The Call of the Town Part 7

Mrs. Winton having removed the vase of dusty "everlasting flowers,"

which stood _solus_ in the middle of the faded green serge cloth that covered the oval table, and spread on the latter a cloth of snowy linen, busied herself in arranging the tea things.

Henry noted that cups and saucers were set for five, and as he only knew of four in the household, including Edgar's father and himself, he fell to wondering who the fifth might be. Undoubtedly his powers of observation had been sharpened from contact with the Stratford representative of the _Guardian_.

The preparations for the evening meal had just been completed when the outer door was opened, and Edgar, a fresh-complexioned young fellow of nineteen, arrived, full of apologies for having been unable to meet his guest, as he had been unexpectedly called upon to attend an inquest at the "Crown" Inn.

"And an interesting case it is, by Jove!" he exclaimed brightly. "A man has shuffled off this mortal coil by--what d'you think?"

"Poison or a razor," suggested Henry, out of the fulness of his knowledge of poor humanity.

"Nothing so common for Johnnie Briggs the bookie. Everybody knows Johnnie, and he meant to make a noise when he snuffed out. Up to the eyes in debt, I fancy. He has choked himself with a leather boot-lace, and Wiggins in the High Street is as proud as Punch because it was one of his laces. Isn't it funny?"

"It's very horrible," said Henry, who could not help showing in his looks the feeling of disgust aroused within him by Edgar's levity in speaking of so bad an occurrence.

"Horrible! Why, I think it's stunning, and old Spring will be as mad as a march hare because Johnnie didn't perform his dramatic exit in time for this week's edition of the _Guardian_. The _Advertiser_ will be out next Wednesday with full details, and we don't appear till Friday. It's always the way; that Wednesday rag gets all the spicy bits. But there, don't let us start talking shop all at once. I'm famished. How are you?"

But before Henry could describe his condition, a bright young woman of some eighteen years had entered the parlour, to be introduced unceremoniously as "My sister Flo--Mr. Henry Charles."

Here, then, was number five, and a very acceptable tea-table companion, thought Henry, though the blushing and mumbling with which he said how pleased he was to meet her showed him to be as awkward in the presence of the fair s.e.x as he was new to the jargon of journalism. He dared hardly lift his eyes to look the new-comer in the face, but on her part there was no evidence of shyness.

Over the tea-cups--for Mr. and Mrs. Winton had now come in, and all were seated at the table--Henry began to feel more at home among the family, and Mr. Winton proved to be a quiet, homely person, though Henry noticed that Edgar lost to some extent his high spirits when his father came on the scene. Evidently the Wintons were people "in reduced circ.u.mstances,"

for both the father and mother showed signs of superior breeding.

"I hope you will get on all right at the _Guardian_," Mr. Winton remarked. "You won't be short of work, if Edgar is a sample. He's always slogging away at something. If it's not the police courts, it's a political meeting, or a--"

"Tea-fight, dad."

"Slang again, Eddie," put in Flo.

"Yes. Edgar delights in these flippancies; his trade seems to induce that," said Mrs. Winton. "Will you pa.s.s your cup, Mr. Charles?"

As Henry handed his cup to Flo, almost dropping it in the excitement of being dubbed "Mister," Edgar took up his mother's words, and exclaimed, with simulated indignation:

"Trade! Who calls it a trade? Remember, mater, that journalism is a profession--the Fourth Estate!"

"There's not much profession about attending inquests on suicides, and writing about the drunks and disorderlies," Flo remarked, fearless of her brother's displeasure.

"Come, come now," interposed Mr. Winton, who had not spoken since Edgar broke in upon his remarks. "You mustn't give our young friend too low an opinion of his new business," and turning to Henry, he remarked: "It is your first appointment, is it not?"

"Yes, I have only done some odds and ends for the _Guardian_ when at Stratford. Of course, I'm hoping to do some good work here, but we must do the small things before we are able to do the great ones, I think."

A long speech for Henry to make before company, and not performed without an effort.

"True, indeed, for only those who can do the little things well can do the great things well," was Mr. Winton's comment.

"And I was only joking," added Flo, looking archly at Henry, whose eyes immediately contemplated the lessening liquid in his cup. "Journalism is all very well, I'm sure, but newspaper fellows are so conceited that I think we need to take some of the side off them."

"Who's talking slang now?" from Edgar.

"Well, it may be slangy, but it's true; and I hope Mr. Charles won't fall into the habit of talking as if, because a man writes paragraphs in a printed paper, he knows more than Solomon."

