A Short Story.

Matamata Record, Volume II, Issue 112, 23 December 1918, Page 4

A Short Story.

In Two Parts. (Publi*h*d by Special Arrangement with the Proprietor* of the Copyright.) THE EDITOR AND THE DEVIL By CHARLES R. STEGGALL. Author of “Mrs. Mostyn’s Little Gamble,” “The Golden Garter/’ “Dandy Jack’s Guardian,’’ etc. PART 1. Please don’t be alarmed; he was only the printer’s devil. He was really such a fearsome little imp of blackness, however, that although it is not osual to address the “devils” as such 'in newspaper offices, throughout that of the “Evening Meteor” he was universally known by the cognomen of his Satanic Majesty. Of the Editor himself he had but a very poor opinion; regarding him, indeed, somewhat in the light of a humble friend who did not swear at him or kick him. The only man in the whole world, perhaps, of whom he stood in awe was the foreman of the composing room, who could dock his wages or, if necessary, “sack” him. Only the previous afternoon, just as "the last pages of the first edition of ♦he paper was about to be stereotyped, he had carefully laid a piece of string along the floor, and tripped up a certain enemy of his who was staggering beneath the weight of a “forme” containing the page in question, the result being that, to the supreme delight of the Devil, the page was immediately converted ißto “pie.” In other words, the type was scattered in hopeless confusion on the ground, and had there not been four or five columns of “pad” in the way of fiction, and some standing* advertisements ready set up in preparation for emergencies, they couldn’t have got the paper out at all. Half-an-hour later, sore in mind and body, the Devil sat up in a quiet corner, rubbing bis ,bruises. Suddenly his glance fell on a mouse-trap. It of the patent traps which spring up and kill the mouse, and ihere was a dead one in it. The eyes of the Devil brightened. There was something worth living for still 1 [ He pondered a while, and then furtively went in search of the bit of string with which he had tripped up his enemy. Having found it, he tied it to the tail of the defunct mouse, and stealthily crept into the linotype ma-chine-room, where a dozen girls were busily engaged at their keyboards preparing for the next edition of the paper. Crawling on his hands and knees behind the machine belonging to the most nervous girl among them, he threw the mouse over the machine and gently lowered it until, as Be calculated, it dangled over the keyboard just before her nose. Then he jerked it gently. Suddenly there came a scream which tent the afc. It startled even the Editor in his sanctum two floors below. The foreman, the men compositors, the electrotypers, and all the upstairs staff came hurrying into the tinotype-room, all expecting to find some catstrophe had happened. Per-

, haps the powerful electric motor brfd ■one wrong or the boiling type metal , had escaped from one of the machines. i Bat M l Ndly Joses was standing on the top of her stool, displaying a neat pair of anVles, and with her skirts gathered tightly around her. She was screaming away for dear life, and by this time half-a-do2en more girls were screaming in sympathy. On the keys of her machine lay the “ridiculous mus,” but the Devil had returned to his corner and was again cubbing his bruises, while looking a picture of injured innocence. ] After a few forcible remarks on the foolishness of girls and the perversity ai boys, things resumed their wonted aspect. Nelly Jones, however, was still in a state , of agitation, and aljthough she had received ocular demonstration that the mouse was dead, jurfcea she sat dewn to work again she jarranged' her skirts tightly round her j “Come here, you young imp! sl safd the foreman, a little later to the Devil, {“take these proofs down to the Boss In the editorial room.” [ The Editor was known throughout 0* establishment as “the Boss,” while the foreman was usually spoken of as :*‘the old man” by his subordinates, {though as a matter of fact he was younger than many of them. I The Devil want down the stairs three at a time, whistling horribly out of tune meanwhile. He was a choir hoy pt a neighbouring church, and his musical repertoire comprised a really premarkable mixture of hymn tunes, pnthems, and the latest ribald ditties from the music halls. I “I am staying here late to-night,” said the editor, after glancing at the proofs, “and want somepne to stay and fo up to the station to meet the mid* night train and fetch a parcel.” A look of intense indignation at once pervaded the Devil’s dirty little face. “What! me stay after hours!” he gasped. “Why, ’tain’t legal, sir, and the in-speetor will be down on yer.” “You are not, obliged to stay unless you like, but you will be paid for overtime, if you do,” replied the Editor, at the same time spotting a “literal” in the proof and meditating a homily for his second in command apd, the reader. j “Oh, if I’m to have extra pay. I don't mind staying, sir,” said the

