DENIS QUIRK.
Cairns was compounded of energy, his policy to snatch from the hands of
progress all that was good, and make the uttermost use of it. "Try all
things," he would say. "Throw away the rubbish, and keep that which is
enduring." Under his management, "The Observer" advanced from a
second-class country paper to one but little inferior to the
metropolitan organs.
One man whom he found on the staff he classified as hopeless.
"Worse than this," he added, speaking to Desmond O'Connor, to whom he
unburdened himself, "'Gifford will never learn. He believes himself to
be a journalistic planet. I don't mind an ordinary honest fool that
knows it is a fool, but a fool that regards its own inane folly as the
final thing in wisdom is hopeless. Gifford must go."
Here, however, Cairns found himself opposed to his employer. Ebenezer
Brown had so high a respect for Gifford that he had been sorely tempted,
after the death of Michael O'Connor, to place the sub-editor in the
editorial chair. For this promotion Gifford was fully prepared, and only
a very small incident preserved Ebenezer Brown from ruining his paper.
It had so chanced that the editor of a leading metropolitan paper had
come to the funeral of his former colleague, Michael O'Connor. Meeting
Ebenezer Brown after the funeral, he had asked:
"Who will succeed O'Connor?"
"I am thinking of promoting Gifford," replied the old man.
"Gifford!" cried the editor, under whom many a journalist had graduated.
"Are you quite mad?"
"Are you?" retorted Ebenezer Brown, hotly.
'Many people say I am. But I was sane enough to shoot Gifford out the
first chance I had of ridding the paper of him.
"You sent him to me with a yard of testimonial," growled Ebenezer Brown.
"Diplomacy, my dear sir. I never make an enemy unless I find myself
compelled to do so in self-defence. You needed a new sub-editor, I a new
reporter, and I merely shuffled the cards and dealt them again. In your
case Gifford seems to have proved a success."
"How do you know that?" asked the old man, rudely.
"You are anxious to promote him."
"On your recommendation. 'A brilliant journalist' you called him," cried
Ebenezer Brown.
"And he has been with you six months. Surely you know him by this time?"
"Perhaps you know a better," suggested the old man.
"I know few worse, and I know one man the very man for 'The Observer';
but I doubt if he will come to you," said the editor.
"Why not?" asked Ebenezer Brown.
"Because you sweat your employes. No man but O'Connor would have worked
as editor for the pittance you paid him. Cairns certainly will require a
fair salary and a free hand before he gives 'The Observer' a chance."
Ebenezer Brown recognised the truth of what the editor said. His chief
regret was that Michael O'Connor had not lived for ever. However, after
prolonged negotiations, he accepted Cairns on the latter's own terms.
It was another matter, however, when the editor demanded a more capable
lieutenant than Gifford. Here he found Ebenezer Brown inexorable, for
the sub-editor was linked to him by the triple bonds of flattery,
usefulness, and influence. He made it a rule to regard Ebenezer's every
action as perfection; outside the office he assisted the old man in his
business affairs; and he brought influence to bear in buttressing his
position against the assaults of his chief. The consequence was that he
remained as nominal sub-editor, while Cairns deputed Desmond O'Connor to
do the work. Gifford, recognising the slight, bore his chief and
subordinate no love, but, being unable to injure Cairns, bent himself to
take his revenge from the reporter.
It was in his power to make his subordinate's life unpleasant, and this
he accomplished to the utmost limit of his capability. But he was not
satisfied with this; his purpose in life was to ruin Desmond. He sowed
the seeds of dislike in Ebenezer Brown's mind--an easy thing to
accomplish when one was so careless as Desmond O'Connor.
Sketches he left lying about, and verses of poetry which were like
pointed barbs in the flesh of Ebenezer Brown. But when the old man
turned to Cairns suggesting the dismissal of the reporter, he received
small encouragement from the editor.
"O'Connor is careless; I grant that. He is still a boy, and he acts on
impulses, often mistaken ones. He is very clever with his pencil, and
does not care a hang whom he caricatures. He has even had the cheek to
sketch me. I saw it.
"And me, too," growled Ebenezer.
"I saw that, too. I suppose Gifford exhibited it to you?" said Cairns.
"Never mind how I saw it. It is impudence, insubordination,
ingratitude," replied the old man.
"Hem!" coughed the editor, dubiously.
"Look what his father owed to me."
