Sing Sing Nights Read online

  Barton slipped his comb into his pocket, and, without a glance at the early men, strode down the long room whose lingering air of rigid cleanliness and mathematically accurate arrangement would be giving way to utter confusion by the time a dozen reporters should come stamping in on the big eight o’clock shift. Reaching the open door of the ground-glass cage, he walked in and stood at the desk.

  “Something for me, Mr. Frangenac?” he inquired, with forced politeness.

  Mr. Leon Frangenac, seated at the big flat-top desk, looked up, shears in hand. He was a powerful, strongly-built individual indisputably French, although his English was without the trace of an accent, perhaps fifty years of age, with pale, corpse-like cheeks that gleamed in vivid contrast to his short pointed black beard and his equally black moustache, waxed to a point on either side of his thin lips. His eyes, staring through Barton, were cold, beady, black, unfathomable.

  “Close the door. Sit down.” He flicked his thumb toward a chair. “And run your optics over this.” He handed Barton a short clipping which the younger man saw at once was from the Sun.

  Closing the door behind him, Barton dropped into a chair and read the brief contents. They ran:

  ONLY DAUGHTER OF EMPEROR OF CHINA ARRIVES IN CHICAGO

  PRINCESS O LYRA SENG FINISHING EDUCATION BY TOUR AROUND WORLD WITH CHINESE PRIME MINISTER AND WIFE

  Princess O Lyra Seng, the only daughter of Seng Hoang-Ti, Emperor of the new China, arrived in Chicago from New York yesterday on her tour around the world. The royal party, consisting of the Princess, her maid, Li Hwei Tsung, and Mrs. Li Hwei Tsung, are staying at the Hotel Rydenour. Yesterday afternoon was spent in a trip by carriage through the stockyards, viewing the meat-packing Industry. It is said that the Princess O Lyra Seng is better educated than most American girls, and speaks several languages in addition to her own. She is twenty years of age, and is now completing her education by a circuit of the world, under the care of the Chinese Prime Minister and his wife. Mr. Tsung has conveyed to the American Press the regrettable information that the Princess will not give out any interviews because of diplomatic reasons. The royal party leaves for San Francisco the day after to-morrow, one week after their arrival in America from London, and from America’s Pacific Coast gateway returns to Peking, after an absence of three months.

  Prominent students of international politics now concede that China’s latest reversion to a monarchical form of government will probably endure for at least a full century before the main mass of the Chinese people shall have reached the educational status that will make republicanism or democracy feasible; this permanency is also strengthened by two other important factors: one, that every warring faction in China has put its stamp of approval on the monarchy; and second, that Seng Hoang-Ti is the lineal descendant of the Seng line of rulers which ruled China for so many centuries. The advanced age of Seng Hoang-Ti, coupled with the fact that the Princess O Lyra Seng is his only offspring, indicates the extreme probability that the Princess will ultimately control the destinies of her 450,000,000 people.

  Barton looked up from the clipping. “Very interesting,” he commented dryly. “I note there was nothing doing in the interview line with her royal nibs. The Sun seems to have had to pad out with Chinese history to fill what space they did.”

  Mr. Leon Frangenac gazed absently out of the window toward the dingy buildings across from Newspaper Row. At length he spoke. “Barton,” he said abruptly, bringing back his gaze to bear on the younger man, “paper is as high as it was ten years ago during the Big War. Last month’s expense sheet, according to the frantic telegram from the Old Man in California, has a corn on it equal to the salary of one reporter. Your work hasn’t scintillated particularly during the last few months, so far as I’ve noticed and I’ve got to shave off that corn.” He stroked his black beard. “Get me?”

  “I gather somehow that I’m the corn,” remarked Barton coolly. “But why all the Chinese literature? Anæsthetic before an operation in pediatrics?”

