Tales of the City Room/The Love Affair of Chesterfield, Jr.
THE LOVE AFFAIR OF
CHESTERFIELD, JR.
THE LOVE AFFAIR OF CHESTERFIELD, JR.
EVERYBODY in "The Searchlight" editorial rooms felt that James Vance Cuthbertson was a distinct acquisition to the working force, but perhaps no one realized this quite so keenly as James Vance himself. In appearance he was not impressive. He was small for his age, and his age was but twelve. His light hair clung to his head in such relentlessly tight little curls that his facetious associates pointed to this strain on his scalp as the explanation of the frequent headaches from which he suffered. His round young face bore several large and obtrusive freckles, and his clothes were palpably a legacy from some one of more stalwart frame than himself. But his wide-open blue eyes were clear and honest, and the charm of his manner was recognized and commented upon even by the embittered visitors who awaited the editor's pleasure in the small anteroom over which James held sway.
At the little desk in this room the boy presided with a dignity far beyond his years. He listened with polite interest to the almost endless tales of woe poured into his ears by the motley throng of men and women with whom he came in contact. He made copious notes of alleged "news tips" brought in by excited citizens, and saw to it that these notes did not obstruct the desk of the city editor. With unfailing courtesy he stood between the staff and the bores that besieged the citadel wherein they worked. With genuine sympathy he received the subjects of "The Searchlight's" various charity funds and turned them over to the person who had such matters in charge. It was Colonel Everson, one of the leading editorial writers, who dubbed him "Chesterfield, Jr.," and the name was so appropriate that the entire staff adopted it on the instant and rechristened the boy with a bottle of ginger-ale and appropriate accessories.
From the anteroom in which young Chesterfield sat, doors led to the respective rooms of the managing editor, the city editor, the Sunday editor, and the editor of the humorous supplement. During the warm days of summer these doors were usually open, the slight figure of the youthful sentinel being regarded as a wholly sufficient barrier between visitors and their editorial goal. From his post the boy could see the members of the staff at their respective desks, as well as the easels at which the artists on the Sunday edition worked steadily. Directly in line with his glance was the easel of Miss Frances Neville, one of the cleverest artists on "The Searchlight." That young woman could be seen toiling industriously at it from ten o 'clock in the morning until six o clock at night.
Chesterfield approved of her from the moment he saw her. On that memorable occasion she had beamed on the new boy with one of the gay and débonnaire smiles which it was her wont to distribute impartially along her daily path. It had materially aided the youth to bear with dignity the mild "hazing" to which he was subjected by the other boys in the office during his first week.
Being wise beyond his years, Chesterfield mentioned to no one his admiration for "The Searchlight's" leading woman artist. He merely changed his theories regarding the ideal of feminine beauty, reconstructing them on the lines of the perfect realization daily resented to him. Thus, his sister, a "sales lady" in a Sixth Avenue shop, was surprised by an urgent request from her brother to wear her hair "parted down the middle and slicked on the sides," this being Chesterfield's description of Miss Neville's severely simple coiffure. His mother, a stout and matronly laundress of middle age, was startled by her precocious son's feverish desire to have her wear tailor-made gowns henceforth. He even brought her an assortment of collars and cuffs and a ready-made tie as a step in this direction, and was mildly surprised when the result was not an accurate copy of the graceful and elegant figure in "The Searchlight" office. A few rude jests at his expense checked Chesterfield's home missionary work, but in the office his eyes lingered more fondly than ever on the unconscious object of his soul's content. He attended to Miss Neville's few needs with a celerity that would have been startling in any other than Chesterfield. He listened with greedy ears to the praises of her work which found daily voice in "The Searchlight" editorial rooms. He experienced his greatest pleasure in turning his artless gaze upon her as he sat at his desk during occasional lulls in his professional duties. He read omnivorously during these restful intervals, and it was an interesting fact that the heroine was always the same—a tall and graceful young woman, in severely simple tailor-made attire, with dark brown hair and with eyes that regarded even small office-boys with kindly interest. The authors in vain obtruded their unworthier types: to Chesterfield there was but one Heroine possible in fiction.
From passive to active adoration was but a tiny step. He spent hours in writing notes to his inamorata, in which he poured out his youthful heart in misspelled words and marvellous English. He found much satisfaction in this, though he invariably destroyed the notes as soon as they were written. Then he conceived the plan of writing non-committal messages on office business, and this was happiness of a higher order. It put him and the Only One in quasi-intimate relations. Even if he said nothing but "The sitty editur would like to see you for a minit," could he not sign the note "Yours fathfuly, James Vance Cuthbertson"? He did this with unction, and Miss Neville read and laughed and forgot in the one moment.
