The bolt drew back easily, and the door opened. The next instant the brigand was pushed rudely into a room, and he heard the bolt thrust back into its place almost simultaneously with the noise of the closing door. For a moment his eyes were dazzled by the light. He was in an apartment blazing with torches held by a dozen men standing about.
In the centre of the room was a block covered with black cloth, and beside it stood a masked executioner resting the corner of a gleaming axe on the black draped block, with his hands crossed over the end of the axe's handle.
The Prince stood there surrounded by his ministers. Above his head was a clock, with the minute hand pointed to the hour of four.
"You are just in time!" said the Prince grimly; "we are waiting for you!"
Old Mr. Saunders went home with bowed head and angry brow. He had not known that Dick was in the habit of coming in late, but he had now no doubt of the fact. He himself went to bed early and slept soundly, as a man with a good conscience is entitled to do. But the boy's mother must have known the hours he kept, yet she had said nothing; this made the matter all the blacker. The father felt that mother and son were leagued against him. He had been too lenient; now he would go to the root of things. The young man would speedily change his ways or take the consequences. There would be no half measures.
Poor old Mrs. Saunders saw, the moment her husband came in, that there was a storm brewing, and a wild fear arose in her heart that her boy was the cause. The first words of the old man settled the question.
"What time did Richard come in last night?"
"I—I don't know," she hesitated. "Shuffling" her husband always called it. She had been a buffer between father and son since Dick was a child.
"Why don't you know? Who let him in?"
She sighed. The secret had long weighed upon her, and she felt it would come out at some hapless moment.
"He has a key," she said at last.
The old man glared in speechless amazement. In his angriest mood he had never suspected anything so bad as this.
"A key! How long has he had a key?"
"About six months. He did not want to disturb us."
"He is very thoughtful! Where does he spend his nights?"
"I don't know. He told me he belongs to a club, where he takes some kind of exercise."
"Did he tell you he exercised with cards? Did he say it was a gambling club?"
"I don't believe it is; I am sure Dick doesn't gamble. Dick is a good boy, father."
"A precious lot you know about it, evidently. Do you think his employer, banker Hammond, has any idea his clerk belongs to a gambling club?"
"I am sure I don't know. Is there any thing wrong? Has any one been speaking to you about Dick?"
"Yes; and not to his credit."
"Oh dear!" cried the mother in anguish. "Was it Mr. Hammond?"
"I have never spoken to Hammond in my life," said the old man, relenting a little when he saw how troubled his wife was. "No, I propose to stop this club business before it gets to the banker's ears that one of his clerks is a nightly attendant there. You will see Richard when he comes home this evening; tell him I wish to have a word or two with him to-night. He is to wait for me here. I will be in shortly after he has had his supper."
"You will not be harsh with him, father. Remember, he is a young man now, so please advise and do not threaten. Angry words can do no good."
"I will do my duty," said the old man, uncompromisingly.
Gentle Mrs. Saunders sighed—for she well knew the phrase about duty. It was a sure prelude to domestic trouble. When the old gentleman undertook to do his duty, he nailed his flag to the mast.
"See that he waits for me to-night," was the parting shot as the old man closed the door behind him.
Mrs. Saunders had had her share of trouble in this world, as every woman must who lives with a cantankerous man. When she could save her son a harsh word, or even a blow, she was content to take either uncomplainingly. The old man's severity had put him out of touch with his son. Dick sullenly resented his boyhood of continual fear. During recent years, when fear had gradually diminished and finally disappeared, he was somewhat troubled to find that the natural affection, which a son should have for his father, had vanished with it. He had, on several occasions, made half-hearted attempts at a better understanding, but these attempts had unfortunately fallen on inopportune moments, when the old man was not particularly gracious toward the world in general, and latterly there had been silence between the two. The young man avoided his father as much as possible; he would not have remained at home, had it not been for his mother. Her steady, unwavering affection for him, her belief in him, and the remembrance of how she had stood up for him, especially when he was in the wrong, had bound her to him with bonds soft as silk and strong as steel. He often felt it would be a pleasure to go wrong, merely to refute his father's ideas regarding the way a child should be brought up. Yet Dick had a sort of admiration for the old man, whose many good qualities were somewhat overshadowed by his brutal temper.
When Richard came home that evening he had his supper alone, as was usual with him. Mrs. Saunders drew her chair near the table, and while the meal went on she talked of many things, but avoided the subject uppermost in her mind, which she postponed until the last moment. Perhaps after all she would not need to ask him to stay; he might remain of his own accord. She watched him narrowly as she talked, and saw with alarm that there was anxiety in his face. Some care was worrying him, and she yearned to have him confide his trouble to her. And yet she talked and talked of other things. She noticed that he made but a poor pretence of eating, and that he allowed her to talk while he made few replies, and those absent-mindedly. At last he pushed back his chair with a laugh that sounded forced.
"Well, mother," he said, "what is it? Is there a row on, or is it merely looming in the horizon? Has the Lord of Creation——"
"Hush, Dick, you mustn't talk in that way. There is nothing much the matter, I hope? I want to speak with you about your club."
Dick looked sharply at his mother for a moment, then he said: "Well, what does father want to know about the club? Does he wish to join?"
"I didn't say your father——"
"No, you didn't say it; but, my dear mother, you are as transparent as glass. I can see right through you and away beyond. Now, somebody has been talking to father about the club, and he is on the war-path. Well, what does he want to know?"
"He said it was a gambling club."
"Right for once."
"Oh, Dick, is it?"
"Certainly it is. Most clubs are gambling clubs and drinking clubs. I don't suppose the True Blues gamble more than others, but I'll bet they don't gamble any less."
