I
THE year had been, as everybody knows, a momentous and sinister year forthe masculine sex; marriages and births in the United States alone hadfallen off nearly eighty per cent.; the establishment of SuffragetteUnions in every city, town, and village of the country, their obedienceto the dictation of the Central National Female Franchise Federation; thefinancial distress of the florists, caterers, milliners and modistesincident to the almost total suspension of social functions throughoutthe great cities of the land, threatened eventually to paralyse thenation's business.
Clergymen were in a pitiable condition for lack of fees and teas; themarriage license bureau was open only Mondays and Saturdays; the socialcolumns of the newspapers were abolished. All over the Union young menwere finding time hanging heavy on their hands after business hoursbecause there was little to do now that every town had its FranchiseClubs magnificently fitted with every requisite that a rapidly advancingsex could possibly demand.
The pressure upon the men of the Republic was becoming tremendous; but,as everybody knows, they held out with a courage worthy, perhaps, of abetter cause, and women were still denied the franchise in the face ofimpending national disaster.
But the Central Federation of Amalgamated Females was to deliver a moredeadly blow at man than any yet attempted, a blow that for cruelty andaudacity remains unparalleled in the annals of that restless sex.
As everybody now knows, this terrible policy was to be inaugurated insecret; a trial was to be made of the idea in New York State; neitherthe state nor federal governments had the faintest suspicion of whatimpended; not a single newspaper had any inkling.
Even Augustus Melnor, owner and editor of that greatest of New York dailynewspapers, the _Morning Star_, continued to pay overwhelming attentionto his personal appearance, confident that the great feminine revolt wason its last shapely legs, and that once more womankind would be kind toany kind of mankind, and flirt and frivol and marry, and provide progeny,and rock the cradle as in the good old days of yore.
So it happened one raw, windy day in May, Mr. Melnor entered his privateoffice in the huge _Morning Star_ building, in an unusually cheerfulframe of mind and sent for the city editor, Mr. Trinkle.
"An exceedingly pretty girl smiled at me on my way down town, Trinkle,"he said exultantly. "That begins to look as though the backbone of thissuffragette strike was broken. What?"
"You've got a dent in your derby; it may have been that," said Mr.Trinkle.
Mr. Melnor hastily removed his hat and punched out the dent.
"I'm not so sure it was that," he said, flushing up.
Mr. Trinkle gazed gloomily out of the window.
For an hour they talked business; then Mr. Melnor was ready to go.
"How are my nephews getting on?" he asked.
"Something rotten," replied Mr. Trinkle truthfully.
"What's the matter with 'em?"
"Everything--except a talent for business."
"You mean to say they exhibit no aptitude?"
"Not the slightest."
Mr. Melnor seized his overcoat from the hook.
Mr. Trinkle offered to hold it for him. The offer irritated the wealthyowner of the _Star_, who suspected that the city editor meant to intimatethat he, Mr. Melnor, was too old to get into his own overcoat withoutassistance.
"Never mind!" he said ungratefully. He fussed at the carnation in hisbuttonhole, picked up his doggy walking stick, glanced over his carefullypressed trousers and light coloured spats, strolled across to the mirror,and leisurely drew on his new gloves.
"Mr. Trinkle," he began more complacently, "what I want you to alwaysbear in mind is that my pup nephews require a thorough grilling! I wantyou to bully 'em! Suppress 'em! Squelch, nag, worry, sit on 'em!"
"I have," said the city editor with satisfaction. "They loathe me."
"Do it some more, then! I won't permit any nepotism in this office! Ifyou don't keep after 'em they'll turn into little beastly journalistsinstead of into decent, self-respecting newspaper men! Have either of mynephews attempted to write any more poetry for the Saturday supplement?"
"Young Sayre got away with some verses."
"Wha' d'ye do with 'em?" growled Mr. Melnor.
"Printed 'em."
"_Printed_ them! Are--you--craz-y?"
"Don't worry. Sayre got no signature out of me."
"But _why_ did you print?"
"Because those verses were too devilish good to lose. You must have readthem. It was that poem _Amourette_."
"Did _he_ do _that_?"
"Yes; and the entire sentimental press of the country is now copying itwithout credit."
"My nephew wrote _Amourette_?" repeated Mr. Melnor with mingled emotions.
