Bab Bab 33 · Chapter XXXIII

. Chapter XXXIII

Martin was steadily losing his battle. Economize as he would, the

earnings from hack-work did not balance expenses. Thanksgiving found

him with his black suit in pawn and unable to accept the Morses’

invitation to dinner. Ruth was not made happy by his reason for not

coming, and the corresponding effect on him was one of desperation. He

told her that he would come, after all; that he would go over to San

Francisco, to the _Transcontinental_ office, collect the five dollars

due him, and with it redeem his suit of clothes.

In the morning he borrowed ten cents from Maria. He would have borrowed

it, by preference, from Brissenden, but that erratic individual had

disappeared. Two weeks had passed since Martin had seen him, and he

vainly cudgelled his brains for some cause of offence. The ten cents

carried Martin across the ferry to San Francisco, and as he walked up

Market Street he speculated upon his predicament in case he failed to

collect the money. There would then be no way for him to return to

Oakland, and he knew no one in San Francisco from whom to borrow

another ten cents.

The door to the _Transcontinental_ office was ajar, and Martin, in the

act of opening it, was brought to a sudden pause by a loud voice from

within, which exclaimed:- “But that is not the question, Mr. Ford.”

(Ford, Martin knew, from his correspondence, to be the editor’s name.)

“The question is, are you prepared to pay?—cash, and cash down, I mean?

I am not interested in the prospects of the _Transcontinental_ and what

you expect to make it next year. What I want is to be paid for what I

do. And I tell you, right now, the Christmas _Transcontinental_ don’t

go to press till I have the money in my hand. Good day. When you get

the money, come and see me.”

The door jerked open, and the man flung past Martin, with an angry

countenance and went down the corridor, muttering curses and clenching

his fists. Martin decided not to enter immediately, and lingered in the

hallways for a quarter of an hour. Then he shoved the door open and

walked in. It was a new experience, the first time he had been inside

an editorial office. Cards evidently were not necessary in that office,

for the boy carried word to an inner room that there was a man who

wanted to see Mr. Ford. Returning, the boy beckoned him from halfway

across the room and led him to the private office, the editorial

sanctum. Martin’s first impression was of the disorder and cluttered

confusion of the room. Next he noticed a bewhiskered, youthful-looking

man, sitting at a roll-top desk, who regarded him curiously. Martin

marvelled at the calm repose of his face. It was evident that the

squabble with the printer had not affected his equanimity.

“I—I am Martin Eden,” Martin began the conversation. (“And I want my

five dollars,” was what he would have liked to say.)

But this was his first editor, and under the circumstances he did not

desire to scare him too abruptly. To his surprise, Mr. Ford leaped into

the air with a “You don’t say so!” and the next moment, with both

hands, was shaking Martin’s hand effusively.

“Can’t say how glad I am to see you, Mr. Eden. Often wondered what you

were like.”

Here he held Martin off at arm’s length and ran his beaming eyes over

Martin’s second-best suit, which was also his worst suit, and which was

ragged and past repair, though the trousers showed the careful crease

he had put in with Maria’s flat-irons.

“I confess, though, I conceived you to be a much older man than you

are. Your story, you know, showed such breadth, and vigor, such

maturity and depth of thought. A masterpiece, that story—I knew it when

I had read the first half-dozen lines. Let me tell you how I first read

it. But no; first let me introduce you to the staff.”

Still talking, Mr. Ford led him into the general office, where he

introduced him to the associate editor, Mr. White, a slender, frail

little man whose hand seemed strangely cold, as if he were suffering

from a chill, and whose whiskers were sparse and silky.

“And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden. Mr. Ends is our business manager, you know.”

Martin found himself shaking hands with a cranky-eyed, bald-headed man,

whose face looked youthful enough from what little could be seen of it,

for most of it was covered by a snow-white beard, carefully trimmed—by

his wife, who did it on Sundays, at which times she also shaved the

back of his neck.

The three men surrounded Martin, all talking admiringly and at once,

until it seemed to him that they were talking against time for a wager.

“We often wondered why you didn’t call,” Mr. White was saying.

“I didn’t have the carfare, and I live across the Bay,” Martin answered

bluntly, with the idea of showing them his imperative need for the

money.

Surely, he thought to himself, my glad rags in themselves are eloquent

advertisement of my need. Time and again, whenever opportunity offered,

he hinted about the purpose of his business. But his admirers’ ears

were deaf. They sang his praises, told him what they had thought of his

story at first sight, what they subsequently thought, what their wives

and families thought; but not one hint did they breathe of intention to

pay him for it.

“Did I tell you how I first read your story?” Mr. Ford said. “Of course

I didn’t. I was coming west from New York, and when the train stopped

at Ogden, the train-boy on the new run brought aboard the current

number of the _Transcontinental_.”

My God! Martin thought; you can travel in a Pullman while I starve for

the paltry five dollars you owe me. A wave of anger rushed over him.

The wrong done him by the _Transcontinental_ loomed colossal, for

strong upon him were all the dreary months of vain yearning, of hunger

and privation, and his present hunger awoke and gnawed at him,

reminding him that he had eaten nothing since the day before, and

little enough then. For the moment he saw red. These creatures were not

even robbers. They were sneak-thieves. By lies and broken promises they

had tricked him out of his story. Well, he would show them. And a great

resolve surged into his will to the effect that he would not leave the

office until he got his money. He remembered, if he did not get it,

that there was no way for him to go back to Oakland. He controlled

himself with an effort, but not before the wolfish expression of his

face had awed and perturbed them.

They became more voluble than ever. Mr. Ford started anew to tell how

he had first read “The Ring of Bells,” and Mr. Ends at the same time

was striving to repeat his niece’s appreciation of “The Ring of Bells,”

said niece being a school-teacher in Alameda.

