The editor of _The Daily Chat_ wondered a little vaguely why he had
come down to the office at all. Here was the thermometer down to 11°
with every prospect of touching zero before daybreak, and you can't
fill a morning paper with weather reports. Besides, nothing was coming
in from the North of the Trent beyond the curt information that all
telegraphic and telephonic communication beyond was impossible. There
was a huge blizzard, a heavy fall of snow nipped hard by the terrific
frost and--silence.
To-morrow--January 25th--would see a pretty poor paper unless America
roused up to a sense of her responsibility and sent something hot to
go on with. The Land's End cables often obliged in that way. There
was the next chapter of the Beef and Bread Trust, for instance. Was
Silas X. Brett going to prove successful in his attempt to corner the
world's supply? That Brett had been a pawnbroker's assistant a year
ago mattered little. That he might at any time emerge a penniless
adventurer mattered less. From a press point of view he was good for
three columns.
The chief "sub" came in, blowing his fingers. The remark that he was
frozen to the marrow caused no particular sympathy.
"Going to be a funeral rag to-morrow," the editor said curtly.
"That's so," Gough admitted cheerfully. "We've drawn a thrilling
picture of the Thames impassable to craft--and well it might be after
a week of this Arctic weather. For days not a carcase or a sack of
flour has been brought in. Under the circumstances we were justified in
prophesying a bread and meat famine. And we've had our customary gibe
at Silas X. Brett. But still, it's poor stuff."
The editor thought he would go home. Still he dallied, on the off
chance of something turning up. It was a little after midnight when he
began to catch the suggestion of excitement that seemed to be simmering
in the sub-editor's room. There was a clatter of footsteps outside. By
magic the place began to hum like a hive.
"What have you struck, Gough?" the editor cried.
Gough came tumbling in, a sheaf of flimsies in his hand.
"Brett's burst," he gasped. "It's a real godsend, Mr. Fisher. I've got
enough here to make three columns. Brett's committed suicide."
Fisher slipped out of his overcoat. Everything comes to the man who
waits. He ran his trained eyes over the flimsies; he could see his way
to a pretty elaboration.
"The danger of the corner is over," he said, later, "but the fact
remains that we are still short of supplies; there are few provision
ships on the seas, and if they were close at hand they couldn't get
into port with all this ice about. Don't _say_ that London is on the
verge of a famine, but you can hint it."
Gough winked slightly and withdrew. An hour later and the presses were
kicking and coughing away in earnest. There was a flaming contents
bill, so that Fisher went off drowsily through the driving snow Bedford
Square way with a feeling that there was not much the matter with the
world after all.
It was piercingly cold, the wind had come up from the east, the steely
blue sky of the last few days had gone.
Fisher doubled before the wind that seemed to grip his very soul. On
reaching home he shuddered as he hung over the stove in the hall.
"My word," he muttered as he glanced at the barometer. "Down
half-an-inch since dinner time. And a depression on top that you could
lie in. Don't ever recollect London under the lash of a real blizzard,
but it's come now."
A blast of wind, as he spoke, shook the house like some unreasoning
fury.