  Frangenac leaned back in his swivel chair and laughed a mirthless laugh. “You’re good, Barton. That was worthy of mine own tongue.” He paused; the laugh faded; he was coming back to business again. “I met Howard Britton, owner of the Sun, last night at the Press Club. He was kind enough to advise me to save my time trying to get an interview out of O Lyra. Said the Sun tried out three men yesterday — and absolutely nothing doing. Also, I called up the Rydenour just before you came in. Clerk told me he had special instructions from her royal nibs through Li Hwei Tsung to tell reporters nothing doing; likewise to order the telephone operator to refuse connections to all parties trying to talk to the Princess by wire. It seems that they’ve got a complete suite on the fourteenth floor — and according to Britton they’re very nicely isolated and quite protected. Now do you get me?’

  “Light is beginning to filter in on me,” remarked Barton uneasily. “I go out and get an interview with her ladyship, Princess Chow-chow, and we avert the corn-shaving. In simpler language, I achieve the impossible — or else consider myself fired?”

  “Tonight at six p.m.,” said Frangenac coolly. “Sony — but the corn must be shaved. Go out and get her ladyship to talk to your notebook — and I’ll promise to fall on your neck — and find another corn to operate on instead. Otherwise — ” He stopped, listening. Through the ground-glass cage came the tramp of several reporters entering the city room on the eight o’clock shift. Frangenac’s face took on its habitual sour look. “As to achieving the impossible,” he grunted, “you Yankees give me a pain in the epigastrium. A Frenchman never squeals about impossibilities. A Frenchman has more enterprise, push and energy than two Poles, three Swedes, four Englishmen or four Americans. If it wasn’t for my mechanical leg I’d go out and demonstrate to the whole crew of you how to fill up the pages of the Dispatch with real news stuff.”

  Almost as though he desired to emphasise the statement about his mechanical leg, Frangenac arose with difficulty from his chair and walked stiffly over to a cabinet at the side of the office. He returned with a bundle of papers, his right leg squeaking at every step like a thousand demons in purgatory. Then he dropped back to his desk.

  “That’s all, Barton. The Old Man wired me to lay off one man. Also, I don’t feel that we’re paying you enough for your brilliant work. I appreciate the fact that the Dispatch will probably collapse within a week after you leave us; so to retain your services and thus save the paper, I suggest that you go out and bring in a nice little interview with her royal nibs. I can conscientiously change the angle of fire then, and let out someone else whom I’ve had in my eye for a long time.” He paused. “But if it’s a case of too much mixed Yankee and Britisher blood in your veins, drop in at the cashier’s office on your way out tonight. Your cheque will be ready.”

  Barton rose. His face was as red as a boiled beet.

  “Mr. Frangenac,” he remarked, with all the suavity he could summon, “could you yourself get that interview with the Princess O Lyra Seng?”

  “Me?” said the other, surprised. “I — well — that is to say — ” He stopped in confusion.

  “That’s all I wanted to know,” snapped Barton scornfully. “So you don’t think it can be done, eh, Frangenac?” In his rapid speech he didn’t notice that he had left off the “Mister.” “But I’ll do it.” He shook one finger furiously at the other. “About that interview. You’ve said I’m retained if I’m man enough — worth sufficient Poles and Swedes — to get it. I’ll take you up on that. I’ll just see whether you’re a lying welcher as well as — as — as a Frenchman, and if you don’t play fair I’ll — I’ll get in touch with the Old Man in California. Yes, by the Lord, Frangenac, I’ll — I’ll get that interview. Remember that. I’ll get it. I’ll make you eat your words about mixed Yankee and British blood, if it’s the last thing I ever do. That’s all. I’ll come back at noontime with it — even if it’s only fifty words.

  He spun on his heel and marched out of the office in
a smouldering rage. He jerked down his hat from the hook near his typewriter and fumbled in the drawer of his desk for his notebook and pencil. Two reporters, just coming in, stared at him oddly. While he searched for the missing notebook, the telephone in the inner office rang sharply. Dimly he heard Frangenac answer it, speak for a minute and hang up. And as Barton marched down the aisle toward the door of the city room, he heard the door of the city editor’s office open and the latter’s sharp command.

  “Barton! Wait a moment.”

  Barton spun in the doorway.

