Some men are so picturesque that they do not need publicity agents, and
so intelligent that they wish to be let alone by the public prints.
E. H. Merriwether was one. He employed the ablest experts for his
corporations and they got more than their share of publicity; but for
himself--nothing. Possibly he realized that ungratified curiosity is a
valuable asset; and, of course, he knew that in a democracy the less a
man raises his head above the level of the mass the better it will be
for his comfort.
He took pains to make it plain that he cared only for his work, because
that proved he had no thoughts for mere money-making; and, since he was
not interested in money-making, he could not be primarily concerned
with despoiling the public--which, in turn, clearly proved he was not
dangerous. And, of course, the more he kept himself out of the papers
the more the papers wanted to see him in their hospitable columns.
Everything he did or thought was, therefore, news. Anecdotes about
him were so hard to get that the brightest minds in the profession
manufactured a few. They had to be very good anecdotes--and they were.
To the metropolitan reporters, however, E. H. Merriwether was known
to be mute, dumb, silent, constitutionally incapable of speech,
and, besides, devoid of vocal cords. His office was always free from
reporters, because they had learned to save themselves time by the
simple expedient of writing their interviews with him in their own
offices, after this fashion:
_Mr. Merriwether refused to discuss the matter. Neither confirmation nor
denial could be obtained at his office._
The financial editors of the newspapers fared no better. He was never
too busy to see them; but all news about his work came from his bankers.
On the same day that Tom went to Boston, a young man went to the
Merriwether offices in the Transcontinental Trust Company Building. A
stout, rather high railing fenced off the bookkeepers' room from the
general and unwelcome public.
At a small, flat desk near the gate sat, not a frecklefaced boy, but a
man, powerful of build, keen-eyed and quick-muscled. He, was writing a
letter on a very good quality of note-paper. He said: “Well?”--but kept
on writing. He did not look up. This always discouraged strangers; by
making them feel their utter insignificance. The effect on millionaire
magnates, who similarly found themselves ignored, also was salutary.
“I wish to see Mr. E. H. Merriwether,” said the young man, pleasantly
and unimpressed.
The gate-keeper wrote two paragraphs and then, still writing, asked,
wearily:
“Got an appointment?”
“No; but--”
The over-mature office-boy, in one breath and in a voice that dripped
insolence, said, still without looking up:
“What do you want to see him about? He is very busy. Cannot possibly see
any one to-day. Good day!”
There was a laugh, not at all ironical, or in the nature of an
exaggerated and audible sneer, but full of amusement; and then the
stranger without the gate said:
“When I tell you what I am you will bring Mr. E. H. Merriwether to me.”
The voice was not menacing at all or cold, but there was an assurance
about it that made the Merriwether hireling look up. He saw a young
man, of about thirty, with very intelligent, gray-blue eyes, a straight,
well-modeled nose, and a determined chin. His square shoulders and
general air of muscular strength made him look as if he could give as
good an account of himself in a rough-and-tumble fight as in a battle of
wits.
The Merriwether gateman felt his entire being permeated by a feeling of
hostility. This was neither a crank to turn over to a complaisant police
nor an alms-seeker to be shooed away; nor yet a millionaire in good
standing. He must be, therefore, a reporter of the new school made
possible by the eccentricities of the Administration in Washington.
“My good James,” said the new-school reporter, with a mocking
superciliousness, “I would see your boss. Be expeditious.”
The gate-keeper, whose name was not James but Doyle, flushed
dangerously; but his wages were high, and he forced himself to keep his
temper under control. For all that, his voice shook as he said:
“If you have no appointment, you ought to know it's no use. No stranger
from a newspaper ever sees Mr. Merriwether. I--I'm sorry!” Here Doyle
gulped. Then he finished: “Good day!”--and resumed, his writing.
The reporter said, “Look at me!” so sharply that Doyle in a flash pushed
back his chair, jumped to his feet, and looked pugnaciously at the man
who dared to give commands in E. H. Merriwether's office.
