“My dear Thomasson, I knew your father, and had a high respect for him. For his sake I advise you that if you pay £100,000 into my bank as a free gift, and do not start The Tribune, you will save a great deal of money!”
It was a prophecy that was only too truly fulfilled, for before Thomasson was through his troubles, he had lost £300,000.
A very brilliant staff of assistant editors and reporters was engaged by William Hill—many of the most brilliant journalists in England, and some of the worst. Among them (I will not say in which category) was myself, but at the first assembly of editors before the publication of the paper, I received a moral shock.
I encountered a next-door-neighbor of mine, named Hawke, who had been a colleague of mine on The Daily Chronicle.
I greeted him with pleasure, and surprise.
“Hullo, Hawke, what are you doing here?”
“I’m literary editor,” he said. “What are you?”
“That’s funny!” I replied. “I happen to be literary editor of this paper!”
William Hill had appointed two literary editors, to be perfectly on the safe side. He had also appointed two news editors. Whether the two news editors settled the dispute by assassination, I do not know. Only one functioned. But Hawke and I agreed to divide the job, which we did in the friendliest way, Hawke controlling the reviews of books, and I editing the special articles, stories, and other literary contents of the paper.
It was started with a tremendous flourish of trumpets in the way of advance publicity. On the first day of publication, London was startled by the appearance of all the omnibus horses and cart horses caparisoned in white sheets bearing the legend “Read The Tribune.” Unfortunately it was a wet and stormy day, and before an hour or two had passed, the white mantles were splashed with many gobs of mud, and waved wildly as dirty rags above the backs of the unfortunate animals, or dangled dejectedly about their legs. A night or two before publication, a grand reception was given, regardless of expense, to an immense gathering of political and literary personalities. The walls of The Tribune office were entirely covered with hothouse flowers, and baskets of orchids hung from the ceilings. Wine flowed like water, and historical truth compels me to confess that some members of the new staff were overcome by enthusiasm for this rich baptism of the new paper. One young gentleman, very tall and eloquent, fell as gracefully as a lily at the feet of Augustine Birrell. Another, when the guests were gone, resented some fancied impertinence from the commissionaire, and knocked him through the telephone box. One of the office boys, unaccustomed to champagne, collapsed in a state of coma and was put in the lift for metal plates and carried aloft to the machine room. Long after all the guests had gone, and Franklin Thomasson himself had returned home, another gentleman in high authority on the organizing side was so melted with the happy influences of the evening that his heart expanded with human brotherly love for the night wanderers of London who had been attracted by the lights and music in The Tribune office, and he invited them to carry off the baskets of orchids in the hall, as a slight token of his affection and sympathy. Indeed, his generosity was so unbounded that he made them a gift of the hall clock—a magnificent timepiece with chimes like St. Paul’s Cathedral—and they were about to depart with it, praising God for this benevolence, when Franklin Thomasson, who had been summoned back by telephone, arrived on the scene to save his property and restore discipline.