  “I forgot,” Frangenac was saying, “to express my appreciation for your oration, Barton. Indeed, it was a tonic for the day’s work. It was funnier than Lincoln’s Gettysburg speech or any of Disraeli’s drivellings; and Mark Antony must have rolled over in his gave with jealousy. But isn’t it rather early in the morning to be calling on royalty?” Several of the reporters pricked up their ears. From the look on their faces, however, an observer might have deduced that none of them had any love for Frangenac “As long as you’re specialising on the Orient this morning, here’s a little stick for you to run out to first — before you grace the Rydenour with your presence. Sam Toy — Chinese laundryman — 144, West Huron Street — just found stabbed to death in his store by the policeman on the beat. Tong war stuff again. Run it down first, Mr. Barton, and if we’re short of material we can slip it in for a filler. But of course,” he taunted, his hand on the rapidly closing door, “we’ll not be short to-night. We’re going to press with a full first-page interview, captured by a wild and woolly Texas fire-eater whose English grandmother crossed the ocean blue!”

  “I’ll ‘phone in on the Sam Toy stuff,” replied Barton frigidly. “I’ll see, also, that you get your interview, Frangenac.”

  And he was gone. Outside on the steps of the old-fashioned building he paused, surveying the rumbling traffic of Market Street, his blood boiling in his veins.

  “Of all the successful goat-getters the world ever knew,” he fumed to himself, “that man Frangenac takes the gold medal! Lord knows I need his job, but I hate to burst a blood-vessel trying to get any story for a man like that. That impudent air of his and the squeak of his peg leg have got on my nerves till I guess I’m ready to part company with the Dispatch for good.” He paused. “And confound his eternal running down of everybody but the French. It it’s the last thing I ever do in this world, I’ve got to get that interview just for the satisfaction of showing him that a frog-eater can’t rule over a news-sheet, published exactly five thousand miles from Paree, with a rod of sarcasm and a whip of irony. Yes, by the Lord Harry, I’ve got to do it. But how? There’s the question!”

  CHAPTER XXV

  A TRIP TO THE NORTH SIDE

  BARTON did not remain stewing on the steps of the Dispatch office for very long. Already he was brightening up, for the sun was high over the dingy newspaper shops of Market Street. Likewise he was struck suddenly by the fact that Frangenac’s second assignment was sending him in the very direction he wanted to go — on certain business of his own. As he tramped up Madison Street toward Fifth Avenue, he established in his mind the approximate location of number 144, West Huron Street; then he consulted a letter in his breast pocket.

  “Two birds with one stone,” he commented to himself “The Star Hotel must be within a few blocks from there.”

  He boarded a Wells Street car and, crossing the river remained on it until he reached the 500’s. There he dismounted on the dilapidated north side thoroughfare, strewn with pawnshops, second-hand tool stores and German apothecary shops, and walked slowly along, searching for number 550. He paused finally in front of a red-brick building with dirty windows that flaunted tattered yellow lace curtains, and a weatherbeaten door leading up a dark stairway. A painted wooden sign screwed to the door read simply:

  STAR HOTEL

  Rooms by day or week.

  Up the dark inside steps he trudged, pausing for a moment at the second landing for the purpose of questioning a shirt-sleeved man who was seated in an office filled with rickety red plush furniture and a great rusty stove which had not even been taken down at the close of winter.

  “In what room will I find Mr. Charles Fawcett?”

  The shirt-sleeved man lazily squirted a jet of tobacco-juice into a battered tin cuspidor.

  “Rear room on third floor. Just go up and knock.”

  Up the uncarpeted stairs Barton went. At the rear of the dark third floor he knocked dubiously. When a voice replied “Come in,” he entered.

  A tall, broad-shouldered fellow of about thirty-five was lying back on a cheap iron bed, smoking a cigarette. His clothes were appreciably frayed, and his face showed that he had not shaved for a couple of days.

  At Barton’s entrance the man on the bed struggled to his feet, his gloomy face lighting up momentarily, showing features that were not unhandsome, barring the marked traces of dissipation. He pushed back the tangled dark hair from his eyes, and jerked out a chair from the wall.

