The Country Editor's Christmas.

Observer, 21 December 1893, Page 8

The Country Editor's Christmas.

was Christmas Eve. Night in Bungtown. Everybody seemed to be asleep except the unhappy editor of the Bungtown Weekly Slanibang. He was sitting all alone in his «H^m*w^i»^' sanctum, moodily studying how to get out another issue of his papsr. For the patent inside man had served notice on him that he should pander no longer to his inside until he squared up his back account, and he hadn't a penny. It was evident that he could have no further inside assistance until he was able to procure a little help from the outside. His only printer had left early in the week because his wages had not been forthcoming for two months, and even the printer's devil had gone away to hunt for another job. Office rent was in arrears, and his landlord had called to tell him that he must pay or move. His situation was bad enough to move anybody without further notice. As we said before, the editor was alone, but there was no money that he knew of that was likely to put itself in the same condition — nary a loan. The editor of the filamhanr/ looked around the barren little office and laughed a hollow luugh, for he hadn't known what a solid laugh or a square meal was for days. There was a small amount of printing material lying about, though it isn't necessary to tell who it had been lying about. Printing material will lie about almost anybody. The editor sighed as he looked at it, because he had an attachment for it. He hadn't the attachment for it that the sheriff had, however, and he knew it. There were editorials on the file that looked discouraged because no printer came along to set 'em up, and there was type on the standing galley that ought to have been allowed to sit down long ago. Everything went to show that the editor had reached the final ditch, and that the Slatubancf had slammed its last bang. But hark ! what sound is that ? It is a low and distant murmur oil the street at first, but it grows in volume as it advances. There are shouts and indistinct cries. Can it be the citizens of Bungtown coming in a body to subscribe for the Hhuiibanii, and thus save its editor from ruin. " If I only had a little, a very little capital," cried the editor bitterly, as he buried his face in his hands. No ; this is preposterous Democratic communities never do that. When they discover that the editor is in a pinch they stop their paper. The uproar grows louder and finally stops under his window. He listens and what do you suppose he hears '? " Down with the subsidised press !" " Down with the man who is gorged with the gold of the monopolists!" "Where is the pampered hireling of the capitalist power?" " Give us the editor of the squatter rings." The editor of the Slcunbaiuj thought he must be dreaming. He went to the window and looked out, and when the crowd caught sight of him they yelled, " There he is ! There is the rich and pampered editor ! Fetch him out!" Then they began to pound on the door, and some went for a log of wood to use as a battering-ram. "Tool of the capitalists, am I?" said the editor, bitterly. " That's what I call a capital joke. Here I am without a cent to jingle on an imposing stone, or type enough unencumbered to 'jeff for three drinks, and I am a slave of the capitalist power. Slave of the hand power rather," and he cast a rueful eye at an old hand-press on which he had been wont to work off his edition of two and one-half quires in his days of greatest prosperity. It was a little crowd of the 'orny 'anded, who had been listening to a speaker at one of the meetings denouncing the subsidised Press. They were excited to a high pitch — pitch and feathers you might almost say — and as there is but one newspaper printed in Bungtown they resolved to pay a visit and tell the editor what they thought of him, with the above result. "When a deputation from the enraged populace made its way into the editor's office to ask him if he wouldn't cut loose from the capitalists or take the consequences, they found the room deserted. The editor, overwhelmed by the cruel irony of the proceedings, had escaped through the back door and fled the town.