One morning not long after the conversation which has been recorded in
the previous chapter, Tomlin said to Herbert:
“See here, old chap, you are not going to throw up the sponge--I know
you’re not. You’ve got too much grit and pluck for any such thing as
that.”
“What do you mean?” asked Herbert, staring at him in an unmeaning way.
“What do I mean? I mean that you’ve got to employ strategy. When a
soldier gets in a tight fix with the enemy, he uses the brains with
which he is endowed for the purpose of extricating himself. So it is
with the lawyer, with the business man and with mortals generally--”
“What in the world are you driving at?” interrupted Herbert.
“I know what I’m driving at,” replied the other. “Listen to what I have
to say, and then try to answer me intelligently. Can you write a good
Sunday newspaper story?”
“Can I? Why you know--”
“Of course, of course I know,” cut in Tomlin, “I only asked you
that question as a matter of form. I want you to go out and get a
first-class special story. Write it up in your most attractive style,
typewrite it on the machine we have in this room, and give it to me by
this time to-morrow.”
The hearty manner of his friend furnished just the sort of inspiration
that Herbert needed at that particular time. He went out during the
day and visited the various places where he would be likely to obtain
material for a special story. It grew quite late and he was still
without anything upon which he could base the sort of article that
would answer to the vivid description furnished by Tomlin. On his way
back to his room he stopped at an Old Man’s Home to enjoy a chat with
the superintendent, who had been his friend while he was on the Argus,
and had sometimes rendered him valuable assistance.
“Anything doing about here, Smith?” he asked.
“No,” replied the superintendent, “not a thing. This is the slowest
week we have had for a long while. It’s as dull as dishwater.”
“Sorry to hear that,” responded Herbert; “I thought in a large
community of this kind something was always happening.”
“No,” responded the other, “nothing worth printing. I’ve got a good
joke on one of the old fellows upstairs, however. He was knocked out
by a bat last night.”
“By a bat?” queried Herbert.
“Yes. You see the old chap was a colonel in the Civil War--one of the
bravest men that ever led a regiment. Well, while he was reading a
bat flew into the room, and the things that happened during the next
half hour were funny enough to make a sick cat well. The old colonel
picked up his cane and chased that bird all around the room. The light
bewildered the bat and caused it to flounder around so blindly that
half of the ornaments in the room were broken. The colonel thought he
had it at one time, though, and lifted up his cane to give the bird its
death blow; but he missed by a hair, and instead of killing the pesky
thing, he smashed two big vases that stood on the mantel-piece. Then
when he made another lunge at it his stick went through an oil painting
which I believe has been in his family for nearly a hundred years. It
was daylight before that bird was thrust out of the room, and when the
first streak of dawn penetrated into the apartment the floors and walls
resembled some place which had just finished an unsuccessful siege with
the enemy.”
“Why, that’s a pretty good story,” cried Herbert quickly, “and if you
will give me the privilege of talking to the old colonel and the chance
to look at that room, I will thank you to the day of my death.”
The superintendent was only too well pleased to do this. Herbert
obtained a picture of the valiant soldier, and borrowing a camera
from one of the inmates, made a photograph of the dismantled room.
He hurried home, and before midnight had succeeded in grinding out
an exceedingly interesting special which was entitled “The Story of
the Union Soldier and the Bat.” He turned this over to Tomlin in the
morning, and when they met in the evening again that young man said
with a considerable degree of self-satisfaction:
“Your story is accepted and will be printed, and you will be paid for
it on the first of the month.”
“But I--they--” began Herbert.
“Oh,” interrupted the other impatiently, “I know what you are going
to say. I know that you are blacklisted, but that has nothing to do
with the case. A man must earn a living, and you have a right to your
bread and butter. Besides this is a justifiable deception. I am going
to keep on selling your stuff as my own as long as you have wit enough
to write. The articles will be typewritten, and the editors who buy
them from me will not know the difference except,” with a little laugh,
“they will be a little more brilliant than the kind I am in the habit
of writing.”
“You think it’s all right?” ventured Herbert.
