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After much groaning and agony George would force himself to know the worst; after swearing furiously through the paragraphs of stuffing with which Mr. Bitt's cunning young man skilfully evaded the point, would come at last upon the "fresh clue" and read with a groan of relief that, so far as the truth were concerned, it was no clue at all. But the strain was horrible.
Bending over you might see Bill seated at the editor's table of the editor's room of a monstrously successful monthly magazine of most monstrous fiction that Mr. Bitt's directors have started; Margaret, that sentimental young woman, by her husband's side is correcting the proofs of a poem signed "Margaret Wyvern." It is of the most exquisite melancholy.
Howard, that in offering this reward, in arousing this interest, I had in view also a matter that has been my aim since I was at College." Mr. Bitt's college was Rosa Glen College, 156 Farmer Road, Peckham; but he preferred the briefer designation. "The aim," he continued, gathering courage as he detected in Mr.
By every art and device the pool would be flogged till the muddy water went flying broadcast, staining this, that, and the other fair name to the nasty delight of Mr. Bitt's readers. Scandal was Mr. Bitt's chief quest. Army scandal, navy scandal, political scandal, social scandal these were the courses that Mr. Bitt continuously strove to serve up to his readers.
It was upon this repeated injunction that my poor George tottered up the stairs of the Daily office, cat in arm, in Bill's wake. Bill rapped upon Mr. Bitt's door; poked in his head at the answering call; motioned my trembling George to wait; stepped over the threshold. Mr. Bitt sat behind a broad table; before him, deep in an armchair, smoking a cigarette, lay Mr. Vivian Howard. "Ah!
Dearest can only cough and choke and splutter in convulsions of mirth over some terrific joke of which he will tell Mrs. Wyvern no more than: "He has done it. Oh, dear! oh, dear! He has done it. Oh, dear! This will be very funny indeed!" It will be seen that two out of the three readers particularly interested in Mr. Bitt's splash were agreeably interested. Upon the third the effect was different.
Seven sub-editors "spiked" it, three made of it a "fill-par.," one gave it a headline and sent it up as an eight-line "news-par."; one, in the offices of the Daily, read it, laughed; spoke to the news-editor; finally carried it up to Mr. Bitt. Mr. Bitt's journalistic nose gave one sniff. The thing was done.
"Make a splash and keep splashing," was that of Mr. Henry T. Bitt, editor of Fleet Street's new organ, the Daily. Muddy pools were Mr. Bitt's speciality.
"Never shall forget it. It was more than good of you, Mr. Bitt, to take up the matter and offer so handsome a reward. It was public-spirited." Mr. Bitt's deprecatory little laugh had a rueful note. He nerved himself to step upon the delicate ground that lay between him and his purpose. This man had not known Mr.
Henry T. Bitt's private address; had the good sense to go straight to his chief. A cab took him to the editor's flat in Victoria Street. Mr. Bitt was equally enthusiastic. "Hot stuff," said Mr. Bitt. "You've got your chance; make a splash. Go to the office and tell Lang I've put you on to it. Cut away down to the scene of the outrage and stay there as our Special Commissioner till I wire you back.
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