"THE OBSERVER" DIES.
Dr. Marsh was in his surgery, skimming the contents of a medical journal
in search of the newer methods of treatment. Now and again he glanced
from the printed pages out of his window at the asphalt path leading
from the gate to his front door, not so much because he expected a
patient as from mere habit. It was an off day in Grey Town, and his
surprise was keen when he chanced to see, not one, but three men
approaching the house.
It had become a custom with him to scan a patient and diagnose a
complaint at long range, and to subsequently confirm or disprove his
first opinion more intimately at closer quarters. Being a shrewd and
observant man, he not infrequently hit a bull's-eye at the first shot.
Scrutinising the three who were coming up the path, he muttered:
"Cairns, Desmond O'Connor, and the ugliest beggar I ever saw! But which
is the patient? Cairns has dyspepsia, I swear; Desmond could not be sick
if he tried; the ugly beggar suffers from nothing worse than his face,
and that is a chronic condition."
Commenting half-audibly in this manner, he hastened to the door and
cried:
"Are you all patients?"
Cairns shook his head sorrowfully. "No such luck, doctor! Beyond a
little discomfort after meals, we are hopelessly sound."
"Are you a deputation, then, come to ask me to represent you in the
Federal Parliament?" asked the doctor.
"It may come to that," said Cairns. "If Burrows does not speedily do
something for Grey Town, we shall need a new member. May I introduce Mr.
Quirk, a new resident and a live citizen?"
Denis Quirk and the doctor shook hands, each regarding the other
curiously the while.
"An insurance agent," said the doctor in the half-audible tone he
sometimes adopted.
To this the others replied with a laugh.
"No fear, doctor!" cried Cairns. "Am I the man to take a mean advantage
of you? We have come here to consult you--not professionally, but as one
who knows this district, alive and dead."
"None better," said Dr. Marsh.
They followed him into a cosy and orderly surgery, and sat down at his
bidding. For his part, the doctor leaned up against the mantelpiece, one
elbow resting on the marble and one arm free.
"Now, then, what is it?" he asked.
"We are contemplating a venture," said Denis Quirk--"a newspaper in
opposition to 'The Observer.'"
Dr. Marsh shook his head emphatically, frowning the while at Denis
Quirk.
"Mental, decidedly mental," he growled. "You have delusions."
Denis Quirk laughed uproariously at this remark. The doctor was a man
after his own heart.
"You don't give it a chance?" he asked.
"Not a thousand to one hope! What do we want with two papers?"
"Precisely!" cried Denis Quirk. "But supposing we were to shoulder 'The
Observer' out of Grey Town?"
"Is Cairns a mutineer?" asked the doctor.
"I am a cast-off. Old Ebenezer Brown has given me marching orders, and I
am looking for a new master," replied Cairns.
Dr. Marsh's face brightened, for he had a consuming hatred for the owner
of 'The Observer.' Even the faintest hope of wounding Ebenezer Brown was
a reason for joy to him.
"It might be done?" he said. "Are you a newspaper man?" he asked Denis
Quirk.
"In the past, and, I hope, in the future. I am tempted to risk a battle
with 'The Observer.' With Cairns and O'Connor, myself, and one or two
others--yourself, for instance, doctor--we might make the old rag
gallop, possibly even beat it, eh?"
"Stop a minute. Do any of you drink?" asked the doctor.
The other men shook their heads.
"Too early," said Cairns. "If we started now, where would we end?"
"Very well, then. Let me have some details before I decide. Who is to
finance the paper?"
"I shall do that, with your help, if you like, leaving the public to pay
us principal and interest when we have destroyed Ebenezer Brown and his
organ," said Denis Quirk.
"Cairns will be editor, I suppose?" asked the doctor.
"Cairns editor, O'Connor a reporter, myself manager, and Tim O'Neill
printer's devil."
"Tim O'Neill!" laughed the doctor. "Where did you discover that
rapscallion? Molly Healy introduced you to him, I swear."
"I forgot Molly Healy in mentioning the staff. She is to write a series
of articles dealing with the seamy side of Grey Town life and her
methods of reforming the riff-raff. Yes; it was she who brought Tim to
me. 'Here you are!' she cried. 'Tis the wickedest boy in Grey Town. Make
him something useful, and you will be doing a public service to me and
to the town and district.' I engaged him as printer's devil on that
recommendation."
After half an hour of facts and figures, the doctor dismissed his
visitors. He was satisfied that this was not an impossible scheme, and
he even went so far as to accept a portion of the financial burden. This
argued well for the newspaper, for the doctor was a shrewd man.
Ebenezer Brown firmly believed in vested interests when those interests
were his own. Until he was actually faced by "The Mercury," he had
regarded opposition to "The Observer" as impossible. When confronted by
the strong staff of Denis Quirk's paper, he at first began to whine over
the treachery of opposition; then he straightened his back to fight.
