he said firmly.
"Of course," admitted Good patiently. "But all rules have exceptions."
"We know none here, sir," said the old man pompously, while loungers in
the ante-room smiled their enjoyment of the scene.
"But, my dear man," cried Good in exasperation, "I don't want to write
him a letter. I want to talk to him. Will you take this in, or will I
have to take it myself?" He seemed so capable of carrying out the latter
alternative that after some further protestation the disgusted warder
disappeared into the private offices.
Almost immediately he reappeared, a faint but plainly triumphant smile
curling the corners of his lips.
"Mr. Bassett says--" he paused significantly. Then he added suavely, "He
regrets that he is very busy and is unable to see you."
Good smiled. "That's old stuff," he said placidly, with his hand on the
wicket. Without further parley he opened it and marched in.
A small man in his shirt sleeves, his thin lips grimly compressed, sat
at a desk piled high in disorderly confusion, chewing an unlighted
cigar. He did not look up as Good entered. But at the latter's
deprecating cough he wheeled around in his chair and glared savagely.
"How the hell did you get in here?" he demanded.
"Through the doorway," replied Good mildly.
"That door says 'private'--and I'm busy."
Good sat down and leisurely drawing his pipe from his pocket filled it.
"I suppose you didn't see that sign outside?" inquired the small man
sarcastically. "It said 'no smoking.'"
"That was outside," said Good shortly, without looking up. "I'm in now.
But look here, Mr. Bassett," he continued with a quizzical smile, "don't
irritate me. It ..."
"Don't irritate you?" Bassett stared blankly. "Who the ..."
"No--it might cost you your job."
The editor laughed harshly. "Hell, you must want a story suppressed."
"What makes you think so?"
"They all begin by threatening to get my scalp."
"Well, that's a bum guess this time." Good drew his chair up beside the
desk and pushed a cleared place among the papers. "Now see here, Mr.
Bassett, I have something to tell you."
"It's about time you began telling it," said Bassett dryly.
"I had to get you in a receptive mood before I could begin. Now I'm
ready."
"Fire away." The editor lit his cigar and waved his hand resignedly.
"Quick is quick. To get to the point, this paper has changed hands."
The expression on Bassett's face changed immediately. "You mean--it's
sold?"
"Just so."
"Who got it--the Le Gore crowd?" It was Bassett's profession always to
be prepared for the unusual, but it was manifest from his knitted
eyebrows and his nervous drumming on the desk that he was astonished.
"No, Miss Judith Wynrod."
"The millionaire kid!" cried Bassett. "What the devil does she want a
newspaper for? Is she going to run it?"
"No," said Good calmly, "I am."
"_You?_ Who in thunder are _you_?"
Good leaned back and put his thumbs in his waistcoat. "I," he said
without smiling, "am the crafty bunco-steerer. With misguided confidence
the boss is going to let me run her paper for her. In future, my profane
friend, you're going to take your orders from me."
"Do you know anything about newspapering?"
"Quite a bit, yes."
Bassett rose and clasping his hands behind his back, strode rapidly back
and forth, without speaking, for several moments. Finally he stopped and
shifting his cigar savagely from one side of his mouth to the other,
stared vacantly into space.
"Well," he said slowly, "the first thing a new owner usually does is to
fire the staff. I suppose I might as well begin getting ready and
packing up my things. That's one of the beauties in this newspaper game.
There's no monotony in your job."
Good laughed cheerfully. "I wouldn't be in any hurry about it," he said;
"nobody's slated for the blue envelope yet."
"What's the policy going to be?" asked Bassett after a pause.
"None," said Good shortly.
"I don't get you."
"You will."
"The orders'll come from downstairs as usual, I suppose?"
Good betrayed himself for the first time during the interview. "No," he
cried, bringing his fist down on the desk so that the papers fluttered,
"that's one place they won't come from." Bassett laughed, not very
pleasantly.
"Good stuff, old top. I love to hear that line of talk. It's inspiring.
But they all start that way. I've been in the game a long time. I've
pulled the Washington on tank town weeklies, trimmed boiler plate on
all-home-print, and attained the eminence of space writer on county seat
dailies. I've done time in the newspaper game from soup to nuts, and
I've yet to see the sheet that isn't run from the business office."
"You've got something to live for then, haven't you?" said Good sweetly.
"I've always said that there weren't any surprises in a newspaper man's
life," continued Bassett thoughtfully. "Maybe I'm wrong."
"Life's full of surprises. That's what makes it interesting. But that
butters no turnips. I didn't come here to give you some new ideas about
life. What I want is for you to get your staff together in the city
room, say about five o'clock, for fifteen minutes. I want to talk to the
boys. Can you arrange it?"
