Evening Star Newspaper, April 6, 1930, Page 102

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASE FAME FOR MR. BEATTY = ¢ Fame for Mr. Beatty Camcatan Unexpected Moment, While He 11 as | Feeding the Squirrels in a City Park. And It All Goes Toward Forming One of the Most Unusual Bits of Fiction of the Past Twelve Months—Another Prize Story, Complete, Will Appear in The Star’s Magazine Next Sunday. ILLIAM C. DOW & CO., wholesale drygoods merchants, occupied a 14-story building covering half the block between Commercial and East River streets. The business offices of the firm were on the fourth floor. Here were to be found the sales manager with his staff, the manager of imports with his, the advertising manager with his. The remainder of the fourth floor, considerably more than half of it, was taken up by the accounting depart- ment, & miniature city laid out in orderly, rectangular fashion, with narrow passageways for streets and wire cages for houses, each of them six feet by six, each of them with its oc- cupants. In one of the cages farthest from the main corridor was a man who had been in the employ of the Dow company for more than 20 years. His name was Herbert Beatty. It would be difficult to describe Mr, Beatty in any vivid manner. To say that he was quietly dressed, that his linen was immaculate and his boots carefully polished, is not to dis- tinguish him from thousands of other self- respecting bookkeepers. Observing him in a crowd—but this is unthinkable; the most curious observer of human nature, touching elbows with him in a crowd would not have noticed him, unless—which is equally unthink- able—Mr. Beatty had been guilty of some act of gross and unusual conduct, and even then the eccentricity would have been remembered rather than the man himself. He was a lonely man, without close friends or any living relatives, so far as he knew, and his life flowed on from year to year in un- broken monctony. Although he spent 45 hours weekly in his little wire inclosure, he neither spoke nor thought of it as a cage. He entered it, six mornings out of seven, as willingly as a bee enters its hive, and much more punctually. Having dusted off his boots with a flannel cloth which he kept in a drawer, he slipped into his black alpaca office coat. Then he marked out with a neat cross, in red ink, the date of the previous day on the calendar—two crosses on a Monday. Then he opened the ledgers in which he took such pride, and was immediately engrossed in his work. This was purely of a routine nature, as familiar to him as breathing, quite as necessary, and almost as instinctively performed. He was rarely disturbed, h# no decisions to make and was never asked for his opinion about anything. A’r 12:30 he went cut to lunch. He pa- tronized always the same white-tiled res- taurant on East River street, a large, clean, impersonal sort of place catering to the em- ployes of the wholesale houses in the vicinity. An immense sign on the wall of this restaurant read: “We serve more than 3,000 lunches daily, between the hours of 12 and 2.” During the past 10 years Mr. Beatty himself had alone been served with that number of lunches; 3,000 Jettuce sandwiches. Three thousand pieces of custard pie, 3,000 glasses of milk. But aithough his order was the same, Summer and Winier, none of the waitresses ever remembered what it was or appeared to recognize him as an old patron. 4 - In Winter he spent the whole of his luncheon hour in this place reading the Morning Blade. On fine days in Summer, he would go, after his meal, to a small park near the City Hall, two blocks distant. There he would buy a bag of salted peanuts and after eating a few of them would give the rest to the pigeons that frequented the square. They would eat out of his hand, perch on his outstretched arm, even on his head. He liked to think that they were his pigeons, and he enioyed the moment of at- tention they brought him from other midday Joungers in the park. When he had doled out the last of the peanuts, he dusted the salt from his firgers and sat down to emjoy his newspaper. -Mr, Beatty was one of the numberless army of men and women who have made possible the success of the modern American newspaper, whose reading is confined almost entirely to its eolumns. It amused him, instructed him, thought for him. He found there satisfaction for all mod- est needs, spiritual and cultural. He turned first to the comic section, smiling over the adventures of Mutt and Jeff, These people were real to him, and he followed their for- tanes closely from day to day. Next he read the editorial of Dr. Francis Crake whom he admired and respected as a philesopher of genius. Another feature of the Maming Blade was the inquirer's column. [#e