THE EPISODE OF THE VARIOUS JOURNALISTS
I
The remarkable¹ thing is that the Buntings really carried out the programme Mrs. Bunting laid down. For a time at least they positively² succeeded in converting the Sea Lady into a credible³ human invalid⁴, in spite of the galaxy⁵ of witnesses to the lady’s landing and in spite of the severe internal dissensions that presently broke out. In spite, moreover, of the fact that one of the maids—they found out which only long after—told the whole story under vows⁶ to her very superior young man who told it next Sunday to a rising journalist who was sitting about on the Leas maturing[72] a descriptive article. The rising journalist was incredulous. But he went about enquiring⁷. In the end he thought it good enough to go upon. He found in several quarters a vague but sufficient rumour⁸ of a something; for the maid’s young man was a conversationalist when he had anything to say.
 
Finally the rising journalist went and sounded the people on the two chief Folkestone papers and found the thing had just got to them. They were inclined to pretend they hadn’t heard of it, after the fashion of local papers when confronted by the abnormal, but the atmosphere of enterprise that surrounded the rising journalist woke them up. He perceived he had done so and that he had no time to lose. So while they engaged in inventing representatives to enquire⁹, he went off and telephoned to the Daily Gunfire and the New Paper. When they answered he was[73] positive and earnest. He staked his reputation—the reputation of a rising journalist!
 
“I swear there’s something up,” he said. “Get in first—that’s all.”
 
He had some reputation, I say—and he had staked it. The Daily Gunfire was sceptical but precise, and the New Paper sprang a headline “A Mermaid¹⁰ at last!”
 
You might well have thought the thing was out after that, but it wasn’t. There are things one doesn’t believe even if they are printed in a halfpenny paper. To find the reporters hammering at their doors, so to speak, and fended¹¹ off only for a time by a proposal that they should call again; to see their incredible secret glaringly in print, did indeed for a moment seem a hopeless exposure to both the Buntings and the Sea Lady. Already they could see the story spreading, could imagine the imminent¹² rush of intimate enquiries, the tripod strides of a multitude of cameras,[74] the crowds watching the windows, the horrors of a great publicity¹³. All the Buntings and Mabel were aghast, simply aghast. Adeline was not so much aghast as excessively annoyed at this imminent and, so far as she was concerned, absolutely irrelevant¹⁴ publicity. “They will never dare—” she said, and “Consider how it affects Harry¹⁵!” and at the earliest opportunity she retired¹⁶ to her own room. The others, with a certain disregard of her offence, sat around the Sea Lady’s couch—she had scarcely touched her breakfast—and canvassed¹⁷ the coming terror.
 
“They will put our