Elbow-Room: A Novel Without a Plot

  CHAPTER VI.

  _THE EDITOR OF THE PATRIOT_.

  The editor of the village paper, _The Patriot and Advertiser_, isMajor Slott; and a very clever journalist he is. Even his bitterestadversary, the editor of _The Evening Mail_, in the town above us onthe river, admits that. In the last political campaign, indeed, _TheMail_ undertook to tell how it was that the major acquired such ataste for journalism. The story was that shortly after he was born thedoctor ordered that the baby should be fed upon goat's milk. This wasprocured from a goat that was owned by an Irish woman who lived in therear of the office of _The Weekly Startler_ and fed her goat chieflyupon the exchanges which came to that journal. The consequence,according to _The Mail_, was that young Slott was fed entirely uponmilk formed from digested newspapers; and he throve on it, althoughwhen the Irish woman mixed the Democratic journals carelessly with theWhig papers they disagreed after they were eaten, and the milk gavethe baby colic. Old Slott intended the boy to be a minister; but assoon as he was old enough to take notice he cried for every newspaperthat he happened to see, and no sooner did he learn how to write thanhe began to slash off editorials upon "The Need of Reform," etc. Heran away from school four times to enter a newspaper office, andfinally, when the paternal Slott put him in the House of Refuge, hestarted a weekly in there, and called it the _House of Refuge Record_;and one day he slid over the wall and went down to the _Era_ office,where he changed his name to Blott, and began his career on that paperwith an article on "Our Reformatory Institutions for the Young." Thenold Slott surrendered to what seemed to be a combination of manifestdestiny and goat's milk, and permitted him to pursue his profession.The major, _The Mail_ alleges, has the instinct so strong that if heshould fall into the crater of Vesuvius his first thought on strikingbottom would be to write to somebody to ask for a free pass to comeout with. "But," continued _The Mail_, "you would hardly believe thisstory if you ever read _The Patriot_. We often suspect, when we arelooking over that sheet, that the nurse used to mix the goat's milkwith an unfair proportion of water."

  The major has a weekly edition in which he publishes serial storiesof a stirring character, and he is always looking out for good ones.Recently a tale was submitted by a certain Mr. Stack, a young man whohad high ambition without much experience as a writer of fiction.After waiting a long while and hearing nothing about the story, Mr.Stack concluded to call upon the major in order to ascertain whythat narrative had not attracted attention. When Stack mentioned hiserrand, the major reached for the manuscript; and looking very solemn,he said,

  "Mr. Stack, I don't think I can accept this story. In some respects itis really wonderful; but I am afraid that if I published it, it wouldattract almost too much attention. People would get too wild over it.We have to be careful. For instance, here in the first chapter youmention the death of Mrs. McGinnis, the hero's mother. She dies; youinter Mrs. McGinnis in the cemetery; you give an affecting scene atthe funeral; you run up a monument over her and plant honeysuckle uponher grave. You create in the reader's mind a strong impressionthat Mrs. McGinnis is thoroughly dead. And yet, over here in thetwenty-second chapter, you make a man named Thompson fall in love withher, and she is married to him, and she goes skipping around throughthe rest of the story as lively as a grasshopper, and you all the timealluding to Thompson as her second husband. You see that kind of thingwon't do. It excites remark. Readers complain about it."

  "You don't say I did that? Well, now, do you know I was thinkingall the time that it was _Mr._ McGinnis that I buried in the firstchapter? I must have got them mixed up somehow."

  "And then," continued the major, "when you introduce the hero, youmention that he has but one arm, having lost the other in battle. Butin chapter twelve you run him through a saw-mill by an accident, andyou mention that he lost an arm there, too. And yet in the nineteenthchapter you say, 'Adolph rushed up to Mary, threw his arms about her,and clasped her to his bosom;' and then you go on to relate how he satdown at the piano in the soft moonlight and played one of Beethoven'ssonatas 'with sweet poetic fervor.' Now, the thing, you see, don'tdovetail. Adolph couldn't possibly throw his arms around Mary if onewas buried in the field of battle and the other was minced up in asaw-mill, and he couldn't clasp her to his bosom unless he threw alasso with his teeth and hauled her in by swallowing the slack of therope. As for the piano--well, you know as well as I do that an armlessman can't play a Beethoven sonata unless he knows how to perform onthe instrument with his nose, and in that case you insult the popularintelligence when you talk about 'sweet poetic fervor.' I have myfingers on the public pulse, and I know they won't stand it."

