Tommy and Co.

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All might have gone well to the end of time if only Mrs. Loveredge
had left all social arrangements in the hands of her husband--had
not sought to aid his efforts. To a certain political garden-
party, one day in the height of the season, were invited Joseph
Loveredge and Mrs. Joseph Loveredge, his wife. Mr. Joseph
Loveredge at the last moment found himself unable to attend. Mrs.
Joseph Loveredge went alone, met there various members of the
British aristocracy. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge, accustomed to
friendship with the aristocracy, felt at her ease and was natural
and agreeable. The wife of an eminent peer talked to her and liked
her. It occurred to Mrs. Joseph Loveredge that this lady might be
induced to visit her house in Regent's Park, there to mingle with
those of her own class.

"Lord Mount-Primrose, the Duke of Warrington, and a few others will
be dining with us on Sunday next," suggested Mrs. Loveredge. "Will
not you do us the honour of coming? We are, of course, only simple
folk ourselves, but somehow people seem to like us."

The wife of the eminent peer looked at Mrs. Loveredge, looked round
the grounds, looked at Mrs. Loveredge again, and said she would
like to come. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge intended at first to tell her
husband of her success, but a little devil entering into her head
and whispering to her that it would be amusing, she resolved to
keep it as a surprise, to be sprung upon him at eight o'clock on
Sunday. The surprise proved all she could have hoped for.

The Duke of Warrington, having journalistic matters to discuss with
Joseph Loveredge, arrived at half-past seven, wearing on his shirt-
front a silver star, purchased in Eagle Street the day before for
eight-and-six. There accompanied him the Lady Alexandra, wearing
the identical ruby necklace that every night for the past six
months, and twice on Saturdays, "John Strongheart" had been falsely
accused of stealing. Lord Garrick, having picked up his wife (Miss
Ramsbotham) outside the Mother Redcap, arrived with her on foot at
a quarter to eight. Lord Mount-Primrose, together with Sir Francis
Baldwin, dashed up in a hansom at seven-fifty. His Lordship,
having lost the toss, paid the fare. The Hon. Harry Sykes
(commonly called "the Babe") was ushered in five minutes later.
The noble company assembled in the drawing-room chatted blithely
while waiting for dinner to be announced. The Duke of Warrington
was telling an anecdote about a cat, which nobody appeared to
believe. Lord Mount-Primrose desired to know whether by any chance
it might be the same animal that every night at half-past nine had
been in the habit of climbing up his Grace's railings and knocking
at his Grace's door. The Honourable Harry was saying that,
speaking of cats, he once had a sort of terrier--when the door was
thrown open and Willis announced the Lady Mary Sutton.

Mr. Joseph Loveredge, who was sitting near the fire, rose up. Lord
Mount-Primrose, who was standing near the piano, sat down. The
Lady Mary Sutton paused in the doorway. Mrs. Loveredge crossed the
room to greet her.

"Let me introduce you to my husband," said Mrs. Loveredge. "Joey,
my dear, the Lady Mary Sutton. I met the Lady Mary at the
O'Meyers' the other day, and she was good enough to accept my
invitation. I forgot to tell you."

Mr. Loveredge said he was delighted; after which, although as a
rule a chatty man, he seemed to have nothing else to say. And a
silence fell.

Somerville the Briefless--till then. That evening has always been
reckoned the starting-point of his career. Up till then nobody
thought he had much in him--walked up and held out his hand.

"You don't remember me, Lady Mary," said the Briefless one. "I met
you some years ago; we had a most interesting conversation--Sir
Francis Baldwin."

The Lady Mary stood for a moment trying apparently to recollect.
She was a handsome, fresh-complexioned woman of about forty, with
frank, agreeable eyes. The Lady Mary glanced at Lord Garrick, who
was talking rapidly to Lord Mount-Primrose, who was not listening,
and who could not have understood even if he had been, Lord
Garrick, without being aware of it, having dropped into broad
Scotch. From him the Lady Mary glanced at her hostess, and from
her hostess to her host.

The Lady Mary took the hand held out to her. "Of course," said the
Lady Mary; "how stupid of me! It was the day of my own wedding,
too. You really must forgive me. We talked of quite a lot of
things. I remember now."

Mrs. Loveredge, who prided herself upon maintaining old-fashioned
courtesies, proceeded to introduce the Lady Mary to her fellow-
guests, a little surprised that her ladyship appeared to know so
few of them. Her ladyship's greeting of the Duke of Warrington was
accompanied, it was remarked, by a somewhat curious smile. To the
Duke of Warrington's daughter alone did the Lady Mary address
remark.