“I’ll tell you what I came for,” Martin said finally. “To be paid for

that story all of you like so well. Five dollars, I believe, is what

you promised me would be paid on publication.”

Mr. Ford, with an expression on his mobile features of mediate and

happy acquiescence, started to reach for his pocket, then turned

suddenly to Mr. Ends, and said that he had left his money home. That

Mr. Ends resented this, was patent; and Martin saw the twitch of his

arm as if to protect his trousers pocket. Martin knew that the money

was there.

“I am sorry,” said Mr. Ends, “but I paid the printer not an hour ago,

and he took my ready change. It was careless of me to be so short; but

the bill was not yet due, and the printer’s request, as a favor, to

make an immediate advance, was quite unexpected.”

Both men looked expectantly at Mr. White, but that gentleman laughed

and shrugged his shoulders. His conscience was clean at any rate. He

had come into the _Transcontinental_ to learn magazine-literature,

instead of which he had principally learned finance. The

_Transcontinental_ owed him four months’ salary, and he knew that the

printer must be appeased before the associate editor.

“It’s rather absurd, Mr. Eden, to have caught us in this shape,” Mr.

Ford preambled airily. “All carelessness, I assure you. But I’ll tell

you what we’ll do. We’ll mail you a check the first thing in the

morning. You have Mr. Eden’s address, haven’t you, Mr. Ends?”

Yes, Mr. Ends had the address, and the check would be mailed the first

thing in the morning. Martin’s knowledge of banks and checks was hazy,

but he could see no reason why they should not give him the check on

this day just as well as on the next.

“Then it is understood, Mr. Eden, that we’ll mail you the check

to-morrow?” Mr. Ford said.

“I need the money to-day,” Martin answered stolidly.

“The unfortunate circumstances—if you had chanced here any other day,”

Mr. Ford began suavely, only to be interrupted by Mr. Ends, whose

cranky eyes justified themselves in his shortness of temper.

“Mr. Ford has already explained the situation,” he said with asperity.

“And so have I. The check will be mailed—”

“I also have explained,” Martin broke in, “and I have explained that I

want the money to-day.”

He had felt his pulse quicken a trifle at the business manager’s

brusqueness, and upon him he kept an alert eye, for it was in that

gentleman’s trousers pocket that he divined the _Transcontinental’s_

ready cash was reposing.

“It is too bad—” Mr. Ford began.

But at that moment, with an impatient movement, Mr. Ends turned as if

about to leave the room. At the same instant Martin sprang for him,

clutching him by the throat with one hand in such fashion that Mr.

Ends’ snow-white beard, still maintaining its immaculate trimness,

pointed ceilingward at an angle of forty-five degrees. To the horror of

Mr. White and Mr. Ford, they saw their business manager shaken like an

Astrakhan rug.

“Dig up, you venerable discourager of rising young talent!” Martin

exhorted. “Dig up, or I’ll shake it out of you, even if it’s all in

nickels.” Then, to the two affrighted onlookers: “Keep away! If you

interfere, somebody’s liable to get hurt.”

Mr. Ends was choking, and it was not until the grip on his throat was

eased that he was able to signify his acquiescence in the digging-up

programme. All together, after repeated digs, its trousers pocket

yielded four dollars and fifteen cents.

“Inside out with it,” Martin commanded.

An additional ten cents fell out. Martin counted the result of his raid

a second time to make sure.

“You next!” he shouted at Mr. Ford. “I want seventy-five cents more.”

Mr. Ford did not wait, but ransacked his pockets, with the result of

sixty cents.

“Sure that is all?” Martin demanded menacingly, possessing himself of

it. “What have you got in your vest pockets?”

In token of his good faith, Mr. Ford turned two of his pockets inside

out. A strip of cardboard fell to the floor from one of them. He

recovered it and was in the act of returning it, when Martin cried:-

“What’s that?—A ferry ticket? Here, give it to me. It’s worth ten

cents. I’ll credit you with it. I’ve now got four dollars and

ninety-five cents, including the ticket. Five cents is still due me.”

He looked fiercely at Mr. White, and found that fragile creature in the

act of handing him a nickel.

“Thank you,” Martin said, addressing them collectively. “I wish you a

good day.”

“Robber!” Mr. Ends snarled after him.

“Sneak-thief!” Martin retorted, slamming the door as he passed out.

Martin was elated—so elated that when he recollected that _The Hornet_

owed him fifteen dollars for “The Peri and the Pearl,” he decided

forthwith to go and collect it. But _The Hornet_ was run by a set of

clean-shaven, strapping young men, frank buccaneers who robbed

everything and everybody, not excepting one another. After some

breakage of the office furniture, the editor (an ex-college athlete),

ably assisted by the business manager, an advertising agent, and the

porter, succeeded in removing Martin from the office and in

accelerating, by initial impulse, his descent of the first flight of

stairs.

“Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time,” they laughed down at

him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up.

“Phew!” he murmured back. “The _Transcontinental_ crowd were

nanny-goats, but you fellows are a lot of prize-fighters.”

More laughter greeted this.

“I must say, Mr. Eden,” the editor of _The Hornet_ called down, “that

for a poet you can go some yourself. Where did you learn that right

cross—if I may ask?”

“Where you learned that half-Nelson,” Martin answered. “Anyway, you’re

going to have a black eye.”

“I hope your neck doesn’t stiffen up,” the editor wished solicitously:

“What do you say we all go out and have a drink on it—not the neck, of

course, but the little rough-house?”

“I’ll go you if I lose,” Martin accepted.

And robbers and robbed drank together, amicably agreeing that the

battle was to the strong, and that the fifteen dollars for “The Peri

and the Pearl” belonged by right to _The Hornet’s_ editorial staff.