"Oh, Dick, Dick, I'm sorry to hear that. And, Dick, my darling boy, do you——"
"Do I gamble, mother? No, I don't. I know you'll believe me, though the old man won't. But it's true, nevertheless. I can't afford it, for it takes money to gamble, and I'm not as rich as old Hammond yet."
"Oh yes, Dick dear, and that reminds me. Another thing your father feared was that Mr. Hammond might come to know you were a member of the club. It might hurt your prospects in the bank," she added, not wishing to frighten the boy with the threat of the dismissal she felt sure would follow the revelation.
Dick threw back his head and roared. For the first time that evening the lines of care left his brow. Then seeing his mother's look of incomprehension, he sobered down, repressing his mirth with some difficulty.
"Mother," he said at last, "things have changed since father was a boy; I'm afraid he hardly appreciates how much. The old terrifying relations between employer and employee do not exist now—at least, that is my experience."
"Still if Mr. Hammond came to know that you spent your evenings at——"
"Mother, listen to me a moment. Mr. Julius Hammond proposed me for membership in the club—my employer! I should never have thought of joining if it hadn't been for him. You remember my last raise in salary? You thought it was for merit, of course, and father thought it was luck. Well, it was neither—or both, perhaps. Now, this is confidential and to yourself only. I wouldn't tell it to any one else. Hammond called me into his private office one afternoon when the bank was closed, and said, 'Saunders, I want you to join the Athletic Club; I'll propose you.' I was amazed and told him I couldn't afford it. 'Yes, you can,' he answered. 'I'm going to raise your salary double the amount of entrance fee and annual. If you don't join I'll cut it down.' So I joined. I think I should have been a fool if I hadn't."
"Dick, I never heard of such a thing! What in the world did he want you to join for?"
"Well, mother," said Dick, looking at his watch, "that's a long story. I'll tell it to you some other evening. I haven't time to-night. I must be off."
"Oh, Dick, don't go to-night. Please stay at home, for my sake."
Dick smoothed his mother's grey hair and kissed her on the forehead. Then he said: "Won't to-morrow night do as well, mother? I can't stay to-night. I have an appointment at the club."
"Telegraph to them and put it off. Stay for my sake to-night, Dick. I never asked you before."
The look of anxiety came into his face again.
"Mother, it is impossible, really it is. Please don't ask me again. Anyhow, I know it is father who wants me to stay, not you. I presume he's on the duty tack. I think what he has to say will keep till to- morrow night. If he must work off some of his sentiments on gambling, let him place his efforts where they are needed—let him tackle Jule Hammond, but not during business hours."
"You surely don't mean to say that a respected business man—a banker like Mr. Hammond—gambles?"
"Don't I? Why, Hammond's a plunger from Plungerville, if you know what that means. From nine to three he is the strictest and best business man in the city. If you spoke to him then of the True Blue Athletic Club he wouldn't know what you were talking about. But after three o'clock he'll take any odds you like to offer, from matching pennies to backing an unknown horse."
Mrs. Saunders sighed. It was a wicked world into which her boy had to go to earn his living, evidently.
"And now, mother, I really must be off. I'll stay at home to-morrow night and take my scolding like a man. Good-night."
He kissed her and hurried away before she could say anything more, leaving her sitting there with folded hands to await, with her customary patience and just a trifle of apprehension, the coming of her husband. There was no mistaking the heavy footfall. Mrs. Saunders smiled sadly as she heard it, remembering that Dick had said once that, even if he were safe within the gates of Paradise, the sound of his father's footsteps would make the chills run up his backbone. She had reproved the levity of the remark at the time, but she often thought of it, especially when she knew there was trouble ahead—as there usually was.
"Where's Richard? Isn't he home yet?" were the old man's first words.
"He has been home, but he had to go out again. He had an appointment."
"Did you tell him I wanted to speak with him?"
"Yes, and he said he would stay home to-morrow night."
"Did he know what I said to-night?"
"I'm not sure that I told him you——"
"Don't shuffle now. He either knew or he did not. Which is it?"
"Yes, he knew, but he thought it might not be urgent, and he——"
"That will do. Where is his appointment?"
"At the club, I think."
"Ah-h-h!" The old man dwelt on the exclamation as if he had at last drawn out the reluctant worst. "Did he say when he would be home?"
"No."
"Very well. I will wait half-an-hour for him, and if he is not in by that time I will go to his club and have my talk with him there."
Old Mr. Saunders sat grimly down with his hat still on, and crossed his hands over the knob of his stout walking-stick, watching the clock that ticked slowly against the wall. Under these distressing circumstances the old woman lost her presence of mind and did the very thing she should not have done. She should have agreed with him, but instead of that she opposed the plan and so made it inevitable. It would be a cruel thing, she said, to shame their son before his friends, to make him a laughing-stock among his acquaintances. Whatever was to be said could be said as well to-morrow night as to-night, and that in their own home, where, at least, no stranger would overhear. As the old man made no answer but silently watched the clock, she became almost indignant with him. She felt she was culpable in entertaining even the suspicion of such a feeling against her lawful husband, but it did seem to her that he was not acting judiciously towards Dick. She hoped to turn his resentment from their son to herself, and would have welcomed any outburst directed against her alone. In this excited state, being brought, as it were, to bay, she had the temerity to say—
"You are wrong about one thing, and you may also be wrong in thinkingDick—in—in what you think about Dick."
The old man darted one lowering look at her, and though she trembled, she welcomed the glance as indicating the success of her red herring.
"What was I wrong about?"
"You were wrong—Mr. Hammond knows Dick is a member of the club. He is a member himself and he insisted Dick should join. That's why he raised his salary."
"A likely story! Who told you that?"
"Dick told me himself."
