SERVING TWO MASTERS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XI, Issue 46, 18 November 1893, Page 425

SERVING TWO MASTERS.

A Journalistic Story. SERILY. what induced me to establish the Weekly Herald at Calabash City is more than I can say. No one invited me to come, welcomed me when I arrived, or expressed a wish to have me stay. The place had no newspaper, it is true, but it seemed to need none. Most of the population were silver miners, who were so much underground as to be little interested in affairs on the surface. Again, a large part of the inhabitants could not read ; another large part did not want to, and a majoiity of the remainder objected to paying for the privilege. Subscribers being so few, you may imagine that advertisers were not very plenty. Those I secured insisted on paying wholly in goods that were never of use to me. One advertiser was a saloon-keeper—l never drank. Another was a tobacconist—l did not smoke. A third was a harness maker—l had no horse. A fourth dealt in gunpowder, rend-rock, dynamite, and other explosives—while I never blew up anything or anybody in my life excepting figuratively. Nevertheless I managed to live, or at all events, 1 did not die. At the end of the first year I had four hundred and eighty six subscribers, two hundred and ten of whom remained such because I never attempted to collect their hills. A few paid for Eastern advertisements and some job printing enabled me to keep my head above water as a general thing. For the rest of the time I had to hold my breath.

At last I reached such prosperity that, after paying off

my one journeyman on Saturday night, I occasionally found a dollar or two left for myself. Just at this time an opposition paper was set up. ‘ The Calabash City Spy, George Rowe, editor and proprietor,' appeared in all the glory of second hand type—mine was third-hand—and a grade of paper somewhat resembling real ‘ news ’ —mine did not resemble it at all. The .$/>?/ had a brand-new vignette head, representing the town as seen from Gringo Mountain. This utterly eclipsed my worn-out woodcut of the Goddess of Liberty sitting on a large cog wheel surrounded by ploughs, anchors and steamengines. She held a book in one hand, and in the other a wheat-sheaf which looked so much like a birch-rod that it gave her the air of an old fashioned schoolma'ani holding a session in a machine-shop. Rowe was a good-looking, bright, active, well educated young fellow, with whom I should certainly have been friendly under different circumstances; but this was now quite impossible. Aside from business rivalry, it is a part of the business of country editors to be irreconcilable foes in order to satisfy the public’s demand for excitement. How we did quarrel ! We quarreled about politics,— though we belonged to the same party—about law, religion, and medicine, about the amount of silver to the ton in the last clean-up at the Muchacho Mine, about the distance of the earth from the sun, and the distance of Juan Moreno's ranch from the town plaza—about all things terrestrial, subterranean and subterrene. By practice we grew so expert that I really believe we could have carried on a lively discussion about the four rules of arithmetic.

When this war bad gone on for several months, I detected a falling off in the vigour of the Spy It was as truculent as ever, but written with a certain iangour which seemed to show that Rowe was losing courage. This, of course, inspired me to renewed efforts, and I began to hope that I should drive the foe off the field.

One publication day 1 sat down early to do up the customary batch of ‘scattering exposures ' and • unanswerable arraignments' of the Spy, when Bud Haskins, my editorial assistant, compositor, job printer, mailing clerk and man-of-all-work, came in, beaming with joy. ‘ Got some good news for you, Mr Warren !’ said he, grinning. ‘ ’Cordin’ to the way it looks now, there won’t be no Spy this week—p’r’aps not nex’ week — p’r’aps never.’ ‘ How's that?’ I inquired, much pleased. ‘ Rowe's sick abed—fever or sunthin'. He can’t do a stroke of work, ’n’ that feller McKay he has with him aint of no gieat use. No Spy this week, I tell you.' He triumphantly slammed the door, and retired to begin his day’s work. For a moment, mean as the emotion was, I felt glad. If Rowe missed an issue or two he would lose the ground he had gained, and probably have to give up altogether. Then I should be left with the whole field to myself. Yes, I actually felt glad. ‘ I'm going out for a few minutes, Bud !’ I called to Haskins. ‘Goin’ far?' he asked, eyeing me with an exceedingly penetrating scrutiny. ‘ Oh, no, just up-street a bit,' I answered, embarrassed. My reception at the Spy office was chilling. As I entered the dingy, pine-boarded room, McKay, a big, stupid looking man, stared, and then sidled toward a mallet on the composing-stone. ‘ I want to see Mr Rowe,’ said I. * He’s in bed upstairs? growled McKay, lifting the mallet. ‘ He’s too sick to fight to-day. ’ ‘ Nobody wants to light,’ said I, laughing. * I came to see if I could do anything for him.' ‘ You don’t want to fight him ?’ ‘No.’ ‘ You don’t want to fight me ?’ ‘ Not a bit of it.’ McKay’s astonishment took away his power of speech. He motioned towards the stairs and stood gazing after me without any expression, rubbing the side of Iris head with the mallet as if to stimulate his paralyzed brain. On a camp bed in the attic lay Rowe, flushed, breathing with difficulty, and rolling his head irritably about the coarse pillow. He seemed a combative person. It took some little time to convince him that my intentions were friendly, but when he became assured of this he met me with the manliest frankness. ‘You’re a good fellow, Warren ?’ he exclaimed, seizing my hand. • I've been a fool ’ • No more than I.’

