THE DAY OF PUBLICATION
It was a mild evening, the last in February, and Jimmie, who had received
two copies of the March issue of _Sampson's Magazine_ direct from the
publisher, celebrated the event by taking the Society Editor canoeing on
Lake Washington. Instead of helping with the bow paddle, of which she was
fully capable, Miss Atkins settled against the pillows facing him, with
the masterpiece in her lap. The magazine was closed, showing his name
among the specially mentioned on the cover, but she kept the place with
her finger. She had a pretty hand, and it was adorned by the very best
diamond that could be bought at Hanson's for one hundred and fifty
dollars.
She waited, watching Jimmie's stroke, while the Peterboro slipped out from
the boathouse and rose quartering to the swells of a passing launch. Her
hat was placed carefully behind her in the bow, and the light wind
roughened her hair, which was parted on the side, into small rings on her
forehead. It gave her an air of boyish camaraderie, and the young author's
glance, moving from the magazine and the ring, swept her whole trim figure
to the mannish, flat-heeled little shoes, and returned to her face. "This
is my red-letter day," he said.
"It's the proudest in my life," answered Geraldine, and the way in which
she said it made him catch his breath.
"It makes me feel almost sure enough to cut loose from the _Press_ and go
into business for myself."
"Oh, I shouldn't be in a hurry to leave the paper, if I were you," she
replied, "even though _Sampson's_ has asked to see more of your work."
"It isn't the magazine opening I am considering; though I shall do what I
can in that way, of course. But what would you think of an offer to take
full charge of a newspaper east of the Cascades? It's so." He paused,
nodding in emphasis to the confirmation. "The letter is there in my coat
pocket. It's from Bailey--you remember that young fellow I told you about
who made an investment in the Wenatchee valley. Well, it seems they have
incorporated a town on some of that property. His city lots are selling so
fast he has raised the price three times. And they have put him up for
mayor. He says it's mighty hard to run an election without a newspaper,
and even if it's a late start, we will be ready next time. And the valley
needs advertising; people in the east don't know where Wenatchee apples
grow. You understand. He will finance a newspaper--or rather he and Lucky
Banks are going to--if I will take the management. He is holding offices
now, in a brick block that is building, until he hears from me."
"Is it in Hesperides Vale, where the Bankses live?"
"Yes. The name of the town is Weatherbee. And I heard from that little
miner, too." Jimmie paused, smiling at the recollection. "It was a kind of
supplement to Bailey's letter. He thought likely I could recommend some
young fellow to start a newspaper. A married man was preferred, as it was
a new camp and in need of more ladies."
Geraldine laughed, flushing softly, "Isn't that just like him?" she said.
"I can see his eyes twinkling."
"It sounds rather good to me," Jimmie went on earnestly. "I have
confidence in Bailey. And it was mother's dream, you know, to see me
establish a paper over there; it would mean something to me to see it
realized--but--do you think you could give up your career to help me
through?"
Geraldine was silent, and Jimmie leaned forward a little, resting on his
stroke. "I know I am not worth it, but so far as that goes, neither was my
father; yet mother gave up everything to back him. She kept him on that
desert homestead the first five years, until he proved up and got his
patent, and he might have stayed with it, been rich to-day, if she had
lived."
"Of course I like you awfully well," said Geraldine, flushing pinkly, "and
it isn't that I haven't every confidence in you, but--I must take a little
time to decide."
A steamer passed, and Jimmie resumed his strokes, mechanically turning the
canoe out of the trough. Geraldine opened the magazine and began to scan
the editor's note under the title. "Why," she exclaimed tremulously, "did
you know about this? Did you see the proofs?"
"No. What is the excitement? Isn't it straight?"
"Listen!" Miss Atkins sat erect; the cushion dropped under her elbow; her
lips closed firmly between the sentences she read.
"'This is one of those true stories stranger than fiction. This man, who
wantonly murdered a child in his path and told of it for the amusement of
a party of pleasure-seekers aboard a yacht on Puget Sound, who should be
serving a prison sentence to-day, yet never came to a trial, is Hollis
Tisdale of the Geographical Survey; a man in high favor with the
administration and the sole owner of the fabulously rich Aurora mine in
Alaska. The widow of his partner who made the discovery and paid for it
with his life is penniless. Strange as it may seem--for the testimony of a
criminal is not allowable in a United States court--Hollis Tisdale has
been called as a witness for the Government in the pending Alaska coal
trials!"
The Society Editor met Jimmie's appalled gaze. "It sounds muckraky," she
commented, still tremulously. "But these new magazines have to do
something to get a hold. This is just to attract public attention."
"They'll get that, when Tisdale brings a suit for libel. Hope he will do
it, and that the judgment will swamp them. They must have got his name
from Mrs. Feversham."
"It looks political," said Geraldine conciliatingly, "as though they were
striking through him at the administration."
"Go on," said Jimmie recklessly. "Let's have it over with."
And Geraldine launched quickly into the story. It had been mercilessly and
skilfully abridged. All those undercurrents of feeling, which Jimmie had
faithfully noted, had been suppressed; and of David Weatherbee, whom
Tisdale had made the hero of the adventure, there was not a word.
"Great guns!" exclaimed the unfortunate author at the finish. "Great--
guns!"
But Geraldine said nothing. She only closed the magazine and pushed it
under the pillow out of sight. There was a long silence. A first star
appeared and threw a wavering trail on the lake. Jimmie, dipping his
paddle mechanically, turned the Peterboro into this pale pathway. The
pride and elation had gone out of his face. His mouth drooped
disconsolately.
"And you called this your proudest day," he broke out at last.
An unexpected gentleness crept over the Society Editor's countenance. "It
would be great to help create a city," she said then. "To start with it
ourselves, at the foundations and grow." And she added very softly, with a
little break in her voice: "I've decided to resign and go to Weatherbee."