"And you believed it, of course!" Saunders laughed in a sneering, cynical sort of way and resumed his scrutiny of the clock. The old woman gave up the fight and began to weep silently, hoping, but in vain, to hear the light step of her son approaching the door. The clock struck the hour; the old man rose without a word, drew his hat further over his brow, and left the house.
Up to the last moment Mrs. Saunders hardly believed her husband would carry out his threat. Now, when she realised he was determined, she had one wild thought of flying to the club and warning her son. A moment's consideration put that idea out of the question. She called the serving-maid, who came, as it seemed to the anxious woman, with exasperating deliberation.
"Jane," she cried, "do you know where the Athletic Club is? Do you know where Centre Street is?"
Jane knew neither club nor locality.
"I want a message taken there to Dick, and it must go quickly. Don't you think you could run there——"
"It would be quicker to telegraph, ma'am," said Jane, who was not anxious to run anywhere. "There's telegraph paper in Mr. Richard's room, and the office is just round the corner."
"That's it, Jane; I'm glad you thought of it. Get me a telegraph form.Do make haste."
She wrote with a trembling hand, as plainly as she could, so that her son might have no difficulty in reading:—
"Richard Saunders, Athletic Club, Centre Street.
"Your father is coming to see you. He will be at the club before half-an-hour."
"There is no need to sign it; he will know his mother's writing," said Mrs. Saunders, as she handed the message and the money to Jane; and Jane made no comment, for she knew as little of telegraphing as did her mistress. Then the old woman, having done her best, prayed that the telegram might arrive before her husband; and her prayer was answered, for electricity is more speedy than an old man's legs.
Meanwhile Mr. Saunders strode along from the suburb to the city. His stout stick struck the stone pavement with a sharp click that sounded in the still, frosty, night air almost like a pistol shot. He would show both his wife and his son that he was not too old to be master in his own house. He talked angrily to himself as he went along, and was wroth to find his anger lessening as he neared his destination. Anger must be very just to hold its own during a brisk walk in evening air that is cool and sweet.
Mr. Saunders was somewhat abashed to find the club building a much more imposing edifice than he had expected. There was no low, groggy appearance about the True Blue Athletic Club. It was brilliantly lit from basement to attic. A group of men, with hands in pockets, stood on the kerb as if waiting for something. There was an air of occasion about the place. The old man inquired of one of the loafers if that was the Athletic Club.
"Yes, it is," was the answer; "are you going in?"
"I intend to."
"Are you a member?"
"No."
"Got an invitation?"
"No."
"Then I suspect you won't go in. We've tried every dodge ourselves."
The possibility of not getting in had never occurred to the old gentleman, and the thought that his son, safe within the sacred precincts of a club, might defy him, flogged his flagging anger and aroused his dogged determination.
"I'll try, at least," he said, going up the stone steps.
The men watched him with a smile on their lips. They saw him push the electric button, whereupon the door opened slightly. There was a brief, unheard parley; then the door swung wide open, and, when Mr. Saunders entered, it shut again.
"Well, I'm blest!" said the man on the kerb; "I wonder how the old duffer worked it. I wish I had asked him." None of the rest made any comment; they were struck dumb with amazement at the success of the old gentleman, who had even to ask if that were the club.
When the porter opened the door he repeated one of the questions asked a moment before by the man on the kerb.
"Have you an invitation, sir?"
"No," answered the old man, deftly placing his stick so that the barely opened door could not be closed until it was withdrawn. "No! I want to see my son, Richard Saunders. Is he inside?"
The porter instantly threw open the door.
"Yes, sir," he said. "They're expecting you, sir. Kindly come this way, sir."
The old man followed, wondering at the cordiality of his reception. There must be some mistake. Expecting him? How could that be! He was led into a most sumptuous parlour where a cluster of electric lamps in the ceiling threw a soft radiance around the room.
"Be seated, sir. I will tell Mr. Hammond that you are here."
"But—stop a moment. I don't want to see Mr. Hammond. I have nothing to do with Mr. Hammond. I want to see my son. Is it Mr. Hammond the banker?"
"Yes, sir. He told me to bring you in here when you came and to let him know at once."
The old man drew his hand across his brow, and ere he could reply the porter had disappeared. He sat down in one of the exceedingly easy leather chairs and gazed in bewilderment around the room. The fine pictures on the wall related exclusively to sporting subjects. A trim yacht, with its tall, slim masts and towering cloud of canvas at an apparently dangerous angle, seemed sailing directly at the spectator. Pugilists, naked to the waists, held their clinched fists in menacing attitudes. Race-horses, in states of activity and at rest, were interspersed here and there. In the centre of the room stood a pedestal of black marble, and upon it rested a huge silver vase encrusted with ornamentation. The old man did not know that this elaborate specimen of the silversmith's art was referred to as the "Cup." Some one had hung a placard on it, bearing, in crudely scrawled letters the words:—
"Fare thee well, and if for everStill for ever Fare thee well."
While the old man was wondering what all this meant, the curtain suddenly parted and there entered an elderly gentleman somewhat jauntily attired in evening dress with a rose at his buttonhole. Saunders instantly recognised him as the banker, and he felt a resentment at what he considered his foppish appearance, realising almost at the same moment the rustiness of his own clothes, an everyday suit, not too expensive even when new.
"How are you, Mr. Saunders?" cried the banker, cordially extending his hand. "I am very pleased indeed to meet you. We got your telegram, but thought it best not to give it to Dick. I took the liberty of opening it myself. You see we can't be too careful about these little details. I told the porter to look after you and let me know the moment you came. Of course you are very anxious about your boy."
"I am," said the old man firmly. "That's why I'm here."
"Certainly, certainly. So are we all, and I presume I'm the most anxious man of the lot. Now what you want to know is how he is getting along?"
