Success, A Novel

Tertius C. Marrineal was a man of forty, upon whom the years had laid no bonds.  A large fortune, founded by his able but illiterate father in the timber stretches of the Great Lakes region, and spread out into various profitable enterprises of mining, oil, cattle, and milling, provided him with a constantly increasing income which, though no amateur at spending, he could never quite overtake.  Like many other hustlers of his day and opportunity, old Steve Marrineal had married a shrewd little shopgirl who had come up with him through the struggle by the slow, patient steps described in many of our most improving biographies.  As frequently occurs, though it doesn’t get into the biographies, she who had played a helpful role in adversity, could not withstand affluence.  She bloated physically and mentally, and became the juicy and unsuspecting victim of a horde of parasites and flatterers who swarmed eagerly upon her, as soon as the rough and contemptuous protection of her husband was removed by the hand of a medical prodigy who advertised himself as the discoverer of a new and infallible cure for cancer, and whom Mrs. Marrineal, with an instinctive leaning toward quackery, had forced upon her spouse.  Appraising his prospective widow with an accurate eye, the dying man left a testament bestowing the bulk of his fortune upon his son, with a few heavy income-producing properties for Mrs. Marrineal.  Tertius Marrineal was devoted to his mother, with a jealous, pitying, and protective affection.  This is popularly approved as the infallible mark of a good man.  Tertius Marrineal was not a good man.

Nor was there any particular reason why he should be.  Boys who have a business pirate for father, and a weak-minded coddler for mother, seldom grow into prize exhibits.  Young Marrineal did rather better than might have been expected, thanks to the presence at his birth-cradle of a robust little good-fairy named Self-Preservation, who never gets half the credit given to more picturesque but less important gift-bringers.  He grew up with an instinctive sense of when to stop.  Sometimes he stopped inopportunely.  He quit several courses of schooling too soon, because he did not like the unyielding regimen of the institutions.  When, a little, belated, he contrived to gain entrance to a small, old, and fashionable Eastern college, he was able, or perhaps willing, to go only halfway through his sophomore year.  Two years in world travel with a well-accredited tutor seemed to offer an effectual and not too rigorous method of completing the process of mind-formation.  Young Marrineal got a great deal out of that trip, though the result should perhaps be set down under the E of Experience rather than that of Erudition.  The mentor also acquired experience, but it profited him little, as he died within the year after the completion of the trip, his health having been sacrificed in a too conscientious endeavor to keep even pace with his pupil.  Young Marrineal did not suffer in health.  He was a robust specimen.  Besides, there was his good and protective fairy always ready with the flag of warning at the necessary moment.

Launched into the world after the elder Marrineal’s death, Tertius interested himself in sundry of the businesses left by his father.  Though they had been carefully devised and surrounded with safeguards, the heir managed to break into and improve several of them.  The result was more money.  After having gambled with fair luck, played the profuse libertine for a time, tried his hand at yachting, horse-racing, big-game hunting, and even politics, he successively tired of the first three, and was beaten at the last, but retained an unsatisfied hunger for it.  To celebrate his fortieth birthday, he had bought a house on the eastern vista of Central Park, and drifted into a rather indeterminate life, identified with no special purpose, occupation, or set.  Large though his fortune was, it was too much disseminated and he was too indifferent to it, for him to be conspicuous in the money game which constitutes New York’s lists of High Endeavor.  His reputation, in the city of careless reckonings, was vague, but just a trifle tarnished; good enough for the casual contacts which had hitherto made up his life, but offering difficulties should he wish to establish himself more firmly.

The best clubs were closed to him; he had reached his possible summit along that path in achieving membership in the recently and superbly established Oligarchs Club, which was sumptuous, but over-vivid like a new Oriental rug.  As to other social advancement, his record was an obstacle.  Not that it was worse than, nor indeed nearly as bad as, that of many an established member of the inner circle; but the test for an outsider seeking admittance is naturally made more severe.  Delavan Eyre, for example, an average sinner for one of his opportunities and standing, had certainly no better a general repute, and latterly a much more dubious one than Marrineal.  But Eyre “belonged” of right.

