_Relating how Two Stars in their Courses fought for Mr. Queed; and
how he accepted Remunerative Employment under Colonel Cowles, the
Military Political Economist._
The stars in their courses fought for Mr. Queed in those days. Somebody
had to fight for him, it seemed, since he was so little equipped to
fight for himself, and the stars kindly undertook the assignment. Not
merely had he attracted the militant services of the bright little
celestial body whose earthly agent was Miss Charlotte Lee Weyland; but
this little body chanced to be one of a system or galaxy, associated
with and exercising a certain power, akin to gravitation, over that
strong and steady planet known among men as Charles Gardiner West. And
the very next day, the back of the morning's mail being broken, the
little star used some of its power to draw the great planet to the
telephone, while feeling, in a most unstellar way, that it was a
decidedly cheeky thing to do. However, nothing could have exceeded the
charming radiance of Planet West, and it was he himself who introduced
the topic of Mr. Queed, by inquiring, in mundane language, whether or
not he had been fired.
"No!" laughed the star. "Instead of firing him, I'm now bent on _hiring_
him. Oh, you'd better not laugh! It's to you I want to hire him!"
But at that the shining Planet laughed the more.
"What have I done to be worthy of this distinction? Also, what can I do
with him? To paraphrase his own inimitable remark about your dog, what
is the object of a man like that? What is he for?"
Sharlee dilated on the renown of Mr. Queed as a writer upon abstruse
themes. Mr. West was not merely agreeable; he was interested. It seemed
that at the very last meeting of the _Post_ directors--to which body Mr.
West had been elected at the stockholders' meeting last June--it had
been decided that Colonel Cowles should have a little help in the
editorial department. The work was growing; the Colonel was ageing. The
point had been to find the help. Who knew but what this little highbrow
was the very man they were looking for?
"I'll call on him--at your aunt's, shall I?--to-day if I can. Why, not a
bit of it! The thanks are quite the other way. He may turn out another
Charles A. Dana, cleverly disguised. When are you going to have another
half-holiday up there?"
Sharlee left the telephone thinking that Mr. West was quite the nicest
man she knew. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred, in his position, would
have said, "Send him to see me." Mr. West had said, "I'll call on him at
your aunt's," and had absolutely refused to pose as the gracious
dispenser of patronage. However, a great many people shared Sharlee's
opinion of Charles Gardiner West. One of them walked into his office at
that very moment, also petitioning for something, and West received him
with just that same unaffected pleasantness of manner which everybody
found so agreeable. But this one's business, as it happened, completely
knocked from Mr. West's head the matter of Mr. Queed. In fact, he never
gave it another thought. The following night he went to New York with a
little party of friends, chiefly on pleasure bent; and, having no
particularly frugal mind, permitted himself a very happy day or so in
the metropolis. Hence it happened that Sharlee, learning from her aunt
that no Post directors had called forcing remunerative work on Mr.
Queed, made it convenient, about five days after the telephone
conversation, to meet Mr. West upon the street, quite by accident. Any
girl can tell you how it is done.
"Oh, by the way," she said in the most casual way, "shall I send my
little Doctor Queed to call upon you some day?"
West was agreeably contrite; abused himself for a shiftless lackwit who
was slated for an unwept grave; promised to call that very day; and,
making a memorandum the instant he got back to the office, this time did
not fail to keep his word.
Not that Mr. Queed had been inconvenienced by the little delay. The
minute after his landlady's agent left him, he had become immersed in
that great work of his, and there by day and night, he had remained.
Having turned over to the agent the full responsibility for finding work
for him, he no longer had to bother his head about it. The whole matter
dropped gloriously from his mind; he read, wrote, and avoided practicing
sociology with tremendous industry; and thus he might have gone on for
no one knows how long had there not, at five o'clock on the fifth day,
come a knock upon his door.
"Well?" he called, annoyed.
