IV
The days of his employment on the staff of The Oracle were far from happy, and the material he was asked to write soured his style and embittered his outlook. Of this circumstance he was painfully aware, and tried to combat it by writing of simple, gentle matters for his own education. But the canker of cynicism overran and corrupted his better thoughts like deadly nightshade twining in the brambles of a hedgerow.
Always his own severest critic, he would tear up the sheets of close-written manuscript and scatter them over the room, stamp his feet or throw up the window and hurl imprecation at the dying night.
Sometimes he sent articles or stories to the press, but from them he received no encouragement. The Oracle had an unsavoury reputation in Fleet Street, and no self-respecting editor desired to employ the journalists who wrote for this vicious little rag.
After his uncompromising attitude at their first meeting, the editor of The Oracle made a great deal of Wynne, and besought him to sign a binding contract.
“I won’t sign anything,” Wynne replied.
“I’ll give you a salary of seven pounds a week if you do.”
“I wouldn’t for seventy.”
“You’ll think better of it later on.”
“Later on I shall wish to God I had never written for you at all. It isn’t a thing to be proud of.”
At this the editor laughed and clapped him on the back.
“I’ve been wanting some one like you for years,” he cried.
“You’ll be wanting some one like me again before long,” came the answer.
Strange to say, the stout man did not resent Wynne’s attitude, neither did he understand it. He regarded this queer, emaciated boy as an agreeable oddity, and allowed him to say whatever he liked. Wynne was most valuable to The Oracle, for his articles were infinitely more educated and infinitely more stinging than any of the other writers’. As a direct result they caused a corresponding increase of irritation and a corresponding improvement in sales.
Whenever there was a hint of scandal, or any disreputable suggestion in regard to some notable personage, Wynne was put on the track, with carte noire to give the affair the greatest possible publicity. In the pursuance of this degrading journalese of detection and exposure he disclosed unexpected moral considerations. When he did not consider the person to be attacked merited rough handling he would resolutely decline to associate himself in any way with the campaign. Entreaties and protests were alike incapable of moving him. He would set his mouth, and refuse, and fly into a towering fury with the editor when he suggested:
“Very well, then, Harbutt must do it.”
“Isn’t there enough beastliness in the world without seeking it where it doesn’t exist?” cried Wynne. “I’ll burn this damn building to the ground one of these days.”
He did not actually put this threat into practice, but did the next best thing. A dispute had arisen in regard to some sordid disclosures which the editor desired to make, and Wynne had proved beyond dispute that there was no foundation for the charges. The editor, however, decided that the story was too good to lose, and accordingly had it inserted, with a thin veil drawn over the identity of the persons concerned.
“All right,” said Wynne, after he had seen a copy. “You’re going through the hoops for this.”
An opportunity arose a short while after, and Wynne seized it without scruple.
It was the habit of the paper to reserve a column each month in which to set forth their ideals and intentions. Sometimes one and sometimes another of the writers undertook this work. As a rule it was the last paragraph to be inserted, and depended for its length upon the available space.
The sub-editor, who was also proof-reader, was not a conscientious man, and frequently delegated his duties to subordinates.
“It’s all plain sailing,” he said to Wynne. “Write about four hundred words, and sling it over to the compositor. I’m meeting a friend or two tonight.”
With that he went out, and Wynne, with a peculiar smile, wrote the article, and very faithfully described the motives which inspired the paper.
“The Oracle,” he wrote, “is the Mungo of the London Press—a sniffing wretch for ever scrabbling garbage in the national refuse heaps.”
There was a good deal more in this style, and the compositor, while setting up the type, was not a little disturbed in mind.
“Is this to be printed?” he asked Wynne.
“Certainly.”
“Danged if I can see what the idea is.”
“Imagine the sales, and go ahead.”
The entire issue had to be destroyed, but one or two copies escaped from the printer’s hands, and a rival flew to hilarious headlines about it.
To the amazement of every one Wynne marched into the office the morning after he had perpetrated the offence.
“What the hell is the idea?” shouted the editor. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting even with my conscience,” replied Wynne.
He looked very frail and insignificant with the semi-circle of scarlet, inflamed countenances and threatening fists besetting him.
“If you don’t want to be killed, take your blasted conscience out of here.”
He did, but with no great speed, although many were the offers of violence made as he passed out.