THE SKETCH ARTIST
During the next three days so many things happened at Millville that the
natives were in a panic of excitement. Not only was electricity brought
from the paper mill, but a telegraph wire was run from Chazy Junction to
Bob West's former storage shed and a telephone gang came along and
placed a private wire, with long-distance connections, in the new
newspaper office. The office itself became transformed--"as full o'
winders as a hothouse!" exclaimed Peggy McNutt, with bulging eyes--and
neat partitions were placed for the offices. There was no longer any
secret as to the plans of the "nabobs"; it was generally understood that
those terribly aggressive girls were going to inflict a daily paper on
the community. Some were glad, and some rebelled, but all were excited.
A perpetual meeting was held at Cotting's store to discuss developments,
for something startling occurred every few minutes.
"It's a outrage, this thing," commented young Skim Clark despondently.
"They're tryin' to run mother out o' business--an' she a widder with me
to look after! Most o' the business at the Emporium is done in
newspapers an' magazines an' sich; so these gals thought they'd cut
under an' take the business away from her."
"Can't the Widder Clark sell the new paper, then?" asked the blacksmith.
"I dunno. Hadn't thought o' that," said Skim. "But the price is to be
jus' one cent, an' we've ben gittin' five cents fer all the outside
papers. Where's the profit comin' from, on one cent, I'd like to know?
Why, we make two or three cents on all the five cent papers."
"As fer that," remarked the druggist, "we'll get a cheap paper--if it's
any good--an' that's somethin' to be thankful for."
"'Twon't be any good," asserted Skim. "Ma says so."
But no one except McNutt was prepared to agree with this prediction.
The extensive plans in preparation seemed to indicate that the new paper
would be fully equal to the requirements of the populace.
On Monday, when the news spread that two big freight cars had arrived at
the Junction, and Nick Thorne began working three teams to haul the
outfit to Millville, the rest of the town abandoned all business other
than watching the arrival of the drays. Workmen and machinists arrived
from the city and began unpacking and setting up the presses, type cases
and all other paraphernalia, every motion being watched by eager faces
that lined the windows. These workmen were lodged at the hotel, which
had never entertained so many guests at one time in all its past
history. The three girls, even more excited and full of awe than the
townspeople, were at the office early and late, taking note of
everything installed and getting by degrees a fair idea of the extent of
their new plaything.
"It almost takes my breath away, Uncle," said Patsy. "You've given the
_Tribune_ such a splendid start that we must hustle to make good and
prove we are worthy your generosity."
"I sat up last night and wrote a poem for the first page of the first
number," announced Louise earnestly.
"Poems don't go on the first page," observed Patsy; "but they're needed
to fill in with. What's it about, dear?"
"It's called 'Ode to a Mignonette,'" answered Louise. "It begins this
way:
"Wee brown blossom, humble and sweet,
Content on my bosom lying,
Who would guess from your quiet dress
The beauty there is lying
Under the rust?"
"Hm," said Patsy, "I don't see as there's any beauty under the rust, at
all. There's no beauty about a mignonette, anyhow, suspected or
unsuspected."
"She means 'fragrance,'" suggested Beth. "Change it to: 'The fragrance
there is lying under the rust.' That'll fix it all right, Louise."
"It doesn't seem right, even then," remarked Uncle John. "If the
fragrance lies under the rust, it can't be smelt, can it?"
"I did not anticipate all this criticism," said Louise, with an air of
injured dignity. "None of the big publishing houses that returned my
poems ever said anything mean about them; they merely said they were
'not available.' However, as this poem has not made a hit with the
managing editor, I'll tear it up and write another."
"Don't do that," begged Patsy. "Save it for emergencies. We've got to
fill twenty-four columns every day, remember!"
By Wednesday night the equipment was fully installed and the workmen
departed, leaving only Jim McGaffey, an experienced pressman, and
Lawrence Doane--familiarly called Larry--who was to attend to the
electrotyping and "make-up." The press was of the best modern
construction, and folded, cut and counted the papers automatically, with
a capacity for printing three thousand copies an hour.
"And at that rate," observed Patsy, "It will run off our regular edition
in eight minutes."
Aside from the newspaper press there were two "job" presses and an
assortment of type for printing anything that might be required, from a
calling card to a circus poster. A third man, who came from the city
Thursday morning, was to take charge of the job printing and assist in
the newspaper work. Three girls also arrived, pale-faced, sad-eyed
creatures, who were expert typesetters. Uncle John arranged with Mrs.
Kebble, the landlady at the hotel, to board all the "help" at moderate
charge.
It had been decided, after much consultation, to make the _Tribune_ a
morning paper. At first it was feared this would result in keeping the
girls up nights, but it was finally arranged that all the copy they
furnished would be turned in by nine o'clock, and Miss Briggs, the
telegraph editor, would attend to anything further that came in over the
wires. The advantages of a morning edition were obvious.
"You'll have all day to distribute a morning paper," Arthur pointed out,
"whereas an evening paper couldn't get to your scattered subscribers
until the next morning."