“My Celtic friend,” pursued the reporter, in a voice of such
cold-blooded vindictiveness that Doyle listened with both astonishment
and respect, “for years the domestics of this office have been rude
and impolite to my profession. Mr. Merriwether never cared how angry
reporters might feel or what they said about him; but to-day I am the
one who does not care, and E. H. Merriwether is the man who is vitally
concerned. _I_ don't give a damn whether he sees me or not. And as
for you, in order to avenge the poor chaps to whom you have been
intelligently rude, I, to whom you have been unintelligently impolite,
shall have you fired. I've got E. H. Merriwether where I want him. If I
can end your boss I can end your job--can't I? Oh no, Alexander! I am
not crazy. I simply have the power. It was bound to happen, for Waterloo
comes to all great men who are not clever enough to die at the right
time. Now you go and get McWayne--and be quick about it!”
Doyle at times saw things through the top of his head, which was red. He
said, a bit thickly:
“When you tell me in plain English, so I can understand--”
“You are not paid to understand; you are paid to use common sense and
discrimination. You go to McWayne and say to him a reporter is here and
wishes to speak to him about a sad Merriwether family matter.”
Doyle knew from the office gossip that something was supposed to be
wrong with Tom Merriwether; so, his heart overflowing with anger because
chance had put the one weapon in the hands of an insolent newspaper man,
Doyle went off to tell the boss's private secretary. Presently McWayne,
walking quickly, came from an inner office, and asked: “You wish to see
me?”
“No!” answered the reporter, flatly.
“Then--” began McWayne.
“I don't wish to see you. I wish to see if you have the sense to
understand that I wish to do Mr. E. H. Merriwether the favor of letting
him talk to me. Do you want me to tell you what I want you to tell Mr.
E. H. Merriwether?”
The reporter looked as though he hoped McWayne would say no. Reporters
did not usually look that way; therefore McWayne was perturbed. He
replied, with a polite anxiety:
“If you please--”
“Tell Mr. Merriwether that I wish to see him about his son's marriage.
Tell him that if he does not wish to talk about it, he needn't. You
might add that there is absolutely no use in his trying to keep it out
of the newspapers. Make that plain to him, McWayne.”
McWayne did not dare deny the marriage. Tom was, alas! capable of even
worse things. He did the only thing possible while there was still a
chance to suppress the news; he said:
“And you represent which paper, please?”
Reporters do not always know why or how news is suppressed, nor the
price; but this reporter laughed good-naturedly, and replied:
“McWayne, the trouble with you Irish is that you are so infernally
clever that plain jackasses like myself are prepared for you. I
represent myself and I don't want to be paid to suppress. No blackmail
here; no threats; nothing except amiability and good-will. Have you
begun to accumulate a few suspicions that your taciturn boss is going to
talk to me?”
“I'll see!” promised McWayne, non-committally; but he was so perturbed
that he could not help showing it.
Doyle, who had made a pretense of resuming his letter-writing, noticed
it, and felt uncomfortable.
“And--say, McWayne,” pursued the reporter, “could you let a fellow have
a photograph or two? You know we've got some, but we'd prefer to publish
those you think the family consider the best. Some people are queer that
way.”
McWayne shook his head and went away, convinced of the worst. He
returned and beckoned to the reporter, who thereupon said, sharply, to
Doyle:
“Open the door--you! Quick!” And Doyle, who saw McWayne beckoning, had
to do it.
Four hundred and seventeen reporters were avenged!
Doyle was so angry that he was full of aches. He was tempted to throw
up his job. Then he hoped E. H. Merriwether, who was a very great man,
would order him to throw the insolent dog out of the office. Doyle would
earn a bonus.
E. H. Merriwether, autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad,
fearless fighter, iron-nerved stock gambler, but, alas! also a father,
was seated at his desk. He turned to the reporter the inscrutable
poker-face of his class:
“You wished to see me?”