  “Jason!” His voice trembled with gladness. “I’m mighty glad to see you, old man. Excuse the surroundings — but — but — the exchequer is rather low. So you got my letter, eh?” He thrust out a hand that shook perceptibly.

  Barton seized the outstretched hand silently, then dropped into a chair. He looked about him slowly, while the other took up a seat on the side of the bed. Then he spoke.

  “Charlie, why didn’t you let me know before that you’ve been in town for three days? I’ve been on the run all the time, but I’d have managed to get in to see you,” He paused. “Your letter was terribly blue in tone, old man. So you couldn’t land anything in this burg, eh?”

  The other shook his head dolefully. “I never saw the beat of it, Jason,” he retorted. “I canvassed every office in town for the first two days, but there’s nothing doing anywhere. I’d have done better to have stayed in Omaha, but things were gone to pot there for me — so I blew out with my last few shekels.”

  “Charlie, I’m afraid it’s up to me to have to speak rather plainly with you. You and I went to college together — and I guess that Jason’s one person who can take a chance on speaking straight from the shoulder, eh?” The other nodded emphatically. “You helped me in days that were terrible days for me, old man, and I haven’t forgotten it. And that’s why I hate to get personal. But as long as you and John Moonshine hobnob together, you’re going to be what you call ‘out of luck.’ Man alive, brace up! Stop it, I tell you. You’re a crack newspaper man. You can give ‘em all cards and spades when you want to. But paper is high; been high ever since Canada put her embargo on wood-pulp. And publishers are cutting down expenses to the last farthing. Until you brace up, and throw that bottle out of the window — oh yes, I spotted it when I came in! — you’re going to be ‘out of luck.’ ”

  The other gazed wearily toward Barton. “Dear old Jason,” he returned, “anything you want to say to me goes: do you hear that, old man? There’s nobody but Charles Fawcett to blame for Charles Fawcett’s luck. I’m a rotter all right. But I can give ‘em cards and spades, just as you say. Why — boy — I’m better than you when I’m off the stuff for a few weeks.” He held up his hand, studying it curiously. The fingers trembled visibly. “But now — well — I guess I couldn’t run down a story of a tomcat fight in a back alley.”

  Barton tilted his chair back against the wall, studying the other intently. He had been Fawcett’s most intimate friend at college when Fawcett had been strong man of the University and he himself had been only a green Freshman, picked upon and hazed by the older classmen. He remembered how Fawcett had saved him from an ice-cold ducking in the campus pond one bitter December night; also of the money the older man had loaned him at a time when money meant graduation. That money had long since been paid back — but the debt had not been discharged. A sudden wave of feeling swept over the younger man.

  “The main question now,” he observed pointedly, “is the condition of the exchequer in dollars and cents?”


  “Jason,” retorted the other grimly, “I’d hate to tell you. Ask it in cents — but not in dollars. It’s low — veree low — so low — ”

  Barton fished down into his pockets, and withdrew a ten-dollar bill. “Here, Charlie,” he said hastily, holding it out, “take this. Send out your suit and have it cleaned and pressed. If you haven’t any clean linen buy a shirt and a few collars. Get a shine and a shave. Then march into every office in town as though you owned the place, and tell ‘em you’re the man who put over the Parkington scoop on the Omaha Bee. I’ll venture you’ll have a job inside of two days — even if it’s only twenty-five a week. And when you get your week’s pay, get out of this dump. The place is enough to drive a man to drink.” He looked at the window. Then he rose abruptly and walked over to the opening, where he took up the paper-clad flask and deliberately dropped it down the courtway. A few seconds later, from the dark, trash-covered bottom, came the dull crash of splintering glass. “And cut out this stuff.”

  The other was fingering the bill eagerly. “Jason, old boy, you’ve saved my life! I tried not to write to you — until I had to; then I was worried sick for fear you might not come. If you hadn’t I’d have had to get out and climb into the bread line, I guess. I’d never have got a job in these dilapidated togs. Jason, I owe you a debt — ”