"He sure did. That poem seemed to deal a direct blow at this suffragettestrike. Several women subscribers sent in mash notes. I had a mind totake advantage of one or two myself."
Pride and duty contended in the breast of Augustus Melnor; duty won.
"That's what I told you!" he snapped; "those pups will begin to write forthe magazines if you don't look out!"
"Well _I_ tell _you_ that they've no nose for news--no real instinct--andthey might as well write for the backs of the magazines."
"They've got to acquire news instinct! Bang it into 'em, Trinkle! Rubtheir noses in it! I'll have those pups understand that if ever theyexpect to see any inheritance from me they'll have to prepare themselvesto step into my shoes! They'll have to know the whole business--fromwindow-washer to desk!--and they've got to like it, too--every bit of it!You keep 'em at it if it kills 'em, Trinkle. Understand?"
"It'll kill more than those gifted young literary gentlemen," saidTrinkle darkly.
"What do you mean by that?"
"It will kill a few dozen good stories. We're going to murder a big onenow. But it's your funeral."
"That Adirondack story?"
"Exactly. It's as good as dead."
"Trinkle! Listen to me. How are we going to make men of those pups if wedon't rouse their pride? I tell you a man grows to meet the opportunity.The bigger the opportunity the bigger he grows--or he blows up! Put thoseboys up against the biggest job of the year and it's worth five years'liberal education to them. That's my policy. Isn't it a good one?"
Mr. Trinkle said: "It's your paper. _I_ don't give a damn."
Mr. Melnor glared at him.
"You do what I tell you," he growled. "You start in and slam 'em aroundthe way they say Belasco slammed Leslie Carter! I'll have no nepotismhere!"
He went out by a private entrance, walking with the jaunty energy thatcharacterised him. Mr. Trinkle looked after him. "Talk of nepotism!" hemuttered, then struck the desk savagely.
To the overzealous young man who came in with an exuberant step hesnarled:
"Showemin! And don't you go volplaning around this office or I'll destroyyou!"
A moment afterward the youthful nephews of the great Mr. Melnor appeared.They closed and locked the door behind them as they were tersely bidden,then stood in a row, politely and attentively receptive--well-bred,pleasant-faced, expensive-looking young fellows, typical of themetropolis. Mr. Trinkle eyed them with disfavour.
"So at last you're ready to start, eh?" he rasped out. "I thought perhapsyou'd gone to Newport for the summer to think it over. You are ready, areyou not?"
"Yes, sir, we hope to----"
"Well, dammit! 'yes' is enough! Cut out the 'we hope to'! And try not tolook at me patiently, Mr. Sayre. I don't want anybody to be patient withme. I dislike it. I prefer to incite impatience in people. Impatience isa form of energy. I like energy! Energy is important in this business.The main thing is to get a move on; and then, first you know, you'llbegin to hustle. Try it for a change."
He continued to inspect them gloomily for a few moments; then:
"To successfully cover this story," he continued, "you both _ought_ to beexpert woodsmen, thoroughly inured to hardship, conversant with woodcraftand nature. Are you?"
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p; "We've been reading up," began Langdon confidently; "we have a dozenpocket volumes to take into the woods with us."
"Haven't I already warned you that every ounce of superfluous luggagewill weigh a ton in the woods?" interrupted the city editor scornfully."Are you two youthful guys under the impression that you can strollthrough the wilderness loaded down with a five-foot shelf of assortedjunk?"
"Sayre arranged that," said Langdon. "He has invented a wonderfulsystem, Mr. Trinkle. You know that thin, white stuff, which resemblessheets of paper, that they give goldfish to eat. Well, Sayre and I tastedit; and it wasn't very bad; so we had them make up twelve thousand sheetsof it, flavoured with vanilla, and then we got Dribble & Co., thepublishers, to print one set of their Nature Library on the sheets andbind 'em up in edible cassava covers. As soon as we thoroughly master avolume we can masticate it, pages, binding, everything. William, show Mr.Trinkle your note-book," he added, turning to Sayre, who hastily produceda pad and displayed it with pardonable pride.
"Made entirely of fish food, sugar, pemmican, and cassava," he saidmodestly. "Takes pencil, ink, stylograph, indelible pencil, crayon,chalk--"
The city editor regarded the two young men and then the edible pad inamazement.
