“Impress your client,” was the maxim of Mr. David Brunger. “Make a splash and keep splashing,” was that of Mr. Henry T. Bitt, editor of Fleet Street's new organ, the Daily.
Muddy pools were Mr. Bitt's speciality. His idea of the greatest possible splash was some stream, pure and beautiful to the casual eye, into which he could force his young men and set them trampling the bottom till the thick, unpleasant mud came clouding up whence it had long lain unsuspected. There was his splash, and then he would start to keep splashing. By every art and device the pool would be flogged till the muddy water went flying broadcast, staining this, that, and the other fair name to the nasty delight of Mr. Bitt's readers. Scandal was Mr. Bitt's chief quest. Army scandal, navy scandal, political scandal, social scandal—these were the courses that Mr. Bitt continuously strove to serve up to his readers. Failing them—if disappointingly in evidence on every side was the integrity and the honour for which Mr. Bitt raved and bawled when in the thick of splashing a muddy pool,—then, argued Mr. Bitt, catch hold of something trivial and splash it, flog it, placard it, into a sensational and semi-mysterious bait that would set the halfpennies rising like trout in an evening stream.
Bringing these principles-indeed they won him his appointment—to the editorship of the Daily, Mr. Bitt was set moody and irritable by the fact that he had no opportunity to exercise them over the first issue of the paper.
But while preparing for press upon the second night the chance came. There was no scandal, no effective news; but there was matter for a sensational, semi-mysterious “leading story” in a tiny little scrap of news dictated by Mr. David Brunger, laboriously copied out a dozen times by Mr. Issy Jago and left by that gentleman at the offices of as many newspapers.
Seven sub-editors “spiked” it, three made of it a “fill-par.,” one gave it a headline and sent it up as an eight-line “news-par.”; one, in the offices of the Daily, read it, laughed; spoke to the news-editor; finally carried it up to Mr. Bitt.
Mr. Bitt's journalistic nose gave one sniff. The thing was done. Some old idiot was actually offering the ridiculously large sum of one hundred pounds for the recovery of a cat. Here, out of the barren, un-newsy world, suddenly had sprung a seed that should grow to a forest. The very thing. The Daily was saved.
Away sped a reporter; and upon the following morning, bawling from the leading position of the principal page of the Daily, introducing a column and a quarter of leaded type, these headlines appeared:
COUNTRY HOUSE OUTRAGE. VALUABLE CAT STOLEN. SENSATIONAL STORY. HUGE REWARD. CHANCE FOR AMATEUR DETECTIVES.
All out of Mr. Issy Jago's tiny little paragraph.
Daily readers revelled in it. It appeared that a gang of between five and a dozen men had surrounded the lonely but picturesque and beautiful country residence of Mr. Christopher Marrapit at Herons' Holt, Paltley Hill, Surrey. Mr. Marrapit was an immensely wealthy retired merchant now leading a secluded life in the evening of his days. First among the costly art and other treasures of his house he placed a magnificent orange cat, “The Rose of Sharon,” a winner whenever exhibited. The gang, bursting their way into the house, had stolen this cat, despite Mr. Marrapit's heroic defence, leaving the unfortunate gentleman senseless and bleeding on the hearth-rug. Mr. Marrapit had offered 100 pounds reward for the recovery of his pet; and the Daily, under the heading “Catchy Clues,” proceeded to tell its readers all over the country how best they might win this sum.
All out of Mr. Issy Jago's tiny little paragraph.
Daily readers revelled in it. Upon three of their number it had a particular effect.
Bill Wyvern had not been at the Daily office that night. Employed during the day, he had finished his work at six; after a gloomy meal had gone gloomily to bed. This man was on probation. His appointment to a permanent post depended upon his in some way distinguishing himself; and thus far, as, miserable, he reflected, he utterly had failed. The “copy” he had done for the first issue of the Daily had not been used; on this day he had been sent upon an interview and had obtained from his subject a wretched dozen words. These he had taken to the news-editor; and the news-editor had treated them and him with contempt.
“But that's all he would say,” poor Bill had expostulated.
