Excursions In A Newspaper Office.
I.
Silent, white and stern of face, occupied with immense thoughts, the
young men sat as the cab they had found outside Battersea Park station
sped them towards Fleet Street.
They were upon the Embankment, rattling beneath Hungerford Bridge, when
from the tangle of his plans Bill at last drew a thread; weaved it to
words. “George, we mustn't tell the chief anything about your being
mixed up with the other cat outrage--the Rose. It might be awkward.”
George shifted the hand that firmly held Abishag on the seat between
them; squeezed that fine creature's head to him with his arm; with his
handkerchief wiped his sweating palms.
“It's _going_ to be awkward,” he said--“damned awkward! I see that. Oh,
Bill!”
He groaned. This young man was in desperate agitation.
“Buck up,” Bill told him. “This is a cert. Safe as houses.”
“All very well for you, Bill. I seem to have been living one gigantic
lie all the past week.”
“Well, you have, you know,” Bill granted. “By gum, you have! But you
aren't now. You didn't steal _this_ cat. You found it just as anyone
else might have found it. All I tell you is: Don't say anything about
the Rose. Don't open your mouth, in fact. Leave the gassing to me.”
It was upon this repeated injunction that my poor George tottered up the
stairs of the _Daily_ office, cat in arm, in Bill's wake.
II.
Bill rapped upon Mr. Bitt's door; poked in his head at the answering
call; motioned my trembling George to wait; stepped over the threshold.
Mr. Bitt sat behind a broad table; before him, deep in an armchair,
smoking a cigarette, lay Mr. Vivian Howard.
“Ah! Wyvern,” spoke Mr. Bitt. “Mr. Howard, this is Mr. Wyvern, one of my
brightest young men. From to-day he takes in hand this business.”
Mr. Vivian Howard did not rise; stretched a white hand to Bill. This
man had an appreciation of the position he had won. This man stood for
English literature. Within a wide estimate of public opinion, and
within that immense estimate of him that was his own, this man stood for
literature. In a manner worthy of his proud standing this man comported
himself. The talents that were his belonged to the nation, and very
freely he gave them to the people. This man did not deny himself to the
crowd as another might have denied himself. Of him it never could be
said that he missed opportunity to let the public feed upon him. This
man made such opportunities. Where excitement was, there this man,
pausing between his novels, would step in. If a murder-trial had the
public attention this man would write upon that trial; if interest
were fixed upon a trade dispute this man would by some means draw that
interest upon himself. Nothing was too small for this man. Walking the
public places he did not shrink from recognition; he gladly permitted
it. Not once but many times, coming upon a stranger reading one of
his novels, he had announced himself; autographed the copy. This man's
character was wholly in keeping with his gifts.
Yet beautifully he could preserve the dignity that was his right.
Preserving it now, he gave his hand to Bill but did not move his
position.
“It is a great pleasure to me to meet you, sir,” Bill told him.
“You have only lately joined the ranks of journalism, Mr. Bitt tells
me,” Mr. Vivian Howard graciously replied. “It is the stepping-stone to
literature. Never forget that. Never lose sight of that. I shall watch
your career with the greatest interest.”
Mr. Bitt broke in a trifle impatiently: “Well, well, we must keep to
business just now. Mr. Howard will kindly give us a daily interview,
Wyvern, until the feuilleton starts, or until the cat is found. You'd
better--”
Bill took a pace back; faced them both. “No need,” he cried in bursting
words. “The cat is found!”
The cigarette dropped from Mr. Vivian Howard's lip to his waistcoat. He
brushed at it violently; burnt his fingers; brushed again; swore with
a ferocity that would have astonished his admirers; sprang to his feet
amid a little shower of sparks and cloud of ash. “Found!” he exclaimed;
jabbed a burnt finger in his mouth and thickly repeated, “Found!”
Mr. Bitt simultaneously rose. “Found?” cried Mr. Bitt. “What the--”
“I have the finder here,” Bill told them; stepped to the door.
On legs that shook my agitated George advanced.
Mr. Vivian Howard drew forth his suffering finger with a loud pop; made
three hasty strides to George; took the cat. “Abishag!” he cried in
ecstasy, “Abishag!”
In very gloomy tones Mr. Bitt announced that he was bust. “Well, I'm
bust!” he said. “I'm bust. It _is_ your cat, eh?”
Mr. Vivian Howard nodded the head he was bending over his Abishag.
Bill signalled to George a swift wink. George drew a handkerchief; wiped
from his face the beaded agony.
Mr. Bitt dropped heavily into his seat. “Of course I'm very glad, Mr.
Howard,” he announced stonily. “_Very_ glad. At the same time--at the
same _time_--” He turned upon George with a note that was almost savage.
“You, sir!” he cried.
George started painfully.
“How the--How did you come to find this cat?”
George forced his pocket handkerchief into his trousers pocket; rammed
it down; cleared his throat; ran a finger round the inside of his
collar; cleared again; said nothing.
Bill hurried to the rescue. “Like this, sir. Let me tell you. This
gentleman was at Paltley Hill, a place on the South-Western. He used to
live there. He found the cat in a deserted kind of hut, took charge of
it. I happened to meet him and brought him along. By Jove, sir, only
published this morning and found within a few hours! It's pretty good,
isn't it?”