Devil, patronisinglv, as visions of, something gorgeous in the way of his supper menu, and a choice selection of “penny dreadfuls” as aids to gestion passed quickly through hiS mind. “Very well; go and get your tea and come back to the office when you have had it,” said the editor, filling in an order on the cashier which sent the Deyil away happy, and whistling out of tune more horribly than ever. At eleven o’clock the Editor was still at his desk, arid though he had been at it all day, he. looked as fresh as new paint. He was a glutton for work. A strange silence pervaded the big office. The thud and roar of the mighty machines in the basement had ceased for the night, as had also the rattle of the linos upstairs, and the busy hum of voices throughout the building. Save for the watchman in the timekeeper’s office, the Editor was alone. But no 1 Suddenly the stillness was broken by sounds, anything but me-! lodious, proceeding from the floor above. First came the “National Anthem/’’ sung in a very high key, and excruciatingly out of tune; then the “Little Wooden llut,” to an accompaniment produced, apparently, by a poker and a tin tray. Following this came a musical melange, which was perfectly indescribable. Now and again the boy, in evident forgetfulness, would allow his voice to assume its normal tone, which was a very beautiful one. After an earpiercing version of “Bill Bailey,” hq suddenly merged into the solo in “As pants the hart,” sung with a voice so, pure and sweet that the Editor leftj his desk and began to pace the room,, while visions of quiet cathedral aisles and his college chapel at Cambridge, in the days when reading was merely a pleasure, and proofs and revises were an unknown quantity, obliterated for a moment the burden of next day’s leader page, and all the editorial worries which serve to make a naturally genial man ill-tempered and irritable..

The last notes of the solo died away,; soft and low, and so sweetly rendered; that the moisture in the eyes of the! lonely man below betrayed the fact that even editors have hearts hidden away somewhere in their anatomy. Suddenly, however, there came a heart-rending yell; and the singer, apparently wishing to vary the monotony of the proceedings started on an up-to-date version of “When Johnny comes marching home," with variai tions*

This was too much* for the editor. He resumed his seat, and rang up his own particular telephone instrument; on the desk before him. The tele-! phone chamber, with its formidable array of switchboards and wires—through which, in the dead of nighty came a sound like the soughing of the sea on a lonely beach —was separated from his sanctum only by a partition.

“Stop that horrible noise, and come down here.**

“All right, sir,” came the faint reply, as the Devil gathered up the fragments of a supper consisting of fried fish and sticky jam tarts, awfi carefully hid away his collection of “penny dreadfuls” for re-perusal at a com venient opportunity. “Run down and see if there are any telegrams in the timekeeper’s office, ”| said the Editor,as the Devil opened the door, and then glancing upwards; he stared in astonishment. “You little wretch 1” he exclaimed, “what you been doing to yourself?” He might well ask. The face, appropriately enough, was black as soot, smeared over with a delectable mixture of ink and treacle used on the rollers in pulling the proofs; his grinning little face was surmounted by a “late special” of the “Evening Meteor” folded into a cocked hat, an 4 to further his martial appearance hq carried a poker decked with paper streamers. “Very good, sir,” he responded, andj without deigning further to reply, hq bestowed upon the editor a soldierly salute and a horrible grin as hq slammed the door after him. Downstairs he found some tele, grams in the office, but the night; watchman was absent, gone, presum-) ably, for liquid refreshment before hiq adjacent house of call closed for th<j night. Out of pure cussedness th<j Devil violently closed a door of comi munication which could be opened only with a pass key. “The Boss wlil have to let me out, 1 reckon,” he murmured, resignedly) as he carried the telegrams upstairs. Tearing open the envelopes in the manner peculiar to those accustomed to deal with a mass of “flimsies,” the Editor quickly absorbed the contents. “I want the Cuban article which was 'set up to-day and held over. Do yoq think you could find the proof?” he asked, unable to repress a smile at the appearance of his juvenile collaborator in the mysteries of midnight journalism. (To be Continued.)