He paused, disguising a little choke as a cough of scorn for the family’s thinking.
“What did you say your family think?” Henry asked absently.
“Well, they say we ought to let her have a share in our newspaper.” Again he paused, afraid to continue lest his hypocrisy appear so bare-faced as to invite suspicion. “Well, maybe we ought,” he said finally, his eyes guiltily upon his toe, which slowly scuffed the ground. “I don’t say we ought, and I don’t say we oughtn’t.”
He expected at the least a sharp protest from his partner, who, on the contrary, surprised him. “Well, that’s the way I look at it,” Henry said. “I don’t say we ought and I don’t say we oughtn’t.”
And he, likewise, stared at the toe of a shoe that scuffed the ground. Herbert felt a little better; this particular subdivision of his difficulties seemed to be working out with unexpected ease.
“I don’t say we will and I don’t say we won’t,” Henry added. “That’s the way I look at it. My father and mother are always talkin’ to me: how I got to be polite and everything, and I guess maybe it’s time I began to pay some ‘tention to what they say. You don’t have your father and mother for always, you know, Herbert.”
Herbert’s mood at once chimed with this unprecedented filial melancholy. “No, you don’t, Henry. That’s what I often think about, myself. No, sir, a fellow doesn’t have his father and mother to advise him our whole life, and you ought to do a good deal what they say while they’re still alive.”
“That’s what I say,” Henry agreed gloomily; and then, without any alteration of his tone, or of the dejected thoughtfulness of his attitude, he changed the subject in a way that painfully startled his companion. “Have you seen Wallie Torbin to-day, Herbert?”
“What!”
“Have you seen Wallie Torbin to-day?”
Herbert swallowed. “Why, what makes — what makes you ask me that, Henry?” he said.
“Oh, nothin’.” Henry still kept his eyes upon his gloomily scuffing toe. “I just wondered, because I didn’t happen to see him in school this afternoon when I happened to look in the door of the Eight-A when it was open. I didn’t want to know on account of anything particular. I just happened to say that about him because I didn’t have anything else to think about just then, so I just happened to think about him, the way you do when you haven’t got anything much on your mind and might get to thinkin’ about you can’t tell what. That’s all the way it was; I just happened to kind of wonder if he was around anywhere maybe.”
Henry’s tone was obviously, even elaborately, sincere; and Herbert was reassured. “Well, I didn’t see him,” he responded. “Maybe he’s sick.”
“No, he isn’t,” his friend said. “Florence said she saw him chasin’ his dog down the street about noon.”
At this Herbert’s uneasiness was uncomfortably renewed. “Florence did? Where’d you see Florence?”
Mr. Rooter swallowed. “A little while ago,” he said, and again swallowed. “On the way home from school.”
“Look — look here!” Herbert was flurried to the point of panic. “Henry — did Florence — did she go and tell you — did she tell you —— ?”
“I didn’t hardly notice what she was talkin’ about,” Henry said doggedly. “She didn’t have anything to say that I’d ever care two cents about. She came up behind me and walked along with me a ways, but I got too many things on my mind to hardly pay the least attention to anything she ever talks about. She’s a girl what I think about her the less people pay any ‘tention to what she says the better off they are.”
“That’s the way with me, Henry,” his partner assured him earnestly. “I never pay any notice to what she says. The way I figure it out about her, Henry, everybody’d be a good deal better off if nobody ever paid the least notice to anything she says. I never even notice what she says, myself.”
“I don’t either,” said Henry. “All I think about is what my father and mother say, because I’m not goin’ to have their advice all the rest o’ my life, after they’re dead. If they want me to be polite, why, I’ll do it and that’s all there is about it.”
“It’s the same way with me, Henry. If she comes flappin’ around here blattin’ and blubbin’ how she’s goin’ to have somep’n to do with our newspaper, why, the only reason I’d ever let her would be because my family say I ought to show more politeness to her than up to now. I wouldn’t do it on any other account, Henry.”
“Neither would I. That’s just the same way I look at it, Herbert. If I ever begin to treat her any better, she’s got my father and mother to thank, not me. That’s the only reason I’d be willing to say we better leave the plank down and let her in, if she comes around here like she’s liable to.”
“Well,” said Herbert. “I’m willing. I don’t want to get in trouble with the family.”
And they mounted the stairs to their editorial, reportorial, and printing rooms; and began to work in a manner not only preoccupied but apprehensive. At intervals they would give each other a furtive glance, and then seem to reflect upon their fathers’ and mothers’ wishes and the troublous state of the times. Florence did not keep them waiting long, however.
She might have been easier to bear had her manner of arrival been less assured. She romped up the stairs, came skipping across the old floor, swinging her hat by a ribbon, flung open the gate in the sacred railing, and, flouncing into the principal chair, immodestly placed her feet on the table in front of that chair. Additionally, such was her lively humour, she affected to light and smoke the stub of a lead pencil. “Well, men,” she said heartily, “I don’t want to see any loafin’ around here, men. I expect I’ll have a pretty good newspaper this week; yes, sir, a pretty good newspaper, and I guess you men got to jump around a good deal to do everything I think of, or else maybe I guess I’ll have to turn you off. I don’t want to haf to do that, men.”