Gifford, the sub-editor, had hailed the resignation of Cairns as
promotion to himself; and so it might have proved, but Ebenezer Brown
was far too shrewd to oppose Gifford to Cairns.
"We must find a new editor," he remarked to the former when the rumour
of opposition reached him.
Gifford, with a half promise of the editorial chair in his mind, smiled
blandly.
"You will not forget----," he began.
"I forget everything," snapped Ebenezer Brown, "when I have to fight. I
am going to Melbourne to find a strong editor. After this opposition is
crushed I intend to sack him and place you in charge," he added more
gently, for he liked Gifford, if he really cared for any man.
But the fight was not to end so simply and speedily as the old man
imagined. "The Mercury" dawned on Grey Town, strong, cynical, and up to
date. There were initial troubles with the Cable News Agency, but Cairns
managed to adjust these, against the determined opposition of Ebenezer
Brown. Then came splendid days for the advertising public, when both
newspapers brought down their scale of charges to the very lowest price.
Keen, too, was the demand for copy when Desmond O'Connor and his junior
reporter found themselves opposed to men almost as keen as they. Grey
Town fairly throbbed with excitement, and daily searched the rival
papers to discover which one had outwitted the other. In the office of
"The Mercury" Denis Quirk and Cairns sat together planning new features
to place their paper in advance of its rival. Their first success was
the nobbling of "The Observer's" senior reporter. For this Tim O'Neil
was responsible.
Tim was errand boy, printer's devil, and messenger for "The Mercury,"
and he firmly believed that the newspaper's success was due to his
exertions. All the ingenuity of which he was capable, the boy employed
on behalf of his employers. When the State member came to Grey Town to
make his election speech, Tim O'Neill recognised an opportunity. It was
a notorious fact that "The Observer's" new reporter was addicted to
drink, and, after reporting the speech in full, he slipped into the
"Royal Hart" Hotel, as was his custom, for a glass of whisky, his
shorthand report in his pocket. After him, cautiously, went Tim O'Neill,
and abstracted his notes from his pocket, substituting for them a
spurious copy. Where Tim had secured this false shorthand report history
does not relate, but they were cleverly done, so like and yet so unlike
the original as to be ridiculous. It was this report that appeared in
"The Observer" next morning. In his fury the editor discharged the chief
reporter, and when he went out to re-engage him found that Cairns had
been before him.
"Tim O'Neill, you deserve a sound thrashing," said Denis Quirk when he
heard of the boy's escapade. "But your wages are raised, not as an
incentive to further crimes, but because you have a future before you.
Do you ever study?"
"Just a little. Miss Molly is teaching me," said Tim.
"I must arrange with Burnside to give you a few hours every week. You
will be an editor some day, Tim, if you avoid the rocks," said Denis
Quirk.
That very day Tim came in to Desmond O'Connor, his face the picture of
anxiety. Noting this, Desmond eyed the youth in surprise: then he burst
out in a shout of laughter.
"What are you doing that for?" asked Tim, furiously.
"I never saw you so melancholy before, Tim. What particular sin have you
committed? Or have you lost a far-distant cousin? Confess your guilt,
Tim."
"I suppose you think you're funny?" cried Tim. "I've half a mind to go
and give myself to 'The Observer,' and ruin this blessed old paper."
Desmond O'Connor's shout of laughter brought Cairns from his room,
anxious to share the joke.
"Let us have it at once," he cried. "In this strenuous life a joke is
too precious an event to be wasted. Who made it, you or Tim?"
"Tim is acquiring a high sense of humour," said Desmond. "Tell Mr.
Cairns your awful threat, Tim."
"Yah!" cried Tim, vindictively, "I'll tell Mr. Cairns what I came to
tell you, and leave you to wish you knew it."
Therewith he drew the editor into his room, and closed the doors
carefully.
"They're going to strike, sir, on both papers, for higher wages," he
said in a low voice.
"Who do you mean, Imp?" asked Cairns, addressing the boy by the name he
had especially devised for him.
"The compositors. To-night they're going out to stop both papers."
"Tim O'Neill, you are a perfect mine of information. Providence was
determined to bless 'The Mercury' when it sent us Tim O'Neill. Just run
away now and ask Mr. Quirk if I can see him."
Denis Quirk was at once a diplomatic and a determined man. On hearing
the newest development, he hurried away to interview the prospective
strikers.
"Lay your grievances before me," he said. "If I can put them right with
justice to the proprietors of this paper, it shall be done."
It was the usual story--higher wages and shorter hours, a larger staff,
better paid, with less work to do individually. Denis Quirk offered a
compromise, but this was refused. After half an hour's discussion, he
suddenly broke out into a white heat of anger.
"Do you fancy I can't do without you?" he cried.
The men replied with a burst of ironical laughter.
"I began life as a compositor, and I have not forgotten my trade," he
said. "You can go, every one of you that wants more. But 'The Mercury'
will appear to-morrow, take my tip for that."