As sufficient indication of Marrineal’s status, by the way, it may be pointed out that, while he knew Eyre quite well, it was highly improbable that he would ever know Mrs. Eyre, or, if he did fortuitously come to know her, that he would be able to improve upon the acquaintance.  All this Marrineal himself well understood.  But it must not be inferred that he resented it.  He was far too much of a philosopher for that.  It amused him as offering a new game to be played, more difficult certainly and inferentially more interesting than any of those which had hitherto enlisted his somewhat languid efforts.  He appreciated also, though with a cynical disbelief in the logic of the situation, that he must polish up his reputation.  He was on the new quest at the time when he overheard Banneker and Edmonds discuss the journalistic situation in Katie’s restaurant, and had already determined upon his procedure.

Sitting between the two newspaper workers, Marrineal overtopped them both; the supple strength of Banneker as well as the gnarly slenderness of Edmonds.  He gave an impression of loose-jointed and rather lazy power; also of quiet self-confidence.  He began to talk at once, with the easy, drifting commentary of a man who had seen everything, measured much, and liked the glittering show.  Both of the others, one his elder, the other his junior, felt the ready charm of the man.  Both were content to listen, waiting for the clue to his intrusion which he had contrived to make not only inoffensive, but seemingly a casual act of good-fellowship.  The clue was not afforded, but presently some shrewd opinion of the newcomer upon the local political situation set them both to discussion.  Quite insensibly Marrineal withdrew from the conversation, sipping his coffee and listening with an effect of effortless amenity.

“If we had a newspaper here that wasn’t tied hard and fast, politically!” cried Edmonds presently.

Marrineal fingered a specially fragrant cigar.  “But a newspaper must be tied to something, mustn’t it?” he queried.  “Otherwise it drifts.”

“Why not to its reading public?” suggested Banneker.

“That’s an idea.  But can you tie to a public?  Isn’t the public itself adrift, like seaweed?”

“Blown about by the gales of politics.”  Edmonds accepted the figure.  “Well, the newspaper ought to be the gale.”

“I gather that you gentlemen do not think highly of present journalistic conditions.”

“You overheard our discussion,” said Banneker bluntly.

Marrineal assented.  “It did not seem private.  Katie’s is a sort of free forum.  That is why I come.  I like to listen.  Besides, it touched me pretty closely at one or two points.”

The two others turned toward him, waiting.  He nodded, and took upon himself an air of well-pondered frankness.  “I expect to take a more active part in journalism from now on.”

Edmonds followed up the significant phrase. “More active?  You have newspaper interests?”

“Practically speaking, I own The Patriot.  What do you gentlemen think of it?”

“Who reads The Patriot?” inquired Banneker.  He was unprepared for the swift and surprised flash from Marrineal’s fine eyes, as if some profoundly analytical or revealing suggestion had been made.

“Forty thousand men, women, and children.  Not half enough, of course.”

“Not a tenth enough, I would say, if I owned the paper.  Nor are they the right kind of readers.”

“How would you define them, then?” asked Marrineal, still in that smooth voice.

“Small clerks.  Race-track followers.  People living in that class of tenements which call themselves flats.  The more intelligent servants.  Totally unimportant people.”

“Therefore a totally unimportant paper?”

“A paper can be important only through what it makes people believe and think.  What possible difference can it make what The Patriot’s readers think?”

“If there were enough of them?” suggested Marrineal.

“No.  Besides, you’ll never get enough of them, in the way you’re running the paper now.”

“Don’t say ‘you,’ please,” besought Marrineal.  “I’ve been keeping my hands off.  Watching.”

“And now you’re going to take hold?” queried Edmonds.  “Personally?”

“As soon as I can find my formula—­and the men to help me work it out,” he added, after a pause so nicely emphasized that both his hearers had a simultaneous inkling of the reason for his being at their table.

“I’ve seen newspapers run on formula before,” muttered Edmonds.

“Onto the rocks?”

“Invariably.”

“That’s because the formulas were amateur formulas, isn’t it?”