The blackmailed partners made no reply, on account of an inability that was perfect for the moment. They stared at her helplessly, though not kindly; for in their expressions the conflict between desire and policy was almost staringly vivid. And such was their preoccupation, each with the bitterness of his own case, that neither wondered at the other’s strange complaisance.
Florence made it clear to them that henceforth she was the editor of The North End Daily Oriole. (She said she had decided not to change the name.) She informed them that they were to be her printers; she did not care to get all inky and nasty herself, she said. She would, however, do all the writing for her newspaper, and had with her a new poem. Also, she would furnish all the news and it would be printed just as she wrote it, and printed nicely, too, or else —— She left the sentence unfinished.
Thus did this cool hand take possession of an established industry, and in much the same fashion did she continue to manage it. There were unsuppressible protests; there was covert anguish; there was even a strike — but it was a short one. When the printers remained away from their late Newspaper Building, on Wednesday afternoon, Florence had an interview with Herbert after dinner at his own door. He explained coldly that Henry and he had grown tired of the printing-press and had decided to put in all their spare time building a theatre in Henry’s attic; but Florence gave him to understand that the theatre could not be; she preferred the Oriole.
Henry and Herbert had both stopped “speaking” to Patty Fairchild, for each believed her treacherous to himself; but Florence now informed Herbert that far from depending on mere hearsay, she had in her own possession the confession of his knowledge that he had ocular beauty; that she had discovered the paper where Patty had lost it; and that it was now in a secure place, and in an envelope, upon the outside of which was already written, “For Wallie Torbin. Kindness of Florence A.”
Herbert surrendered.
So did Henry Rooter, a little later that evening, after a telephoned conversation with the slave-driver.
Therefore, the two miserable printers were back in t
heir places the next afternoon. They told each other that the theatre they had planned wasn’t so much after all; and anyhow your father and mother didn’t last all your life, and it was better to do what they wanted, and be polite while they were alive.
And on Saturday the new Oriole, now in every jot and item the inspired organ of feminism, made its undeniably sensational appearance.
A copy, neatly folded, was placed in the hand of Noble Dill, as he set forth for his place of business, after lunching at home with his mother. Florence was the person who placed it there; she came hurriedly from somewhere in the neighbourhood, out of what yard or alley he did not notice, and slipped the little oblong sheet into his lax fingers.
“There!” she said breathlessly. “There’s a good deal about you in it this week, Mr. Dill, and I guess — I guess — —”
“What, Florence?”
“I guess maybe you’ll — —” She looked up at him shyly; then, with no more to say, turned and ran back in the direction whence she had come. Noble walked on, not at once examining her little gift, but carrying it absently in fingers still lax at the end of a dangling arm. There was no life in him for anything. Julia was away.
Away! And yet the dazzling creature looked at him from sky, from earth, from air; looked at him with the most poignant kindness, yet always shook her head! She had answered his first letter by a kind little note, his second by a kinder and littler one, and his third, fourth, fifth, and sixth by no note at all; but by the kindest message (through one of her aunts) that she was thinking about him a great deal. And even this was three weeks ago. Since then from Julia — nothing at all!
But yesterday something a little stimulating had happened. On the street, downtown, he had come face to face, momentarily, with Julia’s father; and for the first time in Noble’s life Mr. Atwater nodded to him pleasantly. Noble went on his way, elated. Was there not something almost fatherly in this strange greeting?
An event so singular might be interpreted in the happiest way: What had Julia written her father, to change him so toward Noble? And Noble was still dreamily interpreting as he walked down the street with The North End Daily Oriole idle in an idle hand.
He found a use for that hand presently, and, having sighed, lifted it to press it upon his brow, but did not complete the gesture. As his hand came within the scope of his gaze, levelled on the unfathomable distance, he observed that the fingers held a sheet of printed paper; and he remembered Florence. Instead of pressing his brow he unfolded the journal she had thrust upon him. As he began to read, his eye was lustreless, his gait slack and dreary; but soon his whole demeanour changed, it cannot be said for the better.
THE NORTH END DAILY ORIOLE
Atwater & Co., Owners & Propietors
Subscribe NOW 25 cents Per. Year. Sub-
scriptions should be brought to the East
Main Entrance of Atwater & Co., News-
paper Building every afternoon
430 to VI 25 Cents
POEMS
My Soul by Florence Atwater
When my heart is dreary
Then my soul is weary
As a bird with a broken wing
Who never again will sing
Like the sound of a vast amen
That comes from a church of men.
When my soul is dreary
It could never be cheery
But I think of my ideal
And everything seems real
Like the sound of the bright church bells peal.
Poems by Florence Atwater will be in
the paper each and every Sat.
Advertisements 45c. each Up
Joseph K. Atwater Co.
