Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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•^'4 r-r 'You're killing your- T last John Gordon spoke slowly. "David, do you know how much you have tempted me?” “For your good.” ‘Tm not so sure. The offer Is full of possibilities. Still”— "Well, don’t keep anything back.” “The News itself—you know my ideas about it. The paper is full of sensation; it is unreliable; it is not jour nalism that any thoughtful man re spects.” “What difference does that make if you have your own page to do with it as you like?” Barton spoke with apparent indiffer ence conperning his friend’s estimate of journalism, as if he either acknowl edged the truth of Gordon’s statement or did not care to argue it. “Of course it makes a good deal of difference. Do you think Harris is sincere in his reform movements? Is he using the paper to help the people or is he simply taking up popular causes because he is shrewd enough to see that it is good policy for the News?” Burton looked at John Gordon quiz zically. “Do you know Harris?” “I’ve seen him, but I don’t know him.” “Neither do I. He’s put $2,000,000 Into the News, and the paper has made at least half that in the time it has been going. He’s proud as Lucifer and has Lucifer’s ambition. He’s willing to do anything except get into jail for the paper, and he’d probably do that if it would Increase the circulation. But what difference does it make to you, John, so long as you have full swing In your own department?” “I don’t know that my work will really be helped by going Into print. To tell the honest truth, I have no faith in Harris, and I have a contempt for his Journalistic methods. Now look here.” John Gordon picked up from the ta ble a copy of the News and began read ing some of the headlines. “Microbes In Car Straps! Menace to Traveling Public! Danger Explained by Professor Roitger of the Universi ty!” “The Richest Woman In the World! Her Daily Routine! Over $500,000 Worth of Gems In Her Hair at the Court Ball!” “The Cost of One Day’s Spree For Two Fourteenth Street Bloods! Item ized Account!” “Mrs. Brown Calls Mrs. Jones a Liar! They Have a Scrappy Time of It In the Back Yard! The Neighbors Take a Hand!” “Theological Set-to at the University! Professors Do Not Agree on Figures! One Tenches That Adam Never Ex isted!” “The Newest Fad! Society’s Craze For Egyptian Mummies! The Latest Developments!" "The Tallest Woman In America! Her Diet, Daily Habits, etc.” “Rottenness at the City Hall! A Full Exposure of Dr. Lumme’s Ex travagances! Policeman Murphy Scores a Hit at Alderman Schwartz! Turn on the Light!” “Thoroughbred Toy Dogs! An Ex pensive Luxury! Mrs. Near Has a Choice Collection!” “Ghastly Suicide of an Old Sailor! Purposely Jumped Into a Vat of Boil ing Acid! Full Particulars!” "War! The Sultan Is Growing More Deflnntl Orders Out Bosporus Fleet!” “The Sandal Craze! Boots and Shoes a Back Number Soon! Pictures of Latest Styles!” Gordon threw the paper down, and Barton laughed cynically. “What’s the matter with It? At any rate, they keep buying it Whoever sees an Index or a Standard around Hope House? There you are! If you (Want to reach the people, do It through the medium that the people use. Think of over 3,000,000 readers of the News •very day.” “Yes, think of It!” exclaimed John Gordon. ‘Think of the stuff they read that Is untruth and exaggeration and hysteria about matters that are of no ▼alue. A column to Toy Dogs!* kept by a rich woman who snends enough "At lug in paper People you believed in by have it in their people. David, the e city don’t care for hey laugh at its editorials onT care for its Influence. It real ly has no influence with them.” For the first time David Barton seemed disturbed. The frank criticism of his friend concerning the News in respect to its pri* .ed matter had not moved him. But this last statement touched a tender spot. Barton’s pale | cheeks flushed, and he struck the table ] with ills clinched list. ! “Better not tell Harris that! He has an idea that his paper runs the town. ( He thinks his editorials make public sentiment.” "He’s wrong!” John Gordon spoke decidedly. "11 is editorials have no such power. They are rated along with the rest of the paper. The fact is the yel low journalism works out its own de struction inevitably. Its days are al ready numbered.” "Our circulation is Increasing.” “All the bigger fall when it comes,” replied John Gordon briefly, and then they wore both startled by a voice from the doorway of the room adjoining. "Beg pardon, Burton. 1 couldn’t make you hear, though I knocked twice.” Barton turned his head as a man came into the room and exclaimed, “Mr. Harris!” at the same time sending a questioning flash to Gordon, "Wonder how much he heard?” Harris walked- up to the table and coolly helped himself to a cigar from a little Chinese pot and lighted it at the cigar jet. “Mr. John Gordon, Mr. Harris,” said Barton, who hud fully recovered his usual indifferent attitude by this time. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Gordon,” said Harris, putting out a very long white hand. John Gordofl took it, al though instantly he felt a most intense dislike for the man. He was of a thin, wiry physique, smooth faced, a bloodless complexion, straight lips and cold gray eyes. His manner was perfectly self possessed, and neither Gordon nor Barton could detect any sign on his face that he had overheard a syllable of their talk be fore he entered. He was faultlessly dressed and had the general appear ance of a man who has exhausted a large part of his interest in life on ac count of a large number of intense ex periences. At the same time there was a serious alertness about him that was very noticeable. He was not blase In the ordinary use of that word. He evi dently had boundless faith in himself. John Gordon had no difficulty in telling why the man produced such a dislike In him. It was because of his absolute egotism. “Mr. Gordon is my friend; the one I mentioned to you the other day as a possible contributor in a new depart ment." Barton said as Harris still re mained standing near the table. Harris looked at Gordon and said carelessly: "I understand you are going to ex periment down in the slums around Bowen street.” “I may live there. I don’t know about experimenting,” said John Gor don coldly. He was rapidly beginning to have Miss Andrews’ dislike of the word “slums” as he had already grown to have a hatred of the idea of “exper imenting” with the people. Harris walked over to a chair at the other end of the table, and after a si lence which neither Barton nor Gordon seemed inclined to break he said, lean ing a little forward and speaking with careful emphasis: “Mr. Gordon, I am prepared to make you a proposition that I hope you will at -least -thoughtfully consider. The News now has a circulation of 700,000 copies a day. That igeans that practi cally 3,000,000 people read It. At least half the population of the city read my paper. It is especially true of the workingmen, the poor and the people of the street and the shop. The boule vard may not take the Ne\\s. Grant ed.” Gordon, looking at the newspaper fwner. thought he could detect Just a shadow of resentment under the ap parent indifference. “But the slum takes it and reads. I’d rather have the slum reader any time. The boulevard does not make anything but Itself, but the slum makes conditions. Now, then, this is my proposition: I will give you the entire control of a page of the News to write up the conditions of the city where you expect to live or work. May 1 ask where? Mr. Barton has not Informed me.” “I expect to live us a resident In Hope House.” “Good!” Harris exclaimed with an eagerness that was unmistakable. “You couldn’t do better. Miss An drews of. course has made her work known everywhere. She has been an occasional contributor to the News. iWStOC'V- • rrm* mn t strike out on a more pop- nppenl than from (hat place as a or See here. Let me block out a rnmme for a page that will set s city to thinking as it never thought fore.” He at once outlined a series of sub jects for a reform page from the social settlement viewpoint which was sim ply marvelous in Its understanding of the conditions and the needs. Barton, with a born newspaper man’s instinct, grasped the details with rapidity and showed Ids interest by an occasional Interjection or hint that at once led off into further possibilities. Even Gor don. with his growing feeling of repul sion for the man. which increased ev ery minute, could not resist an admira tion for his great shrewdness and in sight. And all the time he was block ing out the page Gordon thrilled at the vision opened up of what might be done for the people and by them if once a daily that was really theirs lived its life for theirs. “Of course I understand.” Harris had at last added, "that all this will mean a tremendous amount of work. That is what a daily paper means to every body connected with it. But it need not mean that you would have to give up residence iu Hope House. In fact, it would be better to continue your actual touch with the district so as to be aide to give what you write for the paper color. I also realize that you have need of money to carry out souk* of these plans. That is the rea son I stand prepared to make this offer. If you will undertake this work, I will pay you $r>00 a month and in ad dition help carry out some of these j ideas where money is needed. I don’t care to say just how much I’ll give. Time enough for that when we get to it.” Ho stopped abruptly, and then, to the surprise of the two friends, he suddenly rose and said as he came up to the table and took his hat, which he had laid down there: “Don’t answer now. Give it consid eration. Whatever you choose to ar range with Barton will be satisfactory. Barton, you’d better get out to Colora do for a month, as I advised. Knowles can manage very well for awhile lon ger. Good night.”*' He walked out, and Barton and Gor don sat silent for a moment. “Of course he heard what you said about the paper having no influence with the best people,” said Barton, with a chuckle. “I believe he did, but his manner did not betray it except once.” “Yes, I noticed that. Oh, the old man would give his long white hand to possess real influence. That’s his am bition, my boy. All he said about the boulevard and the slum was pure non sense. He doesn’t believe it any more than I do.” “1 believe It, though. He spoke the truth whether he meant to or not.” “What difference?” David Barton spoke carelessly. “But this proposi tion, John,” he added, keenly watching Gordon. “How about that, eh? The opening, the leverage, the money. Wait a minute. This confounded cough is going to get me again.” He went into the