Emma came in with a card. The name, at which the young man barely
glanced, conveyed nothing to him.
"Well? What does he want?"
Emma did not know.
"Oh!" said Mr. Queed, irritably--"tell him to come up, if he must."
The _Post_ director came up--two flights; he knocked; was curtly bidden
to enter; did so.
He stepped into one of the smallest rooms he had ever seen in his life;
about nine by five-and-a-half, he thought. A tiny single bed ran along
one side of it; jammed against the foot of the bed was a tiny table. A
tiny chair stood at the table; behind the chair stood a tiny bureau;
beside the bureau, the tiniest little iron wash-stand in the world. In
the chair sat a man, not tiny, indeed, but certainly nobody's prize
giant. He sat in a kind of whirling tempest of books and papers, and he
rode absorbedly in the whirlwind and majestically directed the storm.
West was intensely interested. "Mr. Queed?" he asked, from just inside
the door.
"Yes," said the other, not looking up. "What can I do for you?"
West burst out laughing; he couldn't help it.
"Maybe you can do a great deal, Mr. Queed. On the other hand maybe I can
do some little trifle for you. Which leg the boot is on nobody on earth
can say at this juncture. I have ventured to call," said he, "as an
ambassador from the morning _Post_ of this city."
"The _Post_?"
The name instantly started Queed's memory to working; he recalled
something about the _Post_--as yet, so it happened, only the copy of it
he had read; and he turned and looked around with slow professorial
amusement kindling in his eyes.
"Ah!" said he. "Possibly you are Colonel Cowles, the military political
economist?"
West was more amused than ever. "No," said he, "on the contrary, West is
the name, C.G. West--to correspond, you know, with the one on that card
you have in your hand. I'll sit down here on the bed--shall I?--so that
we can talk more comfortably. Sitting does help the flow of ideas so
remarkably, don't you find? I am trespassing on your time," said he, "at
the suggestion of--an acquaintance of yours, who has been telling me
great things about your work."
Queed looked completely puzzled.
"The _Post_, Mr. Queed," went on West agreeably, "is always looking for
men who can do exceptional work. Therefore, I have come to consider with
you whether we might not make an arrangement to our mutual advantage."
At that the whole thing came back to the young man. He had agreed to
take light remunerative work to pay his board, and now the day of
reckoning was at hand. His heart grew heavy within him.
"Well," said he, exactly as he had said to the agent, "what have you to
propose?"
"I thought of proposing, first, that you give me some idea of what you
have done and can do on lines useful for a daily newspaper. How does
that method of procedure strike you?"
Queed produced his celebrated envelope of clippings. Also he hunted up
one or two stray cuttings which proved to be editorials he had written
on assignment, for a New York newspaper. West ran through them with
intelligent quickness.
"I say! These are rather fine, you know. This article on the income tax
now--just right!--just the sort of thing!"
Queed sat with his hand clamped on his head, which was aching rather
badly, as indeed it did about three fourths of the time.
"Oh, yes," he said wearily.
"I take off my hat to you!" added West presently. "You're rather out of
my depth here, but at least I know enough political economy to know what
is good."
He looked at Queed, smiling, very good-humored and gay, and Queed looked
back at him, not very good-humored and anything but gay. Doubtless it
would have surprised the young Doctor very much to know that West was
feeling sorry for him just then, for at that moment he was feeling sorry
for West.
"Now look here," said West.
He explained how the _Post_ desired a man to write sleep-inducing
fillers--"occasional articles of weight and authority" was the way he
put it--and wanted to know if such an opening would interest Mr. Queed.
Queed said he supposed so, provided the _Post_ took little of his time
and paid his board in return for it. West had no doubt that everything
could be satisfactorily arranged.
"Colonel Cowles is the man who hires and fires," he explained. "Go to
see him in a day or two, will you? Meantime, I'll tell him all about
you."