"Yes; I want to know the truth."
"Well, unfortunately, the truth is about as gloomy as it can be. He's been going from bad to worse, and no man is more sorry than I am."
"Do you mean to tell me so?"
"Yes. There is no use deluding ourselves. Frankly, I have no hope for him. There is not one chance in ten thousand of his recovering his lost ground."
The old man caught his breath, and leaned on his cane for support. He realised now the hollowness of his previous anger. He had never for a moment believed the boy was going to the bad. Down underneath his crustiness was a deep love for his son and a strong faith in him. He had allowed his old habit of domineering to get the better of him, and now in searching after a phantom he had suddenly come upon a ghastly reality.
"Look here," said the banker, noticing his agitation, "have a drink of our Special Scotch with me. It is the best there is to be had for money. We always take off our hats when we speak of the Special in this club. Then we'll go and see how things are moving."
As he turned to order the liquor he noticed for the first time the placard on the cup.
"Now, who the dickens put that there?" he cried angrily. "There's no use in giving up before you're thrashed." Saying which, he took off the placard, tore it up, and threw it into the waste basket.
"Does Richard drink?" asked the old man huskily, remembering the eulogy on the Special.
"Bless you, no. Nor smoke either. No, nor gamble, which is more extraordinary. No, it's all right for old fellows like you and me to indulge in the Special—bless it—but a young man who needs to keep his nerves in order, has to live like a monk. I imagine it's a love affair. Of course, there's no use asking you: you would be the last one to know. When he came in to-night I saw he was worried over something. I asked him what it was, but he declared there was nothing wrong. Here's the liquor. You'll find that it reaches the spot."
The old man gulped down some of the celebrated "Special," then he said—
"Is it true that you induced my son to join this club?"
"Certainly. I heard what he could do from a man I had confidence in, and I said to myself, We must have young Saunders for a member."
"Then don't you think you are largely to blame?"
"Oh, if you like to put it that way; yes. Still I'm the chief loser. I lose ten thousand by him."
"Good God!" cried the stricken father.
The banker looked at the old man a little nervously, as if he feared his head was not exactly right. Then he said: "Of course you will be anxious to see how the thing ends. Come in with me, but be careful the boy doesn't catch sight of you. It might rattle him. I'll get you a place at the back, where you can see without being seen."
They rose, and the banker led the way on tiptoe between the curtains into a large room filled with silent men earnestly watching a player at a billiard table in the centre of the apartment. Temporary seats had been built around the walls, tier above tier, and every place was taken. Saunders noticed his son standing near the table in his shirt- sleeves, with his cue butt downward on the ground. His face was pale and his lips compressed as he watched his opponent's play like a man fascinated. Evidently his back was against the wall, and he was fighting a hopeless fight, but was grit to the last.
Old Saunders only faintly understood the situation, but his whole sympathy went out to his boy, and he felt an instinctive hatred of the confident opponent who was knocking the balls about with a reckless accuracy which was evidently bringing dismay to the hearts of at least half the onlookers.
All at once there was a burst of applause, and the player stood up straight with a laugh.
"By Jove!" cried the banker, "he's missed. Didn't put enough stick behind it. That comes of being too blamed sure. Shouldn't wonder but there is going to be a turn of luck. Perhaps you'll prove a mascot, Mr. Saunders."
He placed the old man on an elevated seat at the back. There was a buzz of talk as young Saunders stood there chalking his cue, apparently loth to begin.
Hammond mixed among the crowd, and spoke eagerly now to one, now to another. Old Saunders said to the man next him—
"What is it all about? Is this an important match?"
"Important! You bet it is. I suppose there's more money on this game than was ever put on a billiard match before. Why, Jule Hammond alone has ten thousand on Saunders."
The old man gave a quivering sigh of relief. He was beginning to understand. The ten thousand, then, was not the figures of a defalcation.
"Yes," continued the other, "it's the great match for the cup. There's been a series of games, and this is the culminating one. Prognor has won one, and Saunders one; now this game settles it. Prognor is the man of the High Fliers' Club. He's a good one. Saunders won the cup for this club last year, so they can't kick much if they lose it now. They've never had a man to touch Saunders in this club since it began. I doubt if there's another amateur like him in this country. He's a man to be proud of, although he seemed to go to pieces to-night. They'll all be down on him to-morrow if they lose their money, although he don't make anything one way or another. I believe it's the high betting that's made him so anxious and spoiled his play."
"Hush, hush!" was whispered around the room. Young Saunders had begun to play. Prognor stood by with a superior smile on his lips. He was certain to go out when his turn came again.
Saunders played very carefully, taking no risks, and his father watched him with absorbed, breathless interest. Though he knew nothing of the game he soon began to see how points were made. The boy never looked up from the green cloth and the balls. He stepped around the table to his different positions without hurry, and yet without undue tardiness. All eyes were fastened on his play, and there was not a sound in the large room but the ever-recurring click-click of the balls. The father marvelled at the almost magical command the player had over the ivory spheres. They came and went, rebounded and struck, seemingly because he willed this result or that. There was a dexterity of touch, and accurate measurement of force, a correct estimate of angles, a truth of the eye, and a muscular control that left the old man amazed that the combination of all these delicate niceties were concentrated in one person, and that person his own son.
At last two of the balls lay close together, and the young man, playing very deftly, appeared to be able to keep them in that position as if he might go on scoring indefinitely. He went on in this way for some time, when suddenly the silence was broken by Prognor crying out—
"I don't call that billiards. It's baby play."
