THE CHALLENGE
“Piffle!” said Alf. “Any one could edit a paper like that old sheet of
yours, Joe. It’s most all ads, anyhow.”
It was the last week in March, and Alf, Tom, and Dan and Joe Chambers
were clustered around the fireplace in 7 Dudley. The weather had been
so mild that over in the heating plant the boilers had been allowed to
go out, and to-night, with a northerly March wind rattling the windows,
it was decidedly cold in the room; or had been until Alf had lighted a
fire in the little grate. Joe Chambers stretched his long legs out and
smiled indulgently.
“That’s all right,” he replied, “but I wish you had it to do for
awhile. It may seem simple enough to you chaps, but just let me tell
you that getting out _The Scholiast_ is no joke.”
“No, it’s a very serious proposition,” murmured Tom, who had been on
the verge of slumber several times. “A joke now and then would help it
like anything.”
“Of course,” went on Joe, warming to his subject, “I have three fellows
to help me, but――well, you see how it is: nobody can know as well as
you do just what you want. So, in a way, I have to be pretty nearly the
whole thing down there.”
“That ought to please you,” said Alf, gravely.
“I think _The Scholiast_ is a mighty good paper,” remarked Dan. “It’s a
heap better than any I’ve seen――any school paper, I mean.” Alf sniffed.
“Why say school paper?” he asked. “Why, _The Scholiast_ has the New
York _Sun_ and _Herald_ and everything else beat a mile! It’s the
only gen-oo-ine, all-wool, yard-wide journal in existence! Talk about
your Danas and your James Gordon Bennetts and――and your Hearsts! Why,
they’ll be swallowed in eternal gloom while the name of Joseph Chambers
still――er――flares athwart the――the――――”
“Oh, shut up, Alf! You talk like one of Joe’s editorials,” said Tom,
disgustedly. “After all, it is a pretty good little weekly――――”
“Yes, a little weakly,” murmured Alf.
“But every one knows that it’s Holmes who makes it go. Holmes is the
real thing on _The Scholiast_.” Tom winked at Dan. “Why, it’s Holmes
who gets the advertising, looks after the circulation, pays the bills,
and does the whole big stunt. I know, because he told me so himself.”
Joe smiled pityingly. “Holmes is a mighty smart business editor,” he
said, “but there’s some difference between soliciting advertisements
and writing copy; to say nothing of editing it after it’s written!”
“But think of the glory!” exclaimed Alf, rapturously. “Think what it is
to be a Molder of Public Opinion! And as a molder of Public Opinion,
Joe, you’re just about the moldiest ever!”
“You’re having a pretty nice little time knocking me to-night, aren’t
you?” asked Joe, with a suspicion of heat. “Well, you may make all
the fun you want to, but I’d like to see you hold down my job for ten
minutes, you smart Aleck!”
Alf, having at length succeeded in getting a fall out of Joe, as he
would have expressed it, smiled joyfully.
“Nonsense, Joe! I could get out a better paper than that with my eyes
shut and one hand tied behind me!”
“Yes, you could!” sneered Joe, with an inflection that belied his
words. “That’s what they all say! Every fellow thinks he can edit a
newspaper.”
“I’m not saying anything about newspapers,” retorted Alf, sweetly.
“_The Scholiast_ is not a newspaper, Joseph. It never had any news in
it since it started.”
“Cut it out, Alf,” growled Tom. “Don’t be nasty.”
“It’s a fact,” declared his roommate, warming to his subject the more
as he saw Joe Chambers losing his temper. “For instance, there’s
a new plank walk put down from Merle to the gym steps on Monday.
The following Friday _The Scholiast_ comes out with the startling
information that ‘A new plank walk has been established from Merle Hall
to the Gymnasium, and is meeting with much favor from those who have
occasion to pass that way.’ News! Poppycock!”
“Anything connected with the school,” said Joe with much dignity, “is
of interest to the readers of _The Scholiast_.”
“Then why don’t you put in something that every one doesn’t know? Why
don’t you tell about Old Toby’s new wig? That’s real hot stuff for your
readers. Why, Toby hasn’t had a new wig before in the memory of the
oldest inhabitant!”
“You’re a silly ass,” grunted Joe. “I’m glad I don’t have to edit your
copy.”
“I’m glad I don’t have to write for your paper,” Alf retorted. “If I
did, though, I’ll bet I’d get some more interesting stuff in it.”
“Oh, you make me tired,” said Joe, getting up. “You’re a regular Mister
Fixit. You couldn’t hold down a reporter’s job for ten minutes.”
“Fancy that! Joe, I’ll bet you――I’ll bet you a feed at Farrell’s for
the crowd that I can get out a livelier number of _The Scholiast_ than
you ever have. What do you say?”
“I say you’re a silly idiot,” replied Joe from the doorway.
“Take me up?” Alf insisted.
“What’s the good? You’ll never get the chance to try.”
“All right; then you’re safe? Bet me?”
“Yes, I’ll bet you.” Joe smiled pityingly at the others. “You may know
something about football and hockey, Alf, but you couldn’t write a
two-line paragraph that _The Scholiast_ would publish.”
After which parting fling, Joe nodded to the rest and took his leave.
As the door closed behind him Alf chuckled with wicked glee.
“Got a fall out of him, though, didn’t I? He’s a chesty youth, is Joe.”
“What did you want to rag him so for?” inquired Dan, who, while he
had enjoyed the hostilities, didn’t quite approve. Alf shrugged his
shoulders.
“Oh, I don’t know. Felt like it, I suppose. Joe sort of got on my
nerves to-night. He’s such a know-it-all. I really like him, but it
does him a heap of good to be taken down a few pegs now and then.
Besides, what I said was true. He fills that sheet up with a lot of the
dullest, stalest, messiest old trash I ever read.”
“Well, there isn’t much to publish, I guess,” murmured Tom. “He does
the best he can, most probably.”
Alf made no response. He was gazing fixedly at the flames in the grate.
Dan pulled himself out of his chair and found his cap.
“I’m off,” he announced. “Good night, you chaps.”
“Good night,” said Tom. “See you to-morrow.”
Alf only waved a hand.
The next evening Alf haled Tom over to Cambridge Society. Tom was a
member of Oxford, but occasionally allowed himself to be led astray, as
he termed it. Dan had received summons to be present, and was on hand
with Gerald.
“Come over here in the corner,” said Alf, mysteriously. “I wouldst a
tale unfold. Come on, Gerald; you can keep a secret, I guess.”
He led the way to an uninhabited corner of the big room and pulled four
chairs together. When they were all seated with heads close together,
Alf began with lowered voice:
“Remember Joe Chambers’s wager last night?” he asked. Tom and Dan
nodded. “You don’t, Gerald, because you weren’t there. But Joe bet me
a feed at Farrell’s that I couldn’t get out a livelier number of _The
Scholiast_ than he had ever published.” Alf leaned back and grinned at
the puzzled faces. “Well, I’m going to do it.”
“Do it! How can you?” asked Dan.
“You don’t suppose for a minute, do you, that Joe’s going to let you
get out _The Scholiast_ for him?” inquired Tom.
“No, my slow-witted friend,” replied Alf, engagingly, “but he can’t
prevent me――us, I mean――from getting out a _Scholiast_ of our own, can
he?”