Young James Arbuthnot Wilson slipped into the _Standard_ building with
an uneasy air as if he were vaguely on the defensive. Six months of
work in the "City Department" had not rid him of the feeling of a cat
in a strange garret. The veterans of the staff were rather pleased that
this should be the attitude common among young reporters. It showed
that the office machine was geared to high tension when every man,
short of five years' service, was thankful to find his "job" had not
slid from under him between two days.
Wilson could recall no specific warnings that his head was in peril.
His activities had been too inconspicuous to merit the dignity of
official notice of any kind. He had faithfully followed his foot-sore
round of minor police courts, hospitals, one-alarm fires, and dreary
public meetings, to have his copy jammed as scanty paragraphs under
the head of "City Jottings." A "story" filling a third of a column had
marked his one red-letter day on the _Standard_.
Each afternoon, at one o'clock, he hurried to his pigeon-hole in the
row of letter-boxes by the city editor's door, his heart thumping to
this sense of intangible fear, and with it pulsing the foolish hope of
a "big assignment." Some day they must give him a chance, and he would
show them whether or not he could handle something worth while. But the
flame of hope was low on this dull day of June as Wilson unlocked his
box and tore open the yellow envelope on which his name was scrawled.
He whistled in blank amazement as he followed an unfamiliar hand down
to the managing editor's signature. The youngster's face flushed and
his fingers twittered as he turned sharply to see if the loungers at
their desks had noted his agitation. Then he stole into the hall and
re-read, with his lips moving as if he were spelling out the words:
DEAR MR. WILSON: You have been pegging away without any let-up
for three months and your work has been excellent. Here is an
easy assignment as a reward of merit. It will give you a pleasant
outing, and us a good page story for the Sunday sheet. The
enclosed clipping from to-day's paper will give you the idea. The
art department will have a snap-shot camera waiting for you. Our
Ship-News man made arrangements this morning for you to be met
and taken aboard. The one-forty train from Broad Street Station
will take you through to Lewes and the Breakwater. To save time I
enclose some expense money. Try to be back on Thursday. This will
give you three days at sea. We want plenty of rattling description
and human interest, with local color _ad lib._ Good luck.
"Oh, there must be some mistake," gasped young Wilson. "A page Sunday
story? A whole page? My work has been excellent? The managing editor
has been following it? Why, I didn't suppose he knew me by sight. I
can't believe it."
Befogged with hopes and fears, he turned back to the door of the city
editor's room.
"He's just gone out to lunch with the managing editor," volunteered the
day assistant. "No, I don't know where they went. Said they'd be back
about two-thirty."
Wilson looked at the office clock. If he would catch the one-forty
train for Lewes there was no leeway for hesitation. He started toward
the elevator, then halted to read the clipping, which might throw some
light upon this staggering manifesto: