Part 12

“Well sir, let us get down to brass tacks. Sir Munt is a bit of a One. He can’t be hustled. He can’t be driven. But he can see as far through a brick wall as most people. And last evening, as he was leaving the Floral Hall after the Sacred Harmonic Society’s annual performance of the Golden Legend in the company of Alderman Kearsley, another old-fashioned blue, he was overheard to remark, ‘I’m sorry to say it, Kearsley, but I’m afraid there’s going to be awful graft at this election.’”

The Member agreed.

“Coming from a gentleman in Sir Munt’s position those words mean a great deal. He knows very well that the graft is on his own side. The U. P. is so slick nowadays that it is beginning to give the Old Man cold feet. There’s such a thing as being too clever in this world, Mr. Endor, and strictly between you and me, sir, the over cleverness of the other side is the only chance we’ve got.”

At this point Mr. Ambrose Furley paused dramatically to readjust the cord of his eyeglasses round his left ear. It was an infallible sign on his part of constructive thought. “Do you know, sir,” he said after a long moment of silence, “what I should do if I were you? It may be a little _infra dignitatem_, but I should take the earliest opportunity of stepping across the Market Place to the Mayor’s Parlor and having a little heart-to-heart talk with Sir Munt. It may be _infra dignitatem_, as I say, but if you put the case against the U. P. only half as well as you put it in Parliament the other day, you’ll lose nothing by it. Sir Munt is a patriot, an imperialist, a protectionist, and all that, but when it comes to a showdown he’s a man who knows how many beans make five.”

The Agent’s argument found prompt favor in the sight of John Endor. It came to him, in fact, rather in the light of an inspiration. A shrewd race these Blackhamptonians! There and then he decided to have an interview with the famous and admired Sir Josiah Munt.

XXXV

“Sir Munt,” for the nth time Mayor of Blackhampton,[A] was in his parlor at the City Hall, gazing into the heavens. A contraption rather like a monstrous aluminum fish shining in the October air hung above Market Square. At regular intervals of a minute or so there came fluttering down from the huge object in the sky a rain of leaflets. These varied in color and they fell upon the heads of the citizens.

At last, yet not without effort of will, Sir Munt set a term to his entrancement. He went across to his writing table and pressed the bell once. A small imp in a very tight suit of buttons promptly answered the summons.

“Niblo,” said the Chief Magistrate, “step into the square and collect some of that dé-bris. Bring one of each color, my boy.”

Preternaturally sharp in all circumstances, Niblo fully understood what was required. He made his exit with a duck.

Sir Munt turned thoughtfully to the room’s second occupant. Its second occupant was no less a personage than his stenographer, Miss Evans. An intelligent, demure, stylishly attractive young lady, she was seated before a typewriter carefully transcribing from her private notes a sheaf of letters recently dictated to her by the Mayor.

“Miss Evans,” said his worship, “if you’ve written that letter to Sir Stuyvescent Milgrim let me see it.”

The letter duly detached from the growing pile was handed to the Mayor, who looked every inch of him--and they were many--the City’s Chief Magistrate, as he put on a pair of eyeglasses to peruse it. For several minutes he studied the letter in silence with the frown of a man who did not quite know his own mind. At last, the study was terminated and the frown increased by the return of Niblo, who with a fine air of importance bore a number of pamphlets, some of which were white, some of which were red, some of which were blue.

Sir Munt read the white one first:

LOVELY MATLOCK, THE INCOMPARABLE METROPOLIS OF THE PEAK DISTRICT OF DERBYSHIRE

A select number of subscribers to the UNIVERSAL PRESS will be transmitted daily to this enchanted spot, free of all charge, by AUNT MITTIE NUMBER THREE (Chicago World’s Fair Model).

For full particulars apply to

GEORGE BUTTERS, ESQ., _Chief U. P. Agent_, King’s Parade.