"My dear," said the Lady Mary, "how you have grown since last we
met!"

The announcement of dinner, as everybody felt, came none too soon.

It was not a merry feast. Joey told but one story; he told it
three times, and twice left out the point. Lord Mount-Primrose
took sifted sugar with pate de foie gras and ate it with a spoon.
Lord Garrick, talking a mixture of Scotch and English, urged his
wife to give up housekeeping and take a flat in Gower Street,
which, as he pointed out, was central. She could have her meals
sent in to her and so avoid all trouble. The Lady Alexandra's
behaviour appeared to Mrs. Loveredge not altogether well-bred. An
eccentric young noblewoman Mrs. Loveredge had always found her, but
wished on this occasion that she had been a little less eccentric.
Every few minutes the Lady Alexandra buried her face in her
serviette, and shook and rocked, emitting stifled sounds,
apparently those of acute physical pain. Mrs. Loveredge hoped she
was not feeling ill, but the Lady Alexandra appeared incapable of
coherent reply. Twice during the meal the Duke of Warrington rose
from the table and began wandering round the room; on each
occasion, asked what he wanted, had replied meekly that he was
merely looking for his snuff-box, and had sat down again. The only
person who seemed to enjoy the dinner was the Lady Mary Sutton.

The ladies retired upstairs into the drawing-room. Mrs. Loveredge,
breaking a long silence, remarked it as unusual that no sound of
merriment reached them from the dining-room. The explanation was
that the entire male portion of the party, on being left to
themselves, had immediately and in a body crept on tiptoe into
Joey's study, which, fortunately, happened to be on the ground
floor. Joey, unlocking the bookcase, had taken out his Debrett,
but appeared incapable of understanding it. Sir Francis Baldwin
had taken it from his unresisting hands; the remaining aristocracy
huddled themselves into a corner and waited in silence.

"I think I've got it all clearly," announced Sir Francis Baldwin,
after five minutes, which to the others had been an hour. "Yes, I
don't think I'm making any mistake. She's the daughter of the Duke
of Truro, married in '53 the Duke of Warrington, at St. Peter's,
Eaton Square; gave birth in '55 to a daughter, the Lady Grace
Alexandra Warberton Sutton, which makes the child just thirteen.
In '63 divorced the Duke of Warrington. Lord Mount-Primrose, so
far as I can make out, must be her second cousin. I appear to have
married her in '66 at Hastings. It doesn't seem to me that we
could have got together a homelier little party to meet her even if
we had wanted to."

Nobody spoke; nobody had anything particularly worth saying. The
door opened, and the Lady Alexandra (otherwise Tommy) entered the
room.

"Isn't it time," suggested the Lady Alexandra, "that some of you
came upstairs?"

"I was thinking myself," explained Joey, the host, with a grim
smile, "it was about time that I went out and drowned myself. The
canal is handy."

"Put it off till to-morrow," Tommy advised him. "I have asked her
ladyship to give me a lift home, and she has promised to do so.
She is evidently a woman with a sense of humour. Wait till after I
have had a talk with her."

Six men, whispering at the same time, were prepared with advice;
but Tommy was not taking advice.

"Come upstairs, all of you," insisted Tommy, "and make yourselves
agreeable. She's going in a quarter of an hour."

Six silent men, the host leading, the two husbands bringing up the
rear, ascended the stairs, each with the sensation of being twice
his usual weight. Six silent men entered the drawing-room and sat
down on chairs. Six silent men tried to think of something
interesting to say.

Miss Ramsbotham--it was that or hysterics, as she afterwards
explained--stifling a sob, opened the piano. But the only thing
she could remember was "Champagne Charlie is my Name," a song then
popular in the halls. Five men, when she had finished, begged her
to go on. Miss Ramsbotham, speaking in a shrill falsetto,
explained it was the only tune she knew. Four of them begged her
to play it again. Miss Ramsbotham played it a second time with
involuntary variations.

The Lady Mary's carriage was announced by the imperturbable Willis.
The party, with the exception of the Lady Mary and the hostess,
suppressed with difficulty an inclination to burst into a cheer.
The Lady Mary thanked Mrs. Loveredge for a most interesting
evening, and beckoned Tommy to accompany her. With her
disappearance, a wild hilarity, uncanny in its suddenness, took
possession of the remaining guests.

A few days later, the Lady Mary's carriage again drew up before the
little house in Regent's Park. Mrs. Loveredge, fortunately, was at
home. The carriage remained waiting for quite a long time. Mrs.
Loveredge, after it was gone, locked herself in her own room. The
under-housemaid reported to the kitchen that, passing the door, she
had detected sounds indicative of strong emotion.

Through what ordeal Joseph Loveredge passed was never known. For a
few weeks the Autolycus Club missed him. Then gradually, as aided
by Time they have a habit of doing, things righted themselves.
Joseph Loveredge received his old friends; his friends received
Joseph Loveredge. Mrs. Loveredge, as a hostess, came to have only
one failing--a marked coldness of demeanour towards all people with
titles, whenever introduced to her.

STORY THE SIXTH: "The Babe" applies for Shares

People said of the new journal, Good Humour--people of taste and
judgment, that it was the brightest, the cleverest, the most
literary penny weekly that ever had been offered to the public.
This made Peter Hope, editor and part-proprietor, very happy.
William Clodd, business manager, and also part-proprietor, it left
less elated.

"Must be careful," said William Clodd, "that we don't make it too
clever. Happy medium, that's the ideal."

People said--people of taste and judgment, that Good Humour was
more worthy of support than all the other penny weeklies put
together. People of taste and judgment even went so far, some of
them, as to buy it. Peter Hope, looking forward, saw fame and
fortune coming to him.

William Clodd, looking round about him, said -

"Doesn't it occur to you, Guv'nor, that we're getting this thing
just a trifle too high class?"

"What makes you think that?" demanded Peter Hope.

"Our circulation, for one thing," explained Clodd. "The returns
for last month--"

"I'd rather you didn't mention them, if you don't mind,"
interrupted Peter Hope; "somehow, hearing the actual figures always
depresses me."

"Can't say I feel inspired by them myself," admitted Clodd.

"It will come," said Peter Hope, "it will come in time. We must
educate the public up to our level."

"If there is one thing, so far as I have noticed," said William
Clodd, "that the public are inclined to pay less for than another,
it is for being educated."

"What are we to do?" asked Peter Hope.

"What you want," answered William Clodd, "is an office-boy."

"How will our having an office-boy increase our circulation?"
demanded Peter Hope. "Besides, it was agreed that we could do
without one for the first year. Why suggest more expense?"

"I don't mean an ordinary office-boy," explained Clodd. "I mean
the sort of boy that I rode with in the train going down to
Stratford yesterday."

"What was there remarkable about him?"

"Nothing. He was reading the current number of the Penny Novelist.
Over two hundred thousand people buy it. He is one of them. He
told me so. When he had done with it, he drew from his pocket a
copy of the Halfpenny Joker--they guarantee a circulation of
seventy thousand. He sat and chuckled over it until we got to
Bow."

"But--"

"You wait a minute. I'm coming to the explanation. That boy
represents the reading public. I talked to him. The papers he
likes best are the papers that have the largest sales. He never
made a single mistake. The others--those of them he had seen--he
dismissed as 'rot.' What he likes is what the great mass of the
journal-buying public likes. Please him--I took his name and
address, and he is willing to come to us for eight shillings a
week--and you please the people that buy. Not the people that
glance through a paper when it is lying on the smoking-room table,
and tell you it is damned good, but the people that plank down
their penny. That's the sort we want."

Peter Hope, able editor, with ideals, was shocked--indignant.
William Clodd, business man, without ideals, talked figures.

"There's the advertiser to be thought of," persisted Clodd. "I
don't pretend to be a George Washington, but what's the use of
telling lies that sound like lies, even to one's self while one's
telling them? Give me a genuine sale of twenty thousand, and I'll
undertake, without committing myself, to convey an impression of
forty. But when the actual figures are under eight thousand--well,
it hampers you, if you happen to have a conscience.

"Give them every week a dozen columns of good, sound literature,"
continued Clodd insinuatingly, "but wrap it up in twenty-four
columns of jam. It's the only way they'll take it, and you will be
doing them good--educating them without their knowing it. All
powder and no jam! Well, they don't open their mouths, that's
all."

Clodd was a man who knew how to get his way. Flipp--spelled
Philip--Tweetel arrived in due course of time at 23, Crane Court,
ostensibly to take up the position of Good Humour's office-boy; in
reality, and without his being aware of it, to act as its literary
taster. Stories in which Flipp became absorbed were accepted.
Peter groaned, but contented himself with correcting only their
grosser grammatical blunders; the experiment should be tried in all
good faith. Humour at which Flipp laughed was printed. Peter
tried to ease his conscience by increasing his subscription to the
fund for destitute compositors, but only partially succeeded.
Poetry that brought a tear to the eye of Flipp was given leaded
type. People of taste and judgment said Good Humour had
disappointed them. Its circulation, slowly but steadily,
increased.

