Active Service, Stephen Crane [classic books for 11 year olds TXT] 📗
- Author: Stephen Crane
Book online «Active Service, Stephen Crane [classic books for 11 year olds TXT] 📗». Author Stephen Crane
Mere Living, A Mellow Hum Of The Eternal Strife. Then Suddenly
Out Of The Deeps Might Ring a Human Voice, A Newsboy Shout
Perhaps, The Cry Of A Faraway Jackal At Night.
From The Level Of The Ordinary Roofs, Combined in many
Plateaus, Dotted with Short Iron Chimneys From Which Curled
Wisps Of Steam, Arose Other Mountains Like The Eclipse
Building. They Were Great Peaks, Ornate, Glittering with
Paint Or Polish. Northward They Subsided to Sun-Crowned ranges.
From Some Of The Windows Of The Eclipse Office
Dropped the Walls Of A Terrible Chasm In the Darkness Of Which
Could Be Seen Vague Struggling figures. Looking down Into This
Appalling crevice One Discovered only The Tops Of Hats And
Knees Which In spasmodic Jerks Seemed to Touch The Rims Of The
Hats. The Scene Represented some Weird Fight Or Dance Or
Carouse. It Was Not An Exhibition Of Men Hurrying along A
Narrow Street.
It Was Good To Turn One'S Eyes From That Place To The Vista Of
The City'S Splendid Reaches, With Spire And Spar Shining in the
Clear Atmosphere And The Marvel Of The Jersey Shore, Pearl-
Misted or Brilliant With Detail. From This Height The Sweep Of A
Snow-Storm Was Defined and Majestic. Even A Slight Summer
Shower, With Swords Of Lurid Yellow Sunlight Piercing its Edges
As If Warriors Were Contesting every Foot Of Its Advance, Was
From The Eclipse Office Something so
Inspiring that The Chance Pilgrim Felt A Sense Of Exultation As If
From This Peak He Was Surveying the Worldwide War Of The
Elements And Life. The Staff Of The Eclipse Usually Worked
Without Coats And Amid The Smoke From Pipes.
To One Of The Editorial Chambers Came A Photograph And An
Article From Michaelstown, Massachusetts. A Boy Placed the
Packet And Many Others Upon The Desk Of A Young Man Who
Was Standing before A Window And
Thoughtfully Drumming upon The Pane. He Turned at The
Thudding of The Packets Upon His Desk. " Blast You," He
Remarked amiably. " Oh, I Guess It Won'T Hurt You To Work,"
Answered the Boy, Grinning with A Comrade'S Insolence. Baker,
An Assistant Editor For The Sunday Paper, Took Scat At His Desk
And Began The Task Of Examining the Packets. His Face Could Not
Display Any Particular Interest Because He Had Been At The Same
Work For Nearly A Fortnight.
The First Long Envelope He Opened was From A Woman.
There Was A Neat Little Manuscript Accompanied by A Letter
Which Explained that The Writer Was A Widow Who Was Trying to
Make Her Living by Her Pen And Who, Further, Hoped that The
Generosity Of The Editor Of The Eclipse Would Lead Him To Give
Her Article The Opportunity Which She Was Sure It Deserved. She
Hoped that The Editor Would Pay Her As Well As Possible For It, As
She Needed the Money Greatly. She Added that Her Brother Was
A Reporter On The Little Rock Sentinel And He Had Declared that
Her Literary Style Was Excellent.
Baker Really Did Not Read This Note. His Vast Experience Of A
Fortnight Had Enabled him To Detect Its Kind In two Glances. He
Unfolded the Manuscript, Looked at It Woodenly And Then Tossed
It With The Letter To The Top Of His Desk, Where It Lay With The
Other Corpses. None Could Think Of Widows In arkansas,
Ambitious From The Praise Of The Reporter On The Little Rock Sentinel,
Waiting for A Crown Of Literary Glory And Money. In the Next
Envelope A Man Using the Note-Paper Of A Boston Journal
Begged to Know If The Accompanying article Would Be
Acceptable; If Not It Was To Be Kindly Returned in the Enclosed
Stamped envelope. It Was A Humourous Essay On Trolley Cars.
Adventuring through The Odd Scraps That Were Come To The
Great Mill, Baker Paused occasionally To Relight His Pipe.