ENDOR MUST GO

So much for the first announcement. The second, on blue paper, was as follows:

BLACKHAMPTON EMPIRE (Twice Nightly)

On Monday next, and throughout the week, the world-famous COLORADO QUARTET will present a new song and glee entitled “ENDOR MUST GO.” Words by the Poet Laureate. Music by Sir Topman Murtle, O.M., Mus. Doc. (Copies of this beautiful work half price to all subscribers to the U. P.) Logan’s Elephants. Parajinksy Troupe of Priceless Bounders. Kuhlmann’s Performing Seals, and a host of other attractions, including The World in Pictures on the U. P. Bioscope showing the recent riot at Hellington when the Member for East Blackhampton (Mr. John Endor, M.P.) was severely handled. Prices as usual. Special terms for subscribers to the U. P.

The third announcement, on red paper, ran thus:

KINEMA HALL

The most exquisitely appointed Picture Palace in the Midland Counties is now showing LOVELY LILY LANGRISH (England’s Own) in her great three-reel exclusive “THE BRIDE OF PRINCE CHARMING.” Also East Blackhampton Election Scenes. Arrival of Sir Stuyvescent Milgrim at Central Station. Enthusiastic Reception. Floral tribute from Members of the U. P., etc., etc. Also vivid two-reeler of the Recent Riot at Hellington. John Endor, M.P., nearly loses his life. Thrilling escape by back door from a mob of Infuriated Workers, etc., etc. Also a first release of the latest triumph of U. P. kinematography. Saul Hartz, Esq., O.M., the great philanthropist, in the robes of an Honorary Curator of Blackpool Observatory, praying with the Chief Druid at the Welsh Eisteddfod. A print in five colors, suitable for the home, based on this subject, after the famous work by Albert Blantyre, A.R.A. (awarded Gold Medallion at Chicago World’s Fair) may be had on application free of charge by all _bona fide_ subscribers to the U. P.

Sir Munt’s only comment on these exhibits was a slight pursing of the lips. But his countenance, at all times a little heavy, grew decidedly dour. Moreover, he ruminated exceedingly.

He was still deeply involved in the process of thought, when he was interrupted by a fierce and sudden ring of the telephone bell.

“Yes! Yes!” said Miss Evans, receiver in hand. A moment later the Mayor was informed that Mr. Endor, M. P., sent his compliments, and could Sir Josiah make it convenient to see him at once if he came over from his committee rooms at the other side of the Square.

Sir Josiah pondered the matter for a long and serious moment. And then he said weightily: “Tell Mr. Endor I’ll see him now if he cares to nip across.”

XXXVI

John Endor’s talk with Sir Munt gave that gentleman much food for thought. For twenty-five years the Mayor of Blackhampton had voted Blue. In the purview of Yellow, its arch and traditional foe, Blue was the badge of Reaction, of Capitalism, of Imperialism, of Mass-oppression. Yellow, in the opinion of Blue, was the badge of Ca’ Canny, Democratic Insolence, Class Prejudice, Mob Rule. Once upon a time, no doubt, the two colors may have approximated more or less to these extremes.

Since the Great War, however, and the rise to power of the Newspaper Ring, things had changed. In fact they were always changing. At the beck of Cosmos Alley and Universe Lane, these two primary colors were now interchangeable terms. Blue became Yellow, and Yellow became Blue in deference to the will of the magician who presided over the destinies of the U. P. In fact the art of government by newspaper had been raised to such a pitch that it took a very shrewd head to know who and what it was voting for. Sir Munt had a head of that kind, but more than once of late years in matters political its owner had been completely at fault.

At the last General Election, some six years ago, the U. P.--profanely called the Stunt Press--had declared for John Endor, then a tyro and greenhorn new to political life under modern conditions. He had been returned to parliament in consequence by a big majority. This time, however, the boot was on the other leg. “Endor must go.”

The member for Blackhampton East had much to say to Sir Munt, and he said it cogently. The two men were singularly unlike. Endor, a highly civilized man of liberal ideas, was consumed with a desire to leave the world a little better than he found it. Sir Josiah, on the other hand, had not been born to social advantages. Entirely self-educated he had made his way by mother wit and force of will; but like so many of his kind, to whom life had brought prosperity, he too, had a regard for the body politic. In Sir Munt the vein of idealism which ennobled John Endor was conspicuously lacking. He had seen too much of the ugly side of life to have any great hopes of human nature. All the same he was a good citizen and a very honest man. Rough he might be, on the surface, but his hand was often in his pocket; and he grudged neither time nor trouble in grappling with the eternal problem of the Under Dog.