“Yes, sir,” said the reporter, and waited; two could play at that game.
The great financier was compelled to ask:
“About what?”
“About what McWayne told you.” The reporter spoke unemotionally.
“About some rumor concerning my son?”
“No, sir.”
“No?” E. H. Merriwether looked surprised.
“No. I wished to know what statement you desire to make about your son's
engagement and marriage. If you do not care to say anything we shall not
publish any fake interview, no matter what opinion I personally may form
as to the real state of your feelings.”
“I take it you are from one of the yellow papers, young man?” E. H.
Merriwether spoke coldly; but, within, his heart-tragedy was being
enacted.
“You usually take what you wish if it isn't nailed down, I have heard;
but that, doubtless, is one of the slanders that automatically grow
up about a great man, sir,” said the reporter, without the shadow of a
smile or frown.
“If I am mistaken about the newspaper you represent--” Here Mr.
Merriwether paused, as if to allow the young man to introduce himself;
but the young man said:
“If I told you the name of the newspaper that honors itself by playing
fair with you, I suspect you would set in motion the machinery that
you--er--men of large affairs use to suppress news. You couldn't
reach my city editor, who is a poor man with a family of eight, or the
reporter, who is penniless; but you could reach the owner, who is a
millionaire. This is my first big story in New York and it will make me
professionally. It means a lot to me!”
“About how much does it mean to you, young man?” asked E. H.
Merriwether, with a particularly polite curiosity.
“Speaking in language that should be intelligible to you and using the
terms by which you measure' all things down here--” He paused, and then
said, bluntly, “You mean in cash, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I should say, Mr. Merriwether, that this story is worth to
me--Let me see!” And he began to count on his fingers, like a woman.
This habit inexpressibly angers men who find no trouble in remembering
numbers of dollars. “I should say, Mr. Merriwether, that it is worth
about three thousand two hundred and eighty-six--millions of dollars. If
I am to stop being a decent newspaper man to become a blackmailer and
general damned fool I'd want to make enough to endow all my pet
charities and carry out a series of rather expensive experiments in
philanthropy.”
“But--” began the magnate.
“No, sir,” interrupted the reporter, “no money, please. Just assume that
I am a damned fool and, therefore, refuse to consider a bribe.”
“I have not bribed you,” suggested E. H. Merriwether, calmly. His eyes
never left the reporter's face.
“Then I misjudged you, and I apologize abjectly; but permit me to
continue to be an ass and blind to money. What about Thomas Thorne
Merriwether, only son and heir of the railroad king of the Southwest?”
“Well, what about him?” The face of E. H. Merriwether showed only what
you might call a perfunctory curiosity. The reporter looked at him
admiringly. After a pause, he asked:
“Do you know her?”
“Do you?”
“Then you don't!” exclaimed the reporter, triumphantly. “This is better
than I had hoped.”
“Better?”
“Certainly; it means a better introductory article. The first of the
series will be: 'To whom is Tom Merriwether engaged?' Think of it,
sir,” he said, with the enthusiasm of the true artist, “the heir of
the Merriwether millions! By the way, could you tell offhand how many
millions I might safely say?”
Whatever Mr. Merriwether may have thought, he merely said, with the cold
finality that often imposes on young reporters:
“Young man, if you begin your career by being vulgar your ruin will be
of your own doing.”
“My dear sir, vulgarity never ruined any career. All the great men of
history were at the beginning accused of hopeless vulgarity--by those
on whom they trod. I tell you it is not vulgarity that prompts me, but
mastery of the technic of my trade. Do you care to have me tell you
about my article?”
What Mr. E. H. Merriwether really wished to hear was that Tom was not
in love--that he was not on the verge of brutally assassinating all
the hopes and dreams of a fond father. What he said to the unspeakable
reporter was:
“Yes.”
“Well, I start with this basis--my knowledge of your son's engagement.”
