Active Service by Stephen Crane (reading tree .TXT) 📕

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