X
nce in the street again, after a word of explanation to the watchman, the officers and Simpkins separated, they to report and send out an alarm for Mrs. Athelstone and Brander, he to call up his office before rejoining them. His exultation over his beat was keyed somewhat lower, now that he understood what Brander's real interest in Mrs. Athelstone was. Mentally, he wrung the neck of Buttons for not having known it; figuratively, he kicked himself for not having guessed it; literally, he damned his employers for their British reserve, their cool assumption that because he was their clerk he was not interested in their family affairs. "Cuss 'em for snobs," he wound up finally, a deep sense of his personal grievance stirring his sociable Yankee soul.
Of course, this sickening brother and sister business wouldn't touch the main fact of the story, but it knocked the "love motive" and the "heart interest" higher than a kite, utterly ruining some of his prettiest bits of writing, besides letting him in for a call-down from Naylor. Still, the old man couldn't be very hard on him—he'd understand that some trifling little inaccuracies were bound to creep into a great big story like this, dug out and worked up by one man.
At this more cheerful conclusion, a newsboy, crying his bundle of still damp papers, came along, and Simpkins hailed him eagerly. Standing under a lamp on the corner, skipping from front page to back, then from head to head inside, with an eye skilled to catch at a glance the stories which a loathed contemporary had that the Banner had missed, he ran through the bunch. The Sun—not a line about Athelstone in it. Bully! The American—he was a little afraid of the American. Safe again. The World—Sam Blythe's humorous descriptive story of the convention led. He stopped to pity Sam and the New York papers, as he thought of the Boston newsboys, crying his magnificent beat, till all Washington Street rang with the glory of it. And he could see the fellows in Mrs. Atkinson's, letting their coffee grow cold as they devoured the Banner, stopping only here and there to call across to each other: "Good work, Simp., old boy! Great story!"
Then—Simpkins turned the page. Accident—ten killed—bank robbed—caught—Mrs. Jones gets divorce.... What!
NOTED SCIENTIST SECURES IMPORTANT RIGHTS
DOCTOR ATHELSTONE ARRANGES FOR ROYAL SOCIETY
TO EXPLOIT RECENT DISCOVERIES
Simpkins stuttered around for an exclamation; then looked up weakly. Instinct started him on the run for the nearest long-distance telephone, but before he had gone twenty feet he stopped. The paper was long since off press and distributed. He had no desire to know what Naylor was saying. He could not even guess. There are heights to which the imagination cannot aspire.
Then came a faint ray of hope. That was an Associated Press dispatch—a late one probably. But if it had reached the New York papers in time to catch the edition, Naylor must have received it soon enough to kill his story. But even as this hope came it went. The news interest of the dispatch was largely local. Doubtless it had been sent out only to the New York papers.
Simpkins forced himself to read the body of the message now, although he gagged over every line of it:
London, etc. Dr. Alfred W.R. Athelstone, well known in London as the president of the American branch of the Royal Society of Egyptian Exploration and Research, arrived here this morning and is stopping at the Carlton. He announces that the Khedive has been graciously pleased to grant to his society the sole right to excavate the tombs recently discovered by one of its agents in the Karnak region. Doctor Athelstone left home quietly some weeks ago, and held back any announcement of the discoveries, which promise to be very important, while the negotiations, now brought to a happy conclusion, were pending. He sails for New York on the Campania tomorrow.
"Do I go off half-cocked? Am I yellow? Is a pup yellow?" groaned Simpkins, and he started off aimlessly toward the park, fighting his Waterloo over again and counting up his losses. That foolish, foolish letter! Why had he soiled his fingers by opening it! Of course, that line which loomed so large and fine in his story, that pointed the impressive finger of Fate at Crime, "That thing that I have to do is about done!" referred to Doctor Athelstone's silly negotiations. The letter must have been from him. Now, who could have known that a grown man would indulge in such fool monkey-business as writing love-letters in hieroglyphics to his own wife?... And that blame black mummy. Back to darkest Africa for his! If any one ever said mummy to him there'd be murder done, all right. Oh, for the happy ignorance of those days when he knew nothing about Egypt except that it was the place from which the cigarettes came!... Brander, no doubt, had gone out to send a cablegram of congratulation to Doctor Athelstone, and while he was away the woman had started in to repair a crack in that precious old Amosis of hers. Perhaps the moths had got into him! "And she thought that I was crazy, and was stringing me along, waiting till the Nile Duck got back," muttered the reporter, stopping short in his agony. "Oh! you're guessing good now, Simp., all right, because there's only one way to guess." And as he started along again he concluded: "Damn it! even the cat came back!"