  "Well, well," said Stack, "I don't know how I ever came to--"

  "Let me direct your attention to another incendiary matter,"interrupted the major. "In the first love-scene between Adolphand--and--let me see--what's her name?--Mary--you say that 'her liquidblue eye rested softly upon him as he poured forth the story of hislove, and its azure was dimmed by a flood of happy tears.' Well, sir,about twenty pages farther on, where the villain insults her, youobserve that her black eyes flashed lightning at him and seemed toscorch him where he stood. Now, let me direct attention to the factthat if the girl's eyes were blue they couldn't be black; and if youmean to convey the impression that she had one blue eye and one blackeye, and that she only looked softly at Adolph out of the off eye,while the near eye roamed around, not doing anything in particular,why, she is too phenomenal for a novel, and only suitable for a placein the menagerie by the side of the curiosities. And then you say thatalthough her eye was liquid yet it scorched the villain. Peoplewon't put up with that kind of thing. It makes them delirious andmurderous."

  "Too bad!" said Stack. "I forgot what I'd said about her eyes when Iwrote that scene with the villain."

  "And here, in the twentieth chapter, you say that Magruder was stabbedwith a bowie-knife in the hands of the Spaniard, and in the nextchapter you give an account of the _post-mortem_ examination, and makethe doctors hunt for the bullet and find it embedded in his liver.Even patient readers can't remain calm under such circumstances. Theylose control of themselves."

  "It's unfortunate," said Stack.

  "Now, the way you manage the Browns in the story is also exasperating.First you represent Mrs. Brown as taking her twins around to church tobe christened. In the middle of the book you make Mrs. Brown lamentthat she never had any children, and you wind up the story by bringingin Mrs. Brown with her grandson in her arms just after having causedMr. Brown to state to the clergyman that the only child he ever haddied in his fourth year. Just think of the effect of such a thing onthe public mind! Why, this story would fill all the insane asylums inthe country."

  "Those Browns don't seem to be very definite, somehow," said Stack,thoughtfully.

  "Worst of all," said major, "in chapter thirty-one you make the loversresolve upon suicide, and you put them in a boat and drift them overNiagara Falls. Twelve chapters farther on you suddenly introduce themwalking in the twilight in a leafy lane, and although afterward shegoes into a nunnery and takes the black veil because he has beenkilled by pirates in the Spanish West Indies, in the next chapter tothe last you have a scene where she goes to a surprise-party at thePresbyterian minister's and finds him there making arrangements forthe wedding as if nothing had ever happened; and then, after youdisclose the fact that she was a boy in disguise, and not a woman atall, you marry them to each other, and represent the boy heroine asgiving her blessing to her daughter. Oh, it's awful--awful! It won'tdo. It really won't. You'd better go into some other kind of business,Mr. Stack."

  Then Stack took his manuscript and went home to fix it up so as tomake the story run together better. The _Patriot_ will not publish iteven if Stack reconstructs it.

  * * * * *

  Major Slott, like most other editors, is continually persecuted bybores, but recently he was the victim of a peculiarly dastardly attackfrom a person of this class. While he was sitting in the office of the_Patriot_,
writing an editorial about "Our Grinding Monopolies," hesuddenly became conscious of the presence of a fearful smell. Hestopped, snuffed the air two or three times, and at last lighted acigar to fumigate the room. Then he heard footsteps upon the stairs,and as they drew nearer the smell grew stronger. When it had reached adegree of intensity that caused the major to fear that it might breaksome of the furniture, there was a knock at the door. Then a manentered with a bundle under his arm, and as he did so the majorthought that he had never smelt such a fiendish smell in the wholecourse of his life. He held his nose; and when the man saw thegesture, he said,

  "I thought so; the usual effect. You hold it tight while I explain."

  "What hab you god id that buddle?" asked the major.

  "That, sir," said the man, "is Barker's Carbolic DisinfectingDoor-mat. I am Barker, and this is the mat. I invented it, and it's abig thing."

  "Is id thad thad smells so thudderig bad?" asked the major, with hisnostrils tightly shut.

  "Yes, sir; smells very strong, but it's a healthy smell. It'sinvigorating. It braces the system. I'll tell you--"

  "Gid oud with the blabed thig!" exclaimed the major.

