"WHOSE BREAD I EAT"
Having yielded, Hal proposed to take profit by his surrender. With a
cynicism born of his bitter disappointment and self-contempt, he took a
certain savage and painful satisfaction in stating the new policy
editorially.
"As the 'Clarion' is going to be a journalistic prostitute," said he to
his father, across the luncheon table, where they were consulting on
details of the new policy, "I'm going to go after the business on that
basis."
Dr. Surtaine was pained. Every effort of his own convenient logic he put
forth to prove that, in this instance, the path of duty and of glory
(financial) was one and the same. Hal refused the proffered gloss. "At
least you and I can call things by their right names now," said he.
But however Hal might talk, what he wrote met his elder's unqualified
approval, as it appeared in the proof sent him by his son. It was a
cunningly worded leading editorial, headed "Standards," and it dealt
appreciatively, not to say reverently, with the commercial greatness of
Worthington. Business, the editor stated, might have to adjust itself to
new conditions and opinions in Worthington as elsewhere, but nobody who
understood the character of the city's leading men could doubt their
good purpose or ability to effect the change with the least damage to
material prosperity. Meantime the fitting attitude for the public was
one not of criticism but of forbearance and assistance. This was equally
true of journalism. The "Clarion" admitted seeing a new light.
Constructive rather than destructive effort was called for. And so
forth, and so on. No intelligent reader could have failed, reading it,
to understand that the "Clarion" had hauled down its flag.
Yet the capitulation must not, for business reasons, be too obvious. Hal
spent some toilful hours over the proof, inserting plausible phrases,
covering his tracks with qualifying clauses, putting the best front on
the shameful matter, with a sick but determined heart, and was about to
send it up with the final "O.K." when he came out of his absorption to
realize that some one was standing waiting, had been standing waiting,
for some minutes at his elbow. He looked around and met the intent gaze
of the foreman of the composing-room.
"What is it, Veltman?" he asked sharply.
"That epidemic story."
"Well? What about it?"
"Did you order it killed?"
"Certainly. Haven't you thrown it down?"
"No. It's still in type."
"Throw it down at once."
"Mr. Surtaine, have you thought what you are doing?"
"It is no part of your job to catechize me, Veltman."
"Between man and man." He stepped close to Hal, his face blazing with
exaltation. "I must speak now or forever hold my peace."
"Speak fast, then."
"It's your last chance, this epidemic spread. Your last chance to save
the 'Clarion' and yourself."
"That will do, Velt--"
"No, no! Listen to me. I didn't say a word when you kept Milly's suicide
out of print."
"I should think not, indeed!" retorted Hal angrily.
"That's my shame. I ought to have seen that published if I had to set it
up myself."
"Perhaps you're not aware, Veltman, that I know your part in the Neal
affair."
"I'd have confessed to you, if you hadn't. But do you know your own?
Yours and your father's?"
"Keep my father out of this!"
"Your own, then. Do you know that the money that bought this paper for
you was coined out of the blood of deceived girls? Do you know that you
and I are paid with the proceeds of the ad. that led Milly Neal to her
death? Do you know that?"
"And if I do, what then?" asked Hal, overborne by the man's conviction
and vehemence.
"Tell it!" cried the other, beating his fist upon the desk until the
blood oozed from the knuckles. "Tell it in print. Confess, man, and warn
others!"
"Veltman, suppose we were to print that whole wretched story to-morrow,
including the truth about your relations with her."
"Do it! Do it!" cried the other, choked with eagerness. "I'd thank you
on my knees. Penance! Give me my chance to do penance! I'll make my own
confession in writing. I'll write it in my own blood if need be."
"Steady, Veltman. Keep cool."
"You think I'm crazy? Perhaps I am. There's a fire at my brain since she
died. I loved her, Mr. Surtaine."
"But you sacrificed her, Veltman," returned Hal in a gentler tone, for
the man's face was livid with agony.
"Don't I know it! My God, don't I know it! But _you_ can't escape the
responsibility because of my sin. It was your paper that helped fool
her. She believed in the paper, and in your father."
"The Relief Pills advertising is out. That much I'll tell you."
"Now that it's done its work. Not enough! You and I can't bring Milly
back to life, Mr. Surtaine, but we can save other lives in peril. God
has given you your chance, in this epidemic."
"How do you know about the epidemic?"