"I guess the world won't stop moving."
"All right. See you later." Good put his hand on the door.
"Say," said Bassett, sharply biting his lip, "have you been stringing
me?"
Good laughed. "Call up John Baker, Miss Wynrod's lawyer, and get it
straight. Don't be so suspicious."
"That's my business," said Bassett, sourly. As the door closed on his
strange visitor, he sighed heavily. "It's a great business ... sold up
the river--damned slave!" Then he sighed again and fell to sharpening a
pencil.
Promptly at five Good returned. "Got them all here?" he demanded.
"Nearly all."
"That's fine. Let's break the news."
Bassett led the way to the city room, and with a clap of his hands
achieved silence. "Boys," he said in a tone which was curiously
unfamiliar to them, "you probably all know by now, being good
news-hounds, that the paper has been sold. Mr. Brent Good, the new
managing editor, wishes to say a few words."
Good rose and stood looking thoughtfully at the crowd for a moment
before he spoke.
"Gentlemen, the habit of a lifetime is hard to break. Mr. Bassett proves
it by the way he's coloured the facts. I'm not to be managing editor.
Mr. Bassett will continue in that capacity as long as his editing and
managing seems to be satisfactory. I am merely to be the personal
representative of the owner of the paper. Now I have one or two things
to say to you.
"To begin with, I want to say that nobody is going to get fired, with
the possible exception of several men from the advertising department,
the reason for which will appear later. The first question that Mr.
Bassett put to me was about the policy of the new paper, and I replied
that there wouldn't be any policy. All we have is a purpose, and that
purpose is, in one single word, to tell all the truth all the time.
"We haven't any axes to grind. And there's only one boss. For the first
time in your lives, I guess, you can write the truth without being
afraid of stepping on somebody's toes. From now on, the business office
gives no orders. And if the advertising department can't sell space
without editorial influence thrown in, then we'll get a new advertising
department or do without advertising. Instead of looking at every story
with your mind on 'who will it hurt,' from now on I want you to look at
every story with your mind on 'who will it help--or _what_.' You boys
have a chance to run the kind of a newspaper that every newspaper man
wants to run. It's up to you to make it or break it." Good's voice broke
a little and he turned away. There was silence for a moment. Then a
cheer shook the room. When it subsided, Bassett's dry voice was heard.
"Kindly don't overlook the fact, gentlemen, that we put the paper to bed
to-night as usual. You can celebrate when that's done." Then he turned
to Good.
"Come back in my office, will you, Mr. Good. There are a few questions I
want to ask you."
"Cut out the 'Mister,' Bassett. I'm just one of the staff. I don't own
anything, you know."
"That goes with me," said Bassett, "but look out I don't call you
something worse. I've got a bad temper."
"Well," laughed Good, "I'm bigger than you." They went into Bassett's
private office.
"What I want to get at," said the latter perplexedly, after they were
seated, "is what line of thought you intend to follow. What angles do
you mean to push?"
"You don't understand," said Good patiently, "all we want is the truth."
"Oh, fiddlesticks," cried Bassett impatiently. "That's fine for a
rights-of-man declaration, but we're running a newspaper. You've got to
have balance. What's true and interesting and desirable to one class of
people isn't to another. What kind of people do you intend to cater to?"
"I see," said Good. He was silent for a moment. "I guess we want to
print," he said finally, "what's true to _most_ people. Anything that
gives the greatest good to the greatest number, ought to be our field."
"That's what I'm getting at. Now look at this." The managing editor
fumbled in his desk and produced a mass of paper. "You probably know
that the girls in the department stores are trying to stage a strike. It
doesn't amount to much--yet--but the police have pulled some pretty raw
work. Now from the girls' standpoint this stuff ought to get publicity.
But from the standpoint of those who own the newspapers it
shouldn't--and it hasn't had a line except in _The World_, which, of
course, only goes to the working people. Incidentally, _The World_ has
been running some pretty good sob-stuff lately."
"Yes," said Good quietly, "I wrote it."
Bassett looked up quickly. "Oh--are you one of that socialist outfit?"
"No more socialist than you are plutocrat. I'm just a newspaper
man--like yourself."
"Conscienceless, eh?"
"Consciences are expensive."
"Yes," said Bassett pensively, "most of us have to let the little
darlings starve to death. I bet if we slipped into the next life with a
murderer and a thief, St. Peter'd give 'em both a golden harp and ..."
"Oh, cheer up," laughed Good, "let's not worry about preferred positions
in the next edition. We've got plenty to do with this one."