If there was one thing in all the world that Simpkins did not want to see it was a copy of the Banner with that awful story of his staring out at him from the first page, headed and played up with all the brutal skill in handling type of which Naylor was a master; but he felt himself drawn irresistibly to the Grand Central Station, where the Boston papers would first be put on sale.
Half an hour to wait. Gad! He could never go back and face Naylor!... Libel! Why, there wasn't money enough in the world to pay the damages the Athelstones would get against the paper. He'd take just one look at it and then catch the first train for Chicago. Perhaps he could get a job there digging sewers, or selling ribbons in Fields', or start a school of journalism. Any old thing, if they didn't nab him and put him in Bloomingdale before he could get away.... He made for the street again. He wouldn't look at the Banner. What malignant little devils the types were when they shouted your sins, not another fellow's, from the front page, or whispered them in a stage aside from some little paragraph in an obscure corner of the paper—a corner that the whole world looked into. Hell, he'd get out of the filthy business! Think of the light and frolicsome way in which he'd written up domestic scandals, the entertaining specials he'd turned out on unfaithful husbands, the snappy columns on unhappy wives, careless of the cost of his sensation in blood and tears! And now they'd write him up—Naylor would attend to that editorial himself, and do it in his most virtuous style—and brand him as a fakir, a liar, and a yellow dog.
Simpkins was back at the news-stand again and there were the Boston papers. He snatched a Banner from the top of the pile. No, he must have the wrong paper. He tore through it from front to back and then to front again, his heart bounding with joy. There was not a line of his story in it. They had received that Associated Press dispatch, after all. Yes, there it was, but oh, how differently it looked! It spelt damnation an hour ago, it meant salvation now.
After all, hadn't his mistake been a natural one? Hadn't he done his best for the paper? Wasn't it his duty to run down a lead like that? He'd made errors of judgment, perhaps, but he'd like to see the man who wouldn't have under the circumstances. Of course, mistakes would creep in occasionally and give innocent people the worst of it, but look at the good he'd done in his life by exposing scoundrels. How could he, how could any man, have acted differently who was loyal to his paper, whose first interests were the public good? If Naylor didn't appreciate a star man when he had him, he thought he knew an editor or two who did. Simp., old boy, wasn't going to starve.... Starve? It had been hungry work, so he'd just step across to the Manhattan, get a bite of breakfast, and look up the trains to Boston.
Naylor did know a good man when he had him, and likewise—quite as valuable a bit of knowledge—he knew when a man had had enough. So when Simpkins sat down that afternoon to tell him his experiences, he only smiled quizzically as the reporter wound up by asking, "Now, what do you think?" and answered:
"Well, for one thing, I think it did you a power of good to look behind that veil, because I reckon that for once in your life you've told me the truth as near as you know how."
"No, but aside from this pleasant personal conclusion," persisted Simpkins, modestly shedding the compliment.
"Well, I guess we won't bother with the Blavatsky story just now, but here's a clipping about a woman who's discovered what she calls soul aura—says we've got red, white and blue souls and all that sort of stuff. You're our soul expert now, so go over to the City Hall and ask the mayor and any politicians you meet what's the color of their souls. It ought to make a fair Sunday special." And Naylor swung around to his desk, for the city editor had just told him that the headless trunk of a woman had been picked up in the river—a find that promised a good story—and a newspaper man cannot waste time on yesterday.
Simpkins' face fell. That he had not been assigned to find the head was, he knew, the beginning of his punishment. But as he walked down the dingy hall to the street his step became more buoyant, and once in the open air he started off eager and smiling. For a good opening sentence was already shaping in his head, and as he stepped into the City Hall he was repeating to himself:
"Yesterday, when the Mayor was asked, 'What is the color of your soul?' he returned his stereotyped 'Nothing to give out on that subject,' and then added, 'But it would be violating no confidence to tell you that Boss Coonahan's is black.'"
To Simpkins it had been given to lift the veil and to know the truth; yet he was back again serving the false gods.
WHERE LOVE CONQUERS.
The Reckoning.
By Robert W. Chambers.
The author's intention is to treat, in a series of four or five romances, that part of the war for independence which particularly affected the great landed families of northern New York, the Johnsons, represented by Sir William, Sir John, Guy Johnson, and Colonel Claus; the notorious Butlers, father and son, the Schuylers, Van Rensselaers, and others.
