The shock of discovering Arthur Black so unexpectedly and under such
damaging circumstances completely unnerved Herbert Harkins. For many
seconds he stood there staring at Arthur as if he were some ghostly
phantom who had suddenly appeared from the grave. By degrees Herbert
began to realize the compromising position in which he had placed
himself. The detective stood only a few yards away eagerly watching the
scene and awaiting the moment when he would be called upon to place
Arthur Black under arrest. Herbert did not turn around, but felt that
the sleuth was there, ready to perform the act which was to be the
capstone of a remarkably clever piece of newspaper work.
In that brief period of time his mind traveled with lightning like
rapidity. He thought of his troubles in the country. He remembered
the incident when he had punished Arthur. He recalled the threatened
disgrace which had preceded his father’s sudden death. He remembered
his work on the Cleverly Banner, and then by easy stages his mind
reverted to his arrival in New York, his employment on the Argus, and
finally to his meeting with Mary Black on that very morning. He thought
of Blakeley, the city editor, impatiently waiting for the announcement
that his big story was to be a success and that the Argus could pride
itself not only upon a notable scoop, but also upon the exposure of a
set of swindlers who had preyed remorselessly upon the public.
What should he do? His duty seemed clear and unavoidable. Surely one
would have to suffer for the benefit of the many. Besides that the
eyes of the detective were upon him, and his failure to do the right
thing at this moment might lead to his complete downfall. From this
thought his mind reverted to every detail of the impressive interview
which he had held with Mary Black a little more than an hour before.
A voice within him urged him to be faithful to his promise, no matter
what personal loss he might suffer. He had given her his pledge that
if he ever met Arthur Black he would lend him a helping hand; that if
he was in trouble he would succor him; that if he was in danger he
would save him. For what seemed to be a very long time he was torn with
conflicting emotions. Many minutes seemed to elapse--in reality it
was only a few seconds. He reached his decision quickly, and he acted
promptly. Putting his arm on Arthur’s shoulder, he whispered, almost
hissed, into the latter’s ear:
“You are on the verge of ruin. I have been sent here to arrest you. A
detective is standing a few yards away. If you wish to avoid arrest,
exposure and disgrace, run--run for your life.”
Arthur clutched convulsively at the grip in his right hand and gave a
hurried look about him. His glance fell upon the short, stockily built
man with the little twinkling eyes, who stood only a few yards distant.
Some instinct seemed to tell Arthur that this was the detective, that
this was the one man he should avoid. As quick as thought, he turned
on his heel and made a dash in the opposite direction. The detective
noting the movement, started to follow him; but Herbert shouldering his
way against some people who were standing between them, got in front of
the detective and completely blocked his way.
“Move aside,” said the officer angrily, “don’t you see that that fellow
is getting away? Move aside, I tell you!”
By this time the crowd in the corridor had become so dense that it was
almost impassable. It was quite evident that Arthur had made his escape
and in all probability was now out of harm’s way. Herbert turned to
the detective and said in a low tone:
“It’s the wrong fellow, old man; it’s all a mistake.”
The little twinkling eyes looked searchingly into Herbert’s face. What
he saw there satisfied him. The pale face, the look of despair, the
nervous manner were sufficient to indicate that the young man had just
passed through a crisis. It would be useless to argue with him. The
detective did not attempt it. He buttoned up his coat, pulled his hat
down more firmly over his head, and walked away, muttering:
“Well, this is the queerest game I’ve ever been up against in all my
career.”
After the detective left him, Herbert moved over to one of the big
windows in the post office corridor, and leaning his elbows on the
sill, stood there for some time musing upon the incidents that had just
occurred. He recalled with a feeling of sadness Tomlin’s prophetic
words: “An opportunity may come to you to do some big bit of work, and
it will either break you or make you.”
The opportunity had come much quicker than he had anticipated, and
unless all signs failed it would prove to be the cause of his undoing.
He wondered in a numb sort of way how he was ever going to face
Blakeley. He had started out on this assignment with a great display
of enthusiasm. Indeed, now that he looked back upon it he had acted
with considerable presumption. He had as good as boasted of the ease
with which he intended to handle the case, and now it was all ended
in an inglorious fizzle. The thought of a face to face encounter with
Blakeley was decidedly chilling. Blakeley, while possessing many
charming personal traits, was one of the hardest taskmasters in the
office. Herbert shrank at the thought of going before him without the
coveted story. He even contemplated the notion of not returning to the
office at all; but this bit of cowardice was soon overcome as a thought
not to be seriously considered for an instant. He would return to the
office; he would face the music like a man; and he would take his
medicine--no matter how bitter--without making any faces.
