Part 67 (1/2)

”It _will_ be a penny,” said De Haan oracularly.

”We have thought it all over,” interposed Gradkoski. ”The first number will be bought up out of curiosity, whether at a penny or at twopence.

The second will go almost as well, for people will be anxious to see how it compares with the first. In that number we shall announce that owing to the enormous success we have been able to reduce it to a penny; meantime we make all the extra pennies.”

”I see,” said Raphael dubiously.

”We must have _Chochma_” said De Haan. ”Our sages recommend that.”

Raphael still had his doubts, but he had also a painful sense of his lack of the ”practical wisdom” recommended by the sages cited. He thought these men were probably in the right. Even religion could not be pushed on the ma.s.ses without business methods, and so long as they were in earnest about the doctrines to be preached, he could even feel a dim admiration for their superior shrewdness in executing a task in which he himself would have hopelessly broken down. Raphael's mind was large; and larger by being conscious of its cloistral limitations. And the men were in earnest; not even their most intimate friends could call this into question.

”We are going to save London,” De Haan put it in one of his dithyrambic moments. ”Orthodoxy has too long been voiceless, and yet it is five-sixths of Judaea. A small minority has had all the say. We must redress the balance. We must plead the cause of the People against the Few.”

Raphael's breast throbbed with similar hopes. His Messianic emotions resurged. Sugarman's solicitous request that he should buy a Hamburg Lottery Ticket scarcely penetrated his consciousness. Carrying the copy of the poster, he accompanied De Haan to Gluck's. It was a small shop in a back street with jargon-papers and hand-bills in the window and a pervasive heavy oleaginous odor. A hand-press occupied the centre of the interior, the back of which was part.i.tioned of and marked ”Private.”

Gluck came forward, grinning welcome. He wore an unkempt beard and a dusky ap.r.o.n.

”Can you undertake to print an eight-page paper?” inquired De Haan.

”If I can print at all, I can print anything,” responded Gluck reproachfully. ”How many shall you want?”

”It's the orthodox paper we've been planning so long,” said De Haan evasively.

Gluck nodded his head.

”There are seventy thousand orthodox Jews in London alone,” said De Haan, with rotund enunciation. ”So you see what you may have to print.

It'll be worth your while to do it extra cheap.”

Gluck agreed readily, naming a low figure. After half an hour's discussion it was reduced by ten per cent.

”Good-bye, then,” said De Haan. ”So let it stand. We shall start with a thousand copies of the first number, but where we shall end, the Holy One, blessed be He, alone knows. I will now leave you and the editor to talk over the rest. To-day's Monday. We must have the first number out by Friday week. Can you do that, Mr. Leon?”

”Oh, that will be ample,” said Raphael, shooting out his arms.

He did not remain of that opinion. Never had he gone through such an awful, anxious time, not even in his preparations for the stiffest exams. He worked sixteen hours a day at the paper. The only evening he allowed himself off was when he dined with Mrs. Henry Goldsmith and met Esther. First numbers invariably take twice as long to produce as second numbers, even in the best regulated establishments. All sorts of mysterious sticks and leads, and fonts and forms, are found wanting at the eleventh hour. As a subst.i.tute for gray hair-dye there is nothing in the market to compete with the production of first numbers. But in Gluck's establishment, these difficulties were multiplied by a hundred.

Gluck spent a great deal of time in going round the corner to get something from a brother printer. It took an enormous time to get a proof of any article out of Gluck.

”My men are so careful,” Gluck explained. ”They don't like to pa.s.s anything till it's free from typos.”

The men must have been highly disappointed, for the proofs were invariably returned bristling with corrections and having a highly hieroglyphic appearance. Then Gluck would go in and slang his men. He kept them behind the part.i.tion painted ”Private.”

The fatal Friday drew nearer and nearer. By Thursday not a single page had been made up. Still Gluck pointed out that there were only eight, and the day was long. Raphael had not the least idea in the world how to make up a paper, but about eleven little Sampson kindly strolled into Gluck's, and explained to his editor his own method of pasting the proofs on sheets of paper of the size of the pages. He even made up one page himself to a blithe vocal accompaniment. When the busy composer and acting-manager hurried off to conduct a rehearsal, Raphael expressed his grat.i.tude warmly. The hours flew; the paper evolved as by geologic stages. As the fateful day wore on, Gluck was scarcely visible for a moment. Raphael was left alone eating his heart out in the shop, and solacing himself with huge whiffs of smoke. At immense intervals Gluck appeared from behind the part.i.tion bearing a page or a galley slip. He said his men could not be trusted to do their work unless he was present. Raphael replied that he had not seen the compositors come through the shop to get their dinners, and he hoped Gluck would not find it necessary to cut off their meal-times. Gluck rea.s.sured him on this point; he said his men were so loyal that they preferred to bring their food with them rather than have the paper delayed. Later on he casually mentioned that there was a back entrance. He would not allow Raphael to talk to his workmen personally, arguing that it spoiled their discipline. By eleven o'clock at night seven pages had been pulled and corrected: but the eighth page was not forthcoming. The _Flag_ had to be machined, dried, folded, and a number of copies put into wrappers and posted by three in the morning. The situation looked desperate. At a quarter to twelve, Gluck explained that a column of matter already set up had been ”pied” by a careless compositor. It happened to be the column containing the latest news and Raphael had not even seen a proof of it. Still, Gluck conjured him not to trouble further: he would give his reader strict injunctions not to miss the slightest error. Raphael had already seen and pa.s.sed the first column of this page, let him leave it to Gluck to attend to this second column; all would be well without his remaining later, and he would receive a copy of the _Flag_ by the first post. The poor editor, whose head was splitting, weakly yielded; he just caught the midnight train to the West End and he went to bed feeling happy and hopeful.

At seven o'clock the next morning the whole Leon household was roused by a thunderous double rat-tat at the door. Addie was even heard to scream.

A housemaid knocked at Raphael's door and pushed a telegram under it.

Raphael jumped out of bed and read: ”Third of column more matter wanted.

Come at once. Gluck.”

”How can that be?” he asked himself in consternation. ”If the latest news made a column when it was first set up before the accident, how can it make less now?”