The veteran of a quarter-century turned a mildly quizzical smile upon the adventurer into risky waters.  “Well?” he jerked out.

Marrineal’s face was quite serious as he took up the obvious implication.  “Where is the dividing line between professional and amateur in the newspaper business?  You gentlemen will bear with me if I go into personal details a little.  I suppose I’ve always had the newspaper idea.  When I was a youngster of twenty, I tried myself out.  Got a job as a reporter in St. Louis.  It was just a callow escapade.  And of course it couldn’t last.  I was an undisciplined sort of cub.  They fired me; quite right, too.  But I did learn a little.  And at least it educated me in one thing; how to read newspapers.”  He laughed lightly.  “Perhaps that is as nearly thorough an education as I’ve ever had in anything.”

“It’s rather an art, newspaper reading,” observed Banneker.

“You’ve tried it, I gather.  So have I, rather exhaustively in the last year.  I’ve been reading every paper in New York every day and all through.”

“That’s a job for an able-minded man,” commented Edmonds, looking at him with a new respect.

“It put eye-glasses on me.  But if it dimmed my eyes, it enlightened my mind.  The combined newspapers of New York do not cover the available field.  They do not begin to cover it….  Did you say something, Mr. Banneker?”

“Did I?  I didn’t mean to,” said Banneker hastily.  “I’m a good deal interested.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” returned Marrineal with gravity.  “After I’d made my estimate of what the newspapers publish and fail to publish, I canvassed the circulation lists and news-stands and made another discovery.  There is a large potential reading public not yet tied up to any newspaper.  It’s waiting for the right paper.”

“The imputation of amateurishness is retracted, with apologies,” announced Russell Edmonds.

“Accepted.  Though there are amateur areas yet in my mind.  I bought The Patriot.”

“Does that represent one of the areas?”

“It represents nothing, thus far, except what it has always represented, a hand-to-mouth policy and a financial deficit.  But what’s wrong with it from your point of view?”

“Cheap and nasty,” was the veteran’s succinct criticism.

“Any more so than The Sphere?  The Sphere’s successful.”

“Because it plays fair with the main facts.  It may gloss ’em up with a touch of sensationalism, like the oil on a barkeep’s hair.  But it does go after the facts, and pretty generally it presents ’em as found.  The Patriot is fakey; clumsy at it, too.  Any man arrested with more than five dollars in his pocket is a millionaire clubman.  If Bridget O’Flaherty jumps off Brooklyn Bridge, she becomes a prominent society woman with picture (hers or somebody else’s) in The Patriot.  And the cheapest little chorus-girl tart, who blackmails a broker’s clerk with a breach of promise, gets herself called a ‘distinguished actress’ and him a ‘well-known financier.’  Why steal the Police Gazette’s rouge and lip-stick?”

“Because it’s what the readers want.”

“All right.  But at least give it to ’em well done.  And cut out the printing of wild rumors as news.  That doesn’t get a paper anything in the long run.  None of your readers have any faith in The Patriot.”

“Does any paper have the confidence of its public?” returned Marrineal.

Touched upon a sensitive spot, Edmonds cursed briefly.  “If it hasn’t, it’s because the public has a dam’-fool fad for pretending it doesn’t believe what it reads.  Of course it believes it!  Otherwise, how would it know who’s president, or that the market sagged yesterday?  This ‘I-never-believe-what-I-read-in-the-papers’ guff makes me sick to the tips of my toes.”

“Only the man who knows newspapers from the inside can disbelieve them scientifically,” put in Banneker with a smile.

“What would you do with The Patriot if you had it?” interrogated the proprietor.

“I?  Oh, I’d try to make it interesting,” was the prompt and simple reply.

“How, interesting?”

For his own purposes Banneker chose to misinterpret the purport of the question.  “So interesting that half a million people would have to read it.”

“You think you could do that?”

“I think it could be done.”

“Will you come with me and try it?”

“You’re offering me a place on The Patriot staff?”

“Precisely.  Mr. Edmonds is joining.”