“You tell me, Mr. Endor,” said Sir Munt, looking at his visitor in what he would have himself described as “an old-fashioned way,” “you tell me, sir, that the Stunt Press has behind it a ring of capitalists, with one man at its head, who is determined to become the dictator of this country.”

“I do,” said John Endor.

“Well, now,” said Blackhampton’s Chief Magistrate, “I don’t believe that to be possible. One man--I don’t care how clever--can’t run a country like this.”

“Saul Hartz steadily keeps that end in view. And his Trust is now organized in such a wonderful way that in the near future anything may happen. You see the Machine, as one may call it, of which this man Hartz is the linchpin has now a finger in every pie. A child can hardly buy a packet of pins without its permission. Its great opportunity came with the famine in paper and the world shortage in raw materials, which Saul Hartz was able to foresee. No one questions his power of looking ahead although he has paid a long price for it to the Devil. It has enabled him to corner, among other essential commodities, the inadequate supplies of news print. And when some years ago the crisis arose in the newspaper world, the entire British press had to make its choice--each individual journal, no matter what its traditions, must either enter the Ring on Saul Hartz’s terms or close down. The best of them preferred to close down. One or two carried on and still do so with the help of private backers. But they are no more than voices crying in the wilderness and I am assured, by those who know, that in every case they are heavy losers financially. To begin with, you see, running a newspaper is no longer a business proposition for anybody.”

Sir Josiah agreed. “For some time past I have been given to understand that the cost of paper and printing is prohibitive. Tatlow has to charge fourpence a day for the Blackhampton _Monitor_.”

“That’s because the _Monitor_ is outside the Ring.”

“Quite so. And it’s about a quarter as good as the Blackhampton _Mercury_ which charges three halfpence.”

“The explanation is simple. One has pages upon pages of advertising matter; the other has none.”

“Yes, of course.”

“There you have the key of the position. Advertisements are the life blood of the Press. The Ring says to every advertising agent in the country: ‘Advertise in any paper in the British Empire outside those controlled by us, and we refuse you all publicity.’ Just think what that means to any business community. And you must please bear in mind that the U. P. has not only corralled all the chief newspapers and the raw materials that create them, but also a fleet of airships to distribute its products. Moreover, the Transatlantic telephone, which has hardly been completed a year is now in the hands of Saul Hartz.”

Sir Munt sat up in his chair.

“By gum!” he said. “You don’t say!”

“Painfully true, I’m afraid. He has outwitted everybody including our own Government and that of the United States. During the last few months, events have been tending very rapidly towards the enslavement of the whole world. People don’t realize what this inner ring of newspaper Bosses with Saul Hartz at its head can do.”

“What is the Government about?”

“The Government is powerless. At least it chooses to be. For one must never forget that it is composed exclusively of nominees of the U. P.”

Sir Munt began to look worried. Ardent patriot and shrewd man of affairs, above all he was a man of business. The words of John Endor might sound alarmist, but the Mayor of Blackhampton knew there was a good deal behind them.

“Mr. Endor, if what you say’s correct, it’s high time some of us were up and doing.”

“I agree; but it may be too late. Hartz is now working night and day to get a ‘cinch’ on America.”

“That won’t be easy.”

“Easier perhaps than one may suppose. In the mass the Americans are just as gullible as ourselves. Hartz has been throwing dust in their eyes for years. The U. P. propaganda is always working on them as it is on us. Even now the average Briton is not alive to the menace of the whole country being run by one colossal trust. Give the American his due he has always kept that contingency in mind. Years ago he passed laws to prevent it. But the time is at hand when our friends across the water will have to look out, or Saul Hartz will be one too many for them. He has already got his foot well in. For some time now he has had a working arrangement with the Breit Combine, and if that mighty concern amalgamates with the U. P., as I’m assured it will, nothing on the face of this planet will be able to stand up against the power of antichrist.”

“Antichrist!”