"Well, then," said the small man, "how about playing up this working
girl stuff as a starter on the new idea? That ought to appeal to you."
"I'm afraid you don't quite understand," explained Good patiently. "This
isn't going to be an organ of the working classes."
"That's all right, too, but in your talk out there to the boys you said
you were going to print all the truth all the time. Well, this is true
and people certainly ought to know about it. Those girls are getting a
hell of a rotten deal. What about it?"
Good was silent. "Frankly, I don't know," he murmured.
"I know what you're thinking," said Bassett with a suggestion of a
sneer. "We're carrying full pages for Corey's and the rest. But I
thought you weren't going to take orders from the business office."
"We're not," said Good. "But we have to take our orders from Miss
Wynrod."
"That's right," agreed Bassett. "I hadn't thought of that. Well, why
don't you put it up to her?"
"By Jove," cried Good, "I will! I'll do just that. You get your stuff
together. I'll see her to-night and get her O.K.--if I can."
"Here's a suggestion," said the managing editor; "it may help to get her
interested. The girls are going to hold a meeting out on Dempsey Street.
Why don't you take Miss Wynrod out there and let her see for herself? If
she's any kind of a girl she'll hear some yarns that'll wilt her collar,
I'll bet."
Good was thoughtful. "That's not a bad idea. I'll see what I can do." He
turned to go. Then he looked back from the doorway. "By the way,
Bassett, I forgot to tell you--Miss Wynrod has a young brother. He's
been a waster so far, but I think he's got some good stuff in him.
Anyway, he's coming into the paper too. Of course he doesn't know
anything about newspapers--he doesn't know anything about anything--but
he can learn. I thought it would be best to start him in the business
office. What do you think?"
"That's the most important place to him," said Bassett sourly. "Keep him
out of this end of it, for the love of Mike! Jenkins loves cubs; I
don't."
"I think you're right; anyway we'll start him with Jenkins. And I'll let
you hear from me to-night in plenty of time about this story."
"The bull-dog closes at eleven."
"I'll let you know by ten."
As Good ate his frugal dinner in a cheap restaurant, he debated
seriously as to the best method of attaining his end. If he went
straight to Judith and boldly requested her acquiescence in the course
planned, he felt quite confident of securing it. But that did not appear
to him sufficient. Her sympathies, thus gained, would be superficial. To
be of lasting value they must be spontaneous. Finally he took his
resolution and went to the telephone.
"Miss Wynrod," he said immediately when she answered, "there is to be a
meeting on the west side to-night that I'd like very much to have you
attend. I am sure it will interest you. Will you come?" And when she
hesitated momentarily he added, "I am quite sure you won't regret it."
To his great delight she assented readily enough, and half an hour
later he found himself in her limousine with her, bound for a section of
the city that was probably as unfamiliar to her as the heart of China.
Briefly he explained the character of the meeting, but diplomatically he
held back his real purpose in taking her to it. She was frankly
interested, nevertheless, and plied him with questions regarding its
circumstances and causes, to which he was not slow in making reply.
"If all these dreadful things are true, how does it happen that I have
never heard about them? There has never been anything in the papers."
"No," he assented, smiling in triumph under cover of darkness, "there
hasn't been anything in the papers. That is," he added, "not in any of
the papers you would be likely to read. _The World_ has had some stuff."
But before they had had time to discuss the question further the car had
reached its destination. Good led the way to a place in the balcony
where they not only had a good view of the platform but could see the
crowd below as well.
A red-headed girl was playing a very much out-of-tune piano and playing
it very badly. But over the music, and almost drowning it was the steady
shuffle of feet, and a rising wave of whispers and laughter as the hall
rapidly filled. The air was heavily odorous and the gas lights flared
garishly, thrusting the stark shabbiness of the hall and its occupants
into high relief. But all that was forgotten in the indefinable emotion
which surcharged the atmosphere. Without knowing exactly why, Judith
felt her throat tighten and her heart thrill. But it was an old story to
Good and he spent his time surreptitiously watching the effect of the
scene upon his companion.
Presently the speakers of the evening filed onto the platform, and one
of them, stepping up to the table, rapped sharply with her gavel. She
was a woman just approaching middle age, very plainly but neatly
dressed, with a face not handsome, but so full of quiet determination as
to make one look twice.
"That's Myra Horgan," whispered Good, "President of the Women's Trade
Union League. She's a wonder."
Miss Horgan, with a few words, introduced the first speaker, one Casper,
of the Building Trades Council. He was a little man with a beaming red
face, and stiff, close-cropped white hair.
