Part 13 (2/2)
”They charge like the very deevil. D'ye know the rates of them?”
”I can't say I do.”
”There's a man on our staff that doesn't like your show. We'll be able to send him every night now.”
”When we withdraw our advertis.e.m.e.nt?”
”Just then.”
”All right,” said Hilda. ”It will be interesting to point out in the Indian Empire the remarkable growth of independent criticism in the Chronicle since Mr. Stanhope no longer uses the s.p.a.ce at his disposal. I hope your man will be very nasty indeed. You might as well hand over the permanent pa.s.ses--the gentleman will expect, I suppose, to pay.”
”They'll be in the yeditorial department,” said Mr. Macandrew, but he did not summon a messenger to go for them. Instead he raised his eyebrows in a manner that expressed the necessity of making the best of it, and humorously scratched his head.
”We have four hundred pounds of new type coming out in the Almora--she's due on Thursday,” he said. ”Entirely for the advertis.e.m.e.nts. We'll have a fine display next week. It's grand type--none of your Calcutta-made stuff.”
”Pays to bring it out, does it?” asked Hilda inattentively, copying her letter.
”Pays the advertisers.” There were ingratiating qualities in the managerial smile. Hilda inspected them coldly.
”There's your notice of withdrawal,” she said. ”Good-morning.”
”Think of that new type, and how lovely Jimmy Finnigan's ad will look in it.”
”That's all right. Good-morning.” Miss Howe approached the door, the blue glance of Macandrew pursuant.
”No notices for two Wednesdays, eh? We'll have to see about that. I was thinkin' of transferrin' your s.p.a.ce to the third page; it's a more advantageous position--and no extra charge--but ye'll not mention it to Jimmy.”
Miss Howe lifted an arrogant chin. ”Do I understand you'll do that, and guarantee regular notices, if we leave the advertis.e.m.e.nt with you?”
Mr. Macandrew looked at her expressively, and tore, with a gesture of moderated recklessness, the notice of withdrawal in two.
”Rest easy,” he said, ”I'll see about it. I'd go the len'th of attendin'
myself to-night, if ye could spare two three extra places.”
”Moderate Macandrew!”
”Moderate enough. I've got some frien's stayin' in the same place with me from Behar--indigo people. I was thinkin' I'd give them a treat, if three places c'd be spared next to the Chronicle seats.”
”We do Lady Whippleton to-night and the booking's been heavy. Five is too many, Mr. Macandrew, even if you promised not to write the notice yourself.”
”I might pay for one;” Macandrew drew red cartwheels on his blotting-pad.
”Those seats are sure to be gone. I'll send you a box. Stanhope's as bad as he can be with dysentery--you might make a local out of that. Be sure to mention he can't see anybody--it's absurd the way Calcutta people want to be paid.”
”A box'll be Grand,” said Mr. Macandrew. ”I'll see ye get plenty of ancores. Can ye manage the door? Good-day, then.”
Hilda stepped out on the landing. The heavy, regular thud of the presses came up from below. They were printing the edition that took the world's news to planters' bungalows in the jungle of a.s.sam and the lonely policeman on the edge of Manipore. The smell of the newspaper of to-day and of yesterday, and of a year ago, stood in the air; through an open door she saw the dusty, uneven edges of files of them, piled on the floor. Three or four messengers squatted beside the wall, with slumbrous heads between their knees. Occasionally a shout came from the room inside, and one of them, crying ”Hazur!” with instant alacrity, stretched himself mightily, loafed upon his feet and went in, emerging a moment later carrying written sheets, with which he disappeared into the regions below. The staircase took a lazy curve and went up; under it, through an open window, the sun glistened upon the s.h.i.+fting white and green leaves of a pipal tree, and a crow sat on the sill and thrust his grey head in with caws of indignant expostulation. A Government peon in scarlet and gold ascended the stair at his own pace, bearing a packet with an official seal. The place, with its ink-smeared walls and high ceilings, spoke between dusty yawns of the languor and the leisure which might attend the manipulation of the business of life, and Hilda paused for an instant to perceive what it said. Then she walked behind her card into the next room, where a young gentleman, reading proofs in his s.h.i.+rt sleeves, flung himself upon his coat and struggled into it at her approach. He seemed to have the blackest hair and the softest eyes and the neatest moustache available, all set in a complexion frankly olive, amiable English cut, in amiable Oriental colour, and the whole illumined, when once the coat was on and the collar perfectly turned down, by the liveliest, most engaging smile. Standing with his head slightly on one side and one hand resting on the table, while the other saw that nothing was disarranged between collar and top waistcoat b.u.t.ton, he was an interjection point of invitation and attention.
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