CHAPTER XVI IN WHICH HERBERT LOSES HIS POSITION AND RETIRES IN DISGRACE

The shock of discovering Arthur Black so unexpectedly and under such damaging circumstances completely unnerved Herbert Harkins. For many seconds he stood there staring at Arthur as if he were some ghostly phantom who had suddenly appeared from the grave. By degrees Herbert began to realize the compromising position in which he had placed himself. The detective stood only a few yards away eagerly watching the scene and awaiting the moment when he would be called upon to place Arthur Black under arrest. Herbert did not turn around, but felt that the sleuth was there, ready to perform the act which was to be the capstone of a remarkably clever piece of newspaper work.

In that brief period of time his mind traveled with lightning like rapidity. He thought of his troubles in the country. He remembered the incident when he had punished Arthur. He recalled the threatened disgrace which had preceded his father’s sudden death. He remembered his work on the Cleverly Banner, and then by easy stages his mind reverted to his arrival in New York, his employment on the Argus, and finally to his meeting with Mary Black on that very morning. He thought of Blakeley, the city editor, impatiently waiting for the announcement that his big story was to be a success and that the Argus could pride itself not only upon a notable scoop, but also upon the exposure of a set of swindlers who had preyed remorselessly upon the public.

What should he do? His duty seemed clear and unavoidable. Surely one would have to suffer for the benefit of the many. Besides that the eyes of the detective were upon him, and his failure to do the right thing at this moment might lead to his complete downfall. From this thought his mind reverted to every detail of the impressive interview which he had held with Mary Black a little more than an hour before. A voice within him urged him to be faithful to his promise, no matter what personal loss he might suffer. He had given her his pledge that if he ever met Arthur Black he would lend him a helping hand; that if he was in trouble he would succor him; that if he was in danger he would save him. For what seemed to be a very long time he was torn with conflicting emotions. Many minutes seemed to elapse--in reality it was only a few seconds. He reached his decision quickly, and he acted promptly. Putting his arm on Arthur’s shoulder, he whispered, almost hissed, into the latter’s ear:

“You are on the verge of ruin. I have been sent here to arrest you. A detective is standing a few yards away. If you wish to avoid arrest, exposure and disgrace, run--run for your life.”

Arthur clutched convulsively at the grip in his right hand and gave a hurried look about him. His glance fell upon the short, stockily built man with the little twinkling eyes, who stood only a few yards distant. Some instinct seemed to tell Arthur that this was the detective, that this was the one man he should avoid. As quick as thought, he turned on his heel and made a dash in the opposite direction. The detective noting the movement, started to follow him; but Herbert shouldering his way against some people who were standing between them, got in front of the detective and completely blocked his way.

“Move aside,” said the officer angrily, “don’t you see that that fellow is getting away? Move aside, I tell you!”

By this time the crowd in the corridor had become so dense that it was almost impassable. It was quite evident that Arthur had made his escape and in all probability was now out of harm’s way. Herbert turned to the detective and said in a low tone:

“It’s the wrong fellow, old man; it’s all a mistake.”

The little twinkling eyes looked searchingly into Herbert’s face. What he saw there satisfied him. The pale face, the look of despair, the nervous manner were sufficient to indicate that the young man had just passed through a crisis. It would be useless to argue with him. The detective did not attempt it. He buttoned up his coat, pulled his hat down more firmly over his head, and walked away, muttering:

“Well, this is the queerest game I’ve ever been up against in all my career.”

After the detective left him, Herbert moved over to one of the big windows in the post office corridor, and leaning his elbows on the sill, stood there for some time musing upon the incidents that had just occurred. He recalled with a feeling of sadness Tomlin’s prophetic words: “An opportunity may come to you to do some big bit of work, and it will either break you or make you.”

The opportunity had come much quicker than he had anticipated, and unless all signs failed it would prove to be the cause of his undoing. He wondered in a numb sort of way how he was ever going to face Blakeley. He had started out on this assignment with a great display of enthusiasm. Indeed, now that he looked back upon it he had acted with considerable presumption. He had as good as boasted of the ease with which he intended to handle the case, and now it was all ended in an inglorious fizzle. The thought of a face to face encounter with Blakeley was decidedly chilling. Blakeley, while possessing many charming personal traits, was one of the hardest taskmasters in the office. Herbert shrank at the thought of going before him without the coveted story. He even contemplated the notion of not returning to the office at all; but this bit of cowardice was soon overcome as a thought not to be seriously considered for an instant. He would return to the office; he would face the music like a man; and he would take his medicine--no matter how bitter--without making any faces.