"When they talk about women and the right to vote," he began, surveying
the audience with twinkling eyes, "I think of you and what fools you be.
But you're no worse than unorganized men. Do they work us brick-layers
and masons twelve hours a day, nights too? They do not. Do they pay us
six dollars a week? They do not. Do they fire us for having opinions of
our own? They do not. Do they treat us as human beings entitled to the
same respect as themselves? They do, and why? Because we ain't one but
many. If we deal with them as individuals they smash us as you'd smash a
toothpick. But they can't deal with us as individuals. They've got to
deal with us altogether. But one thing remember, my girls. It's a fine
thing to have a union but a hard thing to get it. You've got to suffer.
You've got to give up things. I guess you know that already. But you've
got to keep at it. It's great when you have it, but it's hell getting
it. And don't forget this. You've got to stick by the other fellow if
the other fellow is going to stick to you. If one goes out, you've all
got to go out, and stay out if you starve."
He sat down, wiping his brow carefully, amid a thunder of applause from
the audience. Suddenly a thought seemed to strike him and he jumped up
with hand uplifted. The crowd silenced at once. "I forgot to tell you
the main thing for why I came here to-night," he said sheepishly. "I'm
no orator, as you all can see. Your handsome young faces drove the
thought clean out of my mind. But this I will say, I am here to-night to
tell you that we of the Federation will back you to the limit with money
and influence and all we've got. Go to it!" Again he sat down, amid a
repeated burst of clapping and cheers.
"No," said Good. "He's no orator. But he's a big man. They'll get
somewhere if they follow him."
Speaker after speaker followed one another in rapid succession, each
with her message of fear, or hope, or encouragement. There was
surprisingly little denunciation, thought Judith, of the powers against
whom they were in revolt. All the speakers were too intent upon means
and methods to waste breath in idle denunciation. She expressed her
astonishment.
"Their feeling for their employers goes without saying," said Good
shortly.
Suddenly Judith gave a little cry. "Why, there's Mrs. Dodson." A woman,
inconspicuously dressed and well on in years, but with such a spirit of
youth and kindliness in her face as to belie her grey hairs, had begun
to speak. Her first words were the signal for such a storm of applause
that she had to halt momentarily.
"What a favourite she is!" exclaimed Judith.
"She has cause to be," said Good. "These girls have no better friend."
"Isn't it strange," said Judith in amazement. "I've known her all my
life. I had no idea she was so interested in this sort of thing."
Good smiled. "She doesn't talk much about it, does she?"
Mrs. Dodson, speaking with trained eloquence, was laying out a plan of
campaign so bold in conception that Judith, acquainted only with the
more obvious side of her life, was dumfounded.
"If the people who know her uptown could hear her now," she cried,
"they'd be stupefied. They'd call her a traitor to her class."
"She is a paradox," admitted Good, "but I think this is her truest
side." And the prolonged cheering which accompanied the conclusion of
her words seemed to indicate that her auditors thought so too.
There was a little pause after Mrs. Dodson had finished, and the
red-headed young person at the piano resumed her activities. But the
delay was only momentary. A slender girl, plainly dressed, apparently
not over nineteen years of age, with her arm in a sling, made her way to
the front of the platform.
"I'm no speaker," she began in a low voice but which penetrated to the
farthest part of the hall, "and there ain't many of you as knows me. I'm
only a picket. I can't give you union backing like Mr. Casper, and I
can't give you money like Mrs. Dodson, and I can't give you ideas like
Miss Horgan. All I've got is my two feet and my two hands and my
tongue--though my tongue ain't as good as my legs, as the cop that
pinched me will tell you. But you've all been thinking and talking about
what you was going to do. Now I want to tell you what's being done while
you're talking. Look at this--" She pointed to the arm that was in the
sling. "This is what the police do. The copper that twisted my arm gets
his pay from the taxpayers, but he gets his orders from our bosses. I
got this for talkin' to girls as they came out of the stores. I was
lucky not to get anythin' worse, as some of the other girls can tell
you. I want to tell you girls," she clenched her fist and her voice
shrilled, "that the only way you'll get respect out of these capitalists
is to _force_ it out of 'em, and a good many of you is goin' to get hurt
in the job."
"How horrible!" exclaimed Judith softly. "Is that really true?"
"Yes," said Good, "it is. I happen to know the case. The doctors say
that her arm will probably never be of much use to her again. A
detective twisted her wrist for not moving on when she was ordered to.
He claimed she kicked him."
"And I hope she did!" snapped Judith vindictively. Good smiled
quizzically, but before he could say anything the girl on the platform
had resumed speaking.
