Sir Lulworth Quayne was making a leisurely progress through the
Zoological Society’s Gardens in company with his nephew, recently
returned from Mexico. The latter was interested in comparing and
contrasting allied types of animals occurring in the North American and
Old World fauna.
“One of the most remarkable things in the wanderings of species,” he
observed, “is the sudden impulse to trek and migrate that breaks out now
and again, for no apparent reason, in communities of hitherto
stay-at-home animals.”
“In human affairs the same phenomenon is occasionally noticeable,” said
Sir Lulworth; “perhaps the most striking instance of it occurred in this
country while you were away in the wilds of Mexico. I mean the wander
fever which suddenly displayed itself in the managing and editorial
staffs of certain London newspapers. It began with the stampede of the
entire staff of one of our most brilliant and enterprising weeklies to
the banks of the Seine and the heights of Montmartre. The migration was
a brief one, but it heralded an era of restlessness in the Press world
which lent quite a new meaning to the phrase ‘newspaper circulation.’
Other editorial staffs were not slow to imitate the example that had been
set them. Paris soon dropped out of fashion as being too near home;
Nürnberg, Seville, and Salonica became more favoured as planting-out
grounds for the personnel of not only weekly but daily papers as well.
The localities were perhaps not always well chosen; the fact of a leading
organ of Evangelical thought being edited for two successive fortnights
from Trouville and Monte Carlo was generally admitted to have been a
mistake. And even when enterprising and adventurous editors took
themselves and their staffs further afield there were some unavoidable
clashings. For instance, the _Scrutator_, _Sporting Bluff_, and _The
Damsels’ Own Paper_ all pitched on Khartoum for the same week. It was,
perhaps, a desire to out-distance all possible competition that
influenced the management of the _Daily Intelligencer_, one of the most
solid and respected organs of Liberal opinion, in its decision to
transfer its offices for three or four weeks from Fleet Street to Eastern
Turkestan, allowing, of course, a necessary margin of time for the
journey there and back. This was, in many respects, the most remarkable
of all the Press stampedes that were experienced at this time. There was
no make-believe about the undertaking; proprietor, manager, editor,
sub-editors, leader-writers, principal reporters, and so forth, all took
part in what was popularly alluded to as the _Drang nach Osten_; an
intelligent and efficient office-boy was all that was left in the
deserted hive of editorial industry.”
“That was doing things rather thoroughly, wasn’t it?” said the nephew.
“Well, you see,” said Sir Lulworth, “the migration idea was falling
somewhat into disrepute from the half-hearted manner in which it was
occasionally carried out. You were not impressed by the information that
such and such a paper was being edited and brought out at Lisbon or
Innsbruck if you chanced to see the principal leader-writer or the art
editor lunching as usual at their accustomed restaurants. The _Daily
Intelligencer_ was determined to give no loophole for cavil at the
genuineness of its pilgrimage, and it must be admitted that to a certain
extent the arrangements made for transmitting copy and carrying on the
usual features of the paper during the long outward journey worked
smoothly and well. The series of articles which commenced at Baku on
‘What Cobdenism might do for the camel industry’ ranks among the best of
the recent contributions to Free Trade literature, while the views on
foreign policy enunciated ‘from a roof in Yarkand’ showed at least as
much grasp of the international situation as those that had germinated
within half a mile of Downing Street. Quite in keeping, too, with the
older and better traditions of British journalism was the manner of the
home-coming; no bombast, no personal advertisement, no flamboyant
interviews. Even a complimentary luncheon at the Voyagers’ Club was
courteously declined. Indeed, it began to be felt that the
self-effacement of the returned pressmen was being carried to a pedantic
length. Foreman compositors, advertisement clerks, and other members of
the non-editorial staff, who had, of course, taken no part in the great
trek, found it as impossible to get into direct communication with the
editor and his satellites now that they had returned as when they had
been excusably inaccessible in Central Asia. The sulky, overworked
office-boy, who was the one connecting link between the editorial brain
and the business departments of the paper, sardonically explained the new
aloofness as the ‘Yarkand manner.’ Most of the reporters and sub-editors
seemed to have been dismissed in autocratic fashion since their return
and new ones engaged by letter; to these the editor and his immediate
associates remained an unseen presence, issuing its instructions solely
through the medium of curt typewritten notes. Something mystic and
Tibetan and forbidden had replaced the human bustle and democratic
simplicity of pre-migration days, and the same experience was encountered
by those who made social overtures to the returned wanderers. The most
brilliant hostess of Twentieth Century London flung the pearl of her
hospitality into the unresponsive trough of the editorial letter-box; it
seemed as if nothing short of a Royal command would drag the
hermit-souled _revenants_ from their self-imposed seclusion. People
began to talk unkindly of the effect of high altitudes and Eastern
atmosphere on minds and temperaments unused to such luxuries. The
Yarkand manner was not popular.”
