CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH CECIL BANBOROUGH ACHIEVES FAME AND THE "DAILY LEADER" A"SCOOP."
Cecil Banborough stood at one of the front windows of a club which facedon Fifth Avenue, his hands in his pockets, and a cigarette in his mouth,idly watching the varied life of the great thoroughfare. He had returnedto the city that morning after a two weeks' absence in the South, and,having finished his lunch, was wondering how he could manage to put inthe time till the 4:30 express left for Meadowbrook. 2 P.M., hereflected ruefully, was an hour when New York had no use and noresources for men of leisure like himself.
Yet even for a mere onlooker the panorama of the street was of unusualinterest. The avenue was ablaze with bunting, which hurrying thousandspointed out to their companions, while every street-corner had itslittle group of citizens, discussing with feverish energy and gesturesof ill-concealed disquietude the situation of which the gay flags werethe outward and visible sign. For in these latter days of April, 1898, afirst-class Republic had, from purely philanthropic motives, announcedits intention of licking a third-rate Monarchy into the way it shouldgo. Whereat the good citizens had flung broadcast their national emblemto express a patriotic enthusiasm they did not feel, while the wiserheads among them were already whispering that the war was not merelyunjustifiable, but might be expensive.
All these matters, important as they doubtless were, did not interestCecil Banborough, and indeed were quite dwarfed by the fact that thisuncalled-for war had diverted the press from its natural functions, andfor the time being had thrown utterly into the shade his new sensationalnovel, "The Purple Kangaroo." His meditations were, however,interrupted by the sound of voices using perfectly good English, butwith an accent which bespoke a European parentage.
"'The Purple Kangaroo,'" said one. "It is sufficiently striking--_Si,Senor_?"
"It serves the purpose well, _mi amigo_," replied the other. "It is, asyou say, striking; indeed nothing better could be devised; while itsreputation--" And the voices died away.
Cecil swung rapidly round. Two gentlemen, slight, swarthy, and evidentlyof a Latin race, were moving slowly down the long drawing-room. Theywere foreigners certainly, Spaniards possibly, but they had spoken ofhis book in no modified terms of praise. He drew a little sigh ofsatisfied contentment and turned again to the street. Ah, if his father,the Bishop of Blanford, could have heard!
The two foreigners had meanwhile continued their conversation, thoughout of earshot. The elder was speaking.
"As you say, its reputation is so slight," he said, "one of thoseephemeral productions that are forgotten in a day, that it will serveour purpose well. We must have a password--the less noticeable thebetter. When do you return to Washington?"
"The Legation may be closed at any moment now," replied the younger,seating himself carelessly on the arm of a Morris chair, "and I may bewanted. I go this afternoon, _a dios y a ventura_."
"Softly; not so loud."
"There's no one to hear. Keep us informed, I say. I'll see to the rest.We've our secret lines of communication nearly complete. They may turnus out of their capital, but--we shall know what passes. _Carramba!_What is that?" For, in leaning back, the speaker had come against anunresisting body.
Springing up and turning quickly round, he saw that the chair on the armof which he had been sitting was already occupied by the slumbering formof a youngish man with clear-cut features and a voluminous goldenmoustache.
"_Madre de Dios!_ Could he have heard?" exclaimed the younger man,moving away.
"_Malhaya!_ No!" replied the other. "These pigs of Americanos who sleepat noonday hear nothing! Come!" And, casting a glance of concentratedcontempt at the huddled-up figure, he put his arm through that of hiscompanion, and together they left the room.
A moment later the sleeper sat up, flicked a speck of dust off hiscoat-sleeve, and, diving into a pocket, produced a note-book and bluepencil and began to write rapidly. Evidently his occupation was apleasant one, for a broad smile illumined his face.
"Ah, Marchmont," said Banborough, coming towards him, "didn't know you'dwaked up."
"Was I asleep?"
"Rather. Don't suppose you saw those Spanish Dons who went out justnow?"
"Spaniards?" queried Marchmont, with a preoccupied air. "What about'em?"
"Oh, nothing in particular, only I supposed that a Spaniard to a yellowjournalist was like a red rag to a bull. You should make them intocopy--'Conspiracy in a Fifth Avenue Club,' etc."
"Thanks," said the other, "so I might. Valuable suggestion." And hereturned his note-book to his pocket.
"They did me a good turn, anyway," resumed Banborough. "They weretalking about my book--thought it would serve its purpose, was verystriking, said nothing better could be devised; and they wereforeigners, too. I tell you what it is, Marchmont, the public will wakeup to the merits of 'The Purple Kangaroo' some day. Why doesn't the_Daily Leader_ notice it?"
"My dear Cecil, give me the space and I'll write a critique the fulsomeflattery of which will come up to even your exacting demands. But justat present we're so busy arousing popular enthusiasm that we reallyhaven't time."
"You never do have time," replied Banborough, a trifle petulantly,"except for sleeping after lunch."
"Ah, that's all in the day's work. But tell me. You're an Englishman;why didn't you publish your book in your own country?"
"I may be green, but I don't impart confidences to an Americanjournalist."
"Nonsense! I never betray my friends' confidences when it's not worth--Ishould say, out of business hours."
The Englishman laughed.
"Oh, if you don't think it worth while," he said, "I suppose there's nodanger, so I'll confess that my literary exile is purely to oblige myfather."
"The Bishop of Blanford?"
"The Bishop of Blanford, who has the bad taste to disapprove of 'ThePurple Kangaroo.'"
"Has he ever read it?"
"Of course not; the ecclesiastical mind is nothing if not dogmatic."
"My dear fellow, I was only trying to assign a reason."