other room this time, and his coughing spell lasted so long that Gordon was alarmed. He went in where his friend was sitting with his head down between his knees, his whole body racked with the effort, and when it was over ho still main tained the same position until Gordon remonstrated with him. “David, you’re iu no condition to go on with work. You’re killing yourself on the News. I had no idea you had such a cough. How long have you been this way?" “The average limit of usefulness on the News,” said David Barton as he lifted up his head, “is less than ten years from the time of beginning. I’ve been with it now going on six. The rule in a daily paper is, no old men in any department. If you see an old man anywhere around the office, he’s a visitor or a stranger. Modern jour nalism is a man killer. I’m just one of the fools caught between the rollers. See? It’s like this. Harris prizes me because I know how. But w r hen I once let go he know's he can get another fool to take my place. Food for the lion. Three cheers for the press! It’s the great agency of civilization. It’s the prize, life taker. It’s the—look out! Here I go again!” He put his head dowu and coughed so long and violently that at the end “/ am prepared to make you a propo sition.” of It John Gordon found himself on his knees by the side of his friend holding his head and now thoroughly alarmed. “Why. this can’t go on. David,” he expostulated. “Yes, It can apparently. At least it seems to go on quite easily.” “But you’ll simply commit suicide if you don’t listen to reason and quit all work for at least six months.” “Can’t do it. Got too much at stake,” Barton answered. He rose, and, going into an adjoining room, he took some medicine, bathed his face and came out looking so much better that John Gordon was amazed. "Only a trifling little cough, John, it’s not on my lungs. Just a throat trouble. I got caught out In the rain down near Hope House the other night and didn’t have a chance to steal an umbrella without getting caught again. Come in and let’s have out th« reform business. You can’t let Harris' offer go by. It’s too much of a chu nee.” “But I’m keeping you up too late,” Gordon said doubtfully. “Why, old man, haven’t you sent vour things over here to stay until you get married or something? Whose are those duds out in the hall?” “They’re mine. I expect. I sent them over this afternoon. The break had to come at home some time, and I knew you would take me in at any time.” “Sit down, then,” said Barton, giving his friend a push into an easy chair. He himself went over to a lounge and lay down on it. turning his pale, thin face, with its great, glowing eyes, to ward John Gordon. The grim death had already laid a long hand on Barton’s chest, but with the stubborn cynicism of his character Barton refused to acknowledge any mastery, although, contrary to most victims of consumption, he knew and acknowledged himself that do what he would he could not shake that hand off. John Gordon mournfully eyed the re cumbent figure on the lounge. • “Forgive me, David. I have been so busy over my own plans that I have not thought of you. Why have you not let me know about”— “Oh, let’s talk of your matters. Mine can wait. Besides, don’t you know it’s not the tiling to talk to sick people about their condition? Don’t make me believe that I have anything. How about Harris’ offer?” “I have decided not to accept it,” re plied John Gordon quietly. “That’s plump. Say why.” John Gordon did not answer at once. “I’ve already told you partly. Seeing Harris confirms my opinion concerning his insincerity. He simply wants to use the fact of my connection with Hope House to get a feature more or less sensational for the News.” “You didn’t take to him very loving ly, did you?” Barton chuckled. “I found myself in danger of bating him.’ “Still, Harris has his good points. He’s the most egotistic man I ever knew, but with the exception of that, and perhaps a dozen other remarkable faults, he’s interesting. He’s interest- nig,” Barton repeated. "You’re too particular, John. I don’t see why you can’t carry on the department and make things around Bowen street just hum for reform if you have the paper to help you. If you expect an angel to come along and give you a page of his daily to boost your reforms, you’ll have to wait till angels are thicker in the newspaper business than they are now. I don’t know any myself. My ac quaintance so far has been in the other direction.” “There’s another reason l haven’t given for refusing Harris.” John Gor don spoke thoughtfully. “1 want to know the people before I begin to talk or write about them. And I ought to spend at least ten years of my life in seeing, hearing, thinking, knowing, but not much in writing—not yet. Do you know what the bishop of London said awhile ago?” “No; I don’t know the bishop.” “He said: T have found that isola tion of one class from another is the root of all social evils. Contact with the neglected people and the lapsed masses was the method of Christ’s reclamation of the lost. It Is the only method that can succeed now.’ Isn’t that quite remarkable for a bishop? I met him in London. He is the most all around Christian I ever saw. I wish they had a bishop like that here. Now, you see I don’t want to go into the newspaper business In the sensa tional way that Harris wants. I need to live among the people for a period, at least until I am able to talk and write with some sort of knowledge. Harris’ idea is to burst out with a page of denunciation and hysterical pictorial exposure of human conditions, partly for political reasons, but more especially to get the News before the public and do a big advertising busi ness.” “You wrong Harris, even at his worst,” said Barton decidedly. “I can’t help thinking he’s got some human kindness in him. He may be all ego tism, but he’s not all bad. There’s the money offer. You haven’t considered that.” , John Gordon seemed troubled for a moment. “Of course we shall need money for all the things we plan. Miss Andrews was wishing she might secure $5,000 for the new’ dormitory. She goes out and lectures every winter to make ex penses.” “Yes. The city will kill her. It will kill her, I tell you!” cried out Barton tn a genuine burst of rage. “The world kills all its prophets and reformers In one way or another,” said John Gordon sadly. “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church. The very people that applaud Miss An drews and say she is doing a grand work don’t come to her rescue in any great numbers. And she is in sore need right now.” “Then why don’t you let Harris help?” “He can help if he wants to. If he’s sincere, he will do It w ithout my going on the paper. I’ve made up my mind,” Gordon hastily added as Barton made a gesture. "Tthink - 1 can secure some money from men in the city.” “Let me know how much, so we can publish the amount, will you?” Barton said dryly. John Gordon did not answer, and after quite a long silence Barton said suddenly: “By the way, I suppose Miss Marsh will help you, of course. You'll be mar ried and set up residence together In Hope House? How did you win her over to your extreme views?” “I didn’t. We are not going to be married. Shei refuses to go with me Into Hope House. Oh, David, do you think that was a mistake?” It all poured out at once, because all the evening John Gordon had been longing to confide In the one man in all the city whom he loved and trusted. Everything they had been talking about so far had seemed in one sense of small importance compared with his heart’s hunger for her, which had deepened with every moment’s absence from her. His immediate resolve to go to Hope House, his talk with Miss An drews, his visit with his friend, the in cident of Harris and his offer were not evidence of his insensibility to that re solve on her part to refuse his choice of life work. It was only characteris tic of him to go straight on with the details of his life no matter what oc curred. John Gordon was the last man in the world to withdraw into a sullen or moody isolation on account of great private trouble or sorrow. But he longed for sympathetic coun sel. And his impulsive outcry simply voiced another fact of his nature, the fact of his affectionate trust in friend ship, a trust that kept no event secret that a friend might wish to know anp share, David Barton sat up and exclaimei sharply: “Do you mean to say that Miss Marsh refuses to live with you in Hope House?” “She does refuse, but I did not give her time, I am afraid, to give her rea sons.” “Time for reasons! How much time does she want?” Barton went on sav agely. “Hope House is not good enough for her, eh? She is not willing to go with the man who loves her into such a burden bearing life! She loves her nice, clean, soft, easy, social posi tion more than she loves the man! No, l tell you,” Barton silenced his friend, who made a gesture of dissent. "The girls of this age are not like those of our fathers. They are not willing to begin in a small, economical way and share their husbands’ privations. They want big, expensive establishments right off. They have no idea of any sort of life except one of luxury and social successes. To my mind, you’re well rid of her!” “No, no, David! Not that! I ought not to have made sueli a test. You do not know her as I do.” “I don't want to either. Isn’t it for better, for worse, for richer, for poor er? If I were the woman you loved, wouldn’t I go with you anywhere, John? You know I would, mean, selfish animal that I am. If I were a woman and had the love of John Gor don, I wouldn’t even ask him where he was going. I would simply go. That’s the reason I say you're well rid of her. She’s not worthy of you, John.” “But you have never loved any one, David!” cried John Gordon in great distress, for lie was nearer saying a sharp word to his friend than at any time since their friendship began. “I love you, John, more than this selfish woman ever loved. But I'm afraid that’s not saying very much. Wouldn’t I die for you?” “I believe you would, David.” “Well, this woman wouldn't even live for you.” “It’s harder to live than to die some times,” John Gordon answered, with a sigh. “I tell you she’s not worthy of you, John. ‘Mend your broken heart or get another.’ ” Barton sang the first line of a popular music hall ballad. “No woman is worthy of a man if she refuses to accept his terms when they are as reasonable and as necessary as yours. But it has hit you hard, hasn’t it?” For answer John Gordon laid his head down on the table. Barton eyed him sympathetically, but offered no word of consolation. After awhile he muttered: “Confound these women! They make more trouble than all the men put to gether. The young fellow seems to have sustained a compound fracture. But it'll heal in time. Good thing he’s got a steady job. Hope House will give hhn employment.” He lay quiet, and after a little Gordon rose and walked into the other room. lie stayed there until he heard Bar ton begin to cough again, when he in stantly returned to his friend’s side to find him sitting up on the couch, his head between his hands. This time the coughing was of short duration, and Barton exclaimed the instant he was able to speak: "I can tell time by my cough, it’s so regular. I shall miss it when it leaves. The last one tonight. I usually wind it up about half past 10.” “David, have you con ulted a doc tor?” “Not today.” “Any time?” “Certainly.” "What does he say?” “Just what you and Harris say. Quit work and go to Colorado. I can’t Don’t bother about it. I won’t go, that's all. I’ve begun to get attached to the cough, it has shown such an af fection for me.” He straightened up and laughed at the look In his friend’s face. Gordon was only partly assured. "It will kill you.” “First time anything ever did.” “You have no right to neglect It.” “Neglect it? Don’t I nurse it day and ;ht? No cough ever had better care than mine. I give It the best the patent medicine show affords.” “It will be the death of you.” “All right,” Barton said cheerfully. “Rather die from my cough than from a stupid, thoughtless trolley car. By the way, John, did you ever think o£ the difference between being run over by a horse and wagon and an auto mobile?” • “I never gave it much thought.” “More people get run over by auto mobiles than by horses, so the facta show. You see a man can dodge a horse because he—the horse—is alive. But an automobile— Let’s change the subject. Give me your programme.” "My programme!” “Your programme as a reformer. What are you going to do? What Iie» in your mind? John”— David Barton swiftly changed from the careless, flip- partt manner he had assumed over his physical condition, and John Gordon instantly knew the friend who loved him was talking now out of his great serious heart. “John, if you are really going to try to make the old world bet ter you’ve held out your arm to a wres tler who will give you the struggle of your life. I want to help. I don’t be lieve it will amount to anything—the struggle, I mean. And maybe not the help either. But tell me your heart’s desire.” “Well, then,” John Gordon answered, while his whole expression glowed witli his rea! deep religious enthusi asm and a pride that swept his thought even of Luella Marsh out of existence, “I have l programme. First, 1 plan to live at Hope House as long as I can be of use there or as long as I can from that place in the city learn the city. It may lie five years, it may be ten. If it is ten, I shall be only forty. A man cannot do much public work worthy of the name until he is forty.” “History and biography say other- twise, but never mind,” muttered Bar- Lon. “Goon.” “My plans of course do not cover ossibilities that may come into my experience at the end of my residence in Hope House. But I have dreamed \of many things. I don’t mean book ' knowledge, but live, personal knowl edge of people. Not the kind that I nakes a man a professor of sociology n the university, but the kind that inakes a man want to change bad laws orjnake good ones; the kind of knowl- edg\ of people that 1’aul had when he said,\Woe is me if I preach not the gospelV the kind of knowledge of peo ple thameompels a man to see in every other man a universe of eternal value and eternal happiness.” “There a^k mighty few people in this city that thiBk of run-down-at-the-heel humanity aftcrUhat fashion,” muttered Barton again, after a silence he asked: “Who’s againsfl^^^ all this?” "Sellish greed. <.^^^^f£ical prhj the churches, politic city management, cl on tin* part of cuiturl on. whisky, yellow pi terests wherever they loss, if reform calls for elgn born and foreign skajjl but most of all the opposition bred apathy which grows out soil of irreligion.” “And who Is on your side?” Barto| asked almost mechanically, in a loi tone. “God. all good men and women in the’ churches, and there are many; a rising sentiment among young men against municipal partisanship, a gradually ris ing journalism which in time will de mand the extinction of yellow journal ism, which is an excrescence that car ries in large measure its own destruc tion. and a rising tide of popular pas sion against the saloon as an institu tion and for more equal opportunities in the field of struggle for human hap piness." “You left out the largest item in'the list of forces against reform.” “What’s that?” “The people themselves.” “Of course I realize that,” John Gor don replied slowly. "But it was not the people that crucified Jesus. It was the scribes and Pharisees.” “The people yelled, ‘Crucify him!’" “The rabble, you mean.” “What’s the difference?” “I don’t know exactly, but the rabble is not the people.” “Mighty fine distinction," Barton muttered again. “Of course you can’t Ch She put the book in hie hands, deny that the common people are an ungrateful lot. You heal ten lepers, and only one out of the ten will ever, thank you for it.” “What difference does that make to me If they’re healed?” “Heap of difference to them, though. I suppose you know that even the poll- > ticiuns don’t get In Miss Andrews’ way so much as the people themselves. They don’t know enough to make the