“And the contents of the paper,” said the nephew, “did they show the
influence of the new style?”
“Ah!” said Sir Lulworth, “that was the exciting thing. In home affairs,
social questions, and the ordinary events of the day not much change was
noticeable. A certain Oriental carelessness seemed to have crept into
the editorial department, and perhaps a note of lassitude not unnatural
in the work of men who had returned from what had been a fairly arduous
journey. The aforetime standard of excellence was scarcely maintained,
but at any rate the general lines of policy and outlook were not departed
from. It was in the realm of foreign affairs that a startling change
took place. Blunt, forcible, outspoken articles appeared, couched in
language which nearly turned the autumn manœuvres of six important Powers
into mobilisations. Whatever else the _Daily Intelligencer_ had learned
in the East, it had not acquired the art of diplomatic ambiguity. The
man in the street enjoyed the articles and bought the paper as he had
never bought it before; the men in Downing Street took a different view.
The Foreign Secretary, hitherto accounted a rather reticent man, became
positively garrulous in the course of perpetually disavowing the
sentiments expressed in the _Daily Intelligencer’s_ leaders; and then one
day the Government came to the conclusion that something definite and
drastic must be done. A deputation, consisting of the Prime Minister,
the Foreign Secretary, four leading financiers, and a well-known
Nonconformist divine, made its way to the offices of the paper. At the
door leading to the editorial department the way was barred by a nervous
but defiant office-boy.
“‘You can’t see the editor nor any of the staff,’ he announced.
“‘We insist on seeing the editor or some responsible person,’ said the
Prime Minister, and the deputation forced its way in. The boy had spoken
truly; there was no one to be seen. In the whole suite of rooms there
was no sign of human life.
“‘Where is the editor?’ ‘Or the foreign editor?’ ‘Or the chief
leader-writer? Or anybody?’
“In answer to the shower of questions the boy unlocked a drawer and
produced a strange-looking envelope, which bore a Khokand postmark, and a
date of some seven or eight months back. It contained a scrap of paper
on which was written the following message:
“‘Entire party captured by brigand tribe on homeward journey.
Quarter of million demanded as ransom, but would probably take less.
Inform Government, relations, and friends.’
“There followed the signatures of the principal members of the party and
instructions as to how and where the money was to be paid.
“The letter had been directed to the office-boy-in-charge, who had
quietly suppressed it. No one is a hero to one’s own office-boy, and he
evidently considered that a quarter of a million was an unwarrantable
outlay for such a doubtfully advantageous object as the repatriation of
an errant newspaper staff. So he drew the editorial and other salaries,
forged what signatures were necessary, engaged new reporters, did what
sub-editing he could, and made as much use as possible of the large
accumulation of special articles that was held in reserve for
emergencies. The articles on foreign affairs were entirely his own
composition.
“Of course the whole thing had to be kept as quiet as possible; an
interim staff, pledged to secrecy, was appointed to keep the paper going
till the pining captives could be sought out, ransomed, and brought home,
in twos and threes to escape notice, and gradually things were put back
on their old footing. The articles on foreign affairs reverted to the
wonted traditions of the paper.”
“But,” interposed the nephew, “how on earth did the boy account to the
relatives all those months for the non-appearance—”
“That,” said Sir Lulworth, “was the most brilliant stroke of all. To the
wife or nearest relative of each of the missing men he forwarded a
letter, copying the handwriting of the supposed writer as well as he
could, and making excuses about vile pens and ink; in each letter he told
the same story, varying only the locality, to the effect that the writer,
alone of the whole party, was unable to tear himself away from the wild
liberty and allurements of Eastern life, and was going to spend several
months roaming in some selected region. Many of the wives started off
immediately in pursuit of their errant husbands, and it took the
Government a considerable time and much trouble to reclaim them from
their fruitless quests along the banks of the Oxus, the Gobi Desert, the
Orenburg steppe, and other outlandish places. One of them, I believe, is
still lost somewhere in the Tigris Valley.”
“And the boy?”
“Is still in journalism.”