“Eh? Notes?” said the newspaper man, who had been glancing at the sheets over Mrs. Sharp-less’s shoulder. “Oh—ah. Yes, of course. All right. Glad to have metcher,” he added, politely ushering her to the door. “I’ll send a reporter up for the statements at eight o’clock.”
“Thank you very much, Bartholomew Snyder,” said Grandma Sharpless, shaking hands.
“Not a bit of it! Thanks the other way. You’ve given me a good tip in my own game. Watch me—us—wake ‘em up to-morrow.”
Only the combined insistence of Grandma Sharpless and diplomacy of the Health Master overrode Mr. Clyde’s angry objections to “going into that filthy sheet” when the matter was broached to him that evening. For the good of the cause he finally acceded. And next morning the “Star” was a sight! It blazed in red captions. It squirmed and wriggled with illustrations of alleged germs. It shrieked in stentorian headlines. If the city had been beset by all the dogs of war, it couldn’t have blared more martial defiance against the enemy. It held its competitors up to infinite scorn and derision as mean-spirited shirks and cowards, and slathered itself with fulsome praises as the only original prop of truth and righteousness. And, as the centerpoint and core of all this, flaunted-the statement and signature of the Honorable Thomas Clyde, President of the Worthington Public Health League—with photograph. The face of Mr. Clyde, as he confronted this outrage upon his sensibilities at the breakfast table, was gloom itself until he turned to the editorial page. Then he emitted a whoop of glee. For there, double-leaded and double-headed was a Health Column, by “Our Special Writer, Grandma Sharpless, the Wisest Woman in Worthington. She will contribute opinions and advice on the epidemic to the ‘Star’ exclusively.” (Mr. Snyder had taken a chance with this latter statement.)
“Let me see,” gasped the old lady, when her son-in-law made known the cause of his mirth. Then, “They’ve published that stuff of mine just as I wrote it. I didn’t dream it was for print.”
“That’s what makes it so bully,” said the Health Master. “You’ve got the editorial trick of confidential, convincing, man-to-man talk down fine. What’s more, you’ll have to keep it up, now. Your friend, Snyder, has fairly caught you. Well, we need an official organ in the household.”
Vowing that she couldn’t and wouldn’t do it, nevertheless the new “editor” began to think of so many things that she wanted to say that, each day, when a messenger arrived from the “Star” with a polite request for “copy,” there was a telling column ready of the Health Master’s wisdom, simplified and pointed by Grandma Sharpless’s own pungent, crisp, vigorous, and homely style. Thanks largely to this, the “Star” became the mouthpiece of an anti-epidemic campaign which speedily enlisted the whole city.
But the “yellow” was not to have the field to itself. Once the cat was out of the bag, the other papers not only recognized it as a cat with great uproar, but, so to speak, proceeded to tie a can to its tail and pelt it through the streets of the city. As a matter of fact, no newspaper wishes to be hampered in the publishing of legitimate news; and it was only by the sternest threats of withdrawal of patronage that the large advertisers had hitherto succeeded in coercing the press of Worthington. Further coercion was useless, now that the facts had found their way into type. With great unanimity and an enthusiasm none the less genuine for having been repressed, the papers rushed into the breach. The “Clarion” organized an Anti-Infection League of School Children, with officers and banners. The “Press” “attended to” the recreant Dr. Mullins so fiercely that, notwithstanding his pull, he resigned his position in the Health Department because of “breakdown due to overwork in the course of his duties,” and ceased to trouble, in official circles. Enterprising reporters of the “Observer” caused the arrest of thirty-five trolley-car conductors for moistening transfers with a licked thumb, and then got the street-car company to issue a new form of transfer inscribed across the back, “Keep me away from your Mouth.” It fell to the “Evening News” to drive the common drinking-cup out of existence, after which it instituted reforms in soda fountains, restaurants, and barber shops, while the “Telegram” garnered great glory by interspersing the inning-by-inning returns of the baseball championship with bits of counsel as to how to avoid contagion in the theater, in the street, in travel, in banks, at home, and in various other walks of life. But the “Star” held foremost place, and clinched it with a Sunday “cut-out” to be worn as a badge, inscribed “Hands Off, Please, Until It’s Over.” All of which, while it sometimes verged upon the absurd, served the fundamentally valuable purpose of keeping the public in mind of the peril of contact with infected persons or articles.
Slowly but decisively the public absorbed the lesson. “Arm’s length” became a catch-phrase; a motto; a slogan. People came slowly to comprehend the methods by which disease is spread and the principles of self-protection.
And as knowledge widened, the epidemic ebbed, though gradually. Serious epidemics are not conquered or even perceptibly checked in a day. They are like floods; dam them in one place and they break through your defenses in another. Inexplicable outbreaks occur just when the tide seems to have turned. And when victory does come, it may not be ascribable to any specific achievement of the hygienic forces. The most that can be said is that the persevering combination of effort has at last made itself felt.