Rtnev of Reviews, I/IO/OS. 



in the Days of he Gomet. 



419 



of metal in a sort of kitchen inferno, above which, 

 in a beehive of little, brightly-lit rooms, dishevelled 

 men sit and scribble. There is a throbbing of tele- 

 phones and a clicking of telegraph instruments, a 

 rushing of messengers, a running to and fro of heat- 

 ed men, clutching proofs and copy. Then begins a 

 roar of machinery catching the infection, going 

 faster and faster, and whizzing and banging. En- 

 gineers, who have never had time to wash since 

 their birth, fly about with oil-cans, white paper runs 

 off its rolls with a shudder of haste. The pro- 

 prietor vou must- suppose arriving explosively on a 

 swift motor-car, leaping out before the thing is at 

 a standstill, with letters and documents clutched 

 in his hand, rushing in, resolute to " hustle,' get- 

 ting wonderfully in everybody's way. At the sight 

 of him even the messenger boys who are waiting 

 get up and scamf)er to and fro. Sprinkle your 

 vision wdth collisions, curses, incoherencies. You 

 imagine all the parts of this complex, lunatic ma- 

 chine working hysterically toward a crescendo of 

 haste and excitement as the night wears on. At 

 last, the only things that seem to travel slowly in 

 all those tearing, vibrating premises, are the hands 

 of the clock. 



Slowlv things draw on towards publication, the 

 consummation of all those stresses. Then, in the 

 small hours, into the now dark and deserted streets 

 comes a wild whirl of carts and men, the place 

 spurts paper at every door ; bales, heaps, torrents of 

 papers, that are snatched and flung about in what 

 looks like a free tight, and off with a rush and clat- 

 ter east, west, north and south. The interest 

 passes ouhvardlv ; the men from the little rooms 

 are going homeward, the printers disperse, yawning, 

 the roaring presses slacken. The paper exists. 

 Distribution follows manufacture, and we follow the 

 bundles. 



Our \ision becomes a vision of dispersal. You 

 see those bundles hurling into stations, catching 

 trains by a hair's breadth, speeding on their way, 

 breaking up, smaller bundles of them hurled with 

 a fierce accuracy out upwn the platforms that rush 

 bv, and then everywhere a division of these smaller 

 bundles into still smaller bundles, into dispersing 

 parcels, into separate papers. The dawn happens 

 unnoticed amidst a great running and shouting of 

 boys, a shoving through letter-slots, openings of 

 windows, spreading nut upon book-stalls. For the 

 space of a few hours, you must figure the whole 

 country dotted white with rustling papers. Placards 

 everywhere vociferate the hurried lie for the day. 



(To be 



Men and women in trains, men and women eating 

 and reading, men by study fenders, people sitting 

 up in bed, mothers and sons and daughters waiting 

 for father to finish — a million scattered people are 

 reading — reading headlong — or feverishly ready to 

 read. It is just as if some vehement jet had spray- 

 ed that white foam of papers over the surface of 

 the land. 



Nonsense ! The whole affair a noisy paroxysm 

 of nonsense, unreasonable excitement, witless mis- 

 chief, and waste of strength — signifying nothing. 



And one of those white particles was the paper 

 1 held in my hands, as I sat with a bandaged foot 

 on the steel fender in that dark, underground kit- 

 chen of my mothers, clean roused from my per- 

 sonal troubles by the yelp of the headlines. She 

 sat, sleeves tucked up ixom her ropy arms, peeling 

 potatoes as I read. 



The comet had been driven into obscurity over- 

 leaf. The column headed, ''Distinguished Scien- 

 tist savs Comet will strike our Earth. Does it mat- 

 ter ?" went unread. " Germany " — I usually figured 

 this mythical, malignant creature as a corseted 

 stiff-mou-stached emperor enhanced by heraldic 

 black wings and a large sword — had insulted our 

 flag. That was the message of the " New_ Paper," 

 and the monster towered over me, threatening fresh 

 outrages, visibly spitting upon my faultless country^'s 

 colours. Somebody had hoisted a British flag on 

 the right bank of some tropical river I had never 

 heard of before, and a drunken German officer, 

 under ambiguous instructions, had torn it down. 

 Then one of the convenient, abundant natives of 

 the countrv, a British subject indisputably, had been 

 shot in the leg. But the facts were by no means 

 clear. Nothing was clear, except that we were not 

 going to stand anv nonsense from Gennany. What- 

 ever had, or had 'not, happened, we meant to have 

 an apologv for, and apparently they didn't mean 

 apologising. 



"HAS WAR COME .\T LAST?" 

 That was the headline. One's heart leaped to 

 assent. 



There were hours that day when I clean forgot 

 Nettie in dreaming of battles and victories by land 

 and sea, of shell fire, and entrenchments, and the 

 heaped slaughter of many thousands of men. 



But the next morning I started for Checkshill — 

 started, I remember, in a curiously hopeful state of 

 mind, oblivious of comets, strikes, and wars. 



continued.) 