Emboldened by the success of these efforts, Chesterfield made his next note a little more ambitious. This chef-d'œuvre read as fol lows:—
Deer Miss Neville, Miss Herrick seys to tell you she cudent wate and her and Mrs. Ogilvie went home.
Yours til deth,
James Vance Cuthbertson.
The success of this billet-doux was instantaneous. Within three hours it had made the rounds of "The Searchlight's" editorial rooms and Chesterfield found himself famous. He was effusively complimented on his literary style. But the largest drop of bliss in his overflowing cup was to see Miss Neville tuck the note away in her belt "to hold and to cherish," as he inferred, forevermore.
By the irony of fate, it was at this time, when his sky seemed clearest, that a thunder bolt struck Chesterfield. The rumor of Miss Neville's engagement to Davidson, of the city staff, had circulated freely in the city room several weeks before it reached the boy's ears. When it did, he sternly refused to believe that any such tragedy could come into his life. True, he had seen Davidson bending over Miss Neville's easel with more of interest than even her masterly art could seem to justify: but all the men on the paper did that more or less, and Chesterfield had rather gloried in such indirect tribute to his own most excellent taste. In the light of the uncanny suggestions, however, he watched the couple with a sharply appraising eye, and several glances that he saw pass between them wrung his very soul with suffering. For a day or two his amiability gave way under the shock, and visitors were startled by the transformation of Chesterfield into a grumpy youth who talked out of one side of his mouth in humble imitation of the city editor.
He was finally forced to acknowledge even to himself the truth of the report. Davidson's devotion to Miss Neville was unmistakable, and, moreover, that lady now wore on the third finger of her left hand a diamond ring that daily flashed its heartless message to Chesterfield's reluctant eyes. He knew the terrible significance of this, for only the previous week "The Searchlight's" authority on etiquette had devoted much space to the subject of engagements and the question of the ring. With the confirmation of his worst fears, Chesterfield pulled himself together like a man, resumed his wonted amiability, and proceeded to make the best of a life hopelessly wrecked at twelve. Even the news that Miss Neville had resigned her position on "The Searchlight" and was to be married in two months hardly added to the gloom and bitterness of existence.
He was not so distraught but that he took a warm interest in a conversation he overheard one afternoon between the Sunday editor and the editor of the humorous supplement. Chesterfield was in the office of the latter, looking over the files for the benefit of an indignant contributor who was certain his article had been printed and not paid for. The first words the boy overheard made him prick up his ears.
"I'm surprised to find that it's Davidson," the humorous editor was saying. "It's such a sneaking, low sort of performance. I did n't think he was capable of it. But here is proof enough to convict any man. This is a bundle of jokes he sent me, and here among them, like a snake in the grass, is a nasty little joke about the Chief, that he evidently wrote for 'The Funmaker.' Of course, it got among my stuff by mistake, and he 'll want to kick himself when he finds it out. See? It's on different paper from the others and typewritten. I suppose he was getting up a batch for 'The Funmaker' and this slipped out of that bundle into mine. It's a pretty bad slip for the young man."
"So Davidson's the fellow that's been doing that dirty work, is he?" said the Sunday editor. "Davidson, of all men! I did n't think he had it in him. Why, he must have been systematically ridiculing in 'The Funmaker,' for a year and a half, the Chief and the paper he has been writing for! If it had been good-natured stuff it would n't have counted for much, but lots of it is positively libellous. The Chief has been trying to find out the writer of these things for months. This joke is a particularly weak one, but it's strong enough to cut off Davidson's head."
"Of course," acquiesced the editor of the humorous supplement. He hesitated a moment. "He's going to be married next month, to Miss Neville, is n't he?" he added slowly.
"That's all right," said the Sunday editor, curtly. "We can't help that. I'm sorry for her, but we can't have a man around the shop who is doing the sneak act and libelling the Chief. Let 'The Funmaker' take him on. It would be as much as our own heads are worth to try and hush this up now. Davidson must go. That's all there is to it."
The conversation turned into other channels, and the boy, whom neither of the editors had noticed, returned to the irate contributor in the anteroom. He sent that individual away happy, with proofs of the auditor's carelessness, and returned to his desk to reflect on the conversation he had overheard. From his seat he could see Miss Neville's smooth hair and fine profile as she bent over her work. This was to be her last week at the office.