Miss Briggs, upon whom they were to rely so greatly, proved to be a
woman of tremendous energy and undoubted ability. She was thirty-five
years of age and had been engaged in newspaper work ever since she was
eighteen. Bright and cheerful, of even temper and shrewd comprehension,
Miss Briggs listened to the eager explanations of the three girls who
had undertaken this queer venture, and assured them she would assist in
making a newspaper that would be a credit to them all. She understood
clearly the conditions; that inexperience was backed by ample capital
and unpractical ideas by unlimited enthusiasm.
"This job may not last long," she told herself, "but while it does it
will be mighty amusing. I shall enjoy these weeks in a quiet country
town after the bustle of the big city."
So here were seven regular employees of the _Millville Daily Tribune_
already secured and the eighth was shortly to appear. Preparations were
well under way for a first edition on the Fourth of July and the office
was beginning to hum with work, when one afternoon a girl strolled in
and asked in a tired voice for the managing editor.
She was admitted to Patsy's private room, where Beth and Louise were
also sitting, and they looked upon their visitor in undisguised
astonishment.
She was young: perhaps not over twenty years of age. Her face bore marks
of considerable dissipation and there was a broad scar underneath her
right eye. Her hair was thin, straggling and tow-colored; her eyes
large, deep-set and of a faded blue. The girl's dress was as queer and
untidy as her personal appearance, for she wore a brown tailored coat, a
short skirt and long, buttoned leggings. A round cap of the same
material as her dress was set jauntily on the back of her head, and over
her shoulder was slung a fiat satchel of worn leather. There was little
that was feminine and less that was attractive about the young woman,
and Patsy eyed her with distinct disfavor.
"Tommy sent me here," said the newcomer, sinking wearily into a chair.
"I'm hired for a month, on good behavior, with a chance to stay on if I
conduct myself in a ladylike manner. I've been working on the _Herald_,
you know; but there was no end of a row last week, and they fired me
bodily. Any booze for sale in this town?"
"It is a temperance community," answered Patsy, stiffly.
"Hooray for me. There's a chance I'll keep sober. In that case you've
acquired the best sketch artist in America."
"Oh! Are you the artist, then?" asked Patsy, with doubtful intonation.
"I don't like the word. I'm not a real artist--just a cartoonist and
newspaper hack. Say, it's funny to see me in this jungle, isn't it? What
joy I'll have in astonishing the natives! I s'pose a picture's a
picture, to them, and Art an impenetrable mystery. What sort of stuff do
you want me to turn out?"
"I--I'm not sure you'll do," said Miss Doyle, desperately. "I--we--that
is--we are three quite respectable young women who have under-taken to
edit the _Millville Daily Tribune_, and the people we have secured to
assist us are all--all quite desirable, in their way. So--; ahem!--so--"
"That's all right," remarked the artist composedly. "I don't know that
I blame you. I can see very well the atmosphere is not my atmosphere.
When is the next train back to New York?"
"At four o'clock, I believe."
"I'll engage a nice upholstered seat in the smoking car. But I've
several hours to loaf, and loafing is my best stunt. Isn't this a queer
start for girls like you?" looking around the "den" critically. "I
wonder how you got the bug, and what'll come of it. It's so funny to see
a newspaper office where everything is brand new, and--eminently
respectable. Do you mind my lighting a cigarette? This sort of a deal is
quite interesting to an old-timer like me; but perhaps I owe you an
apology for intruding. I had a letter from Tommy and one from a big
banker--Marvin, I guess his name is."
She drew two letters from her satchel and tossed them on the desk before
Patsy.
"They're no good to me now," she added. "Where's your waste basket?"
The managing editor, feeling embarrassed by the presence of the artist,
opened the letters. The first was from Mr. Marvin, Uncle John's banker,
saying:
"After much negotiation I have secured for you the best newspaper
illustrator in New York, and a girl, too, which is an added
satisfaction. For months I have admired the cartoons signed 'Het' in the
New York papers, for they were essentially clever and droll. Miss Hewitt
is highly recommended but like most successful artists is not always to
be relied upon. I'm told if you can manage to win her confidence she
will be very loyal to you."
The other letter was from the editor of a great New York journal. "In
giving you Hetty," he said, "I am parting with one of our strongest
attractions, but in this big city the poor girl is rapidly drifting to
perdition and I want to save her, if possible, before it is too late.
She has a sweet, lovable nature, a generous heart and a keen intellect,
but these have been so degraded by drink and dissipation that you may
not readily discover them. My idea is that in a country town, away from
all disreputable companionship, the child may find herself, and come to
her own again. Be patient with her and help her all you can. Her
wonderful talent will well repay you, even if you are not interested in
saving one of God's creatures."
Silently Patsy passed the letters to Beth and Louise. After reading them
there was a new expression on the faces they turned toward Hetty Hewitt.
"Forgive me," said Patsy, abruptly. "I--I think I misjudged you. I was
wrong in saying what I did."
"No; you were quite right." She sat with downcast eyes a moment, musing
deeply. Then she looked up with a smile that quite glorified her wan
face. "I'd like to stay, you know," she said humbly. "I'm facing a
crisis, just now, and on the whole I'd rather straighten up. If you feel
like giving me a chance I--I'd like to see if I've any reserve force or
whether the decency in me has all evaporated."