"Hasn't it taken Mr. Hale, the only friend I've got in the world? And
won't it take its hundreds of other lives unless warning is given? Why
doesn't the 'Clarion' speak out, Mr. Surtaine? _Why is that story
ordered killed?_"
"Consideration of policy which--"
"Policy! Oh, my God! And the people dying! Harrington Surtaine,"--his
eyes blazed into the other's with the flame of fanaticism,--"I tell you,
if you don't accept this opportunity that the Lord gives you, you and
your paper are damned. Do you know what it means to damn the soul of a
paper? Why, man, there are people who believe in the 'Clarion' like
gospel."
Hal got to his feet. "Veltman, I dare say you mean well. But you don't
understand this."
"Don't I!" The face took on a sudden appalling savagery. "Don't I know
you're bought and paid for! Sold out! That's what you've done. A
bargain! A bargain! Pay my little price and I'll do your meanest
bidding. I'd rather have hell burning at my heart as it burns now than
what you've got rotting at yours, young Surtaine."
The tensity of Hal's restraint broke. With one powerful effort he sent
the foreman whirling through the open door into the hall, slammed the
door after him, and stood shaking. He heard and felt the jar of
Veltman's body as it struck the wall, and slumped to the floor; then the
slow limp of his retreating footsteps. With a seething brain he returned
to his proof--and shuddered away from it. There was blood spattered over
the print. Hurriedly he thrust it aside and rang for a fresh galley. But
the red spots rose between his eyes and the work, like an accusation,
like a prophecy. Of a sudden he beheld this great engine of print which
had been, first, the caprice of his last flicker of irresponsible and
headlong youth, then the very mould in which his eager and ambitious
manhood was to form and fulfill itself--he beheld this vast mechanism
blazingly illumined as with some inner fire, and now become a terrific
genius, potent beyond the powers of humanity, working out the dire
complications of men, and the tragic destruction of women. And he beheld
himself, fast in its grip.
He thrust the proof into the tube, scrawled the "O.K." order on it for
the morrow, and hurried away from the office as from a place accursed.
That night conscience struck at him once more, making a weapon of words
from the book of a dead master. He had been reading "Beauchamp's
Career"; and, seeking refuge from the torture of thought in its magic,
he came upon the novelist-philosopher's damning indictment of modern
journalism:
_"And this Press, declaring itself independent, can hardly walk for
fear of treading on an interest here, an interest there. It cannot
have a conscience. It is a bad guide, a false guardian; its abject
claim to be our national and popular interpreter--even that is
hollow and a mockery. It is powerful only when subservient. An
engine of money, appealing to the sensitiveness of money, it has no
connection with the mind of the nation. And that it is not of, but
apart from the people, may be seen when great crises come--in
strong gales the power of the Press collapses; it wheezes like a
pricked pigskin of a piper."_
Hal flung the book from him. But its accusations pursued him through the
gates of sleep, and poisoned his rest.
In the morning he had recovered his balance, and with it his dogged
determination to see the matter through. He forced himself to read the
leading editorial, finding spirit even to admire the dexterity with
which he had held out the promise of good behavior to the business
interests, whilst pretending to a sturdy independence. Shearson met him
at the entrance to the building, beaming.
"That'll bring business," said the advertising manager. "I've had half a
dozen telephones already about it."
"That's good," replied Hal half-heartedly.
"Yes, _sir_," pursued the advertising manager: "I can smell money in
the air to-day. And, by the way, I've got a tip that, for a little mild
apology, E.M. Pierce will withdraw both his suits."
"I'll think about it," promised Hal. He was rather surprised at the
intensity of his own relief from the prospect of the court ordeal. At
least, he was getting his price.
McGuire Ellis was, for once, not asleep, though there was no work on his
desk when Hal entered the sanctum.
"Veltman's quit," was his greeting.
"I'm not surprised," said Hal.
"Then you've seen the editorial page this morning?"
"Yes. But what has that to do with Veltman's resignation?"
"Everything, I should think. Notice anything queer about the page?"
"No."
"Look it over again."
Hal took up the paper and scrutinized the sheet. "I don't see a thing
wrong," he said.
"That lets me out," said Ellis grimly. "If you can't see it when you're
told it's there, I guess I can't be blamed for not catching it in proof.
Of course the last thing one notices is a stock line that's always been
there unchanged. Look at the motto of the paper. Veltman must have
chiseled out the old one, and set this in, himself, the last thing
before we went to press. How do you like it? Looks to me to go pretty
well with our leading editorial this morning."
There between the triumphal cocks, where formerly had flaunted the
braggart boast of the old "Clarion," and more latterly had appeared the
gentle legend of the martyred President, was spread in letters of shame
to the eyes of the "Clarion's" owner, the cynic profession of the led
captain, of the prostituted pen, of all those who have or shall sell
mind and soul and honor for hire;--
_"Whose Bread I Eat, his Song I Sing."_