"Well, you've got it chuck full of points about the game—and that's no good. It's got to be interesting. You've got to give it a human touch. There's one of the Scotch bowlers, for instance, old Sanderson from Edinburgh—they say he's worth eleven millions. Well, I'm told there's an old fellow that sweeps out a little struggling church on Cedar Street—he's its caretaker—and I'm told he used to go to school with Sanderson. Now, it's the simplest thing in the world to have that old geezer come around to the green with his feather duster in his hand—and Sanderson stares at him a minute; then he recognizes him all of a sudden, and the old dodgers fall to and hug each other like two old maids. And have them both weep—especially Sanderson, because he's rich. And some of those other millionaires should go off to the edge of the lawn and blow their nose—you understand—the human touch, as I said. Make Sanderson go home with the old geezer for supper; might just as well—it wouldn't hurt him."
"Sanderson wouldn't relish the caretaker's bill of fare, I'm afraid," Harvey said significantly.
"I guess you're right. And that brings me back to the thing I intended particularly to speak about. Those Scotchmen were properly beaten, as your score-card shows. But you don't give the real reason—and it's the kind of a reason everybody likes to hear about. For all you say, any one would think it was a mere matter of skill. Now, of course, we all know the reason—it's the moist time they were having that licked them. Most of them were full. Of course, it wouldn't do to put it that way—nobody'd enjoy that. But it's a capital chance for some delicate word-painting—keep it kind of veiled. Say something like this: 'our genial visitors drank deep of the spirit that was much in evidence throughout the game.' Or, better still: 'our genial visitors became more and more animated by their national spirit as the game wore on—some of them seemed quite full of it.' Or something like this: 'in liquid prowess our British cousins far outran us—if, indeed, that be the proper verb, since many of our friends were in various degrees of horizontality before the game was finished.' You see, a description like that appeals to the imagination—it's subtle—keeps readers guessing. Or this would be a fine way of putting it: 'it was evident yesterday that the little finger plays an important part in the ancient game of bowling on the green'—something like that. What I'm getting at, Simmons, is this—there's a great chance there for something humorous, and a journalist ought to make the most of it. What makes you look so glum, Simmons?—I don't believe you've got much sense of humour yourself."
Harvey made no response. But his face was resting on his hand, and there must have been something in the plaintive eyes that engaged the attention of Mr. Crothers. He could hardly fail to see that all of a sudden Harvey had become deaf to his tuition; and, more remarkable, the care-worn face seemed but to grow graver as his monitor pursued his praise of mirth.
"You're looking rather blue, Simmons," he added after a keen scrutiny, Harvey still remaining silent; "but that needn't prevent you writing lots of funny things. Some of the funniest things ever written, or spoken, have been done by people with broken hearts inside of them. Take an actor for instance—doubling up his audience, and his own little girl dying at home—most likely asking why father doesn't come, too; queer tangled world this, my boy, and nobody feels its pulse better than us fellows. Anything the matter, Simmons?" he suddenly enquired, for Harvey's lips were pale; and the chief could see a quiver, as of pain, overrun his face.
Harvey's voice had a wealth of passion in it. "You'll have to get some other fellow to see the humorous side of—of—of that thing," he said.
"What do you mean? What thing?" asked the dumfoundered Crothers.
"That drink business—God! it's no comedy," and Crothers started as he saw the perspiration breaking out on Harvey's brow, his face a battlefield, his hands clenched as if he saw an enemy.
Crothers indulged in a low whistle, his eyes never moving from Harvey's face. For the veteran journalist was no child. He knew the marks of strife when he saw them; experience partly, and sympathy still more, had fitted him to tell the difference between a man sporting in the surf and a man fighting for his life against the undertow. And one keen look into the depths of Harvey's outpouring eyes told him he was in the presence of a tragedy. He rose and put his hand on Harvey's shoulder; familiar with tender ways it was not—but it was a human hand, and a human heart had laid it there.
"Simmons," he said, and the usually gruff voice had a gentle note; "Simmons, I know what you mean. May as well tell you straight, I've heard a little—and I've seen a little, too. And I should have known better than talk like that to you. And we all believe you'll win out yet, old chap. Now I'll tell you what I think you ought to do. You ought to go away somewhere for a little trip—there's nothing helps a man in a fight of this kind like having his attention taken up with something else. I'll keep your place open for you here—and if you could get a couple of congenial fellows to go off with you for a little holiday you'd be like a new man when you came back. Strictly water-waggon fellows, of course," he added with a smile. "I know it's a hard fight, my boy—but buckle right down to it. And you go right home now—you're played clean out, I can see that—and take a good sleep till noon. Then you skip out just as soon as you can arrange it and have a ripping good holiday; that'll set you up better than anything else. Good-night now—or good-morning, rather, I guess. And remember this above all things, Simmons—keep your mind diverted, always be sure and keep your mind diverted," with which advice Mr. Crothers rose to accompany Harvey to the door.