The first romance of the series, Cardigan, was followed by the second, The Maid-at-Arms. The third, in order, is not completed. The fourth is the present volume.
As Cardigan pretended to portray life on the baronial estate of Sir William Johnson, the first uneasiness concerning the coming trouble, the first discordant note struck in the harmonious councils of the Long House, so, in The Maid-at-Arms, which followed in order, the author attempted to paint a patroon family disturbed by the approaching rumble of battle. That romance dealt with the first serious split in the Iroquois Confederacy; it showed the Long House shattered though not fallen; the demoralization and final flight of the great landed families who remained loyal to the British Crown; and it struck the key-note to the future attitude of the Iroquois toward the patriots of the frontier—revenge for their losses at the battle of Oriskany—and ended with the march of the militia and continental troops on Saratoga.
The third romance, as yet incomplete and unpublished, deals with the war-path and those who followed it led by the landed gentry of Tryon County; and ends with the first solid blow delivered at the Long House, and the terrible punishment of the Great Confederacy.
The present romance, the fourth in chronological order, picks up the thread at that point.
The author is not conscious of having taken any liberties with history in preparing a framework of facts for a mantle of romance.
Robert W. Chambers.
New York, May 26, 1904.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
WORKS OF ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.
IOLE
Colored inlay on the cover, decorative borders, head-pieces, thumb-nail sketches, and tail-pieces. Frontispiece and three full-page illustrations. 12mo. Ornamental Cloth, $1.25.
Does anybody remember the opera of The Inca, and that heart-breaking episode where the Court Undertaker, in a morbid desire to increase his professional skill, deliberately accomplishes the destruction of his middle-aged relatives in order to inter them for the sake of practice?
If I recollect, his dismal confession runs something like this:
"It was in bleak November
When I slew them, I remember,
As I caught them unawares
Drinking tea in rocking-chairs."
And so he talked them to death, the subject being "What Really Is Art?" Afterward he was sorry—
"The squeak of a door,
The creak of a floor,
My horrors and fears enhance;
And I wake with a scream
As I hear in my dream
The shrieks of my maiden aunts!"
Now it is a very dreadful thing to suggest that those highly respectable pseudo-spinsters, the Sister Arts, supposedly cozily immune in their polygamous chastity (for every suitor for favor is popularly expected to be wedded to his particular art)—I repeat, it is very dreadful to suggest that these impeccable old ladies are in danger of being talked to death.
But the talkers are talking and Art Nouveau rockers are rocking, and the trousers of the prophet are patched with stained glass, and it is a day of dinkiness and of thumbs.
Let us find comfort in the ancient proverb: "Art talked to death shall rise again." Let us also recollect that "Dinky is as dinky does;" that "All is not Shaw that Bernards;" that "Better Yeates than Clever;" that words are so inexpensive that there is no moral crime in robbing Henry to pay James.
Firmly believing all this, abjuring all atom-pickers, slab furniture, and woodchuck literature—save only the immortal verse:
"And there the wooden-chuck doth tread;
While from the oak trees' tops
The red, red squirrel on the head
The frequent acorn drops."
Abjuring, as I say, dinkiness in all its forms, we may still hope that those cleanly and respectable spinsters, the Sister Arts, will continue throughout the ages, rocking and drinking tea unterrified by the million-tongued clamor in the back yard and below stairs, where thumb and forefinger continue the question demanded by intellectual exhaustion:
"L'arr! Kesker say l'arr?"
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.
THE MASTERPIECE OF A MASTER MIND.
The Prodigal Son.
By Hall Caine. 12mo. Ornamental Cloth, $1.50.
"The Prodigal Son" follows the lines of the Bible parable in the principal incidents, but in certain important particulars it departs from them. In a most convincing way, and with rare beauty, the story shows that Christ's parable is a picture of heavenly mercy, and not of human justice, and if it were used as an example of conduct among men it would destroy all social conditions and disturb accepted laws of justice. The book is full of movement and incident, and must appeal to the public by its dramatic story alone. The Prodigal Son at the close of the book has learned this great lesson, and the meaning of the parable is revealed to him. Neither success nor fame can ever wipe out the evil of the past. It is not from the unalterable laws of nature and life that forgiveness can be hoped for.