“All he would say!” the news-editor sneered. “Here, Mathers, take this stuff and make a quarter-col. interview out of it.”
Thus it was in depressed mood that Bill on the following morning opened his Daily.
The flaring “Country House Outrage” hit his eye; he read; in two minutes his mood was changed. A sensation at Paltley Hill! At Mr. Marrapit's! Here was his chance! Who better fitted than he to work up this story? Fortunately he knew Mr. Henry T. Bitt's private address; had the good sense to go straight to his chief.
A cab took him to the editor's flat in Victoria Street. Mr. Bitt was equally enthusiastic.
“Hot stuff,” said Mr. Bitt. “You've got your chance; make a splash. Go to the office and tell Lang I've put you on to it. Cut away down to the scene of the outrage and stay there as our Special Commissioner till I wire you back. Serve it up hot. Make clues if you can't find 'em. Hot, mind. H-O-T.”
Professor Wyvern was the second reader upon whom the sensational story had particular effect.
Through breakfast the Professor eyed with loving eagerness the copy of the Daily that lay folded beside his plate.
At intervals, “I have made a very good breakfast, now,” he would say. “Now I will try to find what Bill has written in this terrible paper.”
But thrice Mrs. Wyvern lovingly checked him. “Dear William, no. You have hardly touched your sole. You must finish it, dear, every scrap, before you look at the paper. You have been eating such good breakfasts lately. Now, please, William, finish it first.”
“It is as big as a shark,” the Professor grumbles, making shots with his trembling fork.
“Dear William, it is a very small sole.”
At last he has finished. A line catches his eye as he unfolds the Daily, and he chuckles: “Oh, dear! This is a very horrible paper. 'Actress and Stockbroker—Piccadilly by night.'”
“Dear William, we only want to read what Bill has written. An interview, he tells us, with—”
Dear William waggles his naughty old head over the actress and the stockbroker; shaky fingers unfold the centre pages; nose runs up one column and down another, then suddenly starts back burnt by the flaring “Country House Outrage.”
“Dearest! Dearest! Whatever is the matter?”
But dearest is speechless. Dearest can only cough and choke and splutter in convulsions of mirth over some terrific joke of which he will tell Mrs. Wyvern no more than: “He has done it. Oh, dear! oh, dear! He has done it. Oh, dear! This will be very funny indeed!”
It will be seen that two out of the three readers particularly interested in Mr. Bitt's splash were agreeably interested. Upon the third the effect was different.
It was George's first morning in the little inn at Dippleford Admiral. An unaccustomed weight upon his legs, at which thrice he sleepily kicked without ridding himself of it, at length awoke him.
He found the morning well advanced; the disturbing weight that had oppressed him he saw to be a hairy object, orange of hue. Immediately his drowsy senses awoke; took grip of events; sleep fled. This object was the Rose of Sharon, and at once George became actively astir to the surgings of yesterday, the mysteries of the future.
Pondering upon them, he was disturbed by a knock that heralded a voice: “The paper you ordered, mister; and when'll you be ready for breakfast?”
“Twenty minutes,” George replied; remembered the landlady had overnight told him she was a little deaf; on a louder note bawled: “Twenty minutes, Mrs. Pinner!”
Mrs. Pinner, after hesitation, remarked: “Ready now? Very well, mister”; pushed a newspaper beneath the door; shuffled down the stairs.
In the course of his brief negotiations with Mrs. Pinner upon the previous evening, George, in response to the proud information that the paper-boy arrived at nine o'clock every morning on a motor bicycle, had bellowed that he would have the Daily. For old Bill's sake he had ordered it; with friendly curiosity to see Bill's new associations he now withdrew his legs from beneath the Rose of Sharon; hopped out of bed; opened the paper.
Upon “Country House Outrage” George alighted plump; with goggle eyes, scalp creeping, blood freezing, read through to the last “Catchy Clue”; aghast sank upon his bed.