Presently West smiled himself out, leaving Queed decidedly relieved at
the brief reprieve. He had been harried by the fear that his visitor
would insist on his stopping to produce an article or so while he
waited. However, the time had come when the inevitable had to be faced.
His golden privacy must be ravished for the grim god of bread and meat.
The next afternoon he put on his hat with a bad grace, and went forth to
seek Colonel Cowles, editor-in-chief of the leading paper in the State.
The morning _Post_ was an old paper, which had been in the hands of a
single family from A.D. 1846 till only the other day. It had been a
power during the war, a favorite mouthpiece of President Davis. It had
stood like a wall during the cruelties of Reconstruction; had fought the
good fight for white man's rule; had crucified carpet-baggism and
scalawaggery upon a cross of burning adjective. Later it had labored
gallantly for Tilden; denounced Hayes as a robber; idolized Cleveland;
preached free trade with pure passion; swallowed free silver; stood
"regular," though not without grimaces, through Bryanism. The _Post_
was, in short, a paper with an honorable history, and everybody felt a
kind of affection for it. The plain fact remained, however, that within
recent years a great many worthy persons had acquired the habit of
reading the more hustling _State_.
The _Post_, not to put too fine a point upon it, had for a time run fast
to seed. The third generation of its owners had lost their money, mostly
in land speculations in the suburbs of New York City, and in the State
of Oregon. You could have thrown a brick from their office windows and
hit far better land speculations, but they had the common fault of
believing that things far away from home are necessarily and always the
best. The demand rose for bigger, fatter newspapers, with comic sections
and plenty of purple ink, and the _Post's_ owners found themselves
unable to supply it. In fact they had to retort by mortgaging their
property to the hilt and cutting expenses to rock-bottom. These were
dark days for the _Post_. That it managed to survive them at all was due
chiefly to the personality of Colonel Cowles, who, though doubtless
laughable as a political economist, was yet considered to have his good
points. But the Hercules-labor grew too heavy even for him, and the
paper was headed straight for the auctioneer's block when new interests
suddenly stepped in and bought it. These interests, consisting largely
of progressive men of the younger generation, thoroughly overhauled and
reorganized the property, laid in the needed purple ink, and were now
gradually driving the old paper back to the dividend-paying point again.
Colonel Cowles, whose services had, of course, been retained, was of the
old school of journalism, editor and manager, too. Very little went into
the _Post_ that he had not personally viséd in the proof: forty galleys
a night were child's play to him. Managing editor there was none but
himself; the city editor was his mere office-boy and mouthpiece; even
the august business manager, who mingled with great advertisers on equal
terms, was known to take orders from him. In addition the Colonel wrote
three columns of editorials every day. Of these editorials it is enough
to say at this point that there were people who liked them.
Toward this dominant personality, the reluctant applicant for work now
made his way. He cut an absent-minded figure upon the street, did Mr.
Queed, but this time he made his crossings without mishap. Undisturbed
by dogs, he landed at the _Post_ building, and in time blundered into a
room described as "Editorial" on the glass-door. A friendly young girl
sitting there, pounding away on a typewriter, referred him to the next
office, and the young man, opening the connecting door without knocking,
passed inside.
A full-bodied, gray-headed, gray-mustached man sat in his shirt-sleeves
behind a great table, writing with a very black pencil in a large
sprawling hand. He glanced up as the door opened.
"Colonel Cowles?"
"I am the man, sir. How may I serve you?"
Queed laid on the table the card West had given him with a pencilled
line of introduction.
"Oh--Mr. Queed! Certainly--certainly. Sit down, sir. I have been
expecting you.--Let me get those papers out of your way."