“Where did you get that knowledge?”
“One of the few things a reporter is incapable of doing is betraying
a confidence. To tell you the source of my information would be that.
Starting with that one fact, my problem is to make that one fact so
important as to enable me to write several thousand words. To justify
this I must make your son very important. He is not really very
important, but you are. I shall slightly over-accentuate here and
there”--he waved his hand in the air, and repeated, dreamily--“here
and there! You will be the Napoleon of railroads, the Von Moltke of the
ticker, doer of deeds and upbuilder, indisputably the greatest captain
of industry that America has yet produced!”
“Heavens!” burst from the lips of the imperturbable little magnate.
“You are a stunning study for a novelist. Yours is the great romance
of the American business man! Having made you romantic, I wave my
magician's wand and quadruple your millions. Yours, my dear sir--if
you don't happen to know it--is one of the great fortunes of the world!
You've got Croesus skinned to death and John D. whining over his lost
pre-eminence!”
“Now look here--” interjected E. H. Merriwether, sternly; but the
reporter retorted, earnestly:
“Hold your horses!” And the great millionaire did. The young man
continued in his enthusiastic way: “It is much to have the hundreds
of Merriwether millions, but it is infinitely more to have all the
Merriwether millions and such a father and youth. I thus make Tom, who
is really of no importance, of even greater importance than the great
E. H. Merriwether. Do I know my business?” And he bowed in the general
direction of the elder Merriwether.
“I begin to suspect,” replied the elder Merriwether, “that you do.”
He was watching the reporter closely. He always had found it profitable
to let men talk on. A man who talks is apt to show you what he is; and
that furnishes to you the best available weapon. You also may learn when
it is better not to fight.
“When it comes to picturesque writing about people I do not know, I
can assure you, Mr. Merriwether,” the young man said, modestly, “that
I haven't an equal in the United States. In your case I shall not be
handicapped by either facts or knowledge, which are always fatal to the
creative faculty. I shall be free--absolutely free to write!”
Mr. Merriwether permitted himself a frown in order to conceal his
uneasiness. This young man was talking like a humorist. The eyes were
intelligent and fearless. The combination was formidable.
“Your theory has doubtless many supporters among your colleagues.”
“There are,” admitted the reporter, cheerfully, “other bright young
creative artists on our staff. Well, I proceed to make your son a
paragon--a clean-minded, decent, manly young millionaire.”
“Which he is!” interjected Mr. Merriwether, sternly.
“Of course! I know it. Have no fear on that score. I'd make him all that
even if he wasn't. I proceed to draw attention--with a cleverness I'd
call devilish if it wasn't my own--to the strange and, on the whole,
agreeable vein of romanticism in the Merriwether nature. There you are,
a hard-headed man of affairs, whose name the world associates with great
engineering deeds and great high-finance misdeeds! You are--do you know
what?--a poet!--a wonderful poet whose lines are of steel, whose numbers
are of tonnage, whose song is chanted by the ten thousand purring wheels
of your tireless cars.”
“My car-wheels are lubricated. They don't purr,” mildly objected the
railroad poet.
“They do in my story,” said the reporter, firmly. “And to prove it
I'll quote some striking lines from one of those unknown books we great
writers always have on tap. Your romantic nature expresses itself in the
creation of an empire in the alkali desert. You have written an epic on
the map of America--in green!”
“That sounds good to me,” said Mr. E. H. Merriwether, with the detached
air of a critic of literature.
He did not know just how to win this young man's silence--perhaps by
letting him talk himself out of creative literature; perhaps by the
inauguration of a molasses diet at once!
