The Call of the Town Part 8

Edgar having to attend the Monday police court, which was always fat with drunks and wife-beaters, Henry was left to make his way to the _Guardian_ office himself.

On his arrival there he found the office-boy descending the stairs by using the railing as a slide, at the end of which he fell somewhat heavily on the door-mat, but picked himself up and smiled at Henry in proof that no bones were broken. Upstairs, the weedy young man with downy whiskers, who bore on his narrow shoulders the full weight of the _Guardian's_ commercial affairs, was at work on the morning's letters.

He looked up as Henry entered, and inquired his business.

"Is Mr. Springthorpe in?" the new reporter asked.

The clerk was surprised for a moment to hear the editor's name mentioned thus early in the day. Then he answered:

"No, he is rather irregular in his hours. He may not arrive till eleven or twelve to-day!"

"It's only ten o'clock now," said Henry, as though he were thinking aloud. He would never try to play Monte Cristo again, and Winton had told him that Mr. Springthorpe was never a.s.siduous in his office attendance.

"But I expect Mr. Yardley soon," the clerk continued. "Are you Mr.

Charles?"

"Yes. Shall I go to the reporters' room?"

The clerk opened the door for him, and he entered on the scene of his future labours. A long table of plain wood, cut and hacked by knives on the edges, stood in the centre of the floor, and around it were four cane-chairs, all of different shapes. The floor was covered by worn-out oilcloth, the walls were dingy, the ceilings blistered like a water-biscuit. A single gasalier, carrying two burners, hung from the roof and served to light the table, on which lay a few bundles of copy-paper, two ink-pots, and some pens. The only other furniture in the room was a small bookcase half-filled with volumes, most of which were tattered, and some without binding, having reached that condition, not so much from frequent reference as from occasional use in a game wherein the reportorial staff tried to keep two books flying round the room from hand to hand without falling--a game that was never successful. A bundle of unopened newspapers, in postal wrappers, lay at the window-end of the table, and also a few letters.

Presently the door was opened and Mr. Wilfrid Yardley, sub-editor, stepped in. He was a man of sallow complexion, with very black hair and dark, restless eyes that suggested worry. He wore a light yellowish summer suit and a straw hat. For a moment he paused on seeing Henry, who, as he entered, was examining the literary treasures in the bookcase.

"Good morning!" he said. "You are Mr. Charles, I suppose?" and he held out his hand to Henry. "You are early. The reporters have no hours. I'm the only one on the literary staff who is chained to the desk."

He took off his hat and jacket, exchanging the latter for a ragged thing that hung on one of the pegs along the wall. Then he seated himself at the end of the table, and commenced opening the newspapers that lay there. All the while his eyes flitted about in his head as if he feared that someone would pounce on him unawares. Evidently a quiet fellow and a conscientious worker, but a trifle too nervous to have much character.

"Mr. Springthorpe has not fixed any work for you?" he said to Henry, with questioning eyebrows, while slitting an envelope.

"No, nothing has been arranged. I suppose I'm to do anything that turns up."

"Bertram--that is our chief reporter--will want you to help him, I suppose. But I'm sure I could do with a.s.sistance. You can't learn too much, however, so just try your hand here," and he marked several items in a daily paper referring to happenings in the Midland counties. "Try to rewrite those pars, keeping in all the facts, but only using about one-third of the s.p.a.ce in each case. Sit down in that chair there, and perhaps you'll find a pen that suits you among those, though I never can."

Henry acquitted himself very well according to Mr. Yardley, and found the latter so considerate in his advice that he immediately conceived a liking for him.

After all, Trevor Smith and Edgar Winton were raw youths, but here was a man of thirty-five at least, and there was no "side" about him. He seemed capable and intelligent. Why, then, did he stick in Wheelton?

Would Henry only reach a similar post when he was his age? These thoughts came to him as he watched the earnest face of Yardley poring over reporters' copy, "licking it into shape," sucking the while at his briar pipe. Such thoughts are not pleasant, but they must come to every youth who aspires to make a success of life, and they will for a moment damp his enthusiasm, unless he has the perception which tells him that no two men's careers are alike, and that every man carries within himself the qualities that make for success or failure. But Yardley may not have thought himself a failure, and there's the rub.