Instantly there was an uproar. Saunders grounded his cue on the floor and stood calmly amidst the storm, his eyes fixed on the green cloth. There were shouts of "You were not interrupted," "That's for the umpire to decide," "Play your game, Saunders," "Don't be bluffed." The old man stood up with the rest, and his natural combativeness urged him to take part in the fray and call for fair play. The umpire rose and demanded order. When the tumult had subsided, he sat down. Some of the High Fliers, however, cried, "Decision! Decision!"
"There is nothing to decide," said the umpire, severely. "Go on with your play, Mr. Saunders."
Then young Saunders did a thing that took away the breath of his friends. He deliberately struck the balls with his cue ball and scattered them far and wide. A simultaneous sigh seemed to rise from the breasts of the True Blues.
"That is magnificent, but it is not war," said the man beside old Saunders. "He has no right to throw away a single chance when he is so far behind."
"Oh, he's not so far behind. Look at the score," put in a man on the right.
Saunders carefully nursed the balls up together once more, scored off them for a while, and again he struck them far apart. This he did three times. He apparently seemed bent on showing how completely he had the table under his control. Suddenly a great cheer broke out, and young Saunders rested as before without taking his eyes from the cloth.
"What does that mean?" cried the old man excitedly, with dry lips.
"Why, don't you see? He's tied the score. I imagine this is almost an unprecedented run. I believe he's got Prognor on toast, if you ask me."
Hammond came up with flushed face, and grasped the old man by the arm with a vigour that made him wince.
"Did you ever see anything grander than that?" he said, under cover of the momentary applause. "I'm willing to lose my ten thousand now without a murmur. You see, you are a mascot after all."
The old man was too much excited to speak, but he hoped the boy would take no more chances. Again came the click-click of the balls. The father was pleased to see that Dick played now with all the care and caution he had observed at first. The silence became intense, almost painful. Every man leaned forward and scarcely breathed.
All at once Prognor strode down to the billiard-table and stretched his hand across it. A cheer shook the ceiling. The cup would remain on its black marble pedestal. Saunders had won. He took the outstretched hand of his defeated opponent, and the building rang again.
Banker Hammond pushed his way through the congratulating crowd and smote the winner cordially on the shoulder.
"That was a great run, Dick, my boy. The old man was your mascot. Your luck changed the moment he came in. Your father had his eye on you all the time."
"What!" cried Dick, with a jump.
A flush came over his pale face as he caught his father's eye, although the old man's glance was kindly enough.
"I'm very proud of you, my son," said his father, when at last he reached him. "It takes skill and pluck and nerve to win a contest like that. I'm off now; I want to tell your mother about it."
"Wait a moment, father, and we'll walk home together," said Dick.
The room in which John Shorely edited theWeekly Spongewas not luxuriously furnished, but it was comfortable. A few pictures decorated the walls, mostly black and white drawings by artists who were so unfortunate as to be compelled to work for theSpongeon the cheap. Magazines and papers were littered all about, chiefly American in their origin, for Shorely had been brought up in the editorial school which teaches that it is cheaper to steal from a foreign publication than waste good money on original contributions. You clipped out the story; changed New York to London; Boston or Philadelphia to Manchester or Liverpool, and there you were.
Shorely's theory was that the public was a fool, and didn't know the difference. Some of the greatest journalistic successes in London proved the fact, he claimed, yet theSpongefrequently bought stories from well-known authors, and bragged greatly about it.
Shorely's table was littered with manuscripts, but the attention of the great editor was not upon them. He sat in his wooden armchair, with his gaze on the fire and a frown on his brow. TheSpongewas not going well, and he feared he would have to adopt some of the many prize schemes that were such a help to pure literature elsewhere, or offer a thousand pounds insurance, tied up in such a way that it would look lavishly generous to the constant reader, and yet be impossible to collect if a disaster really occurred.
In the midst of his meditations a clerk entered and announced—"Mr.Bromley Gibberts."
"Tell him I'm busy just now—tell him I'm engaged," said the editor, while the perplexed frown deepened on his brow.
The clerk's conscience; however, was never burdened with that message, for Gibberts entered, with a long ulster coat flapping about his heels.
"That's all right," said Gibberts, waving his hand at the boy, who stood with open mouth, appalled at the intrusion. "You heard what Mr. Shorely said. He's engaged. Therefore let no one enter. Get out."
The boy departed, closing the door after him. Gibberts turned the key in the lock, and then sat down.
"There," he said; "now we can talk unmolested, Shorely. I should think you would be pestered to death by all manner of idiots who come in and interrupt you."
"I am," said the editor, shortly.
"Then take my plan, and lock your door. Communicate with the outer office through a speaking-tube. I see you are down-hearted, so I have come to cheer you up. I've brought you a story, my boy."
Shorely groaned.
"My dear Gibberts," he said, "we have now——"
"Oh yes, I know all about that. You have matter enough on hand to run the paper for the next fifteen years. If this is a comic story, you are buying only serious stuff. If this be tragic, humour is what you need. Of course, the up-and-down truth is that you are short of money, and can't pay my price. TheSpongeis failing—everybody knows that. Why can't you speak the truth, Shorely, to me, at least? If you practiced an hour a day, and took lessons—from me, for instance—you would be able in a month to speak several truthful sentences one after the other."
The editor laughed bitterly.
"You are complimentary," he said.
"I'm not. Try again, Shorely. Say I'm a boorish ass."
"Well, you are."
"There, you see how easy it is! Practice is everything. Now, about this story, will you——"
"I will not. As you are not an advertiser, I don't mind admitting to you that the paper is going down. You see it comes to the same thing. We haven't the money as you say, so what's the use of talking?"
Gibberts hitched his chair closer to the editor, and placed his hand on the other's knee. He went on earnestly—
"Now is the time to talk, Shorely. In a little while it will be too late. You will have thrown up theSponge. Your great mistake is trying to ride two horses, each facing a different direction. It can't be done, my boy. Make up your mind whether you are going to be a thief or an honest man. That's the first step."
