“And what more could you have said?” agreed Smith approvingly. “Tell me, did these gentlemen appear to be gay and light-hearted, or did they seem to be looking for someone with a hatchet?”
“Dey was hoppin’ mad, de whole bunch of dem.”
“Dreadfully,” attested Betty.
“As I suspected,” said Smith, “but we must not repine. These trifling contretemps are the penalties we pay for our high journalistic aims. I fancy that with the aid of the diplomatic smile and the honeyed word I may manage to win out. Will you come and give me your moral support, Comrade Brown?”
He opened the door of the inner room for Betty, and followed her in.
Master Maloney’s statement that “about ‘steen” visitors had arrived proved to be a little exaggerated. There were five men in the room.
As Smith entered, every eye was turned upon him. To an outside spectator he would have seemed rather like a very well-dressed Daniel introduced into a den of singularly irritable lions. Five pairs of eyes were smoldering with a long-nursed resentment. Five brows were corrugated with wrathful lines. Such, however, was the simple majesty of Smith’s demeanor that for a moment there was dead silence. Not a word was spoken as he paced, wrapped in thought, to the editorial chair. Stillness brooded over the room as he carefully dusted that piece of furniture, and, having done so to his satisfaction, hitched up the knees of his trousers and sank gracefully into a sitting position.
This accomplished, he looked up and started. He gazed round the room.
“Ha! I am observed!” he murmured.
The words broke the spell. Instantly the five visitors burst simultaneously into speech.
“Are you the acting editor of this paper?”
“I wish to have a word with you, sir.”
“Mr. Maloney, I presume?”
“Pardon me!”
“I should like a few moments’ conversation.”
The start was good and even, but the gentleman who said “Pardon me!” necessarily finished first, with the rest nowhere.
Smith turned to him, bowed, and fixed him with a benevolent gaze through his eyeglass.
“Are you Mr. Maloney, may I ask?” enquired the favored one.
The others paused for the reply. Smith shook his head. “My name is Smith.”
“Where is Mr. Maloney?”
Smith looked across at Betty, who had seated herself in her place by the typewriter.
“Where did you tell me Mr. Maloney had gone to, Miss Brown? Ah, well, never mind. Is there anything
“Then, maybe,” said a small, round gentleman who, so far, had done only chorus work, “you can tell me what all this means? My name is Waterman, sir. I am here on behalf of my wife, whose name you doubtless know.”
“Correct me if I am wrong,” said Smith, “but I should say it, also, was Waterman.”
“Luella Granville Waterman, sir!” said the little man proudly. “My wife,” he went on, “has received this extraordinary communication from a man signing himself P. Maloney. We are both at a loss to make head or tail of it.”
“It seems reasonably clear to me,” said Smith, reading the letter.
“It’s an outrage. My wife has been a contributor to this journal since its foundation. We are both intimate friends of Mr. Renshaw, to whom my wife’s work has always given complete satisfaction. And now, without the slightest warning, comes this peremptory dismissal from P. Maloney. Who is P. Maloney? Where is Mr. Renshaw?”
The chorus burst forth. It seemed that that was what they all wanted to know. Who was P. Maloney? Where was Mr. Renshaw?
“I am the Reverend Edwin T. Philpott, sir,” said a cadaverous-looking man with light blue eyes and a melancholy face. “I have contributed ‘Moments of Meditation’ to this journal for some considerable time.”
Smith nodded.
“I know, yours has always seemed to me work which the world will not willingly let die.”
The Reverend Edwin’s frosty face thawed into a bleak smile.
“And yet,” continued Smith, “I gather that P. Maloney, on the other hand, actually wishes to hurry on its decease. Strange!”
A man in a serge suit, who had been lurking behind Betty, bobbed into the open.
“Where’s this fellow Maloney? P. Maloney. That’s the man we want to see. I’ve been working for this paper without a break, except when I had the grip, for four years, and now up comes this Maloney fellow, if you please, and tells me in so many words that the paper’s got no use for me.”
“These are life’s tragedies,” sighed Smith.
“What does he mean by it? That’s what I want to know. And that’s what these gentlemen want to know. See here—”
“I am addressing—” said Smith.