"And you to O'Connor," suggested Cairns. "I should put the ingratitude
on one side. O'Connor can go if you like, and I shall also retire."
"Oh, nonsense, Cairns! You have a good billet cried Ebenezer.
"No better than I deserve, I assure you. The long and short of it is
that I will not allow the petty jealousy of Gifford to deprive me of an
invaluable assistant. This is an ultimatum."
Ebenezer Brown retired, grumbling to himself, while Cairns sought
Desmond O'Connor.
"You are a hopeless young dog," he said, picking up a sketch. "A
racehorse! I presume you bet?"
"Just a trifle now and again," replied the reporter, carelessly. "I won
a tenner over that horse."
"Knowing the prejudices of your chief, I am surprised at you. Ebenezer
Brown detests racehorses."
"It runs in the blood, sir. My father was worse than I. He would have
owned this paper but for a horse and jockey. The horse would have won
the Melbourne Cup but that it did not fall in with the jockey's plans.
The governor turned to Ebenezer Brown for assistance, and mortgaged 'The
Observer,' The old man should be eternally grateful to racehorses."
"And here am I for ever fighting your battles. Why don't you help me? If
Ebenezer Brown knows that you gamble, he will shoot you out,"
remonstrated Cairns.
"He knew the governor's besetting sin, and never so much as remonstrated
with him," said Desmond.
"Because your father was invaluable to him, and cheap, neither of which
qualifications you possess. There is another matter against you--in
fact, several other matters. You dabble in theatricals."
Desmond O'Connor laughed.
"Do you object to theatricals?" he asked.
"Not in the least, excepting from a humanitarian point of view. My only
charge against your company is that you contemplate the mutilation of
'As You Like It.'"
"Better to aim high," suggested Desmond O'Connor, "than to be content
with second-rate melodrama. We have a capable instructor, and we are
very humble, I assure you. Our attitude is one of deprecation; be
merciful our prayer."
"Do you deserve mercy," asked the editor, "rendering none? But let that
pass. You at least, I am told, are among the passable players. But
Ebenezer Brown abhors plays and players; he detests billiards and cards;
strong drink is anathema to him. How can you expect to keep your
position--an actor, a billiard player, exponent of bridge, and one who
shouts and is shouted?"
"I can only rely upon your support. All these things are harmless," said
the reporter.
"Undoubtedly harmless in moderation. But the owner of this paper regards
horses, cards and billiards merely as media for gambling; he cannot
discriminate between cards as a pleasant relaxation and as a method for
playing 'beggar my neighbour.' Plays and strong drink he associates with
other vices. If you were a good and prudent young man, you would hide
your vices under a pious exterior--for home consumption."
"Hypocrisy!" cried Desmond O'Connor. "I would rather be anything than a
hypocrite. What right has old Ebenezer Brown to come dictating to me and
preaching piety? Have you heard his history?"
"Snatches of it," said Cairns. "It is the history of many other
successful men."
"He is a robber, a mere bird of prey. He has built on the ruins of
widows and orphans.' The whole town knows what he is, and he deceives no
man, excepting Gifford and himself. Does he expect to deceive the
Almighty?"
A sound behind them, half a cry and half a curse, caused the two men to
turn towards the door. There stood Ebenezer Brown, his accustomed pallor
changed to an unhealthy purple.
"Go!" he cried, barely able to articulate the word in his rage, as he
pointed an attenuated finger towards the door. "You are an insubordinate
young dog! Go at once!"
"One minute, Mr. Brown. I warned you that no one should dismiss my
subordinates but I. If O'Connor goes, I follow him."
"As you please," gasped the old man. "There are others as clever as you,
and infinitely less expensive. You ungrateful young scapegrace!" he
added, turning on Desmond, "I have been a friend to you and to your
family. But for me you would have starved."
With this he stalked out of the office, leaving the other men smiling
broadly in each other's faces at this outburst of impotent rage.
"I am a stubborn sort of person," said Cairns, "and I rather like this
locality. Shall we stay in Grey Town and fight him?"
Desmond eyed his superior with an unaffected surprise.
"Fight him? But how?" he asked.
"Come round to me to-night--no, to-morrow night, young man. I must see
one or two men of business in the town. After my interviews we will
discuss the best means of fighting Ebenezer."
"Shall we take the old man at his word, and leave him in the lurch? Do
you think he could run 'The Observer' for himself?" asked Desmond.
"No, Desmond; here I stay until he finds a successor. I love the old
'Observer,' and I am responsible for it while I remain on the staff.