"Since 'The Manxman' Hall Caine has written nothing so moving in its elements of pathos and tragedy, so plainly marked with the power to search the human heart and reveal its secret springs of strength and weakness, its passion and strife, so sincere and satisfying as 'The Prodigal Son.'"—New York Times.
"It is done with supreme self-confidence, and the result is a work of genius."—New York Evening Post.
"'The Prodigal Son' will hold the reader's attention from cover to cover."—Philadelphia Record.
"This is one of Hall Caine's best novels—one that a large portion of the fiction-reading public will thoroughly enjoy."—Chicago Record-Herald.
"It is a notable piece of fiction."—Philadelphia Inquirer.
"In 'The Prodigal Son' Hall Caine has produced his greatest work.'—Boston Herald.
"Mr. Caine has achieved a work of extraordinary merit, a fiction as finely conceived, as deftly constructed, as some of the best work of our living novelists."—London Daily Mail.
"'The Prodigal Son' is indeed a notable novel; and a work that may certainly rank with the best of recent fiction...."—Westminster Gazette.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
"A beautiful romance of the days of Robert Burns."
Nancy Stair.
A Novel. By Elinor Macartney Lane, author of "Mills of God." Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"With very much the grace and charm of Robert Louis Stevenson, the author of 'The Life of Nancy Stair' combines unusual gifts of narrative, characterization, color, and humor. She has also delicacy, dramatic quality, and that rare gift—historic imagination.
"'The Life of Nancy Stair' is interesting from the first sentence to the last; the characters are vital and are, also, most entertaining company; the denouement unexpected and picturesque and cleverly led up to from one of the earliest chapters; the story moves swiftly and without a hitch. Robert Burns is neither idealized nor caricatured; Sandy, Jock, Pitcairn, Danvers Carmichael, and the Duke of Borthewicke are admirably relieved against each other, and Nancy herself as irresistible as she is natural. To be sure, she is a wonderful child, but then she manages to make you believe she was a real one. Indeed, reality and naturalness are two of the charms of a story that both reaches the heart and engages the mind, and which can scarcely fail to make for itself a large audience. A great deal of delightful talk and interesting incidents are used for the development of the story. Whoever reads it will advise everybody he knows to read it; and those who do not care for its literary quality cannot escape the interest of a love-story full of incident and atmosphere."
"Powerfully and attractively written."—Pittsburg Post.
"A story best described with the word 'charming.'"—Washington Post.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
WIT, SPARKLING, SCINTILLATING WIT, IS THE ESSENCE OF
Kate of Kate Hall,
By Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler,
whose reputation was made by her first book, "Concerning Isabel Carnaby," and enhanced by her last success, "Place and Power."
"In 'Kate of Kate Hall,' by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler, the question of imminent concern is the marriage of super-dainty, peppery-tempered Lady Katherine Clare, whose wealthy godmother, erstwhile deceased, has left her a vast fortune, on condition that she shall be wedded within six calendar months from date of the testator's death.
"An easy matter, it would seem, for bonny Kate, notwithstanding her aptness at sharp repartee, is a morsel fit for the gods.
"The accepted suitor appears in due time; but comes to grief at the last moment in a quarrel with Lady Kate over a kiss bestowed by her upon her godmother's former man of affairs and secretary. This incident she haughtily refuses to explain. Moreover, she shatters the bond of engagement, although but three weeks remain of the fatal six months. She would rather break stones on the road all day and sleep in a pauper's grave all night, than marry a man who, while professing to love her, would listen to mean and malicious gossips picked up by tell-tales in the servants' hall.
"So the great estate is likely to be lost to Kate and her debt-ridden father, Lord Claverley. How it is conserved at last, and gloomy apprehension chased away by dazzling visions of material splendor—that is the author's well-kept secret, not to be shared here with a careless and indolent public."—Philadelphia North American.
"The long-standing reproach that women are seldom humorists seems in a fair way of passing out of existence. Several contemporary feminine writers have at least sufficient sense of humor to produce characters as deliciously humorous as delightful. Of such order is the Countess Claverley, made whimsically real and lovable in the recent book by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler and A.L. Felkin, 'Kate of Kate Hall.'"—Chicago Record-Herald.
"'Kate of Kate Hall' is a novel in which Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler displays her brilliant abilities at their best. The story is well constructed, the plot develops beautifully, the incidents are varied and brisk, and the dialogue is deliciously clever."—Rochester Democrat and Chronicle.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
LOVE. MYSTERY. VENICE.
The Clock and the Key.
