Propped on the pillows, he opened the first paper to hand expecting to see his name in double leaded type. Not a word. In all the paper not a word of him or Hank or the Dutchman or the expedition. The next paper was the same and the next. The great San Francisco dailies and the little San Francisco dailies had treated the matter with the most absolute contempt. George felt curiously flat, he even looked at the dates of the papers to make sure there was no mistake and that Farintosh had not by some accident brought him yesterday’s press.
He had dreaded seeing his name and now he was disappointed because it was not there. Human nature is a funny thing.
He rose, bathed, dressed and came down to breakfast, but still the depression clung. He felt small and of little account, he felt weak and irritable. What was wrong with him? He had tasted Publicity, that is all. Publicity, the wine of the Barretts, is also the wine of the poets; its fascination is universal and of whatever brand it is, from abusive to laudatory, it is always Publicity. Even the pillory, I expect, had its compensations in the old days, and to be recognized with a bad egg or a dead cat was, at all events, to be recognised.
And what a blaze-up that was last night, with every paper screaming round the bon-fire,—and now this frost—why, that alone was in the nature of an insult.
Suddenly and in the act of pouring himself out a second cup of coffee, his mind cleared and his energy returned. “We’ve gotta get the Dutchman.” Hank’s words had come back to him. “And by God we will,” said he.
He finished his breakfast, rang for the car and started for the wharves. The deck of the Wear Jack was empty, he dropped down to the cabin and there was Hank surrounded with newspapers. Hank had evidently purchased largely last night as well as this morning.
“Well,” said George lightly, “there’s not a word in the morning papers and that’s a good thing.”
Hank grunted.
“That’s Barrett,” said he. “He’s cut the news off plunk. Why, a blaze in the morning papers would have been out by to-night; as it is every man from Pacific Avenue to Polk Street is saying, ‘Why, there ain’t no news about Hank.’ Barrett’s being ’phoned to death at the present minute asking what it all means. People will be talking all day, wanting news of the business and inventing lies to fill the gaps, till it’ll get about that the Dutchman’s been caught by Joe Barrett an’s being exhibited at his stores. By to-night all the ’phones will be humming with lies and all the South Coast papers shouting for information. Why, Bud, where were you born not to know that advertising isn’t printing stuff in the papers but making men talk. One big rumour, if you set it going, bumbling away like thunder in the foot hills, is worth all the printed stuff from here to Nome. We’re fair handicapped. If I was advertising liver pills, I’d be joyful, but I’m not.”
“Think it will queer our pitch?”