That gentleman breathed a small cloud of blue vapor into the air together with the dispassionate query:  “Is that so?  Hadn’t heard of it.”

“My principle in business is to determine whether I want a man or an article, and then bid a price that can’t be rejected.”

“Sound,” admitted the veteran.  “Perfectly sound.  But I’m not specially in need of money.”

“I’m offering you opportunity.”

“What kind?”

“Opportunity to handle big stories according to the facts as you see them.  Not as you had to handle the Sippiac strike story.”

Edmonds set down his pipe.  “What did you think of that?”

“A masterpiece of hinting and suggestion and information for those who can read between the lines.  Not many have the eye for it.  With me you won’t have to write between the lines.  Not on labor or political questions, anyway.  You’re a Socialist, aren’t you?”

“Yes.  You’re not going to make The Patriot a Socialist paper, are you?”

“Some people might call it that.  I’m going to make it a popular paper.  It’s going to be for the many against the few.  How are you going to bring about Socialism?”

“Education.”

“Exactly!  What better chance could you ask?  A paper devoted to the interests of the masses, and willing to print facts.  I want you to do the same sort of thing that you’ve been doing for The Courier; a job of handling the big, general stories.  You’ll be responsible to me alone.  The salary will be a third higher than you are now getting.  Think it over.”

“I’ve thought.  I’m bought,” said Russell Edmonds.  He resumed his pipe.

“And you, Mr. Banneker?”

“I’m not a Socialist, in the party sense.  Besides a Socialist paper in New York has no chance of big circulation.”

“Oh, The Patriot isn’t going to tag itself.  Politically it will be independent.  Its policy will be socialistic only in that it will be for labor rather than capital and for the under dog as against the upper dog.  It certainly won’t tie up to the Socialist Party or advocate its principles.  It’s for fair play and education.”

“What’s your purpose?” demanded Banneker.  “Money?”

“I’ve a very comfortable income,” replied Marrineal modestly.

“Political advancement?  Influence?  Want to pull the wires?” persisted the other.

“The game.  I’m out of employment and tired of it.”

“And you think I could be of use in your plan?  But you don’t know much about me.”

Marrineal murmured smilingly something indefinite but complimentary as to Banneker’s reputation on Park Row; but this was by no means a fair index to what he knew about Banneker.

Indeed, that prematurely successful reporter would have been surprised at the extent to which Marrineal’s private investigations had gone.  Not only was the purchaser of The Patriot apprised of Banneker’s professional career in detail, but he knew of his former employment, and also of his membership in The Retreat, which he regarded with perplexity and admiration.  Marrineal was skilled at ascertainments.  He made a specialty of knowing all about people.

“With Mr. Edmonds on roving commission and you to handle the big local stuff,” he pursued, “we should have the nucleus of a news organization.  Like him, you would be responsible to me alone.  And, of course, it would be made worth your while.  What do you think?  Will you join us?”

“No.”

“No?” There was no slightest hint of disappointment, surprise, or resentment in Marrineal’s manner.  “Do you mind giving me the reason?”

“I don’t care to be a reporter on The Patriot.”

“Well, this would hardly be reporting.  At least, a very specialized and important type.”

“For that matter, I don’t care to be a reporter on any paper much longer.  Besides, you need me—­or some one—­in another department more than in the news section.”

“You don’t like the editorials,” was the inference which Marrineal drew from this, and correctly.

“I think they’re solemn flapdoodle.”

“So do I. Occasionally I write them myself and send them in quietly.  It isn’t known yet that I own the property; so I don’t appear at the office.  Mine are quite as solemn and flapdoodlish as the others.  To which quality do you object the most?”

“Solemnity.  It’s the blight of editorial expression.  All the papers suffer from it.”

“Then you wouldn’t have the editorial page modeled on that of any of our contemporaries.”

“No.  I’d try to make it interesting.  There isn’t a page in town that the average man-in-the-street-car can read without a painful effort at thought.”

“Editorials are supposed to be for thinking men,” put in Edmonds.

