The Public Square

WHEN Dicky Cobden reached New York, he found that Pidge had been called to Los Angeles, because her father was ill. It was an evening in mid-January, 1919, and he went at once to his mother’s house in Fiftieth Street. The strain of waiting for his home-coming had been almost too much there. Grandfather had flickered out; his bed and chairs gaped and would not be comforted. Dicky went into the living arms, however, and found rest and gave it. His mother and aunt and sister livened up like plants, newly-watered. He was queerly astonished to learn that Pidge recently had called upon his people—“just a social call,” his mother said.

Outwardly things looked as hopeless as possible at The Public Square. From his latest retirement to his rooms for a change of luck, John Higgins had been taken to the hospital, instead of returning to his desk. It was a gray-faced old man that Dicky found in the early morning of his first full day at home, in a room that smelled of drugs. The face didn’t look at him squarely. The light hurt John Higgins’ eyes and made the features writhe. Dicky wanted to move around to the other side of the bed, so the face would be shaded, but his old friend was gripping him with both hands.

“We have been looking for you a long time, Dicky,” he kept saying.

It wasn’t the unshaven white stubble that changed the face so much as the quiver of the upper lip, when John Higgins spoke.

“What’s the matter, John?”

“Indigestion—all kinds of indigestion. Damn ’em, Dicky, they’ve made me eat my own words——”

“Who?”

“The most pestiferous public nuisance ever organized—Department of Justice.”

Dicky did not need to be warned against the bête noir. Its shadow was upon John Higgins’ face.

“I rather liked yesterday’s issue,” he said, “and they tell me that the next two numbers are practically made up.”

“You’ve been to the office then?”

“No. I called up from home at breakfast. That’s how I heard you were here. Just off ship last night——”

“Bert Ames got in three weeks ago. You were a long time coming——”

“My turn didn’t come—everybody dying to get home since the racket stopped.”

“Your paper’s alive, Dicky—that’s the best that can be said.”

“My paper——”

“I’m looking for you to buy the rest. My equity is on the market. The Public Square is alive, but it’s not my fault.”

“Whose?”

“Didn’t they tell you that ‘The Weekly’ was away?”

Dicky looked bewildered. A glint of the old humor had come back to John Higgins’ eyes, as he added:

“The woman thou gavest me.”

“You mean about Pidge Musser being called to Los Angeles?”

“Suddenly discovered she had a father who couldn’t be denied. Ripped out of here on the fifth and left a hole in every department.... They say I’m done with the desk for a time. I knew it without them telling me. I’d have had to wire her to-day or to-morrow to come back, if you hadn’t turned up.”

Dicky’s thoughts now became busy adjusting to the fact that John Higgins wasn’t returning to the desk at once.

“I know when I’m done,” the old man repeated. “It’s taken nearly sixty years, but I know. You’ve heard about the serpent that stings itself to death in captivity?”

“It’s just the chafing of the muzzle, John. You’re not stinging yourself to death——”

“We all have our little code, Dicky, and I haven’t been true to mine. Your paper’s alive, in spite of what I would have done. My code pulled me the other way—against you—but that little thing stood by your interests. You’ve got her to thank, not me.”

“Tell me——”

“They were doing things in this country that I knew about——” the old man shut his eyes, as if in nausea—“but she kept me still. Then they arrested an old friend of mine—man I’ve known for thirty years—man who loves his country all the time—as I do not—and they arrested him. One Sunday morning I wrote my little say about it all, and as I wrote, I heard them singing ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee,’ in a church down the block from my rooms. That’s what I called the article. I was sober. I wrote for all days, and every year I had lived went into it—all I was. I was willing to throw you—a little matter of money which you could afford. I was throwing myself, but I was pleased enough with the story to show it to her Monday morning, instead of sending it down to the composing room.”

The narrative halted for several seconds. Dicky moved around the bed to rest the old man’s eyes.

“That little tumult had me bluffed from the beginning. She barred the way to the printer, that’s all. I thought she was done for when she married Melton, but she came back stronger than ever.... Barred the way, Dicky—put her arms across the door. ‘You can’t do it, John Higgins, you can’t send that down. It’s just wanton destruction. It won’t do what you hope. It won’t help your friend, but make life harder for him and for all the C. O.’s. This isn’t your property to waste. My heart’s in it and Dicky’s money’s in it——’ Well, she had her way—and the thing turned in on me—my own words. My organs of assimilation weren’t strong enough to get away with it.”

Dicky gripped John Higgins’ shoulder. The old man added impressively, “Dicky, I’ve sat at the desk for hours and studied how I could ever tell you this one truth! I haven’t written a decent line since that article! My old side-wheeler doesn’t work—that’s the size of it.”

He was pressing his hand to the top of his head, as he went on:

“I’ve studied how I could tell you. It doesn’t seem quite so hard this morning at the show-down—but she’s written all the decent stuff that’s supposed to come from the Desk.... I mean what I said. I’m for sale. I’ve put it to you straight—the worst. But the paper’s alive and the books are for you to look at. Times are getting freer. The next two issues will get out themselves. It’s all I’ve got——”

“But you can take a leave of absence, and keep your income——”

“No. That would be a drain. That’s morals possibly, but not business. I want to sell, Dicky, and what I ask won’t break you. I thought for a while I was done for, and I made out my part to her. That would be simple—but the old hulk still floats—so I have to have some money.”

Now Dicky dwelt reverently upon the old man’s secret. Only one thing could have prevented John Higgins from getting his masterpiece into print; also John Higgins had made out his single possession in the world to Pidge—when he thought he was done for. This thought now electrified Richard Cobden. He wanted events to turn out this way with such one-pointed fury that he forgot for an instant that it entailed the death of his friend. But some time Pidge must have this gift—some way—John Higgins’ life work! Dicky arose. The fact that he could do nothing right now required extraordinary self-control.

“I’ll look the whole property over to-day and tell you to-morrow morning, John. Be sure it will be all right for you. We’re——”

Dicky didn’t know what he had started to say. The old man beckoned him back.

“... Bert Ames can help you for a few days until she comes back. No better Washington man, anywhere, but Bert knows the desk work, too.... Wait. I’ve got to tell you before you go how he dropped in to see me, day or two after he came back from France. I asked him if he’d seen you. He rather allowed he had—and launched into the story of your saving young Melton from the clutches of the French family. Couldn’t stop him in time. He hadn’t the slightest notion that the woman at the desk yonder was Mrs. Melton.”

Dicky was pale.

“It didn’t knock her out. That’s the queer part,” John Higgins added. “... Get Bert Ames. There’s one man who isn’t doing any damage to you as he loafs around New York.”

“I’ll be back to-morrow morning,” Dicky said. “Where’s Melton now—Los Angeles?”

“No, here in New York. I’ve heard he’s stopping at the Vici Club.”