127 South Iowa St.
Steam Pumps
The News of the City
Miss Florence Atwater of tHis City
received a mark of 94 in History Examination
at the concusion of the school Term last June.
Blue hair ribbons are in style again.
Miss Patty Fairchild of this City has not
been doing as well in Declamation lately
as formerly.
MR. Noble Dill of this City is seldom
seen on the streets of the City without
smoking a cigarette.
Miss Julia Atwater of this City is out
of the City.
The MR. Rayfort family of this City
have been presentde with the present
of a new Cat by Geo. the man employeD by
Balf & CO. This cat is perfectly
baeutiful and still quit young.
Miss Julia Atwater of this City is visiting
friends in the Soth. The family have had
many letters from her that are read by each
and all of the famild.
Mr. Noble Dill of this City is in business
with his Father.
There was quite a wind storm Thursday doing
damage to shade trees in many parts of our
beautiful City.
From Letters to the family Miss Julia
Atwater of this City is enjoying her visit
in the south a greadeal.
Miss Patty Fairchild of the 7 A of this
City, will probably not pass in ARithmetiC — unless
great improvement takes place before
Examination.
Miss Julia Atwater of this City wrote a
letter to the family stating while visiting
in the SOuth she has made an engagement
to be married to MR. Crum of that City.
The family do not know who this MR. Crum
is but It is said he is a widower though
he has been diVorced with a great many
children.
The new ditch of the MR. Henry D. Vance,
backyard of this City is about through
now as little remain to be done and it is
thought the beighborhood will son look
better. Subscribe NOW 25c. Per Year Adv.
45c. up. Atwater & Co. Newspaper Building
25 Cents Per Years.
It may be assumed that the last of the news items was wasted upon Noble Dill and that he never knew of the neighbourhood improvement believed to be imminent as a result of the final touches to the ditch of the Mr. Henry D. Vance backyard.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THROUGHOUT THAT AFTERNOON adult members of the Atwater family connection made futile efforts to secure all the copies of the week’s edition of The North End Daily Oriole. It could not be done.
It was a trying time for “the family.” Great Aunt Carrie said that she had the “worst afternoon of any of ’em,” because young Newland Sanders came to her house at two and did not leave until five; all the time counting over, one by one, the hours he’d spent with Julia since she was seventeen and turned out, unfortunately, to be a Beauty. Newland had not restrained himself, Aunt Carrie said, and long before he left she wished Julia had never been born — and as for Herbert Illingsworth Atwater, Junior, the only thing to do with him was to send him to some strict Military School.
Florence’s father telephoned to her mother from downtown at three, and said that Mr. George Plum and the ardent vocalist, Clairdyce, had just left his office. They had not called in company, however, but coincidentally; and each had a copy of The North End Daily Oriole, already somewhat worn with folding and unfolding. Mr. Clairdyce’s condition was one of desperate calm, Florence’s father said, but Mr. Plum’s agitation left him rather unpresentable for the street, though he had finally gone forth with his hair just as he had rumpled it, and with his hat in his hand. They wished the truth, they said: Was it true or was it not true? Mr. Atwater had told them that he feared Julia was indeed engaged, though he knew nothing of her fiancé’s previous marriage or marriages, or of the number of his children. They had responded that they cared nothing about that. This man Crum’s record was a matter of indifference to them, they said. All they wanted to know was wh
ether Julia was engaged or not — and she was!
“The odd thing to me,” Mr. Atwater continued to his wife, “is where on earth Herbert could have got his story about this Crum’s being a widower, and divorced, and with all those children. Do you know if Julia’s written any of the family about these things and they haven’t told the rest of us?”
“No,” said Mrs. Atwater. “I’m sure she hasn’t. Every letter she’s written to any of us has passed all through the family, and I know I’ve seen every one of ’em. She’s never said anything about him at all, except that he was a lawyer. I’m sure I can’t imagine where Herbert got his awful information; I never thought he was the kind of boy to just make up such things out of whole cloth.”
Florence, sitting quietly in a chair near by, with a copy of “Sesame and Lilies” in her lap, listened to her mother’s side of this conversation with an expression of impersonal interest; and if she could have realized how completely her parents had forgotten (naturally enough) the details of their first rambling discussion of Julia’s engagement, she might really have felt as little alarm as she showed.
“Well,” said Mr. Atwater, “I’m glad our branch of the family isn’t responsible. That’s a comfort, anyhow, especially as people are reading copies of Herbert’s dreadful paper all up and down the town, my clerk says. He tells me that over at the Unity Trust Company, where young Murdock Hawes is cashier, they only got hold of one copy, but typewrote it and multigraphed it, and some of ’em have already learned it by heart to recite to poor young Hawes. He’s the one who sent Julia the three fivepound boxes of chocolates from New York all at the same time, you remember.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Atwater sighed. “Poor thing!”
“Florence is out among the family, I suppose?” he inquired.
“No; she’s right here. She’s just started to read Ruskin this afternoon. She says she’s going to begin and read all of him straight through. That’s very nice, don’t you think?”
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 326