"See!" cried the delighted Clodd; "told you so!"

"It's sad to think--" began Peter.

"Always is," interrupted Clodd cheerfully. "Moral--don't think too
much."

"Tell you what we'll do," added Clodd. "We'll make a fortune out
of this paper. Then when we can afford to lose a little money,
we'll launch a paper that shall appeal only to the intellectual
portion of the public. Meanwhile--"

A squat black bottle with a label attached, standing on the desk,
arrested Clodd's attention.

"When did this come?" asked Clodd.

"About an hour ago," Peter told him.

"Any order with it?"

"I think so." Peter searched for and found a letter addressed to
"William Clodd, Esq., Advertising Manager, Good Humour." Clodd
tore it open, hastily devoured it.

"Not closed up yet, are you?"

"No, not till eight o'clock."

"Good! I want you to write me a par. Do it now, then you won't
forget it. For the 'Walnuts and Wine' column."

Peter sat down, headed a sheet of paper: 'For W. and W. Col.'

"What is it?" questioned Peter--"something to drink?"

"It's a sort of port," explained Clodd, "that doesn't get into your
head."

"You consider that an advantage?" queried Peter.

"Of course. You can drink more of it."

Peter continued to write: 'Possesses all the qualities of an old
vintage port, without those deleterious properties--' "I haven't
tasted it, Clodd," hinted Peter.

"That's all right--I have."

"And was it good?"

"Splendid stuff. Say it's 'delicious and invigorating.' They'll
be sure to quote that."

Peter wrote on: 'Personally I have found it delicious and--' Peter
left off writing. "I really think, Clodd, I ought to taste it.
You see, I am personally recommending it."

"Finish that par. Let me have it to take round to the printers.
Then put the bottle in your pocket. Take it home and make a night
of it."

Clodd appeared to be in a mighty hurry. Now, this made Peter only
the more suspicious. The bottle was close to his hand. Clodd
tried to intercept him, but was not quick enough.

"You're not used to temperance drinks," urged Clodd. "Your palate
is not accustomed to them."

"I can tell whether it's 'delicious' or not, surely?" pleaded
Peter, who had pulled out the cork.

"It's a quarter-page advertisement for thirteen weeks. Put it down
and don't be a fool!" urged Clodd.

"I'm going to put it down," laughed Peter, who was fond of his
joke. Peter poured out half a tumblerful, and drank--some of it.

"Like it?" demanded Clodd, with a savage grin.

"You are sure--you are sure it was the right bottle?" gasped Peter.

"Bottle's all right," Clodd assured him. "Try some more. Judge it
fairly."

Peter ventured on another sip. "You don't think they would be
satisfied if I recommended it as a medicine?" insinuated Peter--
"something to have about the house in case of accidental
poisoning?"

"Better go round and suggest the idea to them yourself. I've done
with it." Clodd took up his hat.

"I'm sorry--I'm very sorry," sighed Peter. "But I couldn't
conscientiously--"

Clodd put down his hat again with a bang. "Oh! confound that
conscience of yours! Don't it ever think of your creditors?
What's the use of my working out my lungs for you, when all you do
is to hamper me at every step?"

"Wouldn't it be better policy," urged Peter, "to go for the better
class of advertiser, who doesn't ask you for this sort of thing?"

"Go for him!" snorted Clodd. "Do you think I don't go for him?
They are just sheep. Get one, you get the lot. Until you've got
the one, the others won't listen to you."

"That's true," mused Peter. "I spoke to Wilkinson, of Kingsley's,
myself. He advised me to try and get Landor's. He thought that if
I could get an advertisement out of Landor, he might persuade his
people to give us theirs."

"And if you had gone to Landor, he would have promised you theirs
provided you got Kingsley's."

"They will come," thought hopeful Peter. "We are going up
steadily. They will come with a rush."

"They had better come soon," thought Clodd. "The only things
coming with a rush just now are bills."

"Those articles of young McTear's attracted a good deal of
attention," expounded Peter. "He has promised to write me another
series."

"Jowett is the one to get hold of," mused Clodd. "Jowett, all the
others follow like a flock of geese waddling after the old gander.
If only we could get hold of Jowett, the rest would be easy."