Chesterfield regarded her with gloom on his young brow. Of course if Davidson lost his position now they could not be married. Even if he secured another place immediately he would wish to assure himself of permanence there before taking a wife to support. Chesterfield pitied them both profoundly, for he could not see that the crime deserved that so heavy a punishment should be meted out to it. Everybody had laughed over "The Funmaker's" jokes about "The Searchlight"—even the office boys. Chesterfield had thought them very bright and had speculated with awe over the cleverness of the unknown writer. The boy had been inspired to write a few jokes himself and submit them to the good-natured editor of "The Searchlight's" humorous supplement. He recalled once more, with burning cheeks, the shouts of laughter with which that gentleman had read his efforts,—laughter, Chesterfield fully realized, not called forth by the point or caustic style of the jokes. The boy had borne no malice, but he had thenceforward retained his humorous productions in the private archives of his own desk, where they continued to increase in quantity if not in quality.
It was a pity to "fire" Davidson for doing such clever outside work, Chesterfield thought, especially when it would interfere with his marriage. They ought n't to do it—it was n't right. The evidence against Davidson was only circumstantial at best. A dutiful perusal of reports of murder trials had shown Chesterfield how much such evidence could be relied on. According to Kelly, the humorous editor, the very paper on which the offending paragraph was printed was different from that in Davidson's bundle of manuscript. It was written on the typewriter, too. Some one else might have written it. Some one else might say he had!
Chesterfield was interrupted in his reverie by a change in Miss Neville's position. She was beckoning to him. He was at her side in an instant, and as she glanced down at him he saw that her brown eyes looked dim and tired.
"I 've a headache, Chesterfield," she said, laying a hand lightly on her young knight's shoulder. "Will you go down to the chemist's and get this prescription filled for me? You need not wait—have them send it up. But pay for it, and keep the change." She slipped a silver dollar into his hand.
"You look tired, too," she added, with that beautiful sympathy only she could exhibit, as she turned again to her work. "I prescribe a glass of soda-water for you, to be taken before you come back."
Chesterfield retreated, his whole small frame one delicious glow. As he drank the soda-water reverently, while waiting for the prescription to be put up, his young heart swelled. She had rested her hand on his shoulder, she had noticed that he was tired, she was treating him to soda-water this very minute. Did ever a boy have such a divinity to worship? The question was an absolutely rhetorical one for Chesterfield. He returned to his desk and wrote her a note to accompany the prescription.
Dear Miss Neville,—The sody-water was very nice. I think it did me good. I hop your hed is beter.
Yours as ever,
Chesterfield.
"She 'll see that her being engaged don't make no difference in my feelings," he told himself. Then he pondered for a long time. Finally, as the outcome of his reflections, he betook himself to Mr. Kelly's office, with the inward sentiments of a youthful martyr approaching the stake.
The editor glanced up wearily from the jokes he was reading at the odd little figure which had halted at his desk.
"Who is it?" he asked, extending his hand to receive the card he supposed the boy had brought.
"It's just me," said Chesterfield, elegantly. "I—I—want to speak to you a minute."
"More jokes?" laughed the young man. He liked Chesterfield, as all the editors did. He noticed that the boy looked pale and frightened, and he spoke to him more pleasantly than ever.
"Anything wrong at home?" he asked.
"N—no, sir," said Chesterfield. "It's—it's about that joke I heard you and Mr. Marbury talking about, the one you thought Mr. Davidson wrote. I—I—did n't think there was any harm in it. Anyhow, I ain't goin' to let him shoulder it. I thought you knew my jokes," finished the boy, desperately. The thing was harder to do than he had imagined, and the embarrassment he had felt in the beginning developed into a nervous fear. His evident suffering as he wriggled uneasily under the cool gray eyes of the editor led that young man to consider his statement, startling though it was.
"Tell me all about it," said Mr. Kelly, briefly.
"I 've been writing jokes, you know," stammered the self-accusing culprit, "an' I thought one like 'The Funmaker' publishes would go if 'twas polished up." Chesterfield had heard this expression used freely around the office and he could n't resist introducing it at this point, where it seemed most appropriately telling. The editor turned his head hastily to conceal a smile, but the maker of jokes saw the telltale twitch of the lips and went on with reviving courage.
"I did n't dast to turn it in as mine," he continued, "'cos you laughed at my other ones so. If you come on it among some other things I thought maybe you'd say something about it without knowing it was mine. But after what I heard you say I had to come to you and tell you."
He stopped for breath. The editor looked at him keenly and then said with terrible impressiveness,—
"Well, James, you seem to have got yourself into a nice mess."
Chesterfield's heart sank. He did n't like the editor's tone, and in his darkest imaginings it had not occurred to him that he would be called "James" by the young man who had always been so kind to him. He looked up at Mr. Kelly with something in his eyes that touched that journalistic genius.