"I wish I could tell you what's in my mind," she said slowly. "I ain't
no speaker, but this is the principal thing I want to say to you girls.
If I can stick it out I guess you can. That's about all I've got to
say." She turned and fled precipitately. There was not much handclapping
after her exit, not because she had not aroused sympathy but because
exaltation had given place to a grim determination better expressed in
silence. There was a momentary pause in the proceedings. Then a girl
stood up in the crowd.
"I want to tell you that that girl is right," she declared fiercely. "My
sister was knocked down by a copper and kicked and broke one of her
ribs. If you're going into this thing you want to go with your eyes
open." As she sat down, another rose, and another and another, until
half a dozen girls had given their experiences, each one of which
brought a gasp of horror to Judith's lips.
"Why, this is dreadful," she cried. "I never dreamed ..."
But Good merely smiled to himself. "They've only told one side of it,"
he said. "There are things--much worse."
Judith shuddered understandingly but said nothing further until they
were in the motor on the way home. "I never heard anything more
terrible," she cried, "or more surprising. If people only _knew_, such
things couldn't take place. Decent people wouldn't countenance such
brutality."
"No," admitted Good, "but decent people don't know anything about it."
"And why don't they?" she demanded. "Why aren't they told? Why aren't
they _forced_ to know about it?"
"Would you suggest a house-to-house canvass?" he asked ironically.
"Don't be silly. Why don't the newspapers take it up?"
"It isn't news to them."
Then the obvious thought struck her. "Why," she laughed, "I almost
forgot. We have a newspaper of our own. Why can't we tell the story
those girls told, in _The Dispatch_?"
"For the same reason that the other papers can't," he said softly.
"And what is that?"
"They don't dare."
"Don't dare? I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Who has the keenest interest in keeping wrist-twisting out of sight?"
"The police?"
"No. Who loses if the girls win? Who suffers if they organise, raise
wages and improve conditions?"
"Their employers, I suppose."
"Just so. And who are their employers?"
"The department stores?"
"Well, then, isn't it perfectly clear? Who are the newspapers' heaviest
advertisers?"
"Oh,--"
"Miss Wynrod," said Good seriously, "to champion the cause of those
girls and to tell the truth about what they are suffering might cost
_The Dispatch_--a great deal of money."
Judith was silent for a moment. "In other words, we are hired by the
department stores to be neutral."
"Precisely," said Good.
"Suppose we snapped our fingers at them?"
"I've already told you what would happen."
"But I thought you wanted a free newspaper?"
"I did and do, Miss Wynrod."
"How many curious things I'm learning," said Judith. Then, with a
shudder, she added, "What a dreadful neighbourhood this is. Did you ever
see so many children?"
"Do children make neighbourhoods dreadful?" he asked sarcastically,
nettled by her irrelevance. But she was silent, remaining so until they
reached downtown.
"I think,--if you'll let me off at _The Dispatch_ office ..." said Good
stiffly.
Mechanically she gave the order to the chauffeur but made no reply. He
wondered what was going through her mind. Her silence seemed to
indicate that his great dream had been shattered before it had been
well launched. She had broken at the first pressure. He might have
expected as much. Environment and training could not be so quickly
counteracted. But none the less it was bitterly disappointing. He
dreaded the word he would have to give to Bassett.
"Good night, Miss Wynrod," he said quietly as the car stopped and he got
out. "I hope you found the evening not unprofitable."
"Mr. Good," said Judith slowly, looking at him steadily, "I want
everybody who reads _The Dispatch_ to-morrow to read--about that girl
and her broken arm. Do you understand?"
His eyes widened. "And you know the consequences?" he whispered huskily.
"I think you have made them quite clear."
"You have friends among the department store owners, Miss Wynrod."
Judith smiled, but it was a grim smile. "I think I can venture where
Mrs. Dodson has ventured," she said. Good seized her hand and his voice
trembled.
"I was afraid--for a moment, but--you're a wonder! Good night." His
emotion communicated itself to her and she did not venture to say
anything in reply. She merely shook his hand firmly and sank back in
the cushions. He turned and sped for the office.
"Bassett," he said, with simulated indifference a minute later, "let's
see that stuff you've got on the girls."
"You mean," cried Bassett, "you're going to run it?"
"Double leaded," said Good shortly. "Got any pictures?"
"Say," said Bassett, "I've got some stuff that would make dynamite look
like lemon candy. We'll make _The World_ look like a gospel messenger.
I'll make you a bet, Good."
"Yes?"
"I'll bet you a stein of imported Muenchen that there'll be hell let
loose to-morrow in several advertising offices we know of."
"Why not ask me for it outright?" asked Good with a smile.