It had got into the papers! Among all difficult eventualities against which he had made plans this had never found place. It had got into the papers! The cat's abduction was, or soon would be, in the knowledge of everyone. This infernal reward which with huge joy he had heard offered, was now become the goad that would prick into active search for the Rose every man, woman, or child who read the story. It had got into the papers! He was a felon now; fleeing justice; every hand against him. Discovery looked certain, and what did discovery mean? Discovery meant not only loss of the enormous stake for which he was playing—his darling Mary,—but it meant—“Good God!” groaned my miserable George, “it means ruin; it means imprisonment.”
Melancholy pictures went galloping like wild nightmares through this young man's mind. He saw himself in the dock, addressed in awful words by the judge who points out the despicable character of his crime; he saw himself in hideous garb labouring in a convict prison; he saw himself struck off the roll at the College of Surgeons; he saw himself—“Oh, Lord!” he groaned, “I'm fairly in the cart!”
Very slowly, very abject, he peeled off his pyjamas; slid a white and trembling leg into his bath.
But the preposterous buoyancy of youth! The cold water that splashed away the clamminess of bed washed, too, the more vapoury fears from George's brain; the chilly splashings that braced his system to a tingling glow braced also his mind against the pummellings of his position. Drying, he caught himself whistling; catching himself in such an act he laughed ruefully to think how little ground he had for good spirits.
But the whistling prevailed. This ridiculous buoyancy of youth! What luckless pigs are we who moon and fret and grow besodden with the waters of our misfortunes! This cheeky corkiness of youth! Shove it under the fretted sea of trouble, and free it will twist, up it will bob. Weight it and drop it into the deepest pool; just when it should be drowned, pop! and it is again merrily bobbing upon the surface.
It is a sight to make us solemn-souled folk disgustingly irritated. We are the Marthas—trudging our daily rounds, oppressed with sense of the duties that must be done, with the righteous feeling of the hardness of our lot; and these light-hearts, these trouble-shirkers, this corkiness of youth, exasperate us enormously. But the grin is on their side.
The whistling prevailed. By the time George was dressed he had put his position into these words—these feather-brained, corky, preposterous words: “By gum!” said George, brushing his hair, “by gum! I'm in a devil of a hole!”
The decision summed up a cogitation that showed him to be in a hole indeed, but not in so fearsome a pit as he had at first imagined. He had at first supposed that within a few minutes the earth would be shovelled in on him and be buried. Review of events showed the danger not to be so acute. On arrival the previous night, after brief parley with Mrs. Pinner he had gone straight to his room, bearing the Rose tight hid in her basket. No reason, then, for suspicion yet to have fallen upon him. He must continue to keep the Rose hid. It would be difficult, infernally difficult; but so long as he could effect it he might remain here secure. The beastly cat must of course be let out for a run. That was a chief difficulty. Well, he must think out some fearful story that would give him escape with the basket every morning.
Breakfast was laid in a little sitting-room over the porch, adjoining his bedroom. George pressed the poor Rose into her basket; carried it in.
Mrs. Pinner was setting flowers on the table. George carried the basket to the window; placed it on a chair; sat upon it. With his right hand he drummed upon the lid. It was his purpose to inspire the Rose with a timid wonder at this drubbing that should prevent her voicing a protest against cramped limbs.
“Some nice tea and a bit of fish I'm going to bring you up, mister,” Mrs. Pinner told him.
Recollecting her deafness, and in fear lest she should approach the basket, George from the window bellowed: “Thank you, Mrs. Pinner. But I won't have tea, if you please. Won't have tea. I drink milk—milk. A lot of milk. I'm a great milk-drinker.”
The Rose wriggled. George thumped the basket. “As soon as you like, Mrs. Pinner. As quick as you like!”
Mrs. Pinner closed the door; the Rose advertised her feelings in a long, penetrating mi-aow. In an agony of strained listening George held his breath. But Mrs. Pinner heard nothing; moved steadily downstairs. He wiped his brow. This was the beginning of it.
When Mrs. Pinner reappeared, jug of milk and covered dish on a tray, George's plan, after desperate searchings, had come to him.
He gave it speech. “I want to arrange, Mrs. Pinner—”
“If you wait till I've settled the tray, mister, I'll come close to you. I'm that hard of hearing you wouldn't believe.”
George sprang from the basket; approached the table. His life depended upon keeping a distance between basket and Pinner.