  "I must tell you all about it first. I called to explain it to you.You see I've been investigating the causes of epidemic diseases. Somescientists think they are spread by molecules in the air; othersattribute them to gases generated in the sewers; others hold that theyare conveyed by contagion; but I--"

  "Aid you goig to tague thad idferdal thig away frob here?" asked themajor.

  "But I have discovered that these diseases are spread by the agency ofdoor-mats. Do you understand? Door-mats! And I'll explain to you howit's done. Here's a man who's been in a house where there's disease.He gets it on his boots. The leather is porous, and it becomessaturated. He goes to another house and wipes his boots on the mat.Now, every man who uses that mat must get some of the stuff on hisboots, and he spreads it over every other door-mat that he wipes themon. Now, don't he?"

  "Why dode you tague thad sbell frob udder by dose?"

  "Well, then, my idea is to construct a door-mat that will disinfectthose boots. I do it by saturating the mat with carbolic acid anddrying it gradually. I have one here prepared by my process. Shall Iunroll it?"

  "If you do, I'll blow your braids out!" shouted the major.

  "Oh, very well, then. Now, the objection to this beautiful inventionis that it possesses a very strong and positive odor."

  "I'll bed it does," said the major.

  THE CARBOLIC DOOR-MAT]

  "And as this is offensive to many persons, I give to each purchaser a'nose-guard,' which is to be worn upon the nose while in a house wherethe carbolic mat is placed. This nose-guard is filled with asubstance which completely neutralizes the smell, and it has only onedisadvantage. Now, what is that?"

  "Are you goig to quid and led me breathe, or are you goig to stay hereall day log?"

  "Have patience, now; I'm coming to the point. I say, what is that? Itis that the neutralizing substance in the nose-guard evaporates tooquickly. And how do I remedy that? I give to every man who buys a matand a nose-guard two bottles of 'neutralizer.' What it is composed ofis a secret. But the bottles are to be carried in the pocket, so as tobe ready for every emergency. The disadvantage of this plan consistsof the fact that the neutralizer is highly explosive, and if a manshould happen to sit down on a bottle of it in his coat-tail pocketsuddenly it might hist him through the roof. But see how beautiful myscheme is."

  "Oh, thudder add lightnig! aid you ever goig to quid?"

  "See how complete it is! By paying twenty dollars additional, everyman who takes a mat has his life protected in the Hopelessly MutualAccident Insurance Company, so that it really makes no greatdifference whether he is busted through the shingles or not. Now, doesit?"

  "Oh, dode ask me. I dode care a ced about id, adyway."

  "Well, then, what I want you to do is to give me a first-rate noticein your paper, describing the invention, giving the public somegeneral notion of its merits and recommending its adoption intogeneral use. You give me a half-column puff, and I'll make the thingsquare by leaving you one of the mats, with a couple of bottles of theneutralizer and a nose-guard. I'll leave them now."

  "Whad d'you say?"

  "I say I'll just leave you a mat and the other fixings for you to lookover at your leisure."

  "You biserable scoundrel, if you lay wod ob those blasted thigs dowdhere, I'll burder you od the spod! I wod stad such foolishness."

  "Won't you notice it, either?"

  "Certaidly nod. I woulded do id for ten thousad dollars a lide."

  "Well, then, let it alone; and I hope one of those epidemic diseaseswill get you and lay you up for life."

  As Mr. Barker withdrew, Major Slott threw up the windows, and aftercatching his breath, he called down stairs to a reporter,

  "Perkins, follow that man and hear what he's got to say, and thenblast him in a column of the awfulest vituperation you know how towrite."

  Perkins obeyed orders, and now Barker has a libel suit pending against_The Patriot_, while the carbolic mat has not yet been introduced tothis market.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Barker was not a more agreeable visitor than the book-canvasserwho, upon the same day, circulated about the village. He came intomy office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table,removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchiefthat had been so long out of wash that it was positively gloomy, hesaid,

  "Mister, I'm canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; splendidwork; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece. Contains pictures of allthe great American heroes from the earliest times to the present day.Everybody's subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't take yourname.

  "Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book andpointing to an engraving. "That's--lemme see--yes, that's Columbus.Perhaps you've heard sumfin about him? The publisher was telling meto-day, before I started out, that he discovered--No; was it Columbusthat dis--Oh yes! Columbus, he discovered America. Was the first manhere. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire,and he stayed on deck because his father told him to, if I rememberright; and when the old thing busted to pieces, he was killed.Handsome picture, ain't it? Taken from a photograph; all of 'em are;done specially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd, but they saythat's the way they dressed in those days.

