CHAPTER XVI
LOCAL CONTRIBUTION
We hear considerable of the "conventional people" of this world, butseldom meet with them; for, as soon as we begin to know a person, wediscover peculiarities that quite remove him from the ranks of theconventional--if such ranks exist at all. The remark of the old Scotchdivine to his good wife: "Everybody's queer but thee and me, Nancy, andsometimes I think _thee_ a little queer," sums up human natureadmirably. We seldom recognize our own queerness, but are prone to markthe erratic temperaments of others, and this is rather more comfortablethan to be annoyed by a consciousness of our personal deficits.
The inhabitants of a country town are so limited in their experiencesthat we generally find their personal characteristics very amusing. Noamount of scholastic learning could have rendered the Millville peoplesophisticated, for contact with the world and humanity is the only trueeducator; but, as a matter of fact, there was little scholastic learningamong them, with one or two exceptions, and the villagers as a rule wereof limited intelligence. Every one was really a "character," and UncleJohn's nieces, who all possessed a keen sense of humor, enjoyed theoddities of the Millvillites immensely.
A humorous situation occurred through a seemingly innocent editorial ofBeth on authorship. In the course of her remarks she said: "A prominentauthor is stated to have accumulated a large fortune by writing shortstories for the newspapers and magazines. He is said to receive tencents a word, and this unusual price is warranted by the eager demandfor his stories, of which the reading public is very fond. However, theunknown author does not fare so badly. The sum of from thirty to fiftydollars usually remitted for a short story pays the beginner a betterrecompense, for the actual time he is engaged upon the work, than anyother occupation he might undertake."
This was seriously considered the morning it appeared in the _Tribune_by Peggy McNutt and Skim Clark, as they sat in the sunshine on theformer's little front porch. Peggy had read it aloud in his laborious,halting way, and Skim listened with growing amazement.
"Thirty dollars!" he cried; "thirty to fifty fer a short story! GreatSnakes, Peggy, I'm goin' into it."
"Heh? Goin' into what?" asked Peggy, raising his eyes from the paper.
"I kin write a story," declared Skim confidently.
"Ye kin, Skim?"
"It's a cinch, Peggy. Mother keeps all the magazines an' paper novils,an' we allus reads 'em afore we sells 'em. I've read the gol-durndestlot o' truck ye ever heard of, so I'm posted on stories in gen'ral. I'llwrite one an' sell it to the _Millville Tribune_. Do ye s'pose they'llgive me the thirty, er the fifty, Peggy?"
"Anywheres between, they says. But one feller gits ten cents a word.Whew!"
"I know; but he's a big one, which I ain't--just now. I'll take even thethirty, if I hev to."
"I would, Skim," advised Peggy, nodding approval. "But make 'em put yerphotygraf in the paper, besides. Say, it'll be a big thing fer Millvilleto turn out a author. I didn't think it were in you, Skim."
"Why, it hadn't struck me afore," replied the youth, modestly. "I've benhankerin' to make money, without knowin' how to do it. I tell ye, Peggy,it pays to read the newspapers. This one's give me a hint how to carveout a future career, an' I'll write a story as'll make them girl edytursset up an' take notice."
"Make it someth'n' 'bout Injuns," suggested Peggy. "I ain't read a Injunstory fer years."
"No; they're out o' fashion," observed Skim loftily. "What folks wantnow is a detective story. Feller sees a hole in a fence an' says, 'Ha!there's ben a murder!' Somebody asks what makes him think so, an' thedetective feller says, takin' out a magnifie-in' glass, 'Thet hole's abullet-hole, an' the traces o' blood aroun' the edges shows the bulletwent through a human body afore it went through the fence.' 'Then,' sayssome one, 'where's the body?' 'That,' says the detective, 'is what wemus' diskiver.' So the story goes on to show how the body werediskivered an' who did the murderin'."
"By Jupe, thet's great!" cried Peggy admiringly. "Skim, ye're a wonder!"
"Ma allus said I were good fer somethin', but she couldn't tell what."
"It's story-writin'," declared Peggy "Say, Skim, I put ye onter thisdeal; don't I git a rake-off on thet fifty dollars?"
"Not a cent!" said Skim indignantly. "Ye didn't tell me to write astory; I said myself as I could do it. An' I know where to use themoney, Peggy, ev'ry dollar of it, whether it's thirty er fifty."
Peggy sighed.
"I writ a pome once," he said. "Wonder ef they'd pay fer a pome?"
"What were it like?" asked Skim curiously.
"It went someth'n' this way," said Peggy:
"I sigh Ter fly Up high In the sky. But my Wings is shy, So I mus' cry Good-bye Ter fly- in'."
"Shoo!" said Skim disdainfully. "Thet ain't no real pome, Peggy."
"It makes rhymes, don't it? All but the las' line."
"Mebbe it does," replied Skim, with assumption of superior wisdom; "butit don't mean nuth'n'."
"It would ef I got paid fer it," observed Peggy.
Skim went home to his mother's tiny "Emporium," took some note paper outof stock, opened a new bottle of ink and sat down at the sitting roomtable to write his story. The Widow Clark looked in and asked what hemeant by "squanderin' profits that way."