Colonel Cowles had a heavy jaw and rather too rubicund a complexion. He
looked as if apoplexy would get him some day. However, his head was like
a lion's of the tribe of Judah; his eye was kindly; his manner
dignified, courteous, and charming. Queed had decided not to set the
Colonel right in his views on taxation; it would mean only a useless
discussion which would take time. To the older gentleman's polite
inquiries relative to his impressions of the city and so forth, he for
the same reason gave the briefest possible replies. But the Colonel, no
apostle of the doctrine that time is far more than money, went off into
a long monologue, kindly designed to give the young stranger some idea
of his new surroundings and atmosphere.
"... Look out there, sir. It is like that all day long--a double stream
of people always pouring by. I have looked out of these windows for
twenty-five years, and it was very different in the old days. I remember
when the cows used to come tinkling down around that corner at
milking-time. A twelve-story office building will rise there before
another year. We have here the finest city and the finest State in the
Union. You come to them, sir, at a time of exceptional interest. We are
changing fast, leaping forward very fast. I do not hold with those who
take all change to be progress, but God grant that our feet are set in
the right path. No section of the country is moving more rapidly, or, as
I believe, with all our faults, to better ends than this. My own eyes
have seen from these windows a broken town, stagnant in trade and
population and rich only in memories, transform itself into the splendid
thriving city you see before you. Our faces, too long turned backward,
are set at last toward the future. From one end of the State to another
the spirit of honorable progress is throbbing through our people. We
have revolutionized and vastly improved our school system. We have
wearied of mud-holes and are laying the foundations of a network of
splendid roads. We are doing wonders for the public health. Our farmers
are learning to practice the new agriculture--with plenty of lime, sir,
plenty of lime. They grasp the fact that corn at a hundred bushels to
the acre is no dream, but the most vital of realities. Our young men who
a generation ago left us for the irrigated lands of your Northwest, are
at last understanding that the finest farmlands in the country are at
their doors for half the price. With all these changes has come a
growing independence in political thought. The old catchwords and bogies
have lost their power. We no longer think that whatever wears the
Democratic tag is necessarily right. We no longer measure every
Republican by Henry G. Surface. We no longer ..."
Queed, somewhat interested in spite of himself, and tolerably familiar
with history, interrupted to ask who Henry G. Surface might be. The
question brought the Colonel up with a jolt.
"Ah, well," said he presently, with a wave of his hand, "you will hear
that story soon enough." He was silent a moment, and then added, sadly
and somewhat sternly: "Young man, I have reserved one count in the
total, the biggest and best, for the last. Keep your ear and eye
open--and I mean the inner ear and eye as well as the outer--keep your
mind open, above all keep your heart open, and it will be given you to
understand that we have here the bravest, the sweetest, and the
kindliest people in the world. The Lord has been good to you to send you
among them. This is the word of a man in the late evening of life to one
in the hopeful morning. You will take it, I hope, without offense. Are
you a Democrat, sir?"
"I am a political economist."
The Colonel smiled. "Well said, sir. Science knows no party lines. Your
chosen subject rises above the valley of partisanry where we old
wheel-horses plod--stinging each other in the dust, as the poet finely
says. Mr. West has told me of your laurels."
He went on to outline the business side of what the _Post_ had to
offer. Queed found himself invited to write a certain number of
editorial articles, not to exceed six a week, under the Colonel's
direction. He had his choice of working on space, at the rate of five
dollars per column, payment dependent upon publication; or of drawing a
fixed honorarium of ten dollars per week, whether called on for the
stipulated six articles or for no articles at all. Queed decided to
accept the fixed honorarium, hoping that there would be many weeks when
he would be called on for no articles at all. A provisional arrangement
to run a month was agreed upon.
"I have," said the Colonel, "already sketched out some work for you to
begin on. The legislature meets here in January. It is important to the
State that our whole tax-system should be overhauled and reformed. The
present system is a mere crazy-quilt, unsatisfactory in a thousand ways.
I suggest that you begin with a careful study of the law, making
yourself familiar with--"
"I am already familiar with it."
"Ah! And what do you think of it?"
"It is grotesque."
