PAT AND THE PRESS
Pat having steadied and half carried Haldane to his room, Mr. Arnot
demanded of his clerk what had become of the money intrusted to his
care; but his only answer was a stupid, uncomprehending stare.
"Hold his hands," said Mr. Arnot impatiently.
M'Cabe having obeyed, the man of business, whose solicitude in the
affair had no concern with the young man's immeasurable loss, but
related only to his own money, immediately felt in Haldane's pockets for
the envelopes which had contained the thousand dollars in currency. The
envelopes were safe enough--one evidently opened with the utmost care,
and the other torn recklessly--but the money was gone.
When Haldane saw the envelopes, there was a momentary expression of
trouble and perplexity upon his face, and he tried to speak; but his
thick utterance was unintelligible. This gleam of intelligence passed
quickly, however, and the stupor of intoxication reasserted itself. His
heavy eyelids drooped, and Pat with difficulty could keep him on his
feet.
"Toss him there on the lounge; take off his muddy boots. Nothing further
can be done while he is in this beastly condition," said Mr. Arnot, in a
voice that was as harsh as the expression of his face.
The empty envelopes and Mr. Arnot's dark looks suggested a great deal to
Pat, and he saw that one of his "sprees" was an innocent matter compared
with this affair.
"Now, go down to my study and wait there for me."
Pat obeyed in a very steady and decorous manner, for the matter was
assuming such gravity as to sober him completely.
Mr. Arnot satisfied himself that there was no chance of escape from the
windows, and then, after another look of disgust and anger at Haldane,
who was now sleeping heavily, he took the key from the door, and locked
it on the outside.
Descending to his study, the irate gentleman next wrote a note, and gave
it to his porter, saying:
"Take that to the police-headquarters, and ask that it be sent to the
superintendent at once. No mistake, now, as you value your place; and
mind, not a word of all this to any one."
"Faix, sir, I'll be as dumb as an oyster, and do yer biddin' in a
jiffy," said Pat, backing out of the room, and glad to escape from one
whose threatening aspect seemed to forebode evil to any one within his
reach.
"He looks black enough to murther the poor young spalpeen," muttered the
Irishman, as he hastened to do his errand, remembering now with
trepidation that, though he had escaped from his master, the big,
red-faced, stout-armed wife of his bosom was still to be propitiated
after his late prowlings.
When he entered the main street, a light that glimmered from the top of
a tall building suggested how he might obtain that kind of oil which,
cast upon the domestic billows that so often raged in his fourth-floor
back room, was most effective in producing a little temporary
smoothness.
Since the weather was always fouler within his domestic haven than
without, and on this occasion threatened to be at its worst, Pat at one
time half decided not to run into port at all; but the glimmer of the
light already mentioned suggested another course.
Although the night was far spent, Pat still longed for a "wink o' slape"
before going to his work, and, in order to enjoy it, knew that he must
obtain the means of allaying the storm, which was not merely brewing,
but which, from the lateness of the hour, had long been brewed. In his
own opinion, the greenness of his native isle had long ago faded from
his mental and moral complexion, and he did not propose that any stray
dollars, which by any shrewdness or artifice could be diverted into his
pocket, should get by him.
Since his wife had developed into a huge, female divinity, at whose
shrine it seemed probable that he would eventually become a human
sacrifice, and whose wrath, in the meantime, it was his daily task to
appease, Pat had gradually formed the habit of making a sort of
companion of himself. In accordance with his custom, therefore, he
stopped under the high window from whence gleamed the light, for the
sake of a little personal counsel.
"Now, Pat," he muttered, "if yees had gone home at nine o'clock, yees
wudn't be afeared to go home now; and if yees go home now widout a
dollar more or less, the ould 'ooman will make yer wish yees had set on
the curbstone the rest o' the night. They sez some men has no bowels o'
marcies; and after what I've seen the night, and afore the night, too, I
kin belave that Boss Arnot's in'ards were cast at the same foundry where
he gets his mash-shines. He told me that I must spake nary a word about
what I've seen and heard, and if I should thry to turn an honest penny
by givin' a knowin' wink or two where they wud pay for the same, that
'ud be the ind of Pat M'Cabe at the big office. And yet they sez that
them as buys news is loike them that takes stolen goods--moighty willin'
to kape dark about where they got it, so that they kin get more next
time. That's the iditor of the 'Currier' in yon high room, and p'raps
he'll pay me as much for a wink and a hint the night as I'll get for me
day's work termorrow. Bust me if I don't thry him, if he'll fust promise
me to say it any one axes him that he niver saw Pat M'Cabe in his
loife," and the suddenly improvised reporter climbed the long stairways
to where the night editor sat at his desk.
Pat gave a hearty rap for manners, but as the night was waning he walked
in without waiting for an answer, and addressed the startled newspaper
man with a business-like directness, which might often be advantageously
imitated:
"Is this the shop where yer pays a dacent price for news?"
"It depends on the importance of the news, and its truthfulness,"
answered the editor, after eying the intruder suspiciously for a moment.
"Thin I've got ye on both counts, though I didn't think ye'd bear down
so heavy on its being thrue," said Pat, advancing confidently.
As the door of the press-room, in which men were at work, stood open,
the editor felt no alarm from the sudden appearance of the burly figure
before him, but, supposing the man had been drinking, he said
impatiently:
"Please state your business briefly, as my time is valuable."