He left the post office building to go to the Argus office; but somehow or other he could not summon up sufficient courage to undergo the dreadful ordeal; so he walked up Broadway, mingling with the crowd, looking in the shop windows and trying to forget the terrible details of the most unpleasant incident of his life. After awhile he turned off Broadway and walked in the direction of Fifth Avenue. When he had reached that fashionable thoroughfare he bent his footsteps towards Central Park. By this time it was late in the afternoon. The fashionable turnouts of the rich and the prosperous were going up the avenue, skilfully guided through the crowded street by richly liveried drivers who seemed to know every inch of the ground. Still Herbert walked on and on, seemingly unconscious of what he was doing. The approach of dusk brought him to his senses. He must go to the office and go there as quickly as possible.

He jumped on a ’bus that was going down-town, and at the intersection where the Avenue joins Broadway he alighted and boarded one of the surface cars. It was quite dusk when he reached the Argus office, and walking into the local room in an uncertain manner, he noticed that most of the men were out and that Blakeley was seated at his desk alone. The city editor was puffing at a big cigar, and did not notice the entrance of the young reporter.

Herbert was the first to speak.

“Mr. Blakeley,” he said, in a hushed sort of voice.

The city editor turned around like a flash.

“Hello there, Harkins,” he said eagerly; “I’ve been waiting for you all the afternoon. How did the thing pan out?”

“It didn’t pan out at all,” said Herbert in a hesitating, halting way.

“What do you mean?” cried the other, his tone perceptibly hardening.

“I mean that I have no story,” this in a slightly firmer voice.

“No story?” shouted the other, “why what are you talking about anyhow? There must be a story.”

“There was a story,” rejoined Herbert, now throwing all precaution to the winds; “but I can’t write it.”

“Can’t write it? Why, you’re crazy, man. What are you talking about?”

The city editor was thoroughly angry now. He arose from his chair and stood towering before Herbert. In his rage he threw his freshly lighted cigar into the cuspidor with a savage movement of his hand. He stamped his foot on the floor fiercely.

“There is no use talking about this matter any longer. You go to your desk and write this thing and have your copy ready as soon as possible.”

“I can’t write it,” said Herbert, now speaking in a voice that was scarcely audible.

Blakeley was silent, trying hard to control his rising passion. When he spoke his voice sounded almost like a hiss.

“You understand what this means, don’t you--you know what it will cost you?”

“Yes,” said Herbert, looking up; “I understand, and I resign my position as a reporter on the Argus.”

“Your resignation is accepted,” said the other shortly; “but I call upon you to do the work that you were assigned to perform, before leaving this office.”

“I can’t do it,” said Herbert; “on my honor I cannot do it.”

“But what explanation have you to give?”

Herbert looked up helplessly. For a moment a desire to tell the whole story to Blakeley took possession of him. The next minute it was dismissed as impracticable. Blakeley was a man without any heart or feeling. He felt convinced of this, and felt likewise that if the facts were once in the city editor’s possession the story would have to be written regardless of the private anguish it might cause. So he stood there speechless before his superior.

“Go!” finally shouted Blakeley, pointing to the door. “But when you go remember that you go in disgrace. You are like an engineer who would leave his train in the middle of the journey, or a pilot who would desert his ship in a storm at sea. Go, and never let me see you again.”

Herbert left the room with a flushed face and downcast eyes. He avoided the elevator. The thought of meeting with anyone at a time like this grated upon his feelings. He walked down the stairway with a heart as heavy as lead. He felt mortified and angry by turns. He mentally blamed Blakeley for his coarse manner and the ugly scolding he had given him. The next second he admitted to himself that Blakeley was fully justified in what he had said and done. Indeed, from the standpoint of the news and of duty, he could find no possible justification for his own conduct.

Presently he got out into Park Row and was soon in the midst of the pushing, bustling crowd. It was quite dark now, and the rush to the bridge was at its height. Myriads of electric lights shone brightly all about him. Cars rushed by, with motormen sounding their gongs continuously. Wagon drivers shouted and shrieked and pulled at their horses, and thousands of pedestrians laughed and shouted as they hurriedly went their way. Herbert, in a vague sort of way, wondered how they could all be so happy when he felt so miserable. Nothing seemed the same to him. Some mysterious change appeared to have overcome the face of New York since he had left his home early that morning; but in reality things moved on as before. Herbert’s philosophy did not realize that the world moves on day by day and night by night, regardless of the joys or the woes of the individual.

He soon reached his lodgings and quietly let himself in the door by means of his latch-key. He struck a light and gazed about curiously at the familiar things in the little apartment. Everything in the room seemed to look at him in a reproachful manner. Strange as it may seem, it was some moments before he became accustomed to being alone. Then he picked up a book and tried to read; but it was a dismal failure. He walked the floor for a long, long while. There was a lump in his throat that he could not remove. Presently he sank down into a chair and dropped his bowed head into his hands on the table.

“I’ve lost my job,” he groaned to himself. “I’ve done more than that. I’ve not only lost my place, but I’ve been retired in disgrace.”