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. Go in for a paper that will be entirely stolen property, or for one made up of purely original matter."
"We have a great deal of original matter in theSponge."
"Yes, and that's what I object to. Have it all original, or have it all stolen. Be fish or fowl. At least one hundred men a week see a stolen article in theSpongewhich they have read elsewhere. They then believe it is all stolen, and you lose them. That isn't business, so I want to sell you one original tale, which will prove to be the most remarkable story written in England this year."
"Oh, they all are," said Shorely, wearily. "Every story sent to me is a most remarkable story, in the author's opinion."
"Look here, Shorely," cried Gibberts, angrily, "you mustn't talk to me like that. I'm no unknown author, a fact of which you are very well aware. I don't need to peddle my goods."
"Then why do you come here lecturing me?"
"For your own good, Shorely, my boy," said Gibberts, calming down as rapidly as he had flared up. He was a most uncertain man. "For your own good, and if you don't take this story, some one else will. It will make the fortune of the paper that secures it. Now, you read it while I wait. Here it is, typewritten, at one-and-three a thousand words, all to save your blessed eyesight."
Shorely took the manuscript and lit the gas, for it was getting dark.Gibberts sat down awhile, but soon began to pace the room, much toShorely's manifest annoyance. Not content with this, he picked up thepoker and noisily stirred the fire. "For Heaven's sake, sit down,Gibberts, and be quiet!" cried Shorely, at last.
Gibberts seized the poker as if it had been a weapon, and glared at the editor.
"I won't sit down, and I will make just as much noise as I want to," he roared. As he stood there defiantly, Shorely saw a gleam of insanity in his eyes.
"Oh, very well, then," said Shorely, continuing to read the story.
For a moment Gibberts stood grasping the poker by the middle, then he flung it with a clatter on the fender, and, sitting down, gazed moodily into the fire, without moving, until Shorely had turned the last page.
"Well," said Gibberts, rousing from his reverie, "what do you think of it?"
"It's a good story, Gibberts. All your stories are good," said the editor, carelessly.
Gibberts started to his feet, and swore.
"Do you mean to say," he thundered, "that you see nothing in that story different from any I or any one else ever wrote? Hang it, Shorely, you wouldn't know a good story if you met it coming up Fleet Street! Can't you see that story is written with a man's heart's blood?"
Shorely stretched out his legs and thrust his hands far down in his trousers' pockets.
"It may have been written as you say, although I thought you called my attention a moment ago to its type-written character."
"Don't be flippant, Shorely," said Gibberts, relapsing again into melancholy. "You don't like the story, then? You didn't see anything unusual in it—purpose, force, passion, life, death, nothing?"
"There is death enough at the end. My objection is that there is too much blood and thunder in it. Such a tragedy could never happen. No man could go to a country house and slaughter every one in it. It's absurd."
Gibberts sprang from his seat and began to pace the room excitedly. Suddenly he stopped before his friend, towering over him, his long ulster making him look taller than he really was.
"Did I ever tell you the tragedy of my life? How the property that would have kept me from want has——"
"Of course you have, Gibberts. Sit down. You've told it to everybody.To me several times."
"How my cousin cheated me out of——"
"Certainly. Out of land and the woman you loved."
"Oh! I told you that, did I?" said Gibberts, apparently abashed at the other's familiarity with the circumstances. He sat down, and rested his head in his hands. There was a long silence between the two, which was finally broken by Gibberts saying—
"So you don't care about the story?"
"Oh, I don't say that. I can see it is the story of your own life, with an imaginary and sanguinary ending."
"Oh, you saw that, did you?"
"Yes. How much do you want for it?"
"£50."
"What?"
"£50, I tell you. Are you deaf? And I want the money now."
"Bless your innocent heart, I can buy a longer story than that from the greatest author living for less than £50. Gibberts, you're crazy."
Gibberts looked up suddenly and inquiringly, as if that thought had never occurred to him before. He seemed rather taken with the idea. It would explain many things which had puzzled both himself and his friends. He meditated upon the matter for a few moments, but at last shook his head.
"No, Shorely," he said, with a sigh. "I'm not insane, though, goodness knows, I've had enough to drive me mad. I don't seem to have the luck of some people. I haven't the talent for going crazy. But to return to the story. You think £50 too much for it. It will make the fortune of the paper that publishes it. Let me see. I had it a moment ago, but the point has escaped my memory. What was it you objected to as unnatural?"
"The tragedy. There is too much wholesale murder at the end."
"Ah! now I have it! Now I recollect!"
Gibberts began energetically to pace the room again, smiting his hands together. His face was in a glow of excitement.
"Yes, I have it now. The tragedy. Granting a murder like that, one man a dead shot, killing all the people in a country house; imagine it actually taking place. Wouldn't all England ring with it?"
"Naturally."
"Of course it would. Now, you listen to me. I'm going to commit that so-called crime. One week after you publish the story, I'm going down to that country house, Channor Chase. It is my house, if there was justice and right in England, and I'm going to slaughter every one in it. I will leave a letter, saying the story in theSpongeis the true story of what led to the tragedy. Your paper in a week will be the most-talked-of journal in England—in the world. It will leap instantaneously into a circulation such as no weekly on earth ever before attained. Look here, Shorely, that story is worth £50,000 rather than £50, and if you don't buy it at once, some one else will. Now, what do you say?"
"I say you are joking, or else, as I said just now, you are as mad as a hatter."
"Admitting I am mad, will you take the story?"
"No, but I'll prevent you committing the crime."
"How?"