“Thank you! Your son Tom's romance is in his unusual love-affair! This
young man, the most eligible bachelor in the world--handsome, rich, a
fastidious artist in feminine beauty, with a heart that has kept itself
inviolate--pretty swell word that?--in-vi-o-late--all these years, opens
at her sweet voice. We alone are able to announce the engagement. High
society is more than interested--more than startled. As thinks society,
so thinks the shop-girl; and there are fifty million of her. What
society is incinerating itself with desire to find out is: To whom is
Tom Merriwether engaged? Will our fair readers devour the article? I
leave it to you, Mr. Merriwether!” The young man looked inquiringly at
Mr. Merriwether.
“I'd read it myself,” said Mr. Merriwether, very impressively. “I
couldn't help it!” You could see that literature had triumphed over the
stock-ticker. A great diplomatist was lost in a great money-maker.
“Thank you! And what do you find at the end of the article? What? Why,
a nice psychological little paragraph to the effect that we propose to
print the name of the one woman who, of all the tens of thousands who
have tried, has won the heart of Thomas Thome Merriwether, whose father
you have the honor to be. We refrain, in order to have the parents of
the young people formally announce the engagement. By doing this we
get the full value of the to-be-continued-in-our-next suspense, for the
first time utilized in a news story; and we also increase our reputation
for gentlemanly conservatism, which prevents the refined reporter of
the--of my paper from intruding into a family affair.”
“Will your paper be damned fool enough to--” began E. H. Merriwether,
intentionally skeptical.
“It is not damned folly to extract all the juice contained in the scoop
of the century--it is technical skill of a very high order. Now what
happens? My esteemed contemporaries, morning and evening, chuck a fit
and bounce their society editors. They then rush for the telephone and
despatch their strongest photographers, sharpest sleuths, and entire
dictagraph corps to the scene. They can't find Tom--because, as you
know, he is in--he is out of town. And they can't find her--because I
haven't said who she is. There remains you!”
“That won't do them any good,” said Mr. E. H. Merriwether, decisively;
but he shuddered.
“Precisely! I banked on that. But, even if you did see them, what could
you tell them? Deny what is bound to be confirmed in the next issue of
my paper? You know better than to acquire a reputation for lying in the
newspapers. No, siree! Your game is to deny yourself to all inquirers
and say nothing. My esteemed contemporaries have now but one desire--to
wit: to print the name and publish the portrait of your son's fiancée.
Of course you see what happens then, don't you?”
The reporter looked at the iron-hearted E. H. Merriwether, with such
pity in his eyes that the great little czar of the Southwestern Railroad
for the first time in his life realized he was merely a man--a human
being; an ordinary, every-day father; one drop in the vast ocean; one
of the crowd temporarily aboveground and therefore exposed to the same
sorrows and troubles and sore vexations as all mankind. His millions,
his position in the world, his great work, his undoubted genius--could
not avail even to rid him of annoyance. Can you imagine John D.
Rockefeller living on Staten Island in June and unable to buy
mosquito-netting--price, five cents a yard?
“What will happen?” asked the great millionaire, who was also a father.
“My intelligent colleagues, of course, will look for the lady. Where
there is a strong demand the supply automatically offers itself for
consumption. And what will the seven hundred and fifty alert young men,
with great capacities for fictional art, who are temporarily assisting
actress-ladies and self-paying authoresses and unprinted poetesses
and fertilizer-manufacturers unmarried daughters, do? What will those
estimable young artists, miscalled press agents, do when they encounter
the demand for Tom's fiancée's photograph? What except 'Here she
is!'--six thousand words, thirty-two poses, and a facsimile of a
love-letter or two, to prove it! And then--chorus-ladies, poetesses,
fair divorcées about to honor the vaudeville--” The reporter stopped--he
had seen the look on E. H. Merri-wether's face. He felt sorry. “But it
is true,” he said, defensively.
“Yes!” Tom's poor rich father felt cold all over.
The reporter pursued, more quietly: “You know the ingenuity of my
colleagues, the great American respect for a millionaire's privacy, and
the national sense of humor. Will your son's love-affair be discussed?
Will it be discussed with the gentlemanly reticence and innate delicacy
of feeling of _my_ story?”