"Shet up, mar. Gi' me elbow room," said her dutiful son. "I'm writin' afifty dollar story fer the _Tribune_."
"Fifty dollars!"
"Thirty, anyhow; mebbe fifty," replied Skim. "What's a good name fer adetective, mar?"
The widow sat down and wiped her damp hands on her apron, looking uponher hopeful with an expression of mingled awe and pride.
"Kin ye do it, Skim?" she asked softly.
"I s'pose I kin turn out one a day, by hard work," he said confidently."At thirty a day, the lowes' price, thet's a hunderd 'n' eighty a week,seven hunderd 'n' twenty a month, or over eight thousan' dollars a year.I got it all figgered out. It's lucky fer me the nabobs is rich, or theycouldn't stan' the strain. Now, mar, ef ye want to see yer son a nabobhisself, some day, jes' think up a good name fer a detective."
"Sherholmes Locke," she said after some reflection.
"No; this 'ere story's got ter be original. I thought o' callin' himSuspectin' Algernon. Detectives is allus suspectin' something."
"Algernon's high-toned," mused the widow. "Let it go at that, Skim."
All that day and far into the evening he sat at his task, pausing nowand then for inspiration, but most of the time diligently pushing hispen over the strongly lined note paper and hopelessly straying from thelines. Meantime, Mrs. Clark walked around on tiptoe, so as not todisturb him, and was reluctant even to call him to his meals in thekitchen. When Skim went to bed his story had got into an aggravatingmuddle, but during the next forenoon he managed to bring it to atriumphant ending.
"When I git used to the thing, mar," he said, "I kin do one a day, easy.I had to be pertickler over this one, it bein' the first."
The widow read the story carefully, guessing at the words that werehopelessly indistinct.
"My! but it's a thriller, Skim," she said with maternal enthusiasm; "butye don't say why he killed the girl."
"That don't matter, so long's he did it."
"The spellin' don't allus seem quite right," she added doubtfully.
"I guess the spellin's as good as the readin'll be," he retorted, withevident irritation. "I bet I spell as well as any o' the folks thettakes the paper."
"And some words I can't make out."
"Oh, the edytur'll fix that. Say, air ye tryin' to queer my story, mar?Do ye set up to know more'n I do about story writin'?"
"No," she said; "I ain't talented, Skim, an' you be."
"What I orter hev," he continued, reflectively, "is a typewriter. When Igit two er three hunderd ahead perhaps I'll buy one--secondhand."
"Kin ye buy one thet'll spell, Skim?" she asked, as she made a neat rollof the manuscript and tied a pink hair rib
bon around it.
Skim put on a collar and necktie and took his story across to thenewspaper office.
"I got a conter-bution fer the paper," he said to Patsy, who asked himhis business.
"What, something original, Skim?" she asked in surprise.
"Ye've hit it right, Miss Doyle; it's a story."
"Oh!"
"A detective story."
"Dear me! Then you'll have to see Mrs. Weldon, who is our literaryeditor."
Louise, who was sitting close by, looked up and held out her hand forthe beribboned roll.
"I don't jes' know," remarked Skim, as he handed it across the table,"whether it's a thirty dollar deal, er a fifty."
Having forgotten Beth's editorial, Louise did not understand thisremark, but she calmly unrolled Skim's manuscript and glanced at thescrawled heading with an amused smile.
"'Suspecting Algernon,'" she read aloud.
"'It were a dark and teedjus night in the erly springtime while the snowwere falling soft over the moon litt lanskape.' Why, Skim, how came youto write this?"
"It were the money," he said boldly. "I kin do one a day like this, atthirty dollers apiece, an' never feel the wear an' tear."
Patsy giggled, but Louise stared with a wondering, puzzled expression atthe crabbed writing, the misspelled words and dreadful grammar. Indeed,she was a little embarrassed how to handle so delicate a situation.
"I'm afraid we cannot use your story, Mr. Clark," she said gently, andremembering the formula that usually accompanied her own rejectedmanuscripts she added: "This does not necessarily imply a lack of meritin your contribution, but is due to the fact that it is at presentunavailable for our use."
Skim stared at her in utter dismay.
"Ye mean ye won't take it?" he asked with trembling lips.
"We have so much material on hand, just now, that we cannot possiblypurchase more," she said firmly, but feeling intensely sorry for theboy. "It may be a good story--"
"It's the bes' story I ever heard of!" declared Skim.
"But we have no place for it in the _Millville Tribune,_" she added,handing him back the roll.
Skim was terribly disappointed. Never, for a single moment, had heexpected "sech a throwdown as this."
"Seems to me like a bunco game," he muttered savagely. "First ye say inyer blamed ol' paper a story's wuth thirty to fifty dollars, an' thenwhen I bring ye a story ye won't pay a red cent fer it!"
"Stories," suggested Louise, "are of various qualities, depending on theexperience and talent of the author. An excellent story is often refusedbecause the periodical to which it is offered is overstocked withsimilar material. Such conditions are often trying, Skim; I've had agood many manuscripts rejected myself."