“Make the thinking easy, then.  Don’t make it hard, with heavy words and a didactic manner.  Talk to ’em.  You’re trying to reach for their brain mechanism.  Wrong idea.  Reach for their coat-lapels.  Hook a finger in the buttonholes and tell ’em something about common things they never stopped to consider.  Our editorializers are always tucking their hands into their oratorical bosoms and discoursing in a sonorous voice about freight differentials as an element in stabilizing the market.  How does that affect Jim Jones?  Why, Jim turns to the sporting page.  But if you say to him casually, in print, ’Do you realize that every woman who brings a child into the world shows more heroism than Teddy Roosevelt when he charged up San Juan Hill?’—­what’ll Jim do about that?  Turn to the sporting page just the same, maybe.  But after he’s absorbed the ball-scores, he’ll turn back to the editorial.  You see, he never thought about Mrs. Jones just that way before.”

“Sentimentalism,” observed Marrineal.  “Not altogether original, either.”  But he did not speak as a critic.  Rather as one pondering upon new vistas of thought.

“Why shouldn’t an editorial be sentimental about something besides the starry flag and the boyhood of its party’s candidate?  Original?  I shouldn’t worry overmuch about that.  All my time would be occupied in trying to be interesting.  After I got ’em interested, I could perhaps be instructive.  Very cautiously, though.  But always man to man:  that’s the editorial trick, as I see it.  Not preacher to congregation.”

“Where are your editorials, son?” asked the veteran Edmonds abruptly.

“Locked up.”  Banneker tapped his forehead.

“In the place of their birth?” smiled Marrineal.

“Oh, I don’t want too much credit for my idea.  A fair share of it belongs to a bald-headed and snarling old nondescript whom I met one day in the Public Library and shall probably never meet again anywhere.  Somebody had pointed me out—­it was after that shooting mess—­and the old fellow came up to me and growled out, ‘Employed on a newspaper?’ I admitted it.  ‘What do you know about news?’ was his next question.  Well, I’m always open to any fresh slants on the business, so I asked him politely what he knew.  He put on an expression like a prayerful owl and said, ’Suppose I came into your office with the information that a destructive plague was killing off the earthworms?’ Naturally, I thought one of the librarians had put up a joke on me; so I said, ’Refer you to the Anglers’ Department of the All-Outdoors Monthly.’  ’That is as far as you could see into the information?’ he said severely.  I had to confess that it was.  ‘And you are supposed to be a judge of news!’ he snarled.  Well, he seemed so upset about it that I tried to be soothing by asking him if there was an earthworm pestilence in progress.  ‘No,’ answers he, ’and lucky for you.  For if the earthworms all died, so would you and the rest of us, including your accursed brood of newspapers, which would be some compensation.  Read Darwin,’ croaks the old bird, and calls me a callow fool, and flits.”

“Who was he?  Did you find out?” asked Edmonds.

“Some scientific grubber from the museum.  I looked up the Darwin book and decided that he was right; not Darwin; the old croaker.”

“Still, that was not precisely news,” pointed out Marrineal.

“Theoretical news.  I’m not sure,” pursued Banneker, struck with a new idea, “that that isn’t the formula for editorial writing; theoretical news.  Supplemented by analytical news, of course.”

“Philosophizing over Darwin and dead worms would hardly inspire half a million readers to follow your editorial output, day after day.”  Marrineal delivered his opinion suavely.

“Not if written in the usual style, suggesting a conscientious rehash of the encyclopedia.  But suppose it were done differently, and with a caption like this, ‘Why Does an Angle-Worm Wriggle?’ Set that in irregular type that weaved and squirmed across the column, and Jones-in-the-street-car would at least look at it.”

“Good Heavens!  I should think so,” assented Marrineal.  “And call for the police.”

“Or, if that is too sensational,” continued Banneker, warming up, “we could head it ‘Charles Darwin Would Never Go Fishing, Because’ and a heavy dash after ‘because.’”

“Fakey,” pronounced Edmonds.  “Still, I don’t know that there’s any harm in that kind of faking.”