Mr. E. H. Merriwether never before realized that the law against
homicide was even more absurd than an Interstate Commerce Commission
order; but he had to bow to the inevitable. He was beginning to
understand how Napoleon felt on the deck of the _Bellerophon_ when on
the way to St. Helena., Do you remember the picture? He nodded--not
dejectedly, but also not far from it.
“Well, in a day or two or three, according to conditions; we come out
with it. We print the lady's name and her portrait--possibly not the
best of all her photographs, but the only one I could--”
“Who is she?” burst from the lips of the reporter's victim.
Instantly the reporter's face became very serious. “I feared so, Mr.
Merriwether,” he said, very quietly.
“Look here, my boy!” interrupted Mr. Merriwether, with an earnestness
that had in it a threat. “I don't know what your game is and I don't
care. I'll admit right now that you are a very clever young man and
probably not a crook; but I tell you calmly, quietly, without any
threats, that you are not going to publish any damned-fool article about
my family in any paper in New York.”
The reporter rose and looked straight into the unblinking eyes of the
great financier. Then he said, slowly, and, the old fellow admitted,
distinctly impressively:
“And I tell you, twice as quietly and ten times as calmly, without
any fool threats, that all the daily newspapers in New York and
Philadelphia, Chicago, San Francisco, Boston, and ten thousand other
towns in the United States, Canada, Mexico, the Canal Zone, and
countries in the Postal Union, are going to publish articles about your
son Tom's engagement, and later on about his marriage. Understand once
for all, that there are some things all your millions and all your
will-power cannot do. This is one of them. It is the penalty of being
a public character--or, if you prefer, of being an exceptionally great
man. Do I understand that you have nothing to say about your son's
coming marriage?”
E. H. Merriwether in less than five seconds thought of more than five
thousand possibilities, all in connection with his son's marriage. Then
he said, very slowly, fighting for time and a chance to escape:
“My son will marry whenever he and the young lady chiefly interested
judge fit to do so. He and I are in perfect accord, as always.” Mr.
Merriwether was looking into the too-fearless and too-intelligent
gray-blue eyes of the reporter. Then he did what he did not often do
in his Wall Street affrays--he capitulated. “Will you give me your word
that you will not use for publication what I am about to tell you?”
“No, sir, I won't!” emphatically replied the reporter. “You might tell
me something I already know and then you'd always think I had broken
my word. I will not pledge myself not to print the name of your
daughter-in-law-to-be; but anything that concerns you personally or your
attitude toward your son's finacée, or hints of a family quarrel--or
those things that offend a sensitive man--I promise not to print. You
have some rights; but I also owe certain things to myself and my paper.
I've been frank with you. You can be frank with me if you wish. I put it
up to you.”
Mr. Merriwether, after a thoughtful pause, said: “Look here! I don't
know anything about my son's engagement. I cannot swear he is not
engaged, but I don't know that he is. It follows that I do not know the
young lady. You don't have to print that, do you?”
The reporter gazed on the financier meditatively. Presently, instead of
answering the question, he asked:
“Have you had no suspicion of any romance?”
“Well”--and it was plain that E. H. Merriwether was telling the truth,
having made up his mind to that policy as being the wisest--“well, I
have of late suspected that such a thing might be possible. It is, I
will confess to you, a terrible predicament, because a man naturally
cherishes certain hopes for his only son.” On Mr. Merriwether's face
there was a quite human look of suffering.
“Of course,” said the reporter, apologetically, as though offering an
excuse for a friend's misdeed--“of course a man in love is not always
wise.”
“No. And though I have no intention or desire to bribe you, and though I
would not presume to interfere with you in your professional activities
or influence you by pecuniary considerations, you will pardon me for
suggesting--”
The reporter did not let him go on. He rose and said, with real dignity:
“Mr. Merriwether, suppose we drop the matter right here?”
“You mean?”
“I will not print any story yet--on one condition.”