By Arthur Henry Vesey. 12mo. Ornamental Cloth, $1.50.
This is a tale of a mystery connected with an old clock. The lover, an American man of means, is startled out of his sensuous, inactive life in Venice by his lady-love's scorn for his indolence. She begs of him to perform any task that will prove his persistence and worth. With the charm of Venice as a background, one follows the adventures of the lover endeavoring to read the puzzling hints of the old clock as to the whereabouts of the famous jewels of many centuries ago. After following many false clues the lover ultimately solves the mystery, triumphs over his rivals, and wins the girl.
AMERICA.
"For an absorbing story it would be hard to beat."—Harper's Weekly.
ENGLAND.
"It will hold the reader till the last page."—London Times.
SCOTLAND.
"It would hardly suffer by comparison with Poe's immortal 'Gold Bug.'"—Glasgow Herald.
NORTH.
"It ought to make a record."—Montreal Sun.
SOUTH.
"It is as fascinating in its way as the Sherlock Holmes stories—charming—unique."—New Orleans Picayune.
EAST.
"Don't fail to get it."—New York Sun.
WEST.
"About the most ingeniously constructed bit of sensational fiction that ever made the weary hours speed."—St. Paul Pioneer Press.
"If you want a thrilling story of intrigue and mystery, which will cause you to burn the midnight oil until the last page is finished, read 'The Clock and the Key.'"—Milwaukee Wisconsin.
"One of the most highly exciting and ingenious stories we have read for a long time is 'The Clock and the Key.'"—London Mail.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
A GOOD AUTOMOBILE STORY.
Baby Bullet.
By Lloyd Osbourne, Author of "The Motor-maniacs." Illustrated. 12mo. Ornamental Cloth, $1.50.
This is the jolliest, most delightfully humorous love story that has been written in the last ten years. Baby Bullet is an "orphan automobile." It is all through the adoption of Baby Bullet by her travelling companion that a dear, sweet, human modern girl meets a very nice young man, and a double romance is begun and finished on an automobiling tour through England.
"The story is smoothly written, full of action and healthful fun."—Philadelphia Public Ledger.
"'Baby Bullet' is without doubt the best written and most entertaining automobile story yet published. The most enjoyable feature of this book is its genuine, unforced humor, which finds expression not only in ludicrous situations, but in bright and spirited dialogue, keen observation and natural characterization.'—St. Paul Dispatch.
"Certain stories there are that a man fervently wishes he might claim as his own. Of these, 'Baby Bullet' is one."—Baltimore Sun.
"It is broad comedy, full of adventurous fun, clever and effective. The tale is fascinating from the start. The adventures of Baby Bullet are distinctly funny."—New York Sun.
"The characters are lightly drawn, but with great humor. It is a story that refreshes a tired brain and provokes a light heart."—Chicago Tribune.
"It is a most satisfying and humorous narrative."—Indianapolis News.
"One of the funniest scenes in recent fiction is the escape of the automobile party from the peroxide blonde who has answered their advertisement for a chaperon."—San Francisco Chronicle.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
A SPLENDID NEWSPAPER YARN.
A Yellow Journalist.
By Miriam Michelson, Author of "In the Bishop's Carriage," etc. Illustrated. 12mo. Ornamental Cloth, $1.50.
This novel has the true newspaper thrill in it from beginning to end. The intense desire to "cover" one's assignment completely and well is brought out in the midst of the melodramatic atmosphere in which a modern newspaper woman must live. The stories are all true to life, and mixed with the excitement there is a wealth of humor and pathos.
"There is a dash about 'A Yellow Journalist' that exhilarates like a fresh breeze on a sharp winter morning."—Chicago Record-Herald.
"The book is bright and entertaining."—Minneapolis Tribune.
"There are just a few writers who have succeeded in reducing to paper the atmosphere of a newspaper office, and since the appearance of 'A Yellow Journalist,' Miriam Michelson must be numbered among them."—The Bookman.
"Miss Michelson's work has found great favor. The stories contained in this book are characteristic."—Philadelphia Public Ledger.
"Only one with the genuine journalistic instinct, who has agonized over a story and known the ecstacy of a 'beat' and the anguish of being beat, can write of news-gathering as Miss Michelson does. But she has other good qualities in addition to these—a good dramatic instinct, a piquant humor, and a knowledge of human nature. The fourteen chapters of 'A Yellow Journalist' are mighty interesting reading."—Baltimore News.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.