"What?" he barked. "Say it again!"
"It's made of perfectly good fish-wafer, Mr. Trinkle. We had it analysedby Professor Smawl, and he says it is mildly nutritious. So we addedother ingredients----"
"You mean to say that this pad is fit to eat?"
"Certainly," said Langdon. "Bite into it, William, and show him."
Sayre bit out a page from the pad and began to masticate it. The cityeditor regarded him with intense hostility.
"Oh, very well," he said. "I haven't any further suggestions to offer.Your uncle has picked you for the job. But it's my private opinion thathere is where you make good or hunt another outlet for your genius--evenif your uncle does own the _Star_."
Then he rose and laid his hands on their shoulders:
"It's a wild and desolate region," he said, with an irony they did notimmediately perceive; "nothing but woods and rocks and air and earth andmountains and madly rushing torrents and weird, silent lakes--nothing buttrails, macadam roads, and sign-posts and hotels and camps and tourists,and telephones. If you find yourself in any very terrible solitudes,abandon everything and make for the nearest fashionable five-dollar-a-dayigloo. It may be almost a mile away, but try to reach it, and God blessyou."
As the dawning suspicion that they were being trifled with became anembarrassed certainty, the city editor's grim visage cracked into agrimmer grin.
"_I_ don't think that you young gentlemen are cut out for a newspapercareer, but _you_ do, and others higher up say to let you try it. Soyou're going in to find at least one of those four men, dead or alive.The police haven't been able to find them, but you will, of course. Thegame-wardens, fire-wardens, guides, constables, farmers, lumbermen,sheriffs, can't discover hair or hide of them; but no doubt you can. Thewild and dismal state forest is now full of detectives, amateur andprofessional; it's full of hotel keepers, trout fishermen, and privatecamps which are provided with elevators, electric light, squash courts,modern plumbing, and footmen in knee-breeches; and all of these dinkyginks are hunting for four young and wealthy men who have, at regularintervals of one week each, suddenly and completely disappeared from theface of nature and the awful solitudes of the Adirondacks. I take it forgranted that you have the necessary data concerning their several andrespective vanishings?"
"Yes, sir," said Langdon, who was becoming redder and redder under thebland flow of the Desk's irony.
"Suppose you run over the main points before you dash recklessly out intothe woods via Broadway."
"William," said Langdon with boyish dignity, "would you be kind enough torun over your notes for Mr. Trinkle?"
"It will afford me much pleasure to do so," replied Sayre, also very redand dignified.
Out of his pocket he drew what appeared to be an attenuated ham sandwich.Opening it with a slight smile of triumph, as Mr. Trinkle's eyesprotruded, he turned a page of fish-wafer paper and read aloud thepencilled memoranda:
"May 1st, 1910.
"Reginald Willett, a wealthy amateur, author of _Rough LifePhotography_, _Snapshots at Trees_, _Hunting the Wild Bat with theCamera_, etc., etc., left his summer camp on the Gilded Dome, takingwith him his kodak for the purpose of securing photographs of the wilderflowers of the wilderness.
"He never returned. His butler and second man discovered his camera inthe trail.
"No other trace of him has yet been discovered. He was young, well built,handsome, and in excellent physical condition."
Sayre turned the page outward so that Mr. Trinkle could see it.
"Here's his photograph," he said, "and his dimensions."
Mr. Trinkle nodded: "Go on," he said; and Sayre resumed, turning thepage:
"May 8th: James Carrick, a minor poet, young, well built, handsome, andin excellent physical condition, disappeared from a boat on Dingman'sPond. The boat was found. It contained a note-book in which was neatlywritten the following graceful poem:
"While gliding o'er thy fair expanse And gazing at the shore beyond, What simple joys the soul entrance Evoked by rowing on Dingman's Pond. The joy I here have found shall be Dear to my heart till life forsake, And often shall I think of thee, Thou mildly beauteous Dingman's Lake."
"Stop!" said Mr. Trinkle, infuriated. Sayre looked up.
"The poem gets the hook!" he snarled. "Go on!"
"The next," continued young Sayre, referring to his edible note-book, "isthe case of De Lancy Smith. On May 16th he left his camp, taking with himhis rod with the intention of trying for some of the larger, wilder, andmore dangerous trout which it is feared still infest the remoter streamsof the State forest.