• Well, then, we’ve been a pair of fools. If ever 1 come

out of this we’ll be a pair of friends instead ; but— ’ He broke off with a groan. ‘ Come, come !’ said I, ‘ you aren’t going to die. You'll be well in a week or two.’ ‘ I know that, but the paper—the paper ! I can’t do a solitary thing, and McKay alone won’t get the matter up in a week. Then there should be two columns of editorial at least, after the Herald— ’ He again broke off in confusion. I finished his sentence. ‘ After the Herald comes out. Right enough. Now, let's see how we can arrange it. I can do your part of the composition to-day, and finish up my own to night. If we’re both a day late it won’t make much difference. 11l begin setting at once.’ Hurrying downstairs to escape Rowe’s thanks, I came upon a spectacle which took my breath away. Standing at a case, sleeves rolled up and thoroughly at home, clicking the type into his stick at a great rate, was Bud Haskins !’ ‘ Hullo !’ said he, looking around. ‘ How's your ed’tor, publisher, ’n propri'tor to-day ? Fin’ him pretty comf’t’ble ?’ ‘ How on earth did you get here ?’ demanded I. ‘ Same way you did. Got to thinkin’—that’s all.’ He turned round to the case again, winking hard, as if something had got into his eyes. McKay, positively smiling, came over from his place to shake hands with Bud, and I rushed back to Rowe full of delight. ‘ Hurrah ! The.S/"/’ll be on time to-morrow !’ I exulted. ‘ Bud can set type three times as fast as I can, and do it cleaner, too. Now. about the editorials.' ‘ No use talking of them,' said Rowe, despondingly. * But there is. I've got a scheme.'

Ina few momenta I was scribbling away on an improvised desk by the bedside almost as fast as Bud was setting the type below. Scratch, scratch—think an instant—scratch, scratch again—think once more—and so on until a pile of ‘ copy ’ had accumulated. Then I was ready to read. This was the beginning: A FATAL FALSEHOOD ! Our bv no means courteous and not in the least esteemed contemporary, the Spy, which is at once a disgrace to American journalism, a libel upon the name of newspaper, and a blot upon the fair city in which it is as yet still scornfully suffered to drag out an existence noxious to others and of no value to itself, etc., etc. Rowe listened without saying a word. At the end he quietly remarked : ‘That's a powerful article, Warren.’ • Well, now, see how this one strikes you.’ And I began reading again : DESPICABLE DECEPTION! 1 ! We had hitherto supposed that the utmost imaginable depths of reckless, shameless, honourless, conscienceless mendacity had long ago been reached by that sheet unknown to fame, but intimately acmiainted with infamy, under the name of the HeraldRowe bounced up in bed. ‘What?’ he exclaimed. ‘ What’s that?’ • “ —intimately acquainted with infamy, under the name of the Herald," ’I re read calmly. * It’s the answer to my article, don’t you see ?’ •Do you mean to say you’re going to abuse yourself like that ?’ said he. 7 ‘ I mean to say that such a savage article as mine has got to be replied to a little more savagely, if possible.’ • But to do it yourself—’ ‘ Who will if 1 don’t? That’s what I’m here for. Bythe way, do you usually call me a “falsifier” or an “ ignoramus ?” ’ Rowe, by this time, had taken the humour of the situation into his fevered brain. He replied faintly : • I think you'd better call yourself “ falsifier ” first, and save up the “ignoramus” for use later on. Toward the last you might work in some reference to your general resemblance to a donkey, if you don’t mind.’ ‘ Mind ? Why, it’s the very point I want. I’ll say that the only thing in which I don't resemble a donkey is my utter incapacity for any useful employment. That’ll be sure to please your people, for a good many of them have told me so already.’ ‘ Suppose you attack me again,' suggested Rowe, when the article was finished. ‘There should be at least two sharp leaders in each paper. You might mention the probability of my being ridden out of town on a rail because the citizens can’t stand my continual lying any longer, and, for a finishing touch remark that it’s all I can do to pay my bills. That last'll be true enough, anyway,’ he added, smiling ruefully. ‘ It’s the same with me, my boy. Poor Bud hasn’t had a cent of wages for three weeks. Well, never mind. Let’s go on.’ Aided by Rowe’s suggestions I wrote until I had matter enough for four columns, two for each paper. There were a pair of outrageously abusive leaders for the Herald, a pair of outrageously abusive leaders for the Spy, about a dozen short paragraphs bristling with libels, several scathing communications from ‘lndignant Citizen,’ ‘Justice,’ ‘Taxpayer,’ and ‘ Fair Play,’ besides two strings of satirical verses which I chanced to hammer out. Bud Haskins and McKay, working first at one office, then at the other, got the precious stuff" into type, and then, with my assistance, made up the Herald and ran off the edition that night. Next morning our united forces did the same for the Spy. All thin was ten years ago. Calabash City is beginning to taunt Chicago with the certainty of being second to her in population, wealth and resources by ad. 1905 at latest. The Daily Spy Herald is one of the leading journals of the West. Rowe and I might call ourselves rich men—though we never do. We have always been the best of friends—- ‘ And always will be,’ interrupts my partner, who has been reading what I have written. ‘We wouldn’t dare be anything else after what we’ve said about each other —eh, old falsifier ?’ ‘ Never, old mendacity !’ I reply.