15a The Prince and Betty

“I’ve never done any newspaper work, of course, but—”

“Never!” cried Smith. “Is it so long since the deaf old college days that you forget the Gridiron?”

In their last year at Harvard, Smith and John, assisted by others of a congenial spirit, had published a small but lively magazine devoted to college topics, with such success—from one point of view—that on the appearance of the third number it was suppressed by the authorities.

“You were the life and soul of the Gridiron,” went on Smith. “You shall be the life and soul of Peaceful Moments. You have special qualifications for the post. A young man once called at the office of a certain newspaper, and asked for a job. ‘Have you any specialty?’ enquired the editor. ‘Yes,’ replied the bright boy, ‘I am rather good at invective.’ ‘Any particular kind of invective?’ queried the man up top. ‘No,’ replied our hero, ‘just general invective.’ Such is your case, my son. You have a genius for general invective. You are the man Peaceful Moments has been waiting for.”

“If you think so—”

“I do think so. Let us consider it settled. And now, tell me, what do you think of our little journal?”

“Well—aren’t you asking for trouble? Isn’t the proprietor—?”

Smith waved his hand airily.

“Dismiss him from your mind,” he said. “He is a gentleman of the name of Benjamin Scobell, who—”

“Benjamin Scobell!”

“Who lives in Europe and never sees the paper. I happen to know that he is anxious to get rid of it. His solicitors have instructions to accept any reasonable offer. If only I could close in on a small roll, I would buy it myself, for by the time we have finished our improvements, it will be a sound investment for the young speculator. Have you read the Broster Street story? It has hit somebody already. Already some unknown individual is grasping the lemon in his unwilling fingers. And—to remove any diffidence you may still have about lending your sympathetic aid—that was written by no hardened professional, but by our stenographer. She’ll be in soon, and I’ll introduce you. You’ll like her. I do not despair, later on, of securing an epoch-making contribution from Comrade Maloney.”

As he spoke, that bulwark of the paper entered in person, bearing an envelope.

“Ah, Comrade Maloney,” said Smith. “Is that your contribution? What is the subject? ‘Mustangs I have Met?’”

“A kid brought dis,” said Pugsy. “Dere ain’t no answer.”

Smith read the letter with raised eyebrows.

“We shall have to get another stenographer,” he said. “The gifted author of our Broster Street series has quit.”

“Oh!” said John, not interested.

“Quit at a moment’s notice and without explanation. I can’t understand it.”

“I guess she had some reason,” said John, absently. He was inclined to be absent during these days. His mind was always stealing away to occupy itself with the problem of the discovery of Betty. The motives that might have led a stenographer to resign her position had no interest for him.

Smith shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, Woman, Woman!” he said resignedly.

“She says she will send in some more Broster Street stuff, though, which is a comfort. But I’m sorry she’s quit. You would have liked her.”

“Yes?” said John.

At this moment there came from the outer office a piercing squeal. It penetrated into the editorial sanctum, losing only a small part of its strength on the way. Smith looked up with patient sadness.

“If Comrade Maloney,” he said, “is going to take to singing during business hours, I fear this journal must put up its shutters. Concentrated thought will be out of the question.”

He moved to the door and flung it open as a second squeal rent the air, and found Master Maloney writhing in the grip of a tough-looking person in patched trousers and a stained sweater. His left ear was firmly grasped between the stranger’s finger and thumb.

The tough person released Pugsy, and, having eyed Smith keenly for a moment, made a dash for the stairs, leaving the guardian of the gate rubbing his ear resentfully.

“He blows in,” said Master Maloney, aggrieved, “an’ asks is de editor in. I tells him no, an’ he nips me by the ear when I tries to stop him buttin’ t’roo.”

“Comrade Maloney,” said Smith, “you are a martyr. What would Horatius have done if somebody had nipped him by the ear when he was holding the bridge? It might have made all the difference. Did the gentleman state his business?”

“Nope. Just tried to butt t’roo.”

“One of these strong, silent men. The world is full of us. These are the perils of the journalistic life. You will be safer and happier when you are a cowboy, Comrade Maloney.”

Smith was thoughtful as he returned to the inner room.

“Things are warming up, John,” he said. “The sport who has just left evidently came just to get a sight of me. Otherwise, why should he tear himself away without stopping for a chat. I suppose he was sent to mark me down for whichever gang Comrade Parker is employing.”

“What do you mean?” said John. “All this gets past me. Who is Parker?”

Smith related the events leading up to Mr. Parker’s visit, and described what had happened on that