"His luncheon, consisting of truffled pates and champagne, was found by asearching party, but De Lancy Smith has never again been seen or heardof. He was young, well built, handsome, and----"
"In excellent physical condition!" snapped Mr. Trinkle. "That's the thirdAdonis you've described. Quit it!"
"But that is the exact description of those three young men----"
"Every one of 'em?"
"Every one. They all seem to have been exceptionally handsome andhealthy."
"Well, does that suggest any clue to you? Think! Use your mind. Do yousee any clue?"
"In what?"
"In the probably similar fate of so much masculine beauty?"
The young men looked at him, perplexed, silent.
Mr. Trinkle waved his hands in desperation.
"Wake up!" he shouted. "Doesn't it strike you as odd that every one ofthem so far has been Gibsonian perfection itself? Doesn't that seemfunny? Doesn't it suggest some connection with the present Franchisestrike?"
"It _is_ odd," said Langdon, thoughtfully.
"You notice," bellowed Mr. Trinkle, "that no young mandisappears who isn't a physical Adonis, do you? No thin-shanked,stoop-shouldered, scant-haired highbrow has yet vanished. You noticethat, don't you, Sayre? Open your mouth and speak! Say anything! Say pip!if you like--only say _something_!"
The young man nodded, bewildered, and his mouth remained open.
"All right, all right--as long as you _do_ notice it," yelled the cityeditor, "it looks safe for you; I guess _you_ both will come back, allright--in case any of these suffragettes have become desperate and havestarted kidnapping operations."
Langdon was rather thin; he glanced sideways at Sayre, who wore glassesand whose locks were prematurely scant.
"Go on, William," he said, with a crisp precision of diction whichbetrayed irritation and Harvard.
Sayre examined his notes, and presently read from them:
"The fourth and last victim of the Adirondack wilderness disappeared veryrecently--May 24th. His name was Alphonso W. Green, a wealthy amateurartist. When last seen he was followed by his valet, who carried a whiteumbrella, a folding s
tool, a box of colours, and several canvases. Afterluncheon the valet went back to the Gilded Dome Hotel to fetch somecigarettes. When he returned to where he had left his master painting apicture of something, which he thinks was a tree, but which may have beencows in bathing, Mr. Green had vanished. . . . Hum--hum!--ahem! He wasyoung, well built, handsome, and----"
"Kill it!" thundered the city editor, purple with passion.
"But it's the official descrip----"
"I don't believe it! I won't! I can't! How the devil can a whole bunch ofperfect Apollos disappear that way? There are not four such men in thisState, anyway--outside of fiction and the stage----"
"I'm only reading you the official----"
Mr. Trinkle gulped; the chewing muscles worked in his cheeks, thencalmness came, and his low and anxiously lined brow cleared.
"All right," he said. "Show me, that's all I ask. Go ahead and find justone of these disappearing Apollos. That's all I ask."
He shook an inky finger at them impressively, timing its wagging to hisparting admonition:
"We want two things, do you understand? We want a story, and we want toprint it before any other paper. Never mind reporting progress and thenatural scenery; never mind telegraphing the condition of the localcolour or the dialect of northern New York, or your adventures withnature, or how you went up against big game, or any other kind of game. Idon't want to hear from you until you've got something to say. All you'reto do is to prowl and mouse and slink and lurk and hunt and snoop andexplore those woods until you find one or more of these Adonises; andthen get the story to us by chain-lightning, if," he added indifferently,"it breaks both your silly necks to do it."
They passed out with calm dignity, saying "Good-bye, sir," in haughtilymodulated voices.
As they closed the door they heard him grunt a parting injury.
"What an animal!" observed Sayre. "If it wasn't for the glory of being onthe _N. Y. Star_----"
"Sure," said Langdon, "it's a great paper; besides, we've got to--if wewant to remain next to Uncle Augustus."
It _was_ a great newspaper; for ethical authority its editorials mightbe compared only to the _Herald's_; for disinterested principle the _Sun_alone could compare with it; it had all the lively enterprise and virile,restless energy of the _Tribune_; all the gay, inconsequent, and frothysparkle of the _Evening Post_; all the risky popularity of the _Outlook_.It was a very, very great New York daily. What on earth has become of it!