Romance Island | Page 3

symbol of this was his prodigious popularity with
those who had been his fellow-workers--a test beside which old-world
traditions of the urban touchstones are of secondary advantage. It was
deeply significant that in spite of the gulf which Chance had digged the
day-staff of the Sentinel, all save two or three of which were not of his
estate, had with flattering alacrity obeyed his summons to dine. But, as
he heard in the hall the voice of Chillingworth, the difficulty of his task
for the first time swept over him. It was Chillingworth who had
advocated to him the need of wooden type to suit his literary style and
who had long ordered and bullied him about; and how was he to play
the host to Chillingworth, not to speak of the others, with the news
between them of that million?
When the bell rang, St. George somewhat gruffly superseded Rollo.
"I'll go," he said briefly, "and keep out of sight for a few minutes. Get
in the bath-room or somewhere, will you?" he added nervously, and
opened the door.
At one stroke Chillingworth settled his own position by dominating the
situation as he dominated the city room. He chose the best chair and
told a good story and found fault with the way the fire burned, all with
immediate ease and abandon. Chillingworth's men loved to remember
that he had once carried copy. They also understood all the legitimate
devices by which he persuaded from them their best effort, yet these
devices never failed, and the city room agreed that Chillingworth's
fashion of giving an assignment to a new man would force him to write
a readable account of his own entertainment in the dark meadows.
Largely by personal magnetism he had fought his way upward, and this

quality was not less a social gift.
Mr. Toby Amory, who had been on the Eleven with St. George at
Harvard, looked along his pipe at his host and smiled, with flattering
content, his slow smile. Amory's father had lately had a conspicuous
quarter of an hour in Wall Street, as a result of which Amory, instead of
taking St. George to the cemetery at Clusium as he had talked, himself
drifted to Park Row; and although he now knew considerably less than
he had hoped about certain inscriptions, he was supporting himself and
two sisters by really brilliant work, so that the balance of his power was
creditably maintained. Surely the inscriptions did not suffer, and what
then was Amory that he should object? Presently Holt, the middle-aged
marine man, and Harding who, since he had lost a lightweight sparring
championship, was sporting editor, solemnly entered together and sat
down with the social caution of their class. So did Provin, the "elder
giant," who gathered news as he breathed and could not intelligibly put
six words together. Horace, who would listen to four lines over the
telephone and therefrom make a half-column of American newspaper
humour or American newspaper tears, came in roaring pacifically and
marshaling little Bud, that day in the seventh heaven of his first "beat."
Then followed Crass, the feature man, whose interviews were known to
the new men as literature, although he was not above publicly
admitting that he was not a reporter, but a special writer. Mr. Crass read
nothing in the paper that he had not written, and St. George had once
prophesied that in old age he would use his scrap-book for a manual of
devotions, as Klopstock used his Messiah. With him arrived Carbury,
the telegraph editor, and later Benfy, who had a carpet in his office and
wrote editorials and who came in evening clothes, thus moving
Harding and Holt to instant private conversation. The last to appear was
Little Cawthorne who wrote the fiction page and made enchanting
limericks about every one on the staff and went about singing one song
and behaving, the dramatic man flattered him, like a motif. Little
Cawthorne entered backward, wrestling with some wiry matter which,
when he had executed a manoeuvre and banged the door, was thrust
through the passage in the form of Bennie Todd, the head office boy,
affectionately known as Bennietod. Bennietod was in every one's secret,
clipped every one's space and knew every one's salary, and he had

lately covered a baseball game when the man whose copy he was to
carry had, outside the fence, become implicated in allurements. He was
greeted with noise, and St. George told him heartily that he was glad he
had come.
"He made me," defensively claimed Bennietod; frowning deferentially
at Little Cawthorne.
"Hello, St. George," said the latter, "come on back to the office. Crass
sits in your place and he wears cravats the colour of goblin's blood.
Come back."
"Not he," said Chillingworth, smoking;