The boy returned to say that Mr. Petheram would see him.
Mr. Petheram was a young man with a mop of hair, and an air of almost painful restraint. He was in his shirt- sleeves, and the table before him was heaped high with papers. Opposite him, evidently in the act of taking his leave was a comfortable-looking man of middle age with a red face and a short beard. He left as Roland entered and Roland was surprized to see Mr. Petheram spring to his feet, shake his fist at the closing door, and kick the wall with a vehemence which brought down several inches of discolored plaster.
“Take a seat,” he said, when he had finished this performance. “What can I do for you?”
Roland had always imagined that editors in their private offices were less easily approached and, when approached, more brusk. The fact was that Mr. Petheram, whose optimism nothing could quench, had mistaken him for a prospective advertiser.
“I want to buy the paper,” said Roland. He was aware that this was an abrupt way of approaching the subject, but, after all, he did want to buy the paper, so why not say so?
Mr. Petheram fizzed in his chair. He glowed with excitement.
“Do you mean to tell me there’s a single book-stall in London which has sold out? Great Scott, perhaps they’ve all sold out! How many did you try?”
“I mean buy the whole paper. Become proprietor, you know.”
Roland felt that he was blushing, and hated himself for it. He ought to be carrying this thing through with an air. Mr. Petheram looked at him blankly.
“Why?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Roland. He felt the interview was going all wrong. It lacked a stateliness which this kind of interview should have had.
“Honestly?” said Mr. Petheram. “You aren’t pulling my leg?”
Roland nodded. Mr. Petheram appeared to struggle with his conscience, and finally to be worsted by it, for his next remarks were limpidly honest.
“Don’t you be an ass,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for. Did you see that blighter who went out just now? Do you know who he is? That’s the fellow we’ve got to pay five pounds a week to for life.”
“Why?”
“We can’t get rid of him. When the paper started, the proprietors—not the present ones—thought it would give the thing a boom if they had a football competition with a first prize of a fiver a week for life. Well, that’s the man who won it. He’s been handed down as a legacy from proprietor to proprietor, till now we’ve got him. Ages ago they tried to get him to compromise for a lump sum down, but he wouldn’t. Said he would only spend it, and preferred to get it by the week. Well, by the time we’ve paid that vampire, there isn’t much left out of our profits. That’s why we are at the present moment a little understaffed.”
A frown clouded Mr. Petheram’s brow. Roland wondered if he was thinking of Bessie March.
“I know all about that,” he said.
“And you still want to buy the thing?”
“Yes.”
“But what on earth for? Mind you, I ought not to be crabbing my own paper like this, but you seem a good chap, and I don’t want to see you landed. Why are you doing it?”
“Oh, just for fun.”
“Ah, now you’re talking. If you can afford expensive amusements, go ahead.”
He put his feet on the table, and lit a short pipe. His gloomy views on the subject of ‘Squibs’ gave way to a wave of optimism.
“You know,” he said, “there’s really a lot of life in the old rag yet. If it were properly run. What has hampered us has been lack of capital. We haven’t been able to advertise. I’m bursting with ideas for booming the paper, only naturally you can’t do it for nothing. As for editing, what I don’t know about editing—but perhaps you had got somebody else in your mind?”
“No, no,” said Roland, who would not have known an editor from an office-boy. The thought of interviewing prospective editors appalled him.
“Very well, then,” resumed Mr. Petheram, reassured, kicking over a heap of papers to give more room for his feet. “Take it that I continue as editor. We can discuss terms later. Under the present regime I have been doing all the work in exchange for a happy home. I suppose you won’t want to spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar? In other words, you would sooner have a happy, well-fed editor running about the place than a broken-down wreck who might swoon from starvation?”
“But one moment,” said Roland. “Are you sure that the present proprietors will want to sell?”
“Want to sell,” cried Mr. Petheram enthusiastically. “Why, if they know you want to buy, you’ve as much chance of getting away from them without the paper as—as—well, I can’t think of anything that has such a poor chance of anything. If you aren’t quick on your feet, they’ll cry on your shoulder. Come along, and we’ll round them up now.”
He struggled into his coat, and gave his hair an impatient brush with a note-book.
“There’s just one other thing,” said Roland. “I have been a regular reader of ‘Squibs’ for some time, and I particularly admire the way in which the Woman’s Page–-“
“You mean you want to reengage the editress? Rather. You couldn’t do better. I was going to suggest it myself. Now, come along quick before you change your mind or wake up.”
Within a very few days of becoming sole proprietor of ‘Squibs,’ Roland began to feel much as a man might who,