He left the post office building to go to the Argus office; but
somehow or other he could not summon up sufficient courage to undergo
the dreadful ordeal; so he walked up Broadway, mingling with the
crowd, looking in the shop windows and trying to forget the terrible
details of the most unpleasant incident of his life. After awhile he
turned off Broadway and walked in the direction of Fifth Avenue. When
he had reached that fashionable thoroughfare he bent his footsteps
towards Central Park. By this time it was late in the afternoon. The
fashionable turnouts of the rich and the prosperous were going up the
avenue, skilfully guided through the crowded street by richly liveried
drivers who seemed to know every inch of the ground. Still Herbert
walked on and on, seemingly unconscious of what he was doing. The
approach of dusk brought him to his senses. He must go to the office
and go there as quickly as possible.
He jumped on a ’bus that was going down-town, and at the intersection
where the Avenue joins Broadway he alighted and boarded one of the
surface cars. It was quite dusk when he reached the Argus office, and
walking into the local room in an uncertain manner, he noticed that
most of the men were out and that Blakeley was seated at his desk
alone. The city editor was puffing at a big cigar, and did not notice
the entrance of the young reporter.
Herbert was the first to speak.
“Mr. Blakeley,” he said, in a hushed sort of voice.
The city editor turned around like a flash.
“Hello there, Harkins,” he said eagerly; “I’ve been waiting for you all
the afternoon. How did the thing pan out?”
“It didn’t pan out at all,” said Herbert in a hesitating, halting way.
“What do you mean?” cried the other, his tone perceptibly hardening.
“I mean that I have no story,” this in a slightly firmer voice.
“No story?” shouted the other, “why what are you talking about anyhow?
There must be a story.”
“There was a story,” rejoined Herbert, now throwing all precaution to
the winds; “but I can’t write it.”
“Can’t write it? Why, you’re crazy, man. What are you talking about?”
The city editor was thoroughly angry now. He arose from his chair and
stood towering before Herbert. In his rage he threw his freshly lighted
cigar into the cuspidor with a savage movement of his hand. He stamped
his foot on the floor fiercely.
“There is no use talking about this matter any longer. You go to your
desk and write this thing and have your copy ready as soon as possible.”
“I can’t write it,” said Herbert, now speaking in a voice that was
scarcely audible.
Blakeley was silent, trying hard to control his rising passion. When he
spoke his voice sounded almost like a hiss.
“You understand what this means, don’t you--you know what it will cost
you?”
“Yes,” said Herbert, looking up; “I understand, and I resign my
position as a reporter on the Argus.”
“Your resignation is accepted,” said the other shortly; “but I call
upon you to do the work that you were assigned to perform, before
leaving this office.”
“I can’t do it,” said Herbert; “on my honor I cannot do it.”
“But what explanation have you to give?”
Herbert looked up helplessly. For a moment a desire to tell the whole
story to Blakeley took possession of him. The next minute it was
dismissed as impracticable. Blakeley was a man without any heart or
feeling. He felt convinced of this, and felt likewise that if the facts
were once in the city editor’s possession the story would have to be
written regardless of the private anguish it might cause. So he stood
there speechless before his superior.
“Go!” finally shouted Blakeley, pointing to the door. “But when you go
remember that you go in disgrace. You are like an engineer who would
leave his train in the middle of the journey, or a pilot who would
desert his ship in a storm at sea. Go, and never let me see you again.”
Herbert left the room with a flushed face and downcast eyes. He avoided
the elevator. The thought of meeting with anyone at a time like this
grated upon his feelings. He walked down the stairway with a heart as
heavy as lead. He felt mortified and angry by turns. He mentally blamed
Blakeley for his coarse manner and the ugly scolding he had given
him. The next second he admitted to himself that Blakeley was fully
justified in what he had said and done. Indeed, from the standpoint of
the news and of duty, he could find no possible justification for his
own conduct.
Presently he got out into Park Row and was soon in the midst of the
pushing, bustling crowd. It was quite dark now, and the rush to the
bridge was at its height. Myriads of electric lights shone brightly
all about him. Cars rushed by, with motormen sounding their gongs
continuously. Wagon drivers shouted and shrieked and pulled at their
horses, and thousands of pedestrians laughed and shouted as they
hurriedly went their way. Herbert, in a vague sort of way, wondered how
they could all be so happy when he felt so miserable. Nothing seemed
the same to him. Some mysterious change appeared to have overcome the
face of New York since he had left his home early that morning; but in
reality things moved on as before. Herbert’s philosophy did not realize
that the world moves on day by day and night by night, regardless of
the joys or the woes of the individual.
He soon reached his lodgings and quietly let himself in the door by
means of his latch-key. He struck a light and gazed about curiously
at the familiar things in the little apartment. Everything in the room
seemed to look at him in a reproachful manner. Strange as it may seem,
it was some moments before he became accustomed to being alone. Then
he picked up a book and tried to read; but it was a dismal failure. He
walked the floor for a long, long while. There was a lump in his throat
that he could not remove. Presently he sank down into a chair and
dropped his bowed head into his hands on the table.
“I’ve lost my job,” he groaned to himself. “I’ve done more than that.
I’ve not only lost my place, but I’ve been retired in disgrace.”