"By giving you in charge. By informing on you."
"You can't do it. Until such a crime is committed, no one would believe it could be committed. You have no witnesses to our conversation here, and I will deny every assertion you make. My word, at present, is as good as yours. All you can do is to ruin your chance of fortune, which knocks at every man's door. When I came in, you were wondering what you could do to put theSpongeon its feet. I saw it in your attitude. Now, what do you say?"
"I'll give you £25 for the story on its own merits, although it is a big price, and you need not commit the crime."
"Done! That is the sum I wanted, but I knew if I asked it, you would offer me £12 10_s_. Will you publish it within the month?"
"Yes."
"Very well. Write out the cheque. Don't cross it. I've no bank account."
When the cheque was handed to him, Gibberts thrust it into the ticket- pocket of his ulster, turned abruptly, and unlocked the door. "Good- bye," he said.
As he disappeared, Shorely noticed how long his ulster was, and how it flapped about his heels. The next time he saw the novelist was under circumstances that could never be effaced from his memory.
TheSpongewas a sixteen-page paper, with a blue cover, and the week Gibberts' story appeared, it occupied the first seven pages. As Shorely ran it over in the paper, it impressed him more than it had done in manuscript. A story always seems more convincing in type.
Shorely met several men at the Club, who spoke highly of the story, and at last he began to believe it was a good one himself. Johnson was particularly enthusiastic, and every one in the Club knew Johnson's opinion was infallible.
"How didyoucome to get hold of it?" he said to Shorely, with unnecessary emphasis on the personal pronoun.
"Don't you think I know a good story when I see it?" asked the editor, indignantly.
"It isn't the general belief of the Club," replied Johnson, airily; "but then, all the members have sent you contributions, so perhaps that accounts for it. By the way, have you seen Gibberts lately?"
"No; why do you ask?"
"Well, it strikes me he is acting rather queerly. If you asked me, I don't think he is quite sane. He has something on his mind."
"He told me," said the new member, with some hesitation—"but really I don't think I'm justified in mentioning it, although he did not tell it in confidence—that he was the rightful heir to a property in——"
"Oh, we all know that story!" cried the Club, unanimously.
"I think it's the Club whiskey," said one of the oldest members. "I say, it's the worst in London."
"Verbal complaints not received. Write to the Committee," put in Johnson. "If Gibberts has a friend in the Club, which I doubt, that friend should look after him. I believe he will commit suicide yet."
These sayings troubled Shorely as he walked back to his office. He sat down to write a note, asking Gibberts to call. As he was writing, McCabe, the business manager of theSponge, came in.
"What's the matter with the old sheet this week?" he asked.
"Matter? I don't understand you."
"Well, I have just sent an order to the printer to run off an extra ten thousand, and here comes a demand from Smith's for the whole lot. The extra ten thousand were to go to different newsagents all over the country who have sent repeat orders, so I have told the printer now to run off at least twenty-five thousand, and to keep the plates on the press. I never read theSpongemyself, so I thought I would drop in and ask you what the attraction was. This rush is unnatural.
"Better read the paper and find out," said Shorely.
"I would, if there wasn't so much of your stuff in it," retortedMcCabe.
Next day McCabe reported an almost bewildering increase in orders. He had a jubilant "we've-done-it-at-last" air that exasperated Shorely, who felt that he alone should have the credit. There had come no answer to the note he had sent Gibberts, so he went to the Club, in the hope of meeting him. He found Johnson, whom he asked if Gibberts were there.
"He's not been here to-day," said Johnson; "but I saw him yesterday, and what do you think he was doing? He was in a gun-shop in the Strand, buying cartridges for that villainous-looking seven-shooter of his. I asked him what he was going to do with a revolver in London, and he told me, shortly, that it was none of my business, which struck me as so accurate a summing-up of the situation, that I came away without making further remark. If you want any more stories by Gibberts, you should look after him."
Shorely found himself rapidly verging into a state of nervousness regarding Gibberts. He was actually beginning to believe the novelist meditated some wild action, which might involve others in a disagreeable complication. Shorely had no desire to be accessory either before or after the fact. He hurried back to the office, and there found Gibberts' belated reply to his note. He hastily tore it open, and the reading of it completely banished what little self-control he had left.
"Dear Shorely,—I know why you want to see me, but I have so many affairs to settle, that it is impossible for me to call upon you. However, have no fears; I shall stand to my bargain, without any goading from you. Only a few days have elapsed since the publication of the story, and I did not promise the tragedy before the week was out. I leave for Channor Chase this afternoon. You shall have your pound of flesh, and more.—Yours,
Shorely was somewhat pale about the lips when he had finished this scrawl. He flung on his coat, and rushed into the street. Calling a hansom, he said—
"Drive to Kidner's Inn as quickly as you can. No. 15."
Once there, he sprang up the steps two at a time, and knocked at Gibberts' door. The novelist allowed himself the luxury of a "man," and it was the "man" who answered Shorely's imperious knock.
"Where's Gibberts?"
"He's just gone, sir."
"Gone where?"
"To Euston Station, I believe, sir; and he took a hansom. He's going into the country for a week, sir, and I wasn't to forward his letters, so I haven't his address."
"Have you an 'ABC'?"
"Yes, sir; step inside, sir. Mr. Gibberts was just looking up trains in it, sir, before he left."
Shorely saw it was open at C, and, looking down the column to Channor, he found that a train left in about twenty minutes. Without a word, he dashed down the stairs again. The "man" did not seem astonished. Queer fish sometimes came to see his master.
"Can you get me to Euston Station in twenty minutes?"
The cabman shook his head, as he said—
"I'll do my best, sir, but we ought to have a good half-hour."
The driver did his best, and landed Shorely on the departure platform two minutes after the train had gone.