“Merely a trick to catch the eye.  I don’t know whether Darwin ever went fishing or not.  Probably he did if only for his researches.  But, in essentials, I’m giving ’em a truth; a big truth.”

“What?” inquired Marrineal.

“Solemn sermonizers would call it the inter-relations of life or something to that effect.  What I’m after is to coax ’em to think a little.”

“About angle-worms?”

“About anything.  It’s the process I’m after.  Only let me start them thinking about evolution and pretty soon I’ll have them thinking about the relations of modern society—­and thinking my way.  Five hundred thousand people, all thinking in the way we told ’em to think—­”

“Could elect Willis Enderby mayor of New York,” interjected the practical Edmonds.

Marrineal, whose face had become quite expressionless, gave a little start.  “Who?” he said.

“Judge Enderby of the Law Enforcement Society.”

“Oh!  Yes.  Of course.  Or any one else.”

“Or any one else,” agreed Banneker, catching a quick, informed glance from Edmonds.

“Frankly, your scheme seems a little fantastic to me,” pronounced the owner of The Patriot.  “But that may be only because it’s new.  It might be worth trying out.”  He reverted again to his expressionless reverie, out of which exhaled the observation:  “I wonder what the present editorial staff could do with that.”

“Am I to infer that you intend to help yourself to my idea?” inquired Banneker.

Mr. Marrineal aroused himself hastily from his editorial dream.  Though by no means a fearful person, he was uncomfortably sensible of a menace, imminent and formidable.  It was not in Banneker’s placid face, nor in the unaltered tone wherein the pertinent query was couched.  Nevertheless, the object of that query became aware that young Banneker was not a person to be trifled with.  He now went on, equably to say: 

“Because, if you do, it might be as well to give me the chance of developing it.”

Possibly the “Of course,” with which Marrineal responded to this reasonable suggestion, was just a little bit over-prompt.

“Give me ten days.  No:  two weeks, and I’ll be ready to show my wares.  Where can I find you?”

Marrineal gave a telephone address.  “It isn’t in the book,” he said.  “It will always get me between 9 A.M. and noon.”

They talked of matters journalistic, Marrineal lapsing tactfully into the role of attentive listener again, until there appeared in the lower room a dark-faced man of thirty-odd, spruce and alert, who, upon sighting them, came confidently forward.  Marrineal ordered him a drink and presented him to the two journalists as Mr. Ely Ives.  As Mr. Ives, it appeared, was in the secret of Marrineal’s journalistic connection, the talk was resumed, becoming more general.  Presently Marrineal consulted his watch.

“You’re not going up to the After-Theater Club to-night?” he asked Banneker, and, on receiving a negative reply, made his adieus and went out with Ives to his waiting car.

Banneker and Edmonds looked at each other.  “Don’t both speak at once,” chuckled Banneker.  “What do you?”

“Think of him?  He’s a smooth article.  Very smooth.  But I’ve seen ’em before that were straight as well as smooth.”

“Bland,” said Banneker.  “Bland with a surpassing blandness.  A blandness amounting to blandeur, as grandness in the highest degree becomes grandeur.  I like that word,” Banneker chucklingly approved himself.  “But I wouldn’t use it in an editorial, one of those editorials that our genial friend was going to appropriate so coolly.  A touch of the pirate in him, I think.  I like him.”

“Yes; you have to.  He makes himself likable.  What do you figure Mr. Ely Ives to be?”

“Henchman.”

“Do you know him?”

“I’ve seen him uptown, once or twice.  He has some reputation as an amateur juggler.”