Sullenly the men withdrew, to hang about outside the office, watching to
see who would take their places. But no one came from outside, while in
the printing room all was bustle.
"Now, throw off your coats," cried Denis Quirk, "every one of you. You
too, Cairns, and do what I tell you. You, Tim O'Neill, take this
telegram to the post office. We will have a new staff to-morrow, and men
I can rely upon."
In this way "The Mercury" was printed under the greatest difficulties,
but the rival newspaper failed to appear. Ebenezer Brown was stubborn,
and when his editor brought him the news of the threatened strike he
refused to concede anything.
"Not one penny more, and not one second less, will they get from me. Let
them strike," he growled.
"But you must come to terms," said the editor. "You can't afford to miss
one issue of 'The Observer.'"
"I am paying fair wages, and they may fish for a rise," replied Ebenezer
Brown.
The following day, like its rival, "The Observer" was manned again and
working smoothly, but its prestige was hopelessly impaired.
Thenceforward "The Mercury" advanced daily at the expense of the older
paper, until, six weeks after the beginning of the campaign, Ebenezer
Brown went to Denis Quirk to effect a compromise.
Denis was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, his collar off and neckband
loosened, when Ebenezer Brown entered.
"Sit down, Mr. Brown. I will attend to you in five minutes. We are so
confoundedly busy that I must put this through at once."
Ebenezer Brown mumbled something inarticulate and sat down, watching
the pile of papers on the desk in front of the man he hated. After a few
minutes Denis Quirk swung round on the office stool to face him.
"Well, sir, what is it?" he asked. "An advertisement or an obituary
notice of 'The Observer?'"
Ebenezer Brown was rendered speechless with indignation for the moment.
"I didn't come here to be insulted," he growled.
"Then why did you come? Haven't you been throwing insults at me from the
columns of your rag these six weeks past? A man doesn't walk into the
lion's den to have his hand licked by the lion."
"And how have you treated me?" cried Ebenezer Brown. "First you stole my
reporter's copy, then you stole my reporter."
"Stole, sir!" Denis Quirk rang his bell, and Desmond O'Connor entered.
"Kindly take down this gentleman's words, Desmond. Now, Mr. Brown,
please repeat your statement."
"You are an unscrupulous person!" growled the old man.
"You have that down, Desmond? Continue, Mr. Brown," said Denis Quirk.
"Robber! Forger!" cried the old man, roused to fury. "You have neither
manners nor honesty."
Therewith he rose and rushed into the street, and the burst of laughter
that he heard as he went did not tend to make him better pleased or
satisfied.
"Do you intend to prosecute?" asked Desmond O'Connor.
"Prosecute! No, my lad, I only defend actions for libel. If he had used
every term of reproach in every dictionary, I would not be tempted to a
prosecution. I am highly flattered. It proves that I have succeeded in
making the old man uncomfortable, and satisfies me. Just write a
humorous sketch on the little skirmish, but don't give any names. The
town will understand who is the principal character if you manage your
article dexterously and with humour. Bring it to me to touch up when the
sketch is completed."
For two weeks longer "The Observer" struggled on; then Ebenezer Brown
sent an intermediary, in the person of a lawyer, to make terms.
"There is only one possible arrangement--"The Observer" goes out," said
Quirk. "How much does Ebenezer Brown ask?"
"His proposal is to buy 'The Mercury,'" replied the messenger.
"Hopeless! I have started 'The Mercury' as a financial investment and
something more. It is to be a literary battery to galvanise Grey Town
into energy. I really don't care a hang for 'The Observer.' That organ
is dying rapidly; in a few weeks it will be dead. But I am prepared to
pay for a more speedy ending to a useless life," replied Denis Quirk.
"How would a limited proprietary suit you?" asked the lawyer.
"With Ebenezer as a shareholder? Impossible! 'The Mercury' intends to
shoot at old Eb. and his sort. These are the men who are holding back
the wheels of progress. He is a landlord who keeps his premises in a
shocking state, charges big rents, refuses to make repairs, refuses to
build, opposes reasonable rates, and holds one half of the council under
his domination. Ebenezer Brown represents stagnation and corruption, the
last things I intend to countenance."
"Shall I tell him your objection?" laughed the lawyer.
"If it will encourage him to prosecute for libel, I say yes; but you may
use your own discretion. Tell him I will buy 'The Observer' right out
for a sum to be settled by arbitration--buy it out or destroy it."
Thus did it come to pass that "The Observer" disappeared into oblivion,
and in its place came that fiery paper, "The Mercury," respecter of
neither person nor position.
It was "The Mercury" that first breathed on the smouldering ashes of
municipal discontent, and roused the ratepayers of Grey Town to organise
for protection and advancement. Thus was accomplished the first act in a
drama, and thus was fought the initial battle of a long and fierce
campaign.