“The shallow materialism of the western business brain, of which the man Saul Hartz is the prophet, is nothing less than that. Genius of a kind he has, no doubt, but he lacks the essential faculty, like others before him, of knowing when to stop. He sees World Power in front of him, and under present conditions he may be allowed to grasp it on terms easier than would have been exacted of Napoleon I and Wilhelm II.”

John Endor had many questions to answer in the course of a long interview, but in the end he was able to convince Sir Josiah Munt that the Newspaper Ring was the writing on the wall not merely for Great Britain, not merely for America, but for civilization itself. The instance from his own experience the member for Blackhampton East was able to adduce of the U. P.’s power of manipulating news, and the worth of the news when it had been manipulated, proved a clinching argument for that honest citizen.

“I must be up and doing.” That was the thought in the mind of Sir Munt as he shook hands with his visitor and ushered him to the door. So powerfully had the case against the Ring been urged by one whom the Mayor instinctively respected, that he felt already for once in his life the stern necessity of voting Yellow. Native caution prevented his letting the candidate know just what was in his mind; but as John Endor recrossed the Market Square to his committee rooms he was upheld by a feeling that he had gone some way towards getting a strong man on his side.

Well it was to have this food for the spirit. The fight, envenomed already by a felon stroke, was bound to be severe. And the odds now massed against him were so heavy that a nature less warlike might have been overwhelmed.

XXXVII

As the Mayor of Blackhampton watched from his window at the City Hall the tall and striking form of John Endor merge itself in the welter of citizens below in Market Square, he knew that he was faced by a momentous issue. The case against the Government and the U. P., that unholy alliance which had caused such widespread misery in the land and which now was threatening once more the peace of the world, had been urged with a force that had given the good man a shock. A key was now his to many disconcerting events of recent years, and he could but marvel that long before this he had not had the wit to discern the truth for himself. The shameful graft of the new bureaucracy for which Government by Newspaper had much to answer, he now saw from his own experience, to be sapping the life and liberties of the State.

More than once of late at the Imperial Club, whose imposing freestone façade stared at him from the other side of the Square, had Sir Munt during the luncheon hour heard despondent businessmen declare “that what the country really wanted to put things right was another war.” During the late upheaval, whose scars had now begun to fade, all classes of the community had shared in a delusive prosperity; but only the few who controlled the means of production and their nominees in Whitehall and Westminster had been permanently enriched. The price of everything had been forced up, yet the value of everything had gone down.

When Sir Munt entered the Club dining room at a quarter past one as usual, he found it a hive. And it was a hive seething with excitement. Political feeling ran high. This by-election, having regard to all the circumstances, promised to be quite one of the most piquant of modern times. John Endor whom the U. P. had returned by a solid majority of four thousand at the last election, having bitten the hand that fostered him, was now going ignominiously to be “fired.”

“Serve him right!” The opinion of the Club dining room was almost unanimous. But that which none of these pundits could understand even now was why in Wonder’s name had Slippery Sam offered John Endor the Home Secretaryship? On the face of it such a move was an open and palpable affront to the U. P. In the light of that circumstance only one explanation was feasible. The prime minister was riding for a fall.

Even the most advanced thinkers at the Club luncheon table hesitated to accept that view. Slippery Sam was the wiliest of men; yet those who were ready to make every concession to his peculiar talent were quite unable to read the riddle. If Endor was unseated, Mr. Williams would have to appeal to the country. And what would happen then?

No, the pundits declared themselves beaten. It was left, however, to the shrewdest and weightiest of them all to cast a ray of light upon the darkness. Sir Munt, armed with the new and rather amazing knowledge that had come to him less than an hour ago, proceeded to electrify the table at the head of which he sat.

“Comes to this, Murrell, my boy.” Poising an oyster on an authoritative fork Sir Munt turned augustly to Alderman Murrell, the eminent Imperialist on his right. “Do we want another war or don’t we? That’s what it comes to.”

A pause followed. And then, Sir Munt having enforced the appeal to Alderman Murrell’s judgment by demonstratively swallowing the oyster, the eminent Imperialist gave a cock of the head and said: “Well, Sir Munt, since you ask me I say ‘Yes’ and I say ‘_No_.’”