"I suppose, Chesterfield," he said more lightly, "that you claim to be the proud author of all 'The Funmaker's' jokes roasting The 'Searchlight.'"
"Oh, no, sir. 'Deed I don't," said Chesterfield, refuting this charge with vigor. "I would n't write them things against the paper. I did n't think this one was so—"
The words died on his lips. Coming through the door, with his most débonnaire air, was the luckless Davidson—here apparently to hopelessly tangle up again what had been so adroitly straightened out for him.
"Was my stuff all right, old man?" he asked Kelly, cheerily.
Kelly looked up with an apolegetic smile.
"Yes, it was," he said, "and we owe you an apology, Davidson. We found a nasty little joke about 'The Searchlight' on my desk and thought you had written it and all that 'Funmaker' stuff. Marbury was hot about it, and there was a heap of trouble ahead of you, when this little rat [indicating Chesterfield] comes and owns up to it because he heard us talking about it as yours. He slipped it into the stuff on my desk." He turned to the boy with sudden suspicion. "How did you get it typewritten?" he asked.
"Miss Smith lets me practise on her typewriter when she's out to lunch," said the boy, telling the truth promptly, "'cos I want to learn."
This Kelly knew to be true, for he had seen the boy manipulating the keys. It banished the editor's last doubt. In his quick glance toward the boy he had failed to see the slight flush on Davidson's face, and now as he turned his attention to him he also missed the warning glance Chesterfield shot at his successful rival in the affections of Miss Neville.
"Go back to your post, James," said Kelly, blandly. "We 'll attend to your case later."
Chesterfield went with a heavy heart. He was not especially cheered by the sight of Kelly and the Sunday editor in close converse half an hour later. He was in reality far from their thoughts, but the boy, though he had surprised even himself by his diplomacy, felt they were sealing his doom with promptness and despatch. He would be "fired," he told himself, drearily, and his hard-working mother in the little Staten Island home would miss the six dollars which he loyally handed over to her every Saturday night.
His gloom was not dispelled by the appearance of Davidson, who swung out of the office door, whistling a popular street air. He stopped as he reached the boy and clapped him on the shoulder. The anteroom was empty save for the two. The doors behind them were closed, and they were, for the moment, safe from observation.
"By Jove, that was a close call!" said Davidson, wiping his face and dropping his happy-go-lucky air. "Chesterfield, you 're a little trump! I don't know why the dickens you did this thing for me, but I'm awfully grateful to you. If they had found me out it would have been all up with John Davidson. I 'll make it up to you, somehow, and if they had 'fired' you, I would have found another place for you. But they won't—Kelly told me so. You 're too popular. I don't wonder at your popularity," he added, with some enthusiasm, "if this is the kind of thing you do."
Chesterfield twisted himself uneasily from beneath the caressing hand.
"You need n't bother about me," he said gruffly. He had been prevaricating to Mr. Kelly so freely that it was a relief not to disguise the truth now. He indicated with his finger the closed door between them and Miss Neville.
"I ain't done this thing for you," he said shortly. "I done it for her. If you'd got fired you could n't marry her—and she might have been disappointed."
"Yes," acquiesced Davidson, thoughtfully, "she might. I might have been disappointed, too, but I see you did n't let that thought influence you. Believe me, my boy," he added seriously, "I appreciate anything you do for Miss Neville much more than if you had done it for me. I hope you will let me thank you for us both."
He extended his hand, into which, after an instant's hesitation, Chesterfield gravely put his own small paw. Davidson looked at him with a peculiar expression in his handsome eyes.
"You 're a trump, Chesterfield!" he repeated feelingly.
He put his hands on the boy's shoulders, help him off at arm's length and looked him over.
"Chesterfield," he added thoughtfully, "I have observed that your clothes are not altogether suited to a young gentleman in your position. For example, you are wearing knee pants. If you 'll meet me at Swift and Prang's clothing store at half-past six to-night we 'll see what they can do to fit you out with clothes that are more suitable to your style. I think they should include trousers of the most correct and elegant cut."
Chesterfield, Jr., was a small boy whose views of life and conduct, when not exalted by the inspiration of the goddess of his youthful heart, Miss Neville, were eminently practical and clear-headed. He knew that he would not have undertaken the heroic rôle he had except for her. That Davidson should feel constrained to some return for the benefit he had incidentally derived from it was only a worthy sentiment on his part. But if Chesterfield accepted this largess of clothing it was still principally through thought of her. She would see him in the trousers!
"I 'll be there," he replied briefly.