"I'm afraid I know very little, Miss Winton. I'm here to learn." Oh, Henry was becoming quite a tea-table success.

"And I'm sure we hope you will find your new work up to your expectations. I have never met Mr. Springthorpe myself," said Mr.

Winton, as he rose and retired to the living-room, which was half-kitchen, to smoke his evening pipe, while Flo helped her mother to clear away the tea-things and restore the dusty immortelles to their place of honour.

"The dad says he has never met Mr. Springthorpe, and a good thing for his idea of journalism. Not that old Spring doesn't strike you well enough at first meeting; but you'll soon find him out," Edgar said to Henry when they were alone in the parlour.

"He seemed very considerate, I thought, when my father and I called on him. A little pompous, perhaps."

"Oh, you've noticed that! You'll see more of it by-and-by. But he can be wonderfully considerate when there is a nice little premium attached to a new pupil. Your pater must have come down handsome on the spot, for the Balmy One has been swaggering around in a new frock-suit and shiny topper since you were engaged. Let me be frank with you, and tell you at once that you needn't expect anything of value out of our gorgeous chief. What you learn you'll have to pick up from Bertram and myself, and from Yardley the sub."

"I understood that I was really Mr. Springthorpe's pupil."

"You're not the first that understood that; but really it doesn't matter, for you'll get there all the same, as they say in the song.

You'll have lots to do and you'll soon learn, but don't fancy old Spring is going to sit down and teach you. His duty ends when he converts your premium into clothing for the outer, and refreshment for the inner man.

A good sort, but fond o' the bottle, like so many clever journalists."

"And were you a pupil also before you became a full reporter?"

"Not on the _Guardian_. I served six months as a junior on the _Advertiser_, and received the order of the sack at the end of that time, as they had no further use for services which had begun to require a weekly fifteen bob. Luckily, the _Guardian_ was in a hole at the time, both the chief reporter and his a.s.sistant having given notice, and the pupil then flourishing was a hopeless youngster, who has since returned to the business of his father, who is in the aerated water trade. So I was engaged at once, and on the n.o.ble salary of fifteen bob a week I remain to this day, although I was promised an increase at the end of twelve months, and I have been on the staff for sixteen. I occasionally pick up a bit of lineage, and that helps to pan out, you know; but I'm only hanging on until something better turns up elsewhere, and then good-bye to the _Guardian_. My ambition is Birmingham."

"Birmingham! Wouldn't you rather like to get to London?"

"Who wouldn't? But I have the sense to know I'm not cut out for Fleet Street. In any case, no London editor would look at a man from Wheelton. You must have experience on a good provincial daily before thinking of London Town."

"I'm surprised, for Mr. Trevor Smith told me of many London editors who used to be on local papers like--our own."

"Trevor Smith is an a.s.s. He knows as much about journalism as a monkey knows of algebra. He can't write for nuts. Most of his copy has to be rewritten by Yardley before it's fit to print."

Henry heard this unflattering description of his friend with some dismay, but remembered that Trevor had given him a very similar account of Edgar. He was beginning to know something of that brotherly feeling which always exists between fellow-craftsmen.

Winton showed himself very companionable, and in the evening took Henry for a walk round the town, in the course of which they visited the police station, where he was introduced as "the new _Guardian_ man."

This connection between the Press and the Police was one to which Henry would yet learn to attach much importance.

On the Sunday he attended church with Mr. Winton and Edgar in the morning, and would have gone again in the evening if Edgar and his father had been so disposed, but it seemed to be the rule of the house for the female side to attend the evening service, as in the morning they were engaged in household duties. Edgar confessed to Henry that he didn't reckon much of church-going, and only went to please the dad. He further avowed that he thought religion a lot of rot, and that most journalists were atheists. He had heard that George Augustus Sala believed in eternal punishment, but that was about all the religion he knew of among knights of the pen.

Henry, who had been reared in the quiet atmosphere of a church-loving home, and had never listened to doubts about religion, heard Edgar's opinions with some dismay, but did not venture to dispute them. He had an uneasy feeling that the more he saw of men the less they justified his ideals, and he began to wonder whether, if he had to let slip his illusions of daily life, he would not also have to modify his religious convictions.

CHAPTER VIII

THE YOUNG JOURNALIST

WITH the morning, however, Henry was fresh for the fray again. The prospects of his first day in active journalism swept away all doubts and misgivings.