As He Went Through Envelope After Envelope, The Desks
About Him Gradually Were Occupied by Young Men Who Entered
From The Hall With Their Faces Still Red from The Cold Of The
Streets. For The Most Part They Bore The Unmistakable Stamp Of
The American College. They Had That Confident Poise Which Is
Easily Brought From The Athletic Field. Moreover, Their Clothes
Were Quite In the Way Of Being of The Newest Fashion. There Was
An Air Of Precision About Their Cravats And Linen. But On The
Other Hand There Might Be With Them Some Indifferent Westerner
Who Was Obliged to Resort To Irregular Means And Harangue
Startled shop-Keepers In order To Provide Himself With Collars Of
A Strange Kind. He Was Usually Very Quick And Brave Of Eye And
Noted for His Inability To Perceive A Distinction Between His Own
Habit And The Habit Of Others, His Western Character Preserving
Itself Inviolate Amid A Confusion Of Manners.
The Men, Coming one And One, Or Two And Two, Flung
Badinage To All Corners Of The Room. Afterward, As They Wheeled
From Time To Time In their Chairs, They Bitterly Insulted each Other
With The Utmost Good-Nature, Taking unerring aim At Faults And
Riddling personalities With The Quaint And Cynical Humour Of A
Newspaper Office. Throughout This Banter, It Was Strange To
Note How Infrequently The Men Smiled, Particularly When
Directly Engaged in an Encounter.
A Wide Door Opened into Another Apartment Where Were
Many Little Slanted tables, Each Under An Electric Globe With A
Green Shade. Here A Curly-Headed scoundrel With A Corncob
Pipe Was Hurling paper Balls The Size Of Apples At The Head Of An
Industrious Man Who, Under These Difficulties, Was Trying to
Draw A Picture Of An Awful Wreck With Ghastly-Faced sailors
Frozen In the Rigging. Near This Pair A Lady Was Challenging a
German Artist Who Resembled napoleon Iii. With Having been
Publicly Drunk At A Music Hall On The Previous Night. Next To The
Great Gloomy Corridor Of This Sixteenth Floor Was A Little Office
Presided over By An Austere Boy, And Here Waited in enforced
Patience A Little Dismal Band Of People Who Wanted to See The
Sunday Editor.
Baker Took A Manuscript And After Glancing about The Room,
Walked over To A Man At Another Desk,
Here Is Something that. I Think Might Do," He Said.
The Man At The Desk Read The First Two Pages. " But Where Is The
Photogragh " " He Asked then. "There Should Be A Photograph
With This Thing."
" Oh, I Forgot," Said Baker. He Brought From His Desk A
Photograph Of The Babe That Had Been Born Lacking arms And
One Eye. Baker'S Superior Braced a Knee Against His Desk And
Settled back To A Judicial Attitude. He Took The Photograph And
Looked at It Impassively. " Yes," He Said, After A Time, " That'S A
Pretty Good Thing. You Better Show That To Coleman When He
Comes In."
In The Little Office Where The Dismal Band Waited, There Had
Been A Sharp Hopeful Stir When Rufus Coleman, The Sunday
Editor, Passed rapidly From Door To Door And Vanished within
The Holy Precincts. It Had Evidently Been In the Minds Of Some
To Accost Him Then, But His Eyes Did Not Turn Once In their
Direction. It Was As If He Had Not Seen Them. Many Experiences
Had Taught Him That The Proper Manner Of Passing through This
Office Was At A Blind Gallop.
The Dismal Band Turned then Upon The Austere Office Boy.
Some Demanded with Terrible Dignity That He Should Take In
Their Cards At Once. Others Sought To Ingratiate Themselves By
Smiles Of Tender Friendliness. He For His Part Employed what We
Would Have Called his Knowledge Of Men And Women Upon The
Group, And In consequence Blundered and Bungled vividly,
Freezing with A Glance An Annoyed and Importunate Arctic
Explorer Who Was Come To Talk Of Illustrations
For An Article That Had Been Lavishly Paid For In advance. The
Hero Might Have Thought He Was Again In the Northern Seas. At
The Next Moment The Boy Was Treating almost Courteously A
German From The Cast Side Who Wanted the Eclipse To Print A Grand Full
Page Advertising description Of His Invention, A Gun Which Was
Supposed to Have A Range Of Forty Miles And To Be Able To
Penetrate Anything with Equanimity And Joy. The Gun, As A
Matter Of Fact, Had Once Been Induced to Go Off When It Had
Hurled itself Passionately Upon Its Back, Incidentally Breaking
Its Inventor'S Leg. The Projectile Had Wandered some Four
Hundred yards Seaward, Where It Dug A Hole In the Water Which
Was Really A Menace To Navigation. Since Then There Had Been
Nothing tangible Save The Inventor, In splints And Out Of Splints,
As The Fortunes Of Science Decreed. In short, This Office Boy
Mixed his Business In the Perfect Manner Of An Underdone Lad
Dealing with Matters Too Large For Him, And Throughout He
Displayed the Pride And Assurance Of A God.