“You can’t ride both horses, my boy.” Sir Munt poised oyster the second. “You’ve got to make up your mind to one on ’em. If you want war you’ll vote for this little Colonial Snot.”--Sensation!--“If you don’t want war you’ll vote for John Endor.”

A pin might have been heard to fall on the Club mahogany.

“The time has come, Murrell, when some on us in this City has got to do a bit o’ clear thinkin’. But before we can do anything we must have the dust out of our eyes. What is the Universal Press up to?--that’s the first question to ask ourselves. For years it has been preaching Disarmament in one column and quoting Rudyard Kipling in the next. You may be very bright and clever and quite well up in your business, but oil and vitriol don’t always mix. Seems to me, Murrell, it’s time we came to brass tacks.”

Alderman Murrell and his fellow Imperialists sat up now and took notice. They had always been proud to think that Sir Munt whose force of will and breadth of view they deeply admired was one of themselves. He was very much one of themselves in point of fact. Was he not a trustee of the Club and permanent chairman of its house committee? For him to break loose in this unprecedented manner was indeed significant.

“I’ve just been having a heart-to-heart talk with Mr. Endor.” A swift exchange of glances between the sconce-bearers of Sir Munt confirmed them in the view that he undoubtedly had. “He says the long and short o’ the matter is, the U. P. is trying to force the Government into a war with China.”

Sensation!

“The prime minister is against it, but the Cabinet is in such fear of what the U. P. can do at the next General Election that it means to force his hand.”

“What can the U. P. do at the next General Election?” inquired a mild voice on the left.

“Most people think,” said Sir Munt, “that the U. P. can put out the present government as easily as it put it in.”

“But why should Saul Hartz want a war with China?” persisted the mild voice.

“Labor is getting out of hand. And he thinks it may do good all round--buck up trade, keep up prices, get the country and the colonies to pull together, and so on.”

“There may be something in it.”

“I don’t think so, Jennings,” said Sir Munt. “We’ve got to look ahead. If we get monkeying with China, the next thing on the tapis--so says Mr. Endor, and he sees as far through a brick wall as most, does that jockey--will be trouble between America and Japan.”

“Is that going to matter?” inquired a second Imperialist.

“We can’t afford to let Japan go under,” said Sir Munt sternly. “Our commitments in that quarter are too deep.”

“A thousand pities, it seems to me,” interposed the slow dry voice of the manager of the National Bank, “that America ever jacked up the League of Nations. Seems to me that the world missed one of the opportunities that can never recur.”

“Mr. Thorp, I’m with you there.” Sir Munt sighed heavily. “And she’s thought so, too, more than once, I’ll bet a dollar. However, there it is. And here’s the situation we’ve got to look at now. Every vote given for the Colonial gentleman is a vote for the U. P. And to-day, says Mr. Endor, and I for one can believe him, the U. P. means war with China. And to-morrow it may mean war with somebody of more importance than China.”

“Serve ’em right.”

The ill-timed remark from the other end of the table was drowned in a chorus of stern dissent. Even to these ardent minds such a contingency was not to be thought of. But on one point the great man at the table head was emphatic. Until the U. P. was brought under control there could be no security for any nation, any body of persons, any private individual. And the moment being opportune, Sir Munt clinched his argument with the story of the recent singular occurrence in that city. Several of those who heard it, although not among the admirers of John Endor--his views were much too “woolly” for thoroughgoing Imperialists--had been present at the famous luncheon. These now bore reluctant witness to the fact that he had been misreported. Not that it particularly mattered. Speechifying didn’t cut much ice in these times. And it was reasonable to allow every orator a certain amount of latitude at a champagne luncheon.

“All very well,” growled Sir Munt. “But that speech has gone round the world. His friends here, knowing the man and knowing the circumstances in which the speech was made, are content to believe that some one has blundered. I don’t put it higher than that. But at Hellington the next day he got a broken head instead of a hearing.”

Honest Sir Munt, having made his point, subsided now in a brief period of deglutition.

A few minutes later, in a favorite corner of the smoking room, he had a little serious talk with Alderman Murrell.