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Updated: June 20, 2025
Petheram is doing the whole paper now." "How is it that he can't get anything better to do?" Roland said. "He has done lots of better things. He used to be at Carmelite House, but they thought he was too old." Roland felt relieved. He conjured up a picture of a white-haired elder with a fatherly manner. "Oh, he's old, is he?" "Twenty-four." There was a brief silence.
Become proprietor, you know." Roland felt that he was blushing, and hated himself for it. He ought to be carrying this thing through with an air. Mr. Petheram looked at him blankly. "Why?" he asked. "Oh, I don't know," said Roland. He felt the interview was going all wrong. It lacked a stateliness which this kind of interview should have had. "Honestly?" said Mr. Petheram.
Petheram, it was a mere box. Roland was afraid to expand his chest for fear of bruising it. The boy returned to say that Mr. Petheram would see him. Mr. Petheram was a young man with a mop of hair, and an air of almost painful restraint. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and the table before him was heaped high with papers.
The infusion of capital into the business acted on him like a powerful stimulant. He exuded ideas at every pore. Roland's first notion had been to engage a staff of contributors. He was under the impression that contributors were the life-blood of a weekly journal. Mr. Petheram corrected this view. He consented to the purchase of a lurid serial story, but that was the last concession he made.
There, just under your thumb." Roland removed his thumb, and, having read the paragraph in question, started as if he had removed it from a snake. "But this is bound to mean a libel action!" he cried. "Not a bit of it," said Mr. Petheram comfortably. "You don't know Percy. I won't bore you with his life-history, but take it from me he doesn't rush into a court of law from sheer love of it.
He calls himself the editor, but he's really everything except office-boy, and I expect he'll be that next week. When I started with the paper, there was quite a large staff. But it got whittled down by degrees till there was only Mr. Petheram and myself. It was like the crew of the 'Nancy Bell. They got eaten one by one, till I was the only one left. And now I've gone. Mr.
Within a very few days of becoming sole proprietor of 'Squibs, Roland began to feel much as a man might who, a novice at the art of steering cars, should find himself at the wheel of a runaway motor. Young Mr. Petheram had spoken nothing less than the truth when he had said that he was full of ideas for booming the paper.
He took his time and answered. "Mr. Petheram. A couple of fellers come in and went through, and there was a uproar inside there, and presently out they come running, and I went in, and there was Mr. Petheram on the floor knocked silly and the furniture all broke, and now 'e's gorn to 'orspital. Those fellers 'ad been putting 'im froo it proper," concluded Jimmy with moody relish.
Roland thought it would certainly not be. "Good sound advertising stunt," urged Mr. Petheram. "You don't like it? All right. You're the boss. Well, how would it be to have a squad of men dressed as Zulus with white shields bearing the legend 'Squibs? See what I mean? Have them sprinting along the Strand shouting, 'Wah! Wah! Wah! Buy it! Buy it! It would make people talk."
"Have I seen the advertisements?" he cried, echoing his editor's first question. "I've seen nothing else." "There!" said Mr. Petheram proudly. "It can't go on." "Yes, it can. Don't you worry. I know they're arrested as fast as we send them out, but, bless you, the supply's endless.
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