  "Look here at this one. Now, isn't that splendid? William Penn; oneof the early settlers. I was reading the other day about him; whenhe first arrived, he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and when they'dshook some apples down, he set one on top of his son's head and shotan arrow plumb through it, and never fazed him. They say it struckthem Indians cold, he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance,hasn't he? Face shaved clean; he didn't wear a mustache, I believe,but he seems to've let himself out on hair. Now, my view is that everyman ought to have a picture of that patriarch, so's to see how thefirst settlers looked and what kind of weskits they used to wear. Seehis legs, too! Trousers a little short, maybe, as if he was going towade in a creek; but he's all there. Got some kind of a paper in hishand, I see. Subscription list, I reckon.

  "Now, how does _that_ strike you? There's something nice. That,I think, is--is--that is--a--a--yes, to be sure, Washington. Yourecollect him, of course. Some people call him 'Father of hisCountry,' George Washington. Had no middle name, I believe. He livedabout two hundred years ago, and he was a fighter. I heard thepublisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yerat Trenton, and seems to me, if I recollect right, I've read about itmyself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he usedto swim over at nights to see her, when the old man was asleep. Thegirl's family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like the man to dothat, now, don't he? He's got it in his eye. If it'd been me, I'd agone over on the bridge, but he probably wanted to show off beforeher; some men are so reckless. Now, if you'll go in on this thing,I'll get
the publisher to write out some more stories about him, andbring 'em around to you, so's you can study up on him. I know hedid ever so many other things, but I've forgot 'em; my memory's sothundering poor.

  "Less see; who have we next? Ah, Franklin! Benjamin Franklin. He wasone of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly whathe is celebrated for, but I believe it was flying a--oh, yes! flying akite, that's it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flyinga kite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while she was flickeringup in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off atree and hit him on the head, and then he discovered the attraction ofgravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn't it? Now, if you orme'd a been hit, it'd just a made us mad, like as not, and set usa-cussing. But men are so different. One man's meat's another man'spison. See what a double chin he's got. No beard on him, either,though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round face. Hehasn't got on a sword, and I reckon he was no soldier; fit some whenhe was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not aregular warrior. I ain't one myself, and I think all the better of himfor it.

  "Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith.Isn't that just gorgeous? See how she kneels over him and sticks outher hands while he lays on the ground and that big fellow with a clubtries to hammer him up. Talk about woman's love! There it is. Modocs,I believe. Anyway, some Indians out West there somewheres; and thepublisher tells me that Shacknasty, or whatever his name is, there,was going to bang old Smith over the head with that log of wood, andthis girl here, she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she brokeloose and jumped forward, and says to the man with the stick, 'Whydon't you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry; and if youkill him, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live,' or wordslike them; and so the man, he give it up, and both of them hunted up apreacher and were married, and lived happily ever afterward. Beautifulstory, ain't it? A good wife she made him, too, I bet, if she _was_ alittle copper-colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture?But Smith appears kinder sick. Evidently thinks his goose is cooked;and I don't wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such adiscouraging club.

  "And now we come to--to--ah--to Putnam--General Putnam. He fought inthe war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off hisguard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse, and then lickedthe horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but gopitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house,with General Putnam laying there nearly skeered to death. Leastways,the publisher said somehow that way, and I oncet read about it myself.But he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse and made a prettygood thing of it. What surprises me is he didn't break his neck;but maybe it was a mule, and they're pretty sure-footed, you know.Surprising what some of these men have gone through, ain't it?

  "Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father shookhands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in NewOrleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then, when the Ku-Kluxesgot after him, he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'emtill they couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got realmad. Hit straight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time.Andrew his first name was; and look how his hair stands up! And thenhere's John Adams and Daniel Boone and two or three pirates, and awhole lot more pictures, so you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme haveyour name, won't you?"

  "I believe not to-day."

  "What! won't go in on William Penn and Washington and Smith, and theother heroes?"

  "No."

  "Well, well! Hang me if I'd a-wasted so much information on you if I'da knowed you wouldn't subscribe. If every man was like you, it'd breakup the business."

  Then he wiped his nose and left. I hope he is doing better with thework than he did with me.