"Good! I like a clean-cut expression of opinion such as that, sir. Now
tell me your criticisms on the law as it stands, and what you suggest as
remedies."
Queed did so briefly, expertly. The Colonel was considerably impressed
by his swift, searching summaries.
"We may go right ahead," said he. "I wish you would block out a series
of articles--eight, ten, or twelve, as you think best--designed to
prepare the public mind for a thorough-going reform and point the way
that the reform should take. Bring this schedule to me to-morrow, if you
will be so good, and we will go over it together."
Queed, privately amused at the thought of Colonel Cowles's revising his
views on taxation, rose to go.
"By the bye," said the Colonel, unluckily struck by a thought, "I myself
wrote a preliminary article on tax reform a week or so ago, meaning to
follow it up with others later on. Perhaps you had best read that
before--"
"I have already read it."
"Ah! How did it strike you?"
"You ask me that?"
"Certainly," said Colonel Cowles, a little surprised.
"Well, since you ask me, I will say that I thought it rather amusing."
The Colonel looked nettled. He was by nature a choleric man, but in his
age he had learned the futility of disputation and affray, and nowadays
kept a tight rein upon himself.
"You are frank sir--'tis a commendable quality. Doubtless your work will
put my own poor efforts to the blush."
"I shall leave you to judge of that, Colonel Cowles."
The Colonel, abandoning his hospitable plan of inviting his new
assistant to sup with him at the club, bowed with dignity, and Queed
eagerly left him. Glancing at his watch in the elevator, the young man
figured that the interview, including going and coming, would stand him
in an hour's time, which was ten minutes more than he had allowed for
it.
V
_Selections from Contemporary Opinions of Mr. Queed; also
concerning Henry G. Surface, his Life and Deeds; of Fifi, the
Landlady's Daughter, and how she happened to look up Altruism in
the Dictionary_.
A month later, one icy afternoon, Charles Gardiner West ran into Colonel
Cowles at the club, where the Colonel, a lone widower, repaired each day
at six P.M., there to talk over the state of the Union till nine-thirty.
"Colonel," said West, dropping into a chair, "man to man, what is your
opinion of Doctor Queed's editorials?"
"They are unanswerable," said the Colonel, and consulted his favorite
ante-prandial refreshment.
West laughed. "Yes, but from the standpoint of the general public,
Constant Reader, Pro Bono Publico, and all that?"
"No subscriber will ever be angered by them."
"Would you say that they helped the editorial page or not?"
"They lend to it an academic elegance, a scientific stateliness, a
certain grand and austere majesty--"
"Colonel, I asked you for your opinion of those articles."
"Damn it, sir," roared the Colonel, "I've never read one."
Later West repeated the gist of this conversation to Miss Weyland, who
ornamented with him a tiny dinner given that evening at the home of
their very good friends, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart Byrd.
It was a beautiful little dinner, as befitted the hospitable distinction
of the givers. The Stewart Byrds were hosts among a thousand. In him, as
it further happens, West (himself the beau ideal of so many) had from
long ago recognized his own paragon and pattern; a worthy one, indeed,
this tall young man whose fine abilities and finer faiths were already
writing his name so large upon the history of his city. About the
dim-lit round of his table there were gathered but six this evening,
including the host and hostess; the others, besides Sharlee Weyland and
West, being Beverley Byrd and Miss Avery: the youngest of the four Byrd
brothers, and heir with them to one of the largest fortunes in the
State; and the only daughter of old Avery, who came to us from Mauch
Chunk, Pa., his money preceding him in a special train of box cars,
especially invented for the transportation of Pennsylvania millions to
places where the first families congregate.
"And I had to confess that I'd never read one either. I did begin one,"
said West--"it was called 'Elementary Principles of Incidence and
Distribution,' I remember--but the hour was eleven-thirty and I fell
asleep."
"I know exactly how you felt about it," said Sharlee, "for I have read
them all--_moi!_"