But the boy would not be conciliated.
"I'll send it to Munsey's, thet's what I'll do; an' then you'll be durnsorry," he said, almost ready to cry.
"Do," urged Louise sweetly. "And if they print it, Mr. Clark, I'll agreeto purchase your next story for fifty dollars."
"All right; the fifty's mine. I got witnesses, mind ye!" and he flouncedout of the room like an angry schoolboy.
"Oh, Louise," exclaimed Patsy, reproachfully, "why didn't you let mesee the thing? It would have been better than a circus."
"Poor boy!" said the literary editor, with a sigh. "I didn't want tohumiliate him more than I could help. I wonder if he really will havethe audacity to send it to Munsey's?"
And now the door opened to admit Peggy McNutt, who had been watching hischance to stump across to the printing office as soon as Skim leftthere. For Peggy had reasoned, not unjustly, that if Skim Clark couldmake a fortune as an author he, Marshall McMahon McNutt, had a show tocorral a few dollars in literature himself. After lying awake half thenight thinking it over, he arose this morning with the firm intention ofcompeting with Skim for the village laurels. He well knew he could notwrite a shuddery detective story, such as Skim had outlined, but thatearly poem of his, which the boy had seemed to regard so disdainfully,was considered by Peggy a rather clever production. He repeated it overand over to himself, dwelling joyously on its perfect rhyme, until hewas convinced it was a good poem and that Skim had enviously slanderedit. So he wrote it out in big letters on a sheet of foolscap anddetermined to offer it to "them newspaper gals."
"I got a pome, Miss Patsy," he said, with unusual diffidence, for he wasby no means sure the "gals" would not agree with Skim's criticism.
"What! Another contributor?" she exclaimed playfully. "Has the wholetown suddenly turned literary, Peggy?"
"No; jest me 'n' Skim. Skim says my pome's no good; but I sort o' likeit, myself."
"Let me see it," said Patsy, ignoring this time the literary editor, whowas glad to be relieved of the responsibility of disappointing anotherbudding author.
Peggy handed over the foolscap, and Patsy eagerly read the "pome."
"Listen, Louise! Listen, Beth!" she called, delightedly. "Here iscertainly a real 'pome,' and on aviation--the latest fad:
"'SKY HIGH BY MARSHALL MCMAHON MCNUTT of Millville dealer in Real Estate Spring Chickens &c.
1. I sigh Too fly Up high In the sky.
2. But my Wings air shy And so I cry A sad goodby Too fly- Ing.'"
A chorus of hilarious laughter followed the reading, and then Patsywiped her eyes and exclaimed:
"Peggy, you are not only a poet but a humorist. This is one of the bestshort poems I ever read."
"It's short 'cause I run out o' rhymes," admitted Peggy.
"But it's a gem, what there is of it."
"Don't, dear," remonstrated Louise; "don't poke fun at the poor man."
"Poke fun? Why, I'm going to print that poem in the _Tribune_, as sureas my name's Patricia Doyle! It's too good for oblivion."
"I dunno," remarked Peggy, uncertainly, "whether it's wuth fiftydollars, er about--"
"About forty-nine less," said Patsy. "A poem of that length brings aboutfifty cents in open market, but I'll be liberal. You shall have a wholedollar--and there it is, solid cash."
"Thank ye," returned Peggy, pocketing the silver. "It ain't what Iexpected, but--"
"But what, sir?"
"But it's like findin' it, for I didn't expect nuth'n'. I wish I coulddo more of 'em at the same price; but I did thet pome when I were youngan' hed more ambition. I couldn't think of another like it to save myneck."
"I am glad of that, Peggy. One of this kind is all a paper dare print.We mustn't get too popular, you know."
"I s'pose you'll print my name as the one what did it?" he inquiredanxiously.
"I shall print it just as it's written, advertisement and all."
She did, and Peggy bought two extra copies, at a cent apiece. He framedall three and hung one in his office, one in the sitting room and athird in his bedroom, where he could see it the first thing when hewakened each morning. His fellow villagers were very proud of him, inspite of the "knocking" of the Clarks. Skim was deeply mortified thatPeggy's "bum pome" had been accepted and his own masterly composition"turned down cold." The widow backed her son and told all the neighborsthat "Peggy never hed the brains to write thet pome, an' the chances airhe stole it from the 'Malvern Weekly Journal.' Them gal edyturs wouldn'tknow," she added scornfully; "they's as ignerunt as Peggy is, mostly."
A few days later McNutt entered the printing office with an air of greatimportance.
"Goodness me! I hope you haven't done it again, Peggy," cried Patsy, inalarm.
"No; I got fame enough. What I want is to hev the wordin' on my businesscards changed," said he. "What'll it cost?"
"What change do you wish made?" asked Patsy, examining the sample card.
"Instead of 'Marshall McMahon McNutt, dealer in Real Estate an' SpringChickens,' I want to make it read: 'dealer in Real Estate, SpringChickens an' Poetry.' What'll it cost. Miss Patsy?"
"Nothing," she said, he
r eyes dancing; "We'll do that job free ofcharge, Peggy!"