“Asher’s my name. B. Henderson Asher. I write ‘Moments of Mirth.’”
A look almost of excitement came into Smith’s face, such a look as a visitor to a foreign land might wear when confronted with some great national monument. He stood up and shook Mr. Asher reverently by the hand.
“Gentlemen,” he said, reseating himself, “this is a painful case. The circumstances, as you will admit when you have heard all, are peculiar. You have asked me where Mr. Renshaw is. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know!” exclaimed Mr. Asher.
“Nobody knows. With luck you may find a black cat in a coal cellar on a moonless night, but not Mr. Renshaw. Shortly after I joined this journal, he started out on a vacation, by his doctor’s orders, and left no address. No letters were to be forwarded. He was to enjoy complete rest. Who can say where he is now? Possibly racing down some rugged slope in the Rockies with two grizzlies and a wildcat in earnest pursuit. Possibly in the midst of Florida Everglades, making a noise like a piece of meat in order to snare alligators. Who can tell?”
Silent consternation prevailed among his audience.
“Then, do you mean to say,” demanded Mr. Asher, “that this fellow Maloney’s the boss here, and that what he says goes?”
Smith bowed.
“Exactly. A man of intensely masterful character, he will brook no opposition. I am powerless to sway him. Suggestions from myself as to the conduct of the paper would infuriate him. He believes that radical changes are necessary in the policy of
“I have never heard of such a thing,” said Mr. Waterman indignantly.
“In this life,” said Smith, shaking his head, “we must be prepared for every emergency. We must distinguish between the unusual and the impossible. It is unusual for the acting editor of a weekly paper to revolutionize its existing policy, and you have rashly ordered your life on the assumption that it is impossible. You are unprepared. The thing comes on you as a surprise. The cry goes round New York, ‘Comrades Asher, Waterman, Philpotts, and others have been taken unawares. They cannot cope with the situation.’”
“But what is to be done?” cried Mr. Asher.
“Nothing, I fear, except to wait. It may be that when Mr. Renshaw, having dodged the bears and eluded the wildcat, returns to his post, he will decide not to continue the paper on the lines at present mapped out. He should be back in about ten weeks.”
“Ten weeks!”
“Till then, the only thing to do is to wait. You may rely on me to keep a watchful eye on your interests. When your thoughts tend to take a gloomy turn say to yourselves, ‘All is well. Smith is keeping a watchful eye on our interests.’”
“All the same, I should like to see this P. Maloney,” said Mr. Asher.
“I shouldn’t,” said Smith. “I speak in your best interests. P. Maloney is a man of the fiercest passions. He cannot brook interference. If you should argue with him, there is no knowing what might not happen. He would be the first to regret any violent action, when once he had cooled off, but— Of course, if you wish it I could arrange a meeting. No? I think you are wise. And now, gentlemen, as I have a good deal of work to get through—
“All very disturbing to the man of culture and refinement,” said Smith, as the door closed behind the last of the malcontents. “But I think that we may now consider the line clear. I see no further obstacle in our path. I fear I have made Comrade Maloney perhaps a shade unpopular with our late contributors, but these things must be. We must clench our teeth and face them manfully. He suffers in an excellent cause.”
CHAPTER XVI
TWO VISITORS TO THE OFFICE
There was once an editor of a paper in the Far West who was sitting at his desk, musing pleasantly on life, when a bullet crashed through the window and imbedded itself in the wall at the back of his head. A happy smile lighted up the editor’s face. “Ah!” he said complacently, “I knew that personal column of ours would make a hit!”
What the bullet was to the Far West editor, the visit of Mr. Martin Parker to the offices of
It occurred shortly after the publication of the second number of the new series, and was directly due to Betty’s first and only suggestion for the welfare of the paper.
If the first number of the series had not staggered humanity, it had at least caused a certain amount of comment. The warm weather had begun, and there was nothing much going on in New York. The papers were consequently free to take notice of the change in the policy of
The sporting section of the paper pleased him most. The personality of Kid Brady bulked large in it. A photograph of the ambitious pugilist, looking moody and important in an attitude of self-defense, filled half a page, and under the photograph was the legend, “Jimmy Garvin must meet this boy.” Jimmy was the present holder of the light-weight title. He had won it a year before, and since then had confined himself to smoking cigars as long as walking sticks and appearing nightly in a vaudeville sketch entitled, “A Fight for Honor.” His reminiscences were being published in a Sunday paper. It was this that gave Smith the idea of publishing Kid Brady’s autobiography in
“Comrade Brady,” said Smith meditatively to Betty one morning, “has a singularly pure and pleasing style. It is bound to appeal powerfully to the many-headed. Listen to this. Our hero is fighting one Benson in the latter’s home