"When is the next train to Channor?" demanded Shorely of a porter.
"Just left, sir."
"The next train hasn't just left, you fool. Answer my question."
"Two hours and twenty minutes, sir," replied the porter, in a huff.
Shorely thought of engaging a special, but realised he hadn't money enough. Perhaps he could telegraph and warn the people of Channor Chase, but he did not know to whom to telegraph. Or, again, he thought he might have Gibberts arrested on some charge or other at Channor Station. That, he concluded, was the way out—dangerous, but feasible.
By this time, however, the porter had recovered his equanimity. Porters cannot afford to cherish resentment, and this particular porter saw half a crown in the air.
"Did you wish to reach Channor before the train that's just gone, sir?"
"Yes. Can it be done?"
"It might be done, sir," said the porter, hesitatingly, as if he were on the verge of divulging a State secret which would cost him his situation. He wanted the half-crown to become visible before he committed himself further.
"Here's half a sovereign, if you tell me how it can be done, short of hiring a special."
"Well, sir, you could take the express that leaves at the half-hour. It will carry you fifteen miles beyond Channor, to Buley Junction, then in seventeen minutes you can get a local back to Channor, which is due three minutes before the down train reaches there—if the local is in time," he added, when the gold piece was safe stowed in his pocket.
While waiting for the express, Shorely bought a copy of theSponge, and once more he read Gibberts' story on the way down. The third reading appalled him. He was amazed he had not noticed before the deadly earnestness of its tone. We are apt to underrate or overrate the work of a man with whom we are personally familiar.
Now, for the first time, Shorely seemed to get the proper perspective. The reading left him in a state of nervous collapse. He tried to remember whether or not he had burned Gibberts' letter. If he had left it on his table, anything might happen. It was incriminating evidence.
The local was five minutes late at the Junction, and it crawled over the fifteen miles back to Channor in the most exasperating way, losing time with every mile. At Channor he found the London train had come and gone.
"Did a man in a long ulster get off, and——"
"For Channor Chase, sir?"
"Yes. Has he gone?"
"Oh yes, sir! The dog-cart from the Chase was here to meet him, sir."
"How far is it?"
"About five miles by road, if you mean the Chase, sir."
"Can I get a conveyance?"
"I don't think so, sir. They didn't know you were coming, I suppose, or they would have waited; but if you take the road down by the church, you can get there before the cart, sir. It isn't more than two miles from the church. You'll find the path a bit dirty, I'm afraid, sir, but not worse than the road. You can't miss the way, and you can send for your luggage."
It had been raining, and was still drizzling. A strange path is sometimes difficult to follow, even in broad daylight, but a wet, dark evening adds tremendously to the problem. Shorely was a city man, and quite unused to the eccentricities of country lanes and paths.
He first mistook the gleaming surface of a ditch for the footpath, and only found his mistake when he was up to his waist in water. The rain came on heavily again, and added to his troubles. After wandering through muddy fields for some time, he came to a cottage, where he succeeded in securing a guide to Channor Chase.
The time he had lost wandering in the fields would, Shorely thought, allow the dog-cart to arrive before him, and such he found to be the case. The man who answered Shorely's imperious summons to the door was surprised to find a wild-eyed, unkempt, bedraggled individual, who looked like a lunatic or a tramp.
"Has Mr. Bromley Gibberts arrived yet?" he asked, without preliminary talk.
"Yes, sir," answered the man.
"Is he in his room?"
"No, sir. He has just come down, after dressing, and is in the drawing- room.
"I must see him at once," gasped Shorely. "It is a matter of life and death. Take me to the drawing-room."
The man, in some bewilderment, led him to the door of the drawing-room, and Shorely heard the sound of laughter from within. Thus ever are comedy and tragedy mingled. The man threw the door open, and Shorely entered. The sight he beheld at first dazzled him, for the room was brilliantly lighted. He saw a number of people, ladies and gentlemen, all in evening dress, and all looking towards the door, with astonishment in their eyes. Several of them, he noticed, had copies of theSpongein their hands. Bromley Gibberts stood before the fire, and was very evidently interrupted in the middle of a narration.
"I assure you," he was saying, "that is the only way by which a story of the highest class can be sold to a London editor."
He stopped as he said this, and turned to look at the intruder. It was a moment or two before he recognised the dapper editor in the bedraggled individual who stood, abashed, at the door.
"By the gods!" he exclaimed, waving his hands. "Speak of the editor, and he appears. In the name of all that's wonderful, Shorely, how did you come here? Have your deeds at last found you out? Have they ducked you in a horse-pond? I have just been telling my friends here how I sold you that story, which is making the fortune of theSponge. Come forward, and show yourself, Shorely, my boy."
"I would like a word with you," stammered Shorely.
"Then, have it here," said the novelist. "They all understand the circumstances. Come and tell them your side of the story."
"I warn you," said Shorely, pulling himself together, and addressing the company, "that this man contemplates a dreadful crime, and I have come here to prevent it."
Gibberts threw back his head, and laughed loudly.
"Search me," he cried. "I am entirely unarmed, and, as every one here knows, among my best friends."
"Goodness!" said one old lady. "You don't mean to say that Channor Chase is the scene of your story, and where the tragedy was to take place?"
"Of course it is," cried Gibberts, gleefully. "Didn't you recognise the local colour? I thought I described Channor Chase down to the ground, and did I not tell you you were all my victims? I always forget some important detail when telling a story. Don't go yet," he said, as Shorely turned away; "but tell your story, then we will have each man's narrative, after the style of Wilkie Collins."
But Shorely had had enough, and, in spite of pressing invitations to remain, he departed out into the night, cursing the eccentricities of literary men.