Mr. Bitt spoke with great disgust. “Pretty _good!_” he cried bitterly.
“Pretty _good!_” He had no fit words in which to express his feeling.
“Kindly step in there a moment,” he addressed George.
George trembled into the adjoining room indicated; closed the door.
Mr. Bitt turned to Mr. Vivian Howard. “It will always be a great
pleasure to me,” he told the great novelist, “to think that the _Daily_
was the means of restoring your cat.”
“I never shall forget it,” Mr. Vivian Howard assured him. The famous
author placed himself upon the couch, caressed Abishag the Shunamite
upon his lap. “Never shall forget it. It was more than good of you,
Mr. Bitt, to take up the matter and offer so handsome a reward. It was
public-spirited.”
Mr. Bitt's deprecatory little laugh had a rueful note.
He nerved himself to step upon the delicate ground that lay between him
and his purpose. This man had not known Mr. Vivian Howard sufficiently
long to put to him directly that the reward was offered, and gladly
agreed to by Mr. Howard, for purposes of respective self-advertisement
agreeable at once to the paper and to the man who stood for English
literature. He nerved himself:
“When you say public-spirited, Mr. Howard, you use the right term. I do
not attempt to deny that I fully appreciated that this reward for your
cat, and the interview you agreed to give us, would greatly benefit
our paper. Why should I deny it? We editors must be business men first,
nowadays; journalists afterwards. But I do ask you to believe me, Mr.
Howard, that in offering this reward, in arousing this interest, I had
in view also a matter that has been my aim since I was at College.”
Mr. Bitt's college was Rosa Glen College, 156 Farmer Road, Peckham; but
he preferred the briefer designation.
“The aim,” he continued, gathering courage as he detected in Mr. Vivian
Howard's face a look which seemed to show that the famous author was
advancing upon the delicate ground to meet him, “the aim of attracting
the people to good literature.”
Mr. Vivian Howard, as standing for that literature, took the implied
compliment with a bow. “I congratulate you, Mr. Bitt.”
“Now, the _Daily_ is young,” Mr. Bitt earnestly continued. “The
_Daily_ has yet to make its way. If your 'Amy Martin' starts in normal
circumstances a week hence, it will mean that this contribution to our
highest literature will fall only to a comparatively small circle
of people. But if--but if, as I had hoped, we had morning by morning
attracted more and more readers by the great interest taken in your
loss, 'Amy Martin' would then have introduced our best fiction to a
public twice or thrice as large as our present circulation represents.”
“You mean--?” the great author inquired.
“I mean,” Mr. Bitt told him, “that for this reason I cannot but
regret that the excitement aroused should disappear with our issue of
to-morrow. I mean, Mr. Howard, that for the reason I have named I
do think it is almost our _duty_--our _duty_, for the reason I have
named--to conceal the cat's recovery for--er--for a day or so.”
Mr. Bitt blew his nose violently to conceal his agitation. This man was
now in the precise centre of the delicate ground; was in considerable
fear that it might open and swallow him.
But Mr. Vivian Howard's reply made that ground of rock-like solidity.
“As you put the matter, Mr. Bitt, I must say I agree. It would be false
modesty on my part to pretend I do not recognise the worth of 'Amy
Martin,' and the desirability of introducing it as widely as possible.
Certainly that could best have been accomplished by Abishag not having
been recovered so soon. But as it is--I do not see what can be done. You
do not, of course, suggest deliberate deception of the public?”
“Certainly _not!_” cried Mr. Bitt with virtuous warmth. Since this was
precisely what he did suggest and most earnestly desired, he repeated
his denial: “Certainly _not_! At the same time--”
“One moment,” Mr. Vivian Howard interrupted. “This cat was obviously
stolen by someone and placed in the hut where it was found. Very well.
We prosecute. We prosecute, and I could give you every morning my views
on the guilt or otherwise--”
Mr. Bitt shook his head. “I had thought of that. It won't do. It won't
do, Mr. Howard. For one thing, a rigorous prosecution and sentence might
create bad feeling against the paper. You have no idea how curious the
public is in that way. For another, you, as the injured party, ought
not to comment; and certainly I could not publish your views. The matter
would be _sub judice_ directly arrest was made; and I once got into very
serious trouble over a _sub judice_ matter--very serious trouble indeed.
I shall not touch the law, Mr. Howard. It is unwise. At the same time,
I think the thief should be made to suffer--be given a thorough fright.
Now, if we inform the public that practically our Special Commissioner
has his hand on the cat--which will be perfectly true--and is almost
certain as to the identity of the thief--if we keep this up for the
few days necessary for the publication of those magnificent articles
of yours on 'What my Loss means to Me,' we shall be accomplishing three
excellent objects. We shall be terrifying an evil-doer--we may take it
for granted he reads the _Daily_; we shall be giving the public those
articles which most certainly ought not to be lost to literature; and we
shall be widening the sphere of influence of 'Amy Martin.'”
Mr. Vivian Howard did not hesitate. “It is impossible to override your
arguments, Mr. Bitt. I think we shall be doing _right_.”
Mr. Bitt concealed his immense joy. “I am convinced of it, Mr. Howard,”
he said. “_Convinced_. The modern editor and the man of letters of your
standing have enormous responsibilities.”
Impelled by the virtuous public duty they were performing, the two men
silently grasped hands.