As Coleman Crossed the Large Office His Face Still Wore The
Stern Expression Which He Invariably Used to Carry Him
Unmolested through The Ranks Of The Dismal Band. As He Was
Removing his London Overcoat He Addressed the Imperturbable
Back Of One Of His Staff, Who Had A Desk Against The Opposite
Wall. " Has Hasskins Sent In that Drawing of The Mine Accident
Yet? " The Man Did Not Lift His Head From His Work-, But He
Answered at Once: " No; Not Yet." Coleman Was Laying his Hat
On A Chair. " Well, Why Hasn'T He ? " He Demanded. He Glanced
Toward The Door Of The Room In which The Curly-Headed
Scoundrel With The Corncob Pipe Was Still Hurling paper Balls At
The Man Who Was Trying to Invent The Postures Of Dead
Mariners Frozen In the Rigging. The Office Boy Came Timidly From
His Post And Informed coleman Of The Waiting people. " All
Right," Said The Editor. He Dropped into His Chair And Began To
Finger His Letters, Which Had Been Neatly Opened and Placed in a
Little Stack By A Boy. Baker Came In with The Photograph Of The
Miserable Babe.
It Was Publicly Believed that The Sunday Staff Of The Eclipse
Must Have A Kind Of Aesthetic Delight In pictures Of This Kind,
But Coleman'S Face Betrayed no Emotion As He Looked at This
Specimen. He Lit A Fresh Cigar, Tilted his Chair And Surveyed it
With A Cold And Stony Stare. " Yes, That'S All Right," He Said
Slowly. There Seemed to Be No Affectionate Relation Between
Him And This Picture. Evidently He Was Weighing its Value As A
Morsel To Be Flung To A Ravenous Public, Whose Wolf-Like
Appetite, Could Only Satisfy Itself Upon Mental Entrails,
Abominations. As For Himself, He Seemed to Be Remote, Exterior.
It Was A Matter Of The Eclipse Business.
Suddenly Coleman Became Executive. " Better Give
It To Schooner And Tell Him To Make A Half-Page---Or, No, Send
Him In here And I'Ll Tell Him My Idea. How'S The Article? Any
Good? Well, Give It To Smith To Rewrite."
An Artist Came From The Other Room And Presented for
Inspection His Drawing of The Seamen Dead In the Rigging of The
Wreck, A Company Of Grizzly And Horrible Figures, Bony-Fingered,
Shrunken And With Awful Eyes. " Hum," Said Coleman, After A
Prolonged study, " That'S All Right. That'S Good, Jimmie. But
You'D Better Work 'Em Up Around The Eyes A Little More." The
Office Boy Was Deploying in the Distance, Waiting for The
Correct Moment To Present Some Cards And Names.
The Artist Was Cheerfully Taking away His Corpses When
Coleman Hailed him. " Oh, Jim, Let Me See That Thing again, Will
You? Now, How About This Spar? This Don'T Look Right To Me."
" It Looks Right To Me," Replied the Artist, Sulkily.
" But, See. It'S Going to Take Up Half A Page. Can'T You
Change It Somehow "
How Am I Going to Change It?" Said The Other, Glowering at
Coleman. " That'S The Way It Ought To Be. How Am I Going to
Change It? That'S The Way It Ought To Be."
" No, It Isn'T At All," Said Coleman. "You'Ve Got A Spar
Sticking out Of The Main Body Of The Drawing in a Way That Will
Spoil The Look Of The Whole Page."
The Artist Was A Man Of Remarkable Popular Reputation And
He Was Very Stubborn And Conceited of It, Constantly Making
Himself Unbearable With Covert, Threats That If He Was Not
Delicately Placated at All Points, He Would Freight His Genius
Over To The Office Of The Great Opposition Journal.
" That'S The Way It Ought To Be," He Repeated, In a Tone At
Once Sullen And Superior. "The Spar Is All Right. I Can'T Rig Spars
On Ships Just To Suit You."
" And I Can'T Give Up The Whole Paper To Your Accursed spars,
Either," Said Coleman, With Animation. " Don'T You See You Use
About A Third Of A Page With This Spar Sticking off Into Space?
Now, You Were Always So Clever, Jimmie, In adapting yourself To
The Page. Can'T You Shorten It, Or Cut It Off, Or Something? Or,
Break It-That'S The Thing. Make It A Broken Spar
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