“I know him, too.  But he doesn’t remember me or he wouldn’t have been so pleasant,” said the veteran, committing two errors in one sentence, for Ely Ives had remembered him perfectly, and in any case would never have exhibited any unnecessary rancor in his carefully trained manner.  “Wrote a story about him once.  He’s quite a betting man; some say a sure-thing bettor.  Several years ago Bob Wessington was giving one of his famous booze parties on board his yacht ‘The Water-Wain,’ and this chap was in on it somehow.  When everybody was tanked up, they got to doing stunts and he bet a thousand with Wessington he could swarm up the backstay to the masthead.  Two others wished in for a thousand apiece, and he cleaned up the lot.  It cut his hands up pretty bad, but that was cheap at three thousand.  Afterwards it turned out that he’d been practicing that very climb in heavy gloves, down in South Brooklyn.  So I wrote the story.  He came back with a threat of a libel suit.  Fool bluff, for it wasn’t libelous.  But I looked up his record a little and found he was an ex-medical student, from Chicago, where he’d been on The Chronicle for a while.  He quit that to become a press-agent for a group of oil-gamblers, and must have done some good selling himself, for he had money when he landed here.  To the best of my knowledge he is now a sort of lookout for the Combination Traction people, with some connection with the City Illuminating Company on the side.  It’s a secret sort of connection.”

Banneker made the world-wide symbolistic finger-shuffle of money-handling.  “Legislative?” he inquired.

“Possibly.  But it’s more keeping a watch on publicity and politics.  He gives himself out as a man-about-town, and is supposed to make a good thing out of the market.  Maybe he does, though I notice that generally the market makes a good thing out of the smart guy who tries to beat it.”

“Not a particularly desirable person for a colleague.”

“I doubt if he’d be Marrineal’s colleague exactly.  The inside of the newspaper isn’t his game.  More likely he’s making himself attractive and useful to Marrineal just to find out what he’s up to with his paper.”

“I’ll show him something interesting if I get hold of that editorial page.”

“Son, are you up to it, d’you think?” asked Edmonds with affectionate solicitude.  “It takes a lot of experience to handle policies.”

“I’ll have you with me, won’t I, Pop?  Besides, if my little scheme works, I’m going out to gather experience like a bee after honey.”

“We’ll make a queer team, we three,” mused the veteran, shaking his bony head, as he leaned forward over his tiny pipe.  His protuberant forehead seemed to overhang the idea protectively.  Or perhaps threateningly.  “None of us looks at a newspaper from the same angle or as the same kind of a machine as the others view it.”

“Never mind our views.  They’ll assimilate.  What about his?”

“Ah!  I wish I knew.  But he wants something.  Like all of us.”  A shade passed across the clearly modeled severity of the face.  Edmonds sighed.  “I don’t know but that I’m too old for this kind of experiment.  Yet I’ve fallen for the temptation.”

“Pop,” said Banneker with abrupt irrelevance, “there’s a line from Emerson that you make me think of when you look like that.  ’His sad lucidity of soul.’”

“Do I?  But it isn’t Emerson.  It’s Matthew Arnold.”

“Where do you find time for poetry, you old wheelhorse!  Never mind; you ought to be painted as the living embodiment of that line.”

“Or as a wooden automaton, jumping at the end of a special wire from ‘our correspondent.’  Ban, can you see Marrineal’s hand on a wire?”

“If it’s plain enough to be visible, I’m underestimating his tact.  I’d like to have a lock of his hair to dream on to-night.  I’m off to think things over, Pop.  Good-night.”

Banneker walked uptown, through dimmed streets humming with the harmonic echoes of the city’s never-ending life, faint and delicate.  He stopped at Sherry’s, and at a small table in the side room sat down with a bottle of ale, a cigarette, and some stationery.  When he rose, it was to mail a letter.  That done, he went back to his costly little apartment upon which the rent would be due in a few days.  He had the cash in hand:  that was all right.  As for the next month, he wondered humorously whether he would have the wherewithal to meet the recurring bill, not to mention others.  However, the consideration was not weighty enough to keep him sleepless.

Custom kindly provides its own patent shock-absorbers to all the various organisms of nature; otherwise the whole regime would perish.  Necessarily a newspaper is among the best protected of organisms against shock:  it deals, as one might say, largely in shocks, and its hand is subdued to what it works in.  Nevertheless, on the following noon The Ledger office was agitated as it hardly would have been had Brooklyn Bridge fallen into the East River, or the stalest mummy in the Natural History Museum shown stirrings of life.  A word was passing from eager mouth to incredulous ear.

Banneker had resigned.