Jowett was the proprietor of the famous Marble Soap. Jowett spent
on advertising every year a quarter of a million, it was said.
Jowett was the stay and prop of periodical literature. New papers
that secured the Marble Soap advertisement lived and prospered; the
new paper to which it was denied languished and died. Jowett, and
how to get hold of him; Jowett, and how to get round him, formed
the chief topic of discussion at the council-board of most new
papers, Good Humour amongst the number.

"I have heard," said Miss Ramsbotham, who wrote the Letter to
Clorinda that filled each week the last two pages of Good Humour,
and that told Clorinda, who lived secluded in the country, the
daily history of the highest class society, among whom Miss
Ramsbotham appeared to live and have her being; who they were, and
what they wore, the wise and otherwise things they did--"I have
heard," said Miss Ramsbotham one morning, Jowett being as usual the
subject under debate, "that the old man is susceptible to female
influence."

"What I have always thought," said Clodd. "A lady advertising-
agent might do well. At all events, they couldn't kick her out."

"They might in the end," thought Peter. "Female door-porters would
become a profession for muscular ladies if ever the idea took
root."

"The first one would get a good start, anyhow," thought Clodd.

The sub-editor had pricked up her ears. Once upon a time, long
ago, the sub-editor had succeeded, when all other London
journalists had failed, in securing an interview with a certain
great statesman. The sub-editor had never forgotten this--nor
allowed anyone else to forget it,

"I believe I could get it for you," said the sub-editor.

The editor and the business-manager both spoke together. They
spoke with decision and with emphasis.

"Why not?" said the sub-editor. "When nobody else could get at
him, it was I who interviewed Prince--"

"We've heard all about that," interrupted the business-manager.
"If I had been your father at the time, you would never have done
it."

"How could I have stopped her?" retorted Peter Hope. "She never
said a word to me."

"You could have kept an eye on her."

"Kept an eye on her! When you've got a girl of your own, you'll
know more about them."

"When I have," asserted Clodd, "I'll manage her."

"We know all about bachelor's children," sneered Peter Hope, the
editor.

"You leave it to me. I'll have it for you before the end of the
week," crowed the sub-editor.

"If you do get it," returned Clodd, "I shall throw it out, that's
all."

"You said yourself a lady advertising-agent would be a good idea,"
the sub-editor reminded him.

"So she might be," returned Clodd; "but she isn't going to be you."

"Why not?"

"Because she isn't, that's why."

"But if--"

"See you at the printer's at twelve," said Clodd to Peter, and went
out suddenly.

"Well, I think he's an idiot," said the sub-editor.

"I do not often," said the editor, "but on this point I agree with
him. Cadging for advertisements isn't a woman's work."

"But what is the difference between--"

"All the difference in the world," thought the editor.

"You don't know what I was going to say," returned his sub.

"I know the drift of it," asserted the editor.

"But you let me--"

"I know I do--a good deal too much. I'm going to turn over a new
leaf."

"All I propose to do --"

"Whatever it is, you're not going to do it," declared the chief.
"Shall be back at half-past twelve, if anybody comes."

"It seems to me--" But Peter was gone.

"Just like them all," wailed the sub-editor. "They can't argue;
when you explain things to them, they go out. It does make me so
mad!"

Miss Ramsbotham laughed. "You are a downtrodden little girl,
Tommy."

"As if I couldn't take care of myself!" Tommy's chin was high up
in the air.

"Cheer up," suggested Miss Ramsbotham. "Nobody ever tells me not
to do anything. I would change with you if I could."

"I'd have walked into that office and have had that advertisement
out of old Jowett in five minutes, I know I would," bragged Tommy.
"I can always get on with old men."

"Only with the old ones?" queried Miss Ramsbotham.

The door opened. "Anybody in?" asked the face of Johnny Bulstrode,
appearing in the jar.

"Can't you see they are?" snapped Tommy.

"Figure of speech," explained Johnny Bulstrode, commonly called
"the Babe," entering and closing the door behind him.

"What do you want?" demanded the sub-editor.

"Nothing in particular," replied the Babe.

"Wrong time of the day to come for it, half-past eleven in the
morning," explained the sub-editor.

"What's the matter with you?" asked the Babe.

"Feeling very cross," confessed the sub-editor.

The childlike face of the Babe expressed sympathetic inquiry.

"We are very indignant," explained Miss Ramsbotham, "because we are
not allowed to rush off to Cannon Street and coax an advertisement
out of old Jowett, the soap man. We feel sure that if we only put
on our best hat, he couldn't possibly refuse us."

"No coaxing required," thought the sub-editor. "Once get in to see
the old fellow and put the actual figures before him, he would
clamour to come in."

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