"We'll try you; and I'm sure you have lots of reserve force, Hetty,"
cried Patsy, jumping up impulsively to take the artist's soiled, thin
hand in her own. "Come with me to the hotel and I'll get you a room.
Where is your baggage?"
"Didn't bring it. I wasn't sure I'd like the country, or that you'd care
to trust me. In New York they know me for what I'm worth, and I get lots
of work and good advice--mixed with curses."
"We'll send for your trunk," said Patsy, leading the girl up the street.
"No; it's in hock. But I won't need it. With no booze to buy I can
invest my earnings in wearing apparel. What a picturesque place this is!
Way back in the primitive; no hint of those namby-pamby green meadows
and set rows of shade trees that make most country towns detestable;
rocks and boulders--boulders and rocks--and the scraggly pines for
background. The wee brook has gone crazy. What do you call it?"
"Little Bill Creek."
"I'm going to stab it with my pencil. Where it bumps the rocks it's
obstinate and pig-headed; where it leaps the little shelves of slate
it's merry and playful; where it sweeps silently between the curving
banks it is sulky and resentful. The Little Bill has moods, bless its
heart! Moods betoken character."
Patsy secured for Hetty a pleasant room facing the creek.
"Where will you work, at the office or here?" she asked.
"In the open, I guess. I'll run over the telegraph news to get a subject
for the day's cartoon, and then take to the woods. Let me know what
other pictures you want and I'll do 'em on the run. I'm a beast to
work."
Arthur Weldon, in his capacity as advertising manager, wrote to all the
national advertisers asking their patronage for the _Millville Daily
Tribune_. The letters were typewritten by the office stenographer on
newly printed letterheads that Fitzgerald, the job printer, had
prepared. Some of the advertisers were interested enough in Arthur's
novel proposition to reply with questions as to the circulation of the
new paper, where it was distributed, and the advertising rates. The
voting man answered frankly that they had 27 subscribers already and
were going to distribute 400 free copies every day, for a time, as
samples, with the hope of increasing the subscription list. "I am not
sure you will derive any benefit at all from advertising in our paper,"
he added; "but we would like to have you try it, and you can pay us
whatever you consider the results warrant."
To his astonishment the advertisements arrived, a great many from very
prominent firms, who accepted his proposal with amusement at his
originality and a desire to help the new venture along.
"Our square statement of facts has given us a good start," he told the
girls. "I'm really amazed at our success, and it's up to you to make a
paper that will circulate and make trade for these trustful
advertisers."
With the local merchants the results were less satisfying. Bob West put
in a card advertising his hardware business and Nib Corkins cautiously
invested a half dollar to promote his drug store and stock of tarnished
cheap jewelry; but Sam Cotting said everybody knew what he had for sale
and advertising wouldn't help him any. Arthur drove to Huntingdon with
Louise and while the society editor picked up items her husband
interviewed the merchants. The Huntingdon people were more interested in
the new paper than the Millville folk, and Arthur quoted such low prices
that several advertisements were secured. Two bright boys of this
thriving village were also employed to ride over to Millville each
morning, get a supply of _Tribunes_ and distribute a sample copy to
every house in the neighborhood.
"Fitz" set up the "ads" in impressive type and the columns of the first
edition began to fill up days before the Fourth of July arrived. Louise
had a story and two poems set in type and read over the proofs dozens of
times with much pride and satisfaction, while Beth prepared an article
on the history of baseball and the probable future of our national game.
They did not see much of their artist during the first days following
her arrival, but one afternoon she brought Patsy a sketch and asked:
"Who is this?"
Patsy glanced at it and laughed gleefully. It was Peggy McNutt, the
fish-eyed pooh-bah of Millville, who was represented sitting on his
front porch engaged in painting his wooden foot. This was one of
McNutt's recognized amusements. He kept a supply of paints of many
colors, and every few days appeared with his rudely carved wooden foot
glistening with a new coat of paint and elaborately striped. Sometimes
it would be blue with yellow stripes, then green with red stripes, and
anon a lovely pink decorated with purple. One drawback to Peggy's
delight in these transformations was the fact that it took the paint a
night and a day to dry thoroughly, and during this period of waiting he
would sit upon his porch with the wooden foot tenderly resting upon the
rail--a helpless prisoner.
"Some folks," he would say, "likes pretty neckties; an' some wears fancy
socks; but fer my part I'd ruther show a han'some foot ner anything. It
don't cost as much as wearin' socks an' neckties, an' it's more artistic
like."
Hetty had caught the village character in the act of striping the wooden
foot, and his expression of intense interest in the operation was so
original, and the likeness so perfect, from the string suspenders and
flannel shirt to the antiquated straw hat and faded and patched
overalls, that no one would be likely to mistake the subject. The sketch
was entitled "The Village Artist," and Patsy declared they would run it
on an inside page, just to make the Millville people aware of the "power
of the press." Larry made an etching of it and mounted the plate for a
double column picture. The original sketch Patsy decided to have framed
and to hang it in her office.