“I want to arrange to have this room as a private sitting-room.”
It had never been so used before, but it could be arranged, Mrs. Pinner told him. She would speak to her 'usband about terms.
“And I want to keep it very private indeed, I don't want anyone to enter it unless I am here.” George mounted his lie and galloped it, blushing for shame of his steed. “The fact is, Mrs. Pinner, I'm an inventor. Yes, an inventor. Oh, yes, an inventor.” The wretched steed was stumbling, but he clung on; spurred afresh. “An inventor. And I have to leave things lying about—delicate instruments that mustn't be disturbed. Awfully delicate. I shall be out all day. I shall be taking my invention into the open air to experiment with it. My invention—” He waved his hand at the basket.
Mrs. Pinner quite understood; was impressed. “Oh, dear, yes, mister. To be sure. An inventor; fancy that, now!” She gazed at the basket. “And the invention is in there?”
“Right in there,” George assured her.
“You'll parding my asking, mister; but your saying you have to take it in the open hair—is it one of them hairships, mister?”
“Well, it is,” George said frankly. This was a useful idea and he approved it. “It is. It's an airship.”
“Well, I never did!” Mrs. Pinner admired, gazing at the basket. “A hairship in there!”
“Mi-aow!” spoke the Rose—penetrating, piercing.
Mrs. Pinner cocked her head on one side; looked under the table. “I declare I thought I heard a cat,” she puzzled. “In this very room.”
George felt perfectly certain that his hair was standing bolt upright on the top of his head, thrusting at right angles to the sides. He forced his alarmed face to smile: “A cock crowing in the yard, I think, Mrs. Pinner.”
Mrs. Pinner took the explanation with an apologetic laugh. “I'm that hard o' hearing you never would believe. But I could ha' sworn. Ill not keep you chattering, sir.” She raised the dish cover.
A haddock was revealed. A fine, large, solid haddock from which a cloud of strongly savoured vapour arose.
George foresaw disaster. That smell! that hungry cat! Almost he pushed Mrs. Pinner to the door. “That you, thank you. I have everything now. I will ring if—”
“Mi-aow!”
“Bless my soul!” Mrs. Pinner exclaimed. “There is a cat”; dropped on hands and knees; pushed her head beneath the sofa.
George rushed for the basket. Wreaking his craven alarm upon the hapless prisoner, he shook it; with a horrible bump slammed it upon the floor; placed his foot upon it.
Mrs. Pinner drew up, panting laboriously. “Didn't you hear a cat, mister?”
George grappled the crisis. “I did not hear a cat. If there were a cat I should have heard it. I should have felt it. I abominate cats. I can always tell when a cat is near me. There is no cat. Kindly leave me to my breakfast.”
Poor Mrs. Pinner was ashamed. “I'm sure I do beg you parding, mister. The fact is we've all got cats fair on the brain this morning. In this here new paper, mister, as perhaps you've seen, and they're giving us a free copy every day for a week, there's a cat been stole, mister. A hundred pounds reward, and as the paper says, the cat may be under your very nose. We're all a 'unting for it, mister.”
She withdrew. George crossed the room; pressed his head, against the cold marble of the mantelpiece. His brows were burning; in the pit of his stomach a sinking sensation gave him pain. “All a 'unting for it! all a 'unting for it!”
When the Rose had bulged her flanks with the complete haddock, when, responsive to a “Stuff your head in that, you brute,” the patient creature had lapped a slop-bowl full of milk, George again imprisoned her; rushed, basket under arm, for open country.
Mr. Pinner in the bar-parlour, as George fled through, was reading from a paper to a stable hand, a servant girl, and a small red-headed Pinner boy: “It may be in John o' Groats,” he read, “or it may be in Land's End.” He thumped the bar. “'Ear that! Well, it may be in Dippleford Admiral.”
It was precisely because it was in Dippleford Admiral that his young inventor lodger fled through the bar without so much as a civil “good morning.”
At the post-office, keeping a drumming foot on the terrified Rose, George sent a telegram to Mr. Marrapit.
“Think on track. Must be cautious. Don't tell Brunger.”
plumed a distant hill. Fear had this man.
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