inquiver sauntered daily through the streets, asking of four people, chosen more or less at random, some question of current interest. Their re- plies, together with a small photograph of each individual, were then printed in the column. Mr. Beatty's interest never waned in this fea- ture of his favorite newspaper. Indeed there was so much on every page to engage his at- tention that his luncheon hour passed in a flash of time. At 20 minutes past 1 he would leave the park and before the hour-half had struck was again at his desk and at work. NE sultry Midsummer day, while he was enjoying his usual noontime recreation in the park, a young man wearing horn-rimmed spactacles and with a camera slung over his shoulder sat down on the bench beside him. Mr. Beatty was not aware of this at the mo- ment, for he was in the midst of Dr. Crake's editorial for the day, “Clothes as an Index of Personality.” In three short paragraphs Dr, Crake had evolved his philosophy on this sub- ject. “Show me a man who is slovenly in his dress and I will show you one that is slovenly in his morals. A clean collar is the index of a clean mind. It matters not how modest your income or how humble your station in life, you cannot afford to be indifferent to the appear- ance you present to your fellow men. Neatness pays. It is investment at compound interest in the Bank of Success and it will bring in divie dends when you least expect them.” So said Dr. Crake in his first paragraph. Mr. Beatty heartily approved of these opinions and he thought, not without a touch of pride, that Dr. Crake would have approved of him. Upon turning the page of his paper he noticed his companion on the bench. The young man nodded cordially. “A scorcher, isn't it?” he said. Mr. Beatty was slightly startled. It was not often that a stranger spoke to him. “Yes, it is warm,” he replied, a little apolo- getically, as though he were somehow to blame for the heat. “Hottest day this Summer,” said the young man. “What do you suppose the thermometer at the Morning Blade Building registered at noon?” “Oh, I couldn't say. I fancy it was pretty high.” “One hundred and two in the shade, and it's hotter than that inside. Press room like a furnace, city room worse. Glad I didn't have to stay there.” “Are you—do you mean that you are em- ployed on the Morning Blade?” “Yes. I run what we call the ‘Inquirer's column.” You may have read it sometimes?” “Oh, yes! Well! Isn't that remarkable? Why, I always—" “Well, that’'s my job on the Blade, or one of them. I'm supposed to be working at it now. You know, that is really why I sat down on this bench. Ths question for tomorrow is, ‘Do you favor restricted immigration?” When I saw you sitting here I thought, ‘There’s a man, if I'm not mistaken, who has views on this subject.” Would you mind letting me have them, mister? But you haven't told me your name, I think.” “Beatty. Herbert Beatty.” “Are you in business in the city?” “Yes. I'm a bookkeeper with William C. Dow & Co.” “That’s fine! . We'll b2 glad to have a man of your profession represented in the ‘Inquirer’s column.’” You don't object, do you, Mr. Beatty? You know, you can tell me precisely what you thinz our immigration policy should be. The Blade wishes to offer its readers the opinions of intelligent men on both sides of the ques- tion.” Never, not even in his most sanguine md- ments, had it occurred to Mr. Beatty that he might one day be called upon to express pub- licly his opinion of any question. Now that the opportunity had come, he was dazed, stupefied. The sound of the young man's voice came to him with a strange, far-off effect. He understood in a dreamlike way that this re- porter was preparing to direct the attention of a city of 2,000,000 inhabitants to his, Herbert Beatty's, views upon a matter of great public concern. He watched, fascinated, while the young man drew a notebook from his pocket, slipped off the rubber band, opened it on his knee. What could he say? What were his views? Dr. Crake had dealt with this subject in one of his editorials only a few weeks before. If only he could remember what he had said peghaps it would help him to—— “Thanks, Mr. Beatty. Tomorrow the whole city will know your views on im- migration.” it /] F a sudden he was conscious that the young man was speaking. “I suppose you think there is something to be said on both sides, Mr. Beatty?” “Oh, yes! I—you see—you have taken me a little by surprise. One doesn't like to be too sure—I hardly know—perhaps—" “But wouldn't it, in vour opinion, be a good thing if the Government were to adopt a fairly cautious restriction policy, say for the next 25 years?” “Well, yes, I believe it would.” “We would know by that time where we stand, don't you think, with