When the editor arrived he showed no overweening interest in Henry, but warmly commended him for the work he had done under the subeditor's eye, and urged him to make the most of his opportunities, without telling him how. Undoubtedly Winton had described the situation accurately to Henry--Mr. Springthorpe's interest ended when he pocketed the premium.

Bertram, the chief reporter, proved to be a person with distinct family resemblance to Trevor Smith, and was probably about twenty-eight years of age. He shared the editor's weakness for looking upon the wine when it is red, but always managed to get through the work required of him.

Without possessing qualities of the slightest distinction, he had achieved a reputation in various newspaper offices as "a clever fellow if he'd only keep straight."

This is, perhaps, not peculiar to journalism, and if we inquire into the characters of many who are reputed to be exceptionally endowed, but imperil their success by unsteady habits, we shall find that in most cases their abilities are below the average of the steady plodder, who is seldom described as clever, simply because the shadow of unsteadiness never falls on his life as a background for the better display of such qualities as he possesses. The fact is, that your "clever fellow if he'd only keep sober" is a very ordinary fellow, whose ever-changing employers are apt to over-estimate his abilities during a decent spell of sobriety.

It is doubtful if it would be to the advantage of our story to dwell at any length on the next few months of Henry's life. The newspaper office in which he found himself was typical of hundreds in the English provinces, no better nor worse. The existence of the _Guardian_ was one constant struggle to increase a small circulation and add to the advertising revenue of the paper. To the latter end the services of the reporters were frequently required, and puffs of tradesmen had to be written whenever there was a chance of securing thereby a new advertis.e.m.e.nt. All the petty details of local life had to be reported at great length, even to the wedding presents received by the daughter of an undertaker in a small way of business. These were actually displayed with the names of their donors in separate lines, following the report of the marriage ceremony, which included a full description of the bride's dress, with the name of the local dressmaker who had made it.

The pettiness of it all was rudely borne in upon the young reporter when it came to his knowledge that the item--"Purse from Servant of Bride's Mother"--represented an expenditure of eleven-pence three-farthings on the part of a faithful domestic thirteen years of age.

As an off-set against these experiences, Henry had made one great upward move. In a moment of audacity, which he must recall with wonder, he ventured to write a leading article and to swagger the editorial "we."

It so happened that when he presented this to the editor, that worthy, having had a bibulous week and being short of copy, p.r.o.nounced it good, and printed it with a few alterations. As it was Mr. Springthorpe's aim to do a minimum of work each week, he generously encouraged the youth to further editorial effort, with the result that Henry "we'd" pretty frequently in the leading columns of the _Guardian_. He was the first "pupil" who had ever shown any marked ability, and Springthorpe was secretly proud of him.

As the six months wore away, Henry began to hope that he might be added to the permanent staff, but neither Bertram nor Edgar showed signs of departing, and the prospects of his receiving a salaried position remained low. To the surprise of his colleagues, however, and against all precedent, he was not ejected at the end of his six months, but actually received a salary of half-a-guinea a week, accompanied, however, by the information that he would do well to look elsewhere for a situation at his leisure.

Now commenced a strenuous time of replying to advertis.e.m.e.nts in the _Daily News_. For a while never a sign came back from those doves of his which went forth trembling, but in the spring of the year after his going to Wheelton, there came a reply from the manager of one of the two daily papers at the large and important Midland town of Laysford, asking Henry to come and see him with reference to his application for the post of editorial a.s.sistant.

The plan of submitting specimens of his work, backed by an eloquent testimonial from Mr. Springthorpe, had at length succeeded, and to the amazement of the staff, Henry returned from the interview ent.i.tled to regard himself as a.s.sistant editor of the _Laysford Leader_. To this day the event is talked of at the office of the _Guardian_, but it is never recorded that important factors in bringing it about were the pressing need of the _Leader_ to have a new a.s.sistant at a week's notice, and the growing desire of Mr. Springthorpe to save half-a-guinea on the weekly expenses of the _Guardian_. Moreover, Henry had named a salary five s.h.i.+llings less than the only other likely candidate.