“Name it. I think likely I can meet it.”
“Give me your promise that you will give me an interview the next time
I come to see you. It may be in a day or two or a week. I don't promise
not to print the story, you understand, but it will give you time
to--well, to see your son.”
E. H. Merriwether held out his hand and said: “I will see you any time
you come. But let me say, as an older man, that if you should suffer any
loss by not printing--”
“Oh no--I shall not suffer. I propose to print my story. I am simply
deferring publication; but I thank you for the offer you were going to
make. It shows more consideration and, therefore, far greater common
sense than most men in your position habitually display before a
reporter. I'll do even more--I'll give you a friendly tip.” He stopped
talking and looked doubtfully at E. H. Merriwether.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Merriwether, with a remarkable mixture of
gratitude, dignity, and anxiety. “I am listening.”
“Find out why he goes to 777 Fifth Avenue. There are some things a
really intelligent father, poor or rich, should--” He caught himself.
“Please finish, my boy!” cried the great little man, almost
entreatingly.
“There are just a few things”--the reporter was speaking very slowly and
his voice was lowered--“which an intelligent father does not trust to
others--not even to the most loyal confidential men--things that should
be done by the father himself. The number is 777 Fifth Avenue!”
“I thank you, Mr.--”
“William Tully,” said the reporter.
“Mr. Tully, I thank you. I think you are throwing away time and brains
in your present position, and if you should ever--”
“Thank you, sir. Don't be afraid. I shall not bother you by--”
“But I mean it,” said E. H. Merriwether.
The reporter smiled and said, “If you knew how often my fortune has been
made by men whose story I have not printed you'd be deaf, too.”
“Young man, I sometimes forget favors, but not the possession of brains.
I need them in my business.”
“Well, then, suppose you show your appreciation by telling the
red-headed person in the outer office that he is to take in my card to
you when I call again?”
“Certainly!” And the czar of the great Pacific & Southwestern system
nearly slew Doyle by accompanying the reporter to the outer door and
saying:
“Doyle, any time Mr. Tully comes to see me let me know instantly, no
matter what I may be doing or who is with me. Understand?”
“Yes, sir!” gasped Doyle, looking terrifiedly at the sorcerer.
Tully! Irish! That was the reason, of course; but he was a wonder, all
the same.
“Good day, Mr. Tully. I thank you. And don't forget my offer.”
Mr. Merriwether bowed as the door closed on Mr. William Tully and then,
walking like a man in a trance, returned to his private office. He rang
the push-button marked No. 1, and when McWayne appeared turned a haggard
face to his private secretary.
“McWayne, that reporter has a story of Tom's engagement, but he wouldn't
tell me who the girl is.”
“I don't believe it!” cried McWayne, with a not very intelligent
intention of comforting his chief. At times the male Irish mind works
femininely.
“Neither do I--and yet I do. It confirms Dr. Frauenthal's diagnosis.
I guess he knows his business, after all. Well, the story will not be
published yet. He acted pretty decently.”
McWayne wondered how much it had cost the old man, but he said, “Didn't
he intimate--”
“That reporter knows his business,” cut in E. H. Merriwether. “He ought
to be a dramatist. Have you heard from your men?”
“Yes, sir. Tom has gone to Boston. Two of them are with him. He suspects
nothing.”
“What else?”
“They will let me know by long distance if anything happens.”
“If anything! Great Scott! isn't it enough that--Let me hear what they
report--on the instant!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, McWayne--” He hesitated.
McWayne, his face full of sincere solicitude, prompted, gently:
“Yes, chief?”
It was the first time he had ever used that word. It made his speech so
friendly, so affectionately personal, that E. H. Merriwether said:
“Thank you, McWayne. I wish you would find out for me at once who lives
in 777 Fifth Avenue.”
“Yes, sir,” said McWayne. “That's where--” He caught himself. .
“I am afraid so!” acquiesced the railroad czar, listlessly.