After I go, I may take my revenge out of the ancient sinner."
That day the work proceeded as usual. During the course of it a man came
into the office and asked for Desmond O'Connor. He was a big man, with a
good-humoured, ugly face, surmounted by curly black hair. He was tanned
by the sun, and his blue-grey Irish eyes peeped out from the
reddish-brown surroundings of his face. He had a determined mouth and
chin, a jaw that spoke of a struggle with the world, and of success in
that battle.
"You are O'Connor?" he asked Desmond when he appeared. "I am Quirk, the
long lost and recently returned. Did Miss O'Connor speak of me?"
"She did," replied Desmond, "and of your adventures. Could you favour me
with a brief recital of your career?"
"For copy? No, my lad; I am reserving that for my own paper. Any chance
for another paper here?" he asked, casually.
"You had better not ask me. I am still an employe of The Observer.'"
"Still? Do you anticipate a move?" asked Quirk, leaning half over the
counter.
"I do. I have my marching orders."
"Been playing up, eh? Well, I was a holy terror at your age. I made the
old dad's life a torment to him, and sowed a bushel of grey hairs in the
mother's head. Is the boss in?"
"Cairns? Yes, I think so."
"Approachable?" asked Quirk.
"Sometimes," replied Desmond.
"What sort of forecast to-day--stormy?"
"Knock at his door, and let him answer for himself."
"Right. I will see you as I go out."
He went to the editor's door, and knocked violently. There was no
response, and he knocked again--more violently. Then the door opened
suddenly, and Cairns confronted him in a white fury.
"Now, what the dickens, sir," cried the editor, "brings your big
battering ram of a fist in contact with my door? Nature provides
earthquakes in these parts without your assistance, you noisy devil!"
"Who are you shouting at?" answered Quirk, in an equal fury. "Can't a
man tap gently----."
"Tap gently! What sort of a disturbance happens when you knock loudly?
What do you want with me?"
"Nothing now. I came to speak to a man, and I find a grizzly bear. Can't
a man who has come from the other side of creation call on a local
celebrity but he must have his nose snapped off? Good-day to you, sir!"
Cairns' sense of the humorous saved the situation. Recovering quickly
from his irritation, he burst into a roar of laughter. This, for the
moment, only added to the other man's indignation.
"Are you laughing at me, sir?" he asked.
"No, I was laughing at myself. I apologise to you; but you came at a
moment when I was hopelessly busy," replied Cairns.
Quirk's face relaxed into a grim smile. He regarded the thin, humorous
face of the editor attentively. Satisfied with his survey, he said:
"Well, I won't bother you just now. I know what it is to be in a tearing
hurry. I ran a newspaper myself in the States; you have to be here,
there, and everywhere to do that. Can't trust to anyone but yourself,
can you?"
"Not a living soul. But I will give you five minutes if you slip
inside."
Quirk entered the editor's office, and the door closed. In half an
hour's time it opened again, and the two men came out together.
"Five minutes!" laughed Quirk as he shook Cairns' hand at the door.
"You are such a fascinating man that the minutes have slipped away
unnoticed. You will be at my room to-night?"
"Of course I will. Hard at it, young man?" he asked, with a friendly nod
to Desmond.
"A twopenny-ha'penny report of a twopenny-ha'penny meeting," replied
Desmond, contemptuously.
"Make it spicy; touch it up with a little humour. That's the way to make
journalism attractive. Cover a commonplace incident with the mantle of
merriment, and make the world laugh. Lord, how we love a good honest
laugh!"
With this he went briskly out of the office, and Desmond turned to his
task with a renewed interest. There was a point here and a sentence
there that might be made humorous. When the speakers read his report of
what they had spoken, they discovered that there was, after all, a
latent wit in them hitherto quite unsuspected. Those who had been
privileged to hear them discovered that remarks had been made at which
they had laughed, and that the speakers were not such prosy old fossils
as they had suspected.
"That man Quirk knows the secret of the new journalism," said Cairns to
Desmond. "It is not truth, or even a make-believe truth; it is to arouse
your readers' interest. Tickle them with humour; stuff them with the
sensational; let everything be brand-new. We will make the old
'Observer' gallop to beat us."
Desmond raised his eyebrows and waited to hear more, but Cairns turned
on his heel, saying:
"In a short time I may satisfy your curiosity, O'Connor; but there's a
lot to be done first."