From such sordid circ.u.mstances do events of life-importance spring.

CHAPTER IX

WHAT THE NECKTIE TOLD

THE grey-blue reek of Hampton Bagot is curling up into the azure sky.

From the hill on which the church stands the little village lies snug like a bead on a chain--the London Road--in a jewel-case of billowy satin: green Ardens.h.i.+re. A haunt of ancient peace this August day. The only noises are the pleasant rattle of a reaping-machine and the musical tinkle of an anvil, while now and again the petulant ring of a cyclist's bell reaches the ear of the lounger on the hill, and thrills some honest cottager with the hope that the ringer may rest at her house for tea.

The faint sound of a far whistle reminds us that time has pa.s.sed since we last stood in Hampton's one street: a mile and a half away, the station, which is to advertise the name of the village to travelling humanity for ever, has been finished, and several times each day trains to and from Birmingham condescend to pause in their puffing progress at the tiny platform. But most of them go squealing through, indignant at finding such a contemptible little station on _their_ line. The stationmaster-porter-ticket-collector and his junior are not overworked--or else they could not play so long with the latter's terrier, who is the liveliest member of the staff. But there are a few tickets to be taken every day, a few carriage-doors to be shut, a few whistles to blow, a few throbs of importance for the young official.

We know of one pa.s.senger who is to arrive this Sat.u.r.day afternoon; at least, they are expecting him at Hampton Bagot.

The station has made no difference to the village. Certainly none to the figure at the Post Office door. The smile might have been registered, the tilt of the coat-tails patented. Edward John Charles has not altered a hair, although it is almost six years since we last saw him wagging his tails here.

"You're expectin' 'im 'ome to-day, Ed'ard John, I 'ear," the inefficient Miffin observes as he crosses to the Charles establishment for an ounce of s.h.a.g.

"Yes, and about time, I think. Why, he ain't been through this door for two year, and last time 'e could on'y stay four days."

"In moi opinion, them youths what goes to the cities learns to despise their 'umble 'omes," Miffin commented, with a sad fall of the eyes.

"Now, if I 'ad a son 'e'd 'ave to stay at 'ome, and take up 'is fether's trade."

"But you ain't got a son, Miffin, and that's all the difference. If there was a young Miffin, why, you're just the man to ha' been proud o'

'im makin' 'is way in the world. Mind you, Hampton ain't the on'y place under the sun."

"It'll be strange for 'Enry to come to the station," said Miffin, adroitly diverting the drift of the talk; for he was touchy on the subject of children, being as discontented because he had none as most of the village folk were because they had so many.

"He says it's going to bring 'im often back to us, and I believe he means it."

"Well, it's to be 'oped 'e'll never regret leavin' 'ome," was the last croak of the gloomy tailor, as he rammed home a charge of s.h.a.g into his burnt cherry-wood pipe with his claw-like forefinger, and stepped back to his flat irons.

Edward John chuckled contentedly. Miffin was a constant entertainment to him. He had a suspicion that the tailor had been appointed by Providence to prevent his becoming unduly puffed up about his talented son.

Just in time for tea, the subject of their conversation jumped down from the butcher's gig in which he had travelled from the station. His father welcomed him with a sedate shake of the hand; his sisters three ran to him and were shyly kissed. How our sisters shoot straight into womanhood with the gathering up of their back hair and the lengthening of their frocks! A brotherly kiss after two years to a sister who may have another young man to kiss her, produces shyness in the least self-conscious of young men.

In the parlour Henry found his mother, still the timid, withered little woman he had always known her, busy setting the tea, her curl-papers still eloquent of her household toils. He was conscious of the curl-papers for the first time as he kissed her dry lips. The near view of the papers offended some new feeling within him. He was strangely tempted to pluck them out.