respect to the great foreign-born population already in America? With this information to guide us we could then decide what our future policy should be.” Mr. Beatty heartily agreed with this. It seemzd to him a sound way of looking at the matter. The reporter made some rapid entries in his notebook, snapped on the rubber band and clipped his pencil to his waistcoat pocket. “Thanks very much, Mr. Beatty. You're the fourth man I've interviewed today. The views of the other three were rather extreme, both for and against restricted immigration. I'm glad to have found one man who favors mod- eration—a wise middle course. Now, then, you'll let me take your photograph? We like to print these with the replies in the column. I'll not be 10 seconds. If you'll stand there—a little more this way—good! That will do. Snap! That's done it! Thanks once more, Mr. Beatty. Tomorrow the whole city will know vour views on the immigration problem and I'll venture to say that 9 out of 10 men will agree with them. Well, good-by; I must be getting along.” Mr. Beat'y was conscious of a feeling of pro- found relief as he entered his inclosure at the bookkeeping department. He rearranged the articles on his desk, flicked an imaginary fleck of dust from his adding machine, and resharp- ened a pencil whose point had been a little blunted with use during the morning. So great was the virtue in these familiar practices, and so strong the habits of a lifetime, that he was then able to resume his work with a certain measure of calm. But his pleasantly disquieting thoughts re- turned at 5 o'clock. They seemed to be await- ing him in the street below, and occupied his mind to the exclusion of everything else. He entered the stream of homeward-bound pedes- trian traffic, letting it carry him where it would, and presently found himself in front of the Morning Blade Buliding. One of the plate-glass windows bore an inscription in gold lettering: “The Morning Blade. Your Paper—Everybody's Paper.” He gazed at this for some time as he thought over the events of the day. He could / [ h @@ P 7 e, !. | ) ?‘/ i ( | 4 |} M, ) / ) 1 ) \ " el ' / A f »/‘N/ : .:'/"lé i 4 m,’f,’:ff /Y 7/ Y/ 7, / v 4 N “'! 1 Al;oj/\l'; 5'.’:;;"’//{,',/// I"l" ¢ /"./’ / 7 S0l 2 5= N l‘hj, (WX ‘3,/ f i VY %/ SR 1T HnAs 4 recall vividly the appearance of the young re- porter, and the kind of nctebock he had used— opening at the end, with wide spaces between the ruied lines—and the round blue pencil with the nickel pocket-clip. But he could not ree member at all clearly the details of the intere view. How long had it lasted? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Probably not more than five. The reporter had worked rapidly. . . . He had seemed pleased with his replies. . . . But just what was it he had said? . . . A circulation of 450,000! And likely twice that many people actually read the Blade. After his customary solitary supper Mr. Beatty went to & moving picture theater for the 7 o’clock show. He returned to his lodg- ings at 9 and went to bed. The following morning he awoke at a quarter to 5, an hour before his usual time. It was impossible to sleep again, so he shaved, dressed, and went downstairs. The sky was cloudless; it would be another sweltering day. A horse-drawn milk wagon was just then making its rounds; other- wise the street was decerted. HE stationery shop where he usually bought his morning paper was not yet opened. He went on to ancther several blocks distant, but that, too, was cles2d. The papers had al- ready been delivered there; they were lying on the doorstep, locsely wrapped in a brown paper cover. Mr. Beatty looked up and down the street; there was no one in view. Quickly open=- ing his penknife, he cut the cord of the parcel and drew forth a copv of the Blade. Then he discovered that he had only a penny, a quarter, and a half dollar in hiz pocket, and the price.7, of the Biade was 3 cents. He left the quarter on top of the parcel and hurried back to his lodgings, where Mrs. Halleck, his landlady, was standing in the eniryway. “Good morning, Mr. Beat'y! Well! You are an early bird this morning! Wherever have you been at this time of day? My! Ain't this heat awful? I don't know what's goin’ to hap- pen if we don’'t have some rain soon to cool things off. You got the morning paper al- ready?” He murmured a has'y reply, went up to his room on the third flcor and shut and locked the door. Then he opened his paper at the editorial page. INQUIRER'S COLUMN. Question for the day: “Do you favor restricted immigration?” Herbert Beatty, bookkeeper, with William C. Dow & Co., 400 Commercial street: “‘One hesitates in pronouncing an opin- ion upon a question of such far-reaching importance, but it would seem advisable