"Chaff away, but it's principally my Aunt Matilda."
"The Bishop, I remember, is a widower."
"Rather. My aunt keeps house for him."
"Ah, these aunts!" exclaimed the journalist. "They make no end oftrouble--and copy."
"It's not so bad as that," said Cecil; "but she rules the governor witha rod of iron, and she kicked up such a row about my book that I droppedthe whole show."
"Don't correspond with 'em?"
"Not on my side. I receive occasional sermons from Blanford."
"Which remain unanswered?"
Cecil nodded, and changed the subject.
"You know my father's cathedral?" he asked.
"Oh, yes. The verger prevented my chipping off a bit of the high altaras a memento the last time I was over. You English are so beastlyconservative. Not that the Bishop had anything to do with it."
Banborough laughed, and returned to the charge.
"So I came abroad," he continued, "and approached the most respectableand conservative firm of publishers I could find in New York."
"Was that out of consideration for the Bishop?"
"I thought it might sweeten the pill. But somehow the book doesn'tsell."
"Advertising, my boy--that's the word."
"The traditions of the firm forbid it," objected Banborough.
"Traditions! What's any country less than a thousand years old got to dowith traditions?" spluttered Marchmont. "I knew a Chicago author who gota divorce every time he produced a new novel. They sold like hot cakes."
"And the wives?"
"Received ten per cent. of the profits as alimony."
"Talk sense, and say something scandalous about me in the _Leader_. Whatpossessed you, anyway, to join such a disgraceful sheet?"
"If I'd an entailed estate and an hereditary bishopric, I wouldn't. Asit is, it pays."
"The bishopric isn't hereditary," said Cecil. "I wish it
were. Then Imight have a chance of spending my life in the odour of sanctity andidleness, and the entail is--a dream."
"So you write novels," retorted Marchmont, "that are neither indecentnor political, and expect 'em to succeed. Callow youth! Well, I must beoff to the office. I've some copy up my sleeve, and if it's a go it'llgive your book the biggest boom a novel ever had."
"Are you speaking the truth?" said the Englishman. "I beg your pardon. Iforgot it was out of professional hours."
"Wait and see," replied the journalist, as he strolled out of the club.
* * * * *
"Hi, Marchmont, I've got a detail for you!" called the editor, makingthe last correction on a belated form and attempting to revivify a cigarthat had long gone out.
"Yes?" queried Marchmont, slipping off his coat and slipping on a pairof straw cuffs, which was the chief reason why he always sportedimmaculate linen.
"We're on the track of a big thing. Perhaps you don't know that thePresident has delivered an ultimatum, and that our Minister at Madridhas received his passports?"
"Saw it on the bulletin-board as I came in," said his subordinatelaconically.
"Well, it's a foregone conclusion that the Spanish Legation willestablish a secret service in this country, and the paper that shows itup will achieve the biggest scoop on record."
"Naturally. But what then?"
"Why, I give the detail to you. You don't seem to appreciate thesituation, man. It's the chance of a lifetime."
"Quite so," replied Marchmont, lighting a cigarette.
"But you can't lose a minute."
"Oh, yes, I can--two or three. Time for a smoke, and then I'll write youa first-column article that'll call for the biggest caps you have instock."
"But I-- What the-- Say, you know something!"
"I know that the secret service has been organised, I know theorganisers, and I know the password."
Here Marchmont's chief became unquotable, lapsing into unlimitedprofanity from sheer joy and exultation.
"I'll give you a rise if you pull this off!" he exclaimed, after hearingthe recital of the events at the club. "May I be"--several things--"if Idon't! Now what are you going to do about it?"
"Suppose we inform the nearest police station, have the crowd arrested,and take all the glory ourselves."
"Suppose we shut up shop and take a holiday," suggested the chief, witha wealth of scorn.
"Well, what have you to propose?"
"We must work the whole thing through our detective agency."
"But we haven't a detective agency," objected Marchmont.
"But we will have before sunset," said the chief. "There's O'Brien--"
"Yes. Chucked from Pinkerton's force for habitual drunkenness,"interjected his subordinate.
"Just so," said the editor, "and anxious to get a job in consequence.He'll be only too glad to run the whole show for us. The city shall bewatched, and the first time 'The Purple Kangaroo' is used in asuspicious sense we'll arrest the offenders, discover the plot, and the_Daily Leader_, as the defender of the nation and the people's bulwark,will increase its circulation a hundred thousand copies! It makes medizzy to think of it! I tell you what it is, Marchmont, thatsubeditorship is still vacant, and if you put this through, the place isyours."
The reporter grasped his chief's hand.
"That's white of you, boss," he said, "and I'll do it no matter what itcosts or who gets hurt in the process."
"Right you are!" cried his employer. "The man who edits this paper hasgot to hustle. Now don't let the grass grow under your feet, and we'llhave a drink to celebrate."
When the chief offers to set up a _sub_ it means business, and Marchmontwas elated accordingly.
* * * * *
At the Club the Bishop's son still contemplated the Avenue from thevantage-point of the most comfortable armchair the room possessed.Praise, he reflected, which was not intended for the author's ear waspraise indeed. No man could tell to what it might lead. No one indeed,Cecil Banborough least of all, though he was destined to find out beforehe was many hours older; for down in the editorial sanctum of the _DailyLeader_ O'Brien was being instructed:
"And if you touch a drop during the next week," reiterated the chief,"I'll put a head on you!"
"But supposin' this dago conspiracy should turn out to be a fake?"objected the Irishman.
"Then," said the reporter with determination, "you'll have to hatch oneyourself, and I'll discover it. But two things are certain. Something'sgot to be exposed, and I've got to get that editorship."