A Question of Latitude

A Question of Latitude
by Richard Harding Davis
Of the school of earnest young writers at whom the word muckraker
had been thrown in opprobrium, and by whom it had been caught up as
a title of honor, Everett was among the younger and less conspicuous.
But, if in his skirmishes with graft and corruption he had failed to
correct the evils he attacked, from the contests he himself had always
emerged with credit. His sincerity and his methods were above
suspicion. No one had caught him in misstatement, or exaggeration.
Even those whom he attacked, admitted he fought fair. For these
reasons, the editors of magazines, with the fear of libel before their
eyes, regarded him as a "safe" man, the public, feeling that the evils he
exposed were due to its own indifference, with uncomfortable approval,
and those he attacked, with impotent anger. Their anger was impotent
because, in the case of Everett, the weapons used by their class in
"striking back" were denied them. They could not say that for money
he sold sensations, because it was known that a proud and wealthy
parent supplied him with all the money he wanted. Nor in his private
life could they find anything to offset his attacks upon the misconduct
of others. Men had been sent to spy upon him, and women to lay traps.
But the men reported that his evenings were spent at his club, and, from
the women, those who sent them learned only that Everett "treats a lady
just as though she IS a lady."
Accordingly, when, with much trumpeting, he departed to investigate
conditions in the Congo, there were some who rejoiced.
The standard of life to which Everett was accustomed was high. In his
home in Boston it had been set for him by a father and mother who,
though critics rather than workers in the world, had taught him to
despise what was mean and ungenerous, to write the truth and abhor a

compromise. At Harvard he had interested himself in municipal reform,
and when later he moved to New York, he transferred his interest to the
problems of that city. His attack upon Tammany Hall did not utterly
destroy that organization, but at once brought him to the notice of the
editors. By them he was invited to tilt his lance at evils in other parts of
the United States, at "systems," trusts, convict camps, municipal
misrule. His work had met with a measure of success that seemed to
justify Lowell's Weekly in sending him further afield, and he now was
on his way to tell the truth about the Congo. Personally, Everett was a
healthy, clean-minded enthusiast. He possessed all of the advantages of
youth, and all of its intolerance. He was supposed to be engaged to
Florence Carey, but he was not. There was, however, between them an
"understanding," which understanding, as Everett understood it, meant
that until she was ready to say, "I am ready," he was to think of her,
dream of her, write love-letters to her, and keep himself only for her.
He loved her very dearly, and, having no choice, was content to wait.
His content was fortunate, as Miss Carey seemed inclined to keep him
waiting indefinitely.
Except in Europe, Everett had never travelled outside the limits of his
own country. But the new land toward which he was advancing held no
terrors. As he understood it, the Congo was at the mercy of a corrupt
"ring." In every part of the United States he had found a city in the
clutch of a corrupt ring. The conditions would be the same, the methods
he would use to get at the truth would be the same, the result for reform
would be the same.
The English steamer on which he sailed for Southampton was one
leased by the Independent State of the Congo, and, with a few
exceptions, her passengers were subjects of King Leopold. On board,
the language was French, at table the men sat according to the rank
they held in the administration of the jungle, and each in his buttonhole
wore the tiny silver star that showed that for three years, to fill the
storehouses of the King of the Belgians, he had gathered rubber and
ivory. In the smoking-room Everett soon discovered that passengers not
in the service of that king, the English and German officers and traders,
held aloof from the Belgians. Their attitude toward them seemed to be

one partly of contempt, partly of pity.
"Are your English protectorates on the coast, then, so much better
administered?" Everett asked.
The English Coaster, who for ten years in Nigeria had escaped fever
and sudden death, laughed evasively.
"I have never been in the Congo," he said. "Only know what they tell