THUS it was that I dawdled about the city wondering what would become of
me. My dramatic work, interesting as it was, was still so trivial in so
far as the space given it and the public’s interest in it were concerned
as to make it all but worthless. The great McCullagh was not interested
in the stage; the proof of it was that he entrusted this interesting
department to me. But circumstances were bringing about an onward if not
upward step. I was daily becoming so restless and unhappy that it would
have been strange if something had not happened. To think that there was
no more to this dramatic work for me than now appeared, and that in
addition Mr. McCullagh was allowing Mr. Mitchell to give me afternoon
and night or out-of-town assignments when I had important theatrical
performances to report! As a matter of fact they were not important, but
Mitchell had no consideration for my critical work. He continued to give
me two or three things to do on nights when, as he knew or I thought he
should, I should spend the evening witnessing a single performance. This
was to pay me out, so I thought, for going over his head. I grew more
and more resentful, and finally a catastrophe occurred.
It happened that one Sunday night late in April three shows were
scheduled to arrive in the city, each performance being worthy of
special attention. Nearly all new shows opened in St. Louis on Sunday
night and it was impossible for me to attend them all in one evening. I
might have given both Dick and Peter tickets and asked them to help me,
but I decided, since this was a custom practiced by my predecessor at
times, to write up the notices beforehand, the facts being culled from
various press-agent accounts already in my hands, and then comment more
fully on the plays in some notes which I published mid-week. It
happened, however, that on this particular evening Mr. Mitchell had
other plans for me. Without consulting me or my theatrical duties he
handed me at about seven in the evening a slip of paper containing a
notice of a street-car hold-up in the far western suburbs of the city. I
was about to protest that my critical work demanded my presence
elsewhere but concluded to hold my tongue. He would merely advise me to
write up the notices of the shows, as I had planned, or, worse yet, tell
me to let other people do them. I thought once of going to McCullagh and
protesting, but finally went my way determined to do the best I could
and protest later. I would hurry up on this assignment and then come
back and visit the theaters.
When I reached the scene of the supposed hold-up there was nothing to
guide me. The people at the car-barns did not know anything about it and
the crew that had been held up was not present. I visited a far outlying
police station but the sergeant in charge could tell me nothing more
than that the crime was not very important, a few dollars stolen. I went
to the exact spot but there were no houses in the neighborhood, only a
barren stretch of track lying out in a rain-soaked plain. It was a
gloomy, wet night, and I decided to return to the city. When I reached a
car-line it was late, too late for me to do even a part of my critical
work; the long distance out and the walks to the car-barn and the police
station had consumed much time. As I neared the city I found that it was
eleven o’clock. What chance had I to visit the theaters then? I asked
myself angrily. How was I to know if the shows had even arrived? There
had been heavy rains all over the West for the last week and there had
been many wash-outs.
I finally got off in front of the nearest theater and went up to the
door; it was silent and dark. I thought of asking the drugman who
occupied a corner of the building, but that seemed a silly thing to be
doing at this hour and I let it go. I thought of telephoning to the
rival paper, the _Republic_, when I reached the office, but when I got
there I had first to report to Mitchell, who was just leaving, and then,
irritated and indifferent, I put it off for the moment. Perhaps Hartung
would know.
“Do you know what time the first edition goes to press here, Hugh?” I
asked him at a quarter after twelve.
“Twelve-thirty, I think. The telegraph man can tell you.”
“Do you know whether the dramatic stuff I sent up this afternoon gets in
that?”
“Sure—at least I think it does. You’d better ask the foreman of the
composing-room about it, though.”
I went upstairs. Instead of calling up the _Republic_ at once, or any of
the managers of the theaters, or knocking out the notices entirely, I
inquired how matters stood with the first edition. I was not sure that
there was any reason for worrying about the shows not arriving, but
something kept telling me to make sure.
At last I found that the first edition had been closed, with the notices
in it, and went to the telephone to call up the _Republic_. Then the
dramatic editor of that paper had gone and I could not find the address
of a single manager. I tried to reach one of the theaters, but there was
no response. The clock registered twelve-thirty by then, and I weakly
concluded that things must be all right or that if they weren’t I
couldn’t help it. I then went home and to bed and slept poorly, troubled
by the thought that something might be wrong and wishing now that I had
not been so lackadaisical about it all. Why couldn’t I attend to things
at the proper time instead of dawdling about in this fashion? I sighed
and tried to sleep.
The next morning I arose and went through the two morning papers without
losing any time. To my horror and distress, there in the _Republic_ was
an announcement on the first page to the effect that owing to various
wash-outs in several States none of the three shows had arrived the
night before. And in my own paper, to my great pain was a full account
of the performances and the agreeable reception accorded them!
“Oh, Lord!” I groaned. “What will McCullagh say? What will the other
papers say? Three shows reviewed, and not one here!” And in connection
with one I had written: “A large and enthusiastic audience received Mr.