"If yer time is worth mor'n news, I'll go to another shop," said Pat
stiffly, making a feint of departure.
"That's a good fellow, go along," chimed in the editor, bending down to
his writing again.
Such disastrous acquiescence puzzled Pat for a moment, and he growled,
"No wonder yer prints a paper that's loike a lump o' lead, when 'stead
o' lookin' for news yer turns it away from yer doors."
"Now, look here, my man," said the editor rising, "if you have anything
to say, say it. If you have been drinking, you will not be permitted to
make a row in this office."
"It's not me, but another man that's been dhrinkin'."
"Well," snarled the editor, "if the other man had the drink, you have
the 'drunk,' and if you don't take yourself off, I'll call some men from
the press-room who may put you downstairs uncomfortably fast."
"Hould on a bit," remonstrated Pat, "before yer ruffle yer feathers
clane over yer head and blinds yer eyes. Wud a man loike Boss Arnot send
me, if I was dhrunk, wid a letther at this toime o' night? and wud he
send a letther to the superintindent o' the perlice at this toime o' the
night to ax him the toime o' day! Afore yer calls yer spalpeens out o'
the press-room squint at that."
The moment the editor caught sight of the business stamp on Mr. Arnot's
letter and the formal handwriting, his manner changed, and he said
suavely:
"I beg your pardon--we have misunderstood one another--take a chair."
"There's been no misunderstandin' on my part," retorted Pat, with an
injured air; "I've got as dainty a bit o' scandal jist under me tongue
as iver ye spiced yer paper wid, and yees thrates me as if I was the
inimy o' yer sowl."
"Well, you see," said the editor apologetically, "your not being in our
regular employ, Mr.--I beg your pardon--and your coming in this unusual
way and hour--"
"But, begorry, somethin' unusual's happened."
"So I understand; it was very good of you to come to us first; just give
me the points, and I will jot them down."
"But what are yees goin' to give me for the pints?"
"That depends upon what they are worth. News cannot be paid for till we
learn its value."
"Och! here I'm rinnin' a grate risk in tellin' ye at all, and whin I've
spilt it all out, and can't pick it up agin, ye may show me the door,
and tell me to go 'long wid me rubbish."
"If you find what you have to report in the paper, you may know it is
worth something. So if you will look at the paper to-morrow you can see
whether it will be worth your while to call again," said the editor,
becoming impatient at Pat's hesitancy to open his budget.
"But I'm in sore need of a dollar or two to-night. Dade, it's as much as
my loife's worth to go home widout 'em."
"See here, my good friend," said the editor, rising again and speaking
very energetically, "my time is very valuable, and you have taken
considerable of it. Whatever may be the nature of your news, it will not
be worth anything to me if you do not tell it at once."
"Well, you see the biggest part o' the news is goin' to happen
to-morrow."
"Well, well, what has happened to-night?"
"Will ye promise not to mention me name?"
"How can I mention it when I don't know it?"
"That's thrue, that's thrue. Now me mind's aisy on that pint, for ye
must know that Boss Arnot's in'ards are made o' cast-iron, and he'd have
no marcy on a feller. You'll surely give me a dollar, at laste."
"Yes, if your story is worth printing, and I give you just three minutes
in which to tell it."
Thus pinned down, Pat related all he knew and surmised concerning
Haldane's woful predicament, saying in conclusion:
"Ye must know that this Haldane is not a poor spalpeen uv a clerk, but a
gintleman's son. They sez that his folks is as stylish and rich as the
Arnots themselves. If ye'll have a reporther up at the office in the
mornin', ye'll git the balance o' the tale."
Having received his dollar, Pat went chuckling on his way to deliver his
employer's letter to the superintendent of the city police.
"Faix! I was as wise as a sarpent in not tellin' me name, for ye niver
can thrust these iditors. It's no green Irishman that can make a dollar
after twelve o' the night."
A sleepy reporter was aroused and despatched after Pat, in order to
learn, if possible, the contents of Mr. Arnot's note.
In the meantime heavily leaded lines--vague and mysterious--concerning
"Crime in High Life," were set up, accompanied on the editorial page by
a paragraph to the following effect:
"With our usual enterprise and keen scent for news, we discovered at a
late hour last night that an intelligent Irishman in the employ of Mr.
Arnot had been intrusted by that gentleman with a letter written after
the hour of midnight to the superintendent of the police. The guilty
party appears to be a Mr. Haldane--a young man of aristocratic and
wealthy connections--who is at present in Mr. Arnot's employ, and a
member of his family. We think we are aware of the nature of his grave
offence, but in justice to all concerned we refer our readers to our
next issue, wherein they will find full particulars of the painful
affair, since we have obtained peculiar facilities for learning them. No
arrests have yet been made."
"That will pique all the gossips in town, and nearly double our next
issue," complacently muttered the local editor, as he carried the scrawl
at the last moment into the composing-room.
In the meantime the hero of our story--if such a term by any latitude of
meaning can be applied to one whose folly had brought him into such a
prosaic and miserable plight--still lay in a heavy stupor on the lounge
where Pat had thrown his form, that had been as limp and helpless as if
it had become a mere body without a soul. But the consequences of his
action did not cease with his paralysis, any more than do the influences
of evil deeds perish with a dying man.