The Death of the Lion
I HAD simply, I suppose, a change of heart, and it must have begun when I received my manuscript back from Mr. Pinhorn. Mr. Pinhorn was my " chief," as he was called in the office : he had accepted the high mission of bringing the paper up. This was a weekly periodical and had been supposed to be almost past redemption when he took hold of it. It was Mr. Deedy who had let it down so dreadfully—he was never mentioned in the office now save in connection with that misdemeanour. Young as I was I had been in a manner taken over from Mr. Deedy, who had been owner as well as editor ; forming part of a promiscuous lot, mainly plant and office-furniture, which poor Mrs. Deedy, in her bereavement and depression, parted with at a rough valuation. I could account for my continuity only on the supposition that I had been cheap. I rather resented the practice of fathering all flatness on my late protector, who was in his unhonoured grave ; but as I had my way to make I found matter enough for complacency in being on a "staff." At the same time I was aware that I was exposed to suspicion as a product of the old lowering system. This made me feel that I was doubly bound to
have ideas, and had doubtless been at the bottom of my proposing to Mr. Pinhorn that I should lay my lean hands on Neil Paraday. I remember that he looked at me first as if he had never heard of this celebrity, who indeed at that moment was by no means in the middle of the heavens ; and even when I had knowingly explained he expressed but little confidence in the demand for any "such matter. When I had reminded him that the great principle on which we were supposed to work was just to create the demand we required, he considered a moment and then rejoined : "I see ; you want to write him up."
"Call it that if you like."
"And what's your inducement ?"
" Bless my soul—my admiration ! "
Mr. Pinhorn pursed up his mouth. " Is there much to be done with him ? "
" Whatever there is, we should have it all to ourselves, for he hasn't been touched."
This argument was effective, and Mr. Pinhorn responded : "Very well, touch him.' 1 Then he added : u But where can you do it ? "
« Under the fifth rib ! " I laughed.
Mr. Pinhorn stared. " Where's that ? "
" You want me to go down and see him ? " I inquired, when I had enjoyed his visible search for this obscure suburb.
"I don't 'want' anything—the proposal's your own. But you must remember that that's the way we do things now" said Mr. Pinhorn, with another dig at Mr. Deedy.
Unregenerate as I was, I could read the queer implications o this speech. The present owner's superior virtue as well as his deeper craft spoke in his reference to the late editor as one of that baser sort who deal in false representations. Mr. Deedy
would as soon have sent me to call on Neil Paraday as he would have published a "holiday-number ;" but such scruples presented themselves as mere ignoble thrift to his successor, whose own sincerity took the form of ringing door-bells and whose definition of genius was the art of finding people at home. It was as if Mr. Deedy had published reports without his young men's having, as Mr. Pinhorn would have said, really been there. I was unre-generate, as I have hinted, and I was not concerned to straighten out the journalistic morals of my chief, feeling them indeed to be an abyss over the edge of which it was better not to peer. Really to be there this time moreover was a vision that made the idea of writing something subtle about Neil Paraday only the more inspiring. I would be as considerate as even Mr. Deedy could have wished, and yet I should be as present as only Mr. Pinhorn could conceive. My allusion to the sequestered manner in which Mr. Paraday lived (which had formed part of my explanation, though I knew of it only by hearsay) was, I could divine, very much what had made Mr. Pinhorn bite. It struck him as in consistent with the success of his paper that