“Of course it’s all right. Where’s the harm? No name is signed to the
articles. The newspapers get the worth of their money. The readers are
satisfied. You are reimbursed, and I am gratified. What more would you
want?”
Herbert soon came around to this way of thinking, and then and there
started in on another article, which proved equally as saleable as the
first. Elated by the success of these two articles, he planned a series
of Sunday specials, chiefly sketches of odd phases of life in New York
City. He was industry personified, and worked so adroitly in gathering
his facts that his identity was fully concealed. One morning, just as
he was about to leave the house he received a letter; and on tearing
open the envelope, found that it was dated from a small town in the
northern part of Connecticut. It was as follows:
“DEAR HERBERT:
“I would be an ingrate of the meanest type if I did not write to you
and acknowledge the great debt which I owe to you now, and which I
will continue to owe till the day of my death. I fully realize that
if it had not been for your interference and kindness I would have
been arrested, and myself and the members of my family disgraced. But
sometimes bad beginnings have good results, and the merest incidents
prove to be the turning point in a man’s career. I am satisfied now
that the little episode which occurred at the post office a few
weeks ago is going to prove the making of me. I know that I have
been indolent and worthless; that I was foolish enough to contract
bad and vicious associations, and that I have been guilty of many
disreputable things. Somehow or other I went along doing these things
without thinking of the meanness that was involved in them. Looking
back upon them now, I can see very readily how little incidents
repeated many times led to bad habits, and how these bad habits were
gradually undermining my whole character.
“I do not ask you to believe me, but I am going to tell you just
the same, that from the instant you gave me the kindly warning in
the post office building I made up my mind that if I were given the
opportunity I would lead a better life in the future. I am now making
this effort with all the courage at my command. It’s a hard job,
but I believe that I am going to come out a winner. I have secured
honest employment in this little town, and I intend to remain here
till I am fully satisfied that I am fit to associate with manly and
self-respecting persons like yourself. Kindly consider this letter
sent in confidence, and not to be revealed till you hear from me
further.
“Very truly yours,
“ARTHUR BLACK.”
Herbert was delighted with this missive. It repaid him for the great
sacrifice he had made--not for Arthur Black--but for his sister. His
first thought was to call on Mary and assure her that her brother was
alive and well; but upon mature reflection he abandoned this as being
unwise. From that day, however, Herbert put more heart into his work.
He still depended upon his voluntary contributions to the newspapers,
and while he longed for a permanent position on the staff of one of the
large dailies, he felt that he would have to bide his time before he
reached such a desirable post.
During these days he often thought of his father, and more than once
he recalled the dramatic scene when his father and the strange visitor
were seated at the table together in their little home at Cleverly. He
had frequently resolved to run out the mystery of that night, and now
he vowed it with more than usual vehemence. Everywhere he went he tried
to discover some signs of the queer stranger. It seemed a hopeless
task, but he resolved to persist in it till the end. One evening, while
he was walking down Cortlandt street, his gaze was attracted by a big,
broad-shouldered man who was walking along the street four or five
yards in advance of him. There was something very familiar about those
bulky shoulders. He looked again, and as his glance traveled upward
he suddenly realized that the man had a shock of bushy red hair.
Recognition was instantaneous; it was the man he had been looking for
for so long. He pushed his way through the crowd, and at one time was
almost able to reach the mysterious person by stretching out his hands;
but at that critical moment a heavily laden truck intervened, and the
queer one gained several yards on him. It was evident that he was
making for the ferry house to take the boat which ran to Jersey City.
Just before they reached the pier the bell began to ring its warning
signal. The crowd hurried. The man with the red hair and the bulky
shoulders ran rapidly towards the boat, with Herbert after him panting
for breath.
“Hurry up!” shouted the gateman to the approaching crowd.
The big man redoubled his speed, and just as he entered the ferry
slip and got aboard the bell rang for the second time, the iron gate
was slammed to with a bang, and Herbert found himself standing on the
wharf, gazing at the boat churning its way towards the shores of New
Jersey.