Sol Smith Russell” at the Grand. And in connection with another that the
gallery of Pope’s Theater “was top-heavy.” The perspiration burst from
my forehead. Remembering Sisseretta Jones and my tendency to draw the
lightning of public observation and criticism, I began to speculate as
to what newspaper criticism would follow this last _faux pas_. “Great
God!” I thought. “Wait till he sees this!” and I was ready to weep. At
once I saw myself not only the laughing-stock of the town but discharged
as well. Think of being discharged now, after all my fine dreams as to
the future!
Without delay I proceeded to the office and removed my few belongings,
resolved to be prepared for the worst. With the feeling that I owed Mr.
McCullagh an explanation I sat down and composed a letter to him in
which I explained, from my point of view, just how the thing had
happened. I did not attack Mr. Mitchell or seek to shield myself but
merely illustrated how I had been expected to handle my critical work in
this office. I also added how kind I thought he had been, how much I
valued his personal regard, and asked him not to think too ill of me.
This letter I placed in an envelope addressed to “Mr. Joseph B.
McCullagh, Personal,” and going into his private office before any
others had come down laid it on his desk. Then I retired to my room to
await the afternoon papers and think.
They were not long in appearing, and neither of the two leading
afternoon papers had failed to notice the blunder. With the most
delicate, laughing raillery they had seized upon this latest error of
the great _Globe_ as a remarkable demonstration of what they affected to
believe was its editor’s lately acquired mediumistic and psychic powers.
The _Globe_ was regularly writing up various séances, slate-writing
demonstrations and the like, in St. Louis and elsewhere, things which
Mr. McCullagh was interested in or considered good circulation builders,
and this was now looked upon as a fresh demonstration of his development
in that line. “Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!” I groaned when I read the following:
“To see three shows at once,” observed the _Post-Dispatch_, “and those
three widely separated by miles of country and washed-out sections of
railroad in three different States (Illinois, Iowa and Missouri), is
indeed a triumph; but also to see them as having arrived, or as they
would have been had they arrived, and displaying their individual
delights to three separate audiences of varying proportions assembled
for that purpose is truly amazing, one of the finest demonstrations of
mediumship—or perhaps we had better say materialization—yet known to
science. Great, indeed, is McCullagh. Great the _G.-D._ Indeed, now that
we think of it, it is an achievement so astounding that even the _Globe_
may well be proud of it—one of the finest flights of which the human
mind or the great editor’s psychic strength is capable. We venture to
say that no spiritualist or materializing medium has ever outrivaled it.
We have always known that Mr. McCullagh is a great man. The illuminating
charm of his editorial page is sufficient proof of that. But this latest
essay of his into the realm of combined dramatic criticism, supernatural
insight, and materialization, is one of the most perfect things of its
kind and can only be attributed to genius in the purest form. It is
psychic, supernatural, spooky.”
The _Evening Chronicle_ for its part troubled to explain how ably and
interestedly the spirit audiences and actors, although they might as
well have been resting, the actors at least not having any contract
which compelled their subconscious or psychic selves to work, had
conducted themselves, doing their parts without a murmur. It was also
here hinted that in future it would not be necessary for the _Globe_ to
carry a dramatic critic, seeing that the psychic mind of its chief was
sufficient. Anyhow it was plain that the race was fast reaching that
place where it could perceive in advance that which was about to take
place; in proof of this it pointed of course to the noble mind which now
occupied the editorial chair of the _Globe-Democrat_, seeing all this
without moving from his office.
I was agonized. Sweat rolled from my forehead; my nerves twitched. And
to think that this was the second time within no more than a month that
I had made my great benefactor the laughing-stock of the city! What must
he think of me? I could see him at that moment reading these
editorials.... He would discharge me....
Not knowing what to do, I sat and brooded. Gone were all my fine dreams,
my great future, my standing in the eyes of men and of this paper! What
was to become of me now? I saw myself returning to Chicago—to do what?
What would Peter, Dick, Hazard, Johnson, Bellairs, all my new found
friends, think? Instead of going boldly to the office and seeing my
friends, who were still fond of me if laughing at my break, or Mr.
McCullagh, I slipped about the city meditating on my fate and wondering
what I was to do.
For at least a week, during the idlest hours of the morning and evening,
I would slip out and get a little something to eat or loiter in an old
but little-frequented book-store in Walnut Street, hoping to keep myself
out of sight and out of mind. In a spirit of intense depression I picked
up a few old books, deciding to read more, to make myself more fit for
life. I also decided to leave St. Louis, since no one would have me
here, and began to think of Chicago, whether I could stand it to return
there, or whether I had better drift on to a strange place. But how
should I live or travel, since I had very little money—having wasted it,
as I now thought, on riotous living! The unhappy end of a spendthrift!
Finally, after mooning about for a day or two more I concluded that I
should have to leave my fine room and try to earn some money here so as
to be able to leave. And so one morning, without venturing near the
_Globe_ and giving the principal meeting-places of reporters and friends
a wide berth, I went into the office of the St. Louis _Republic_, then
thriving fairly well in an old building at Third and Chestnut streets.
Here with a heavy heart, I awaited the coming of the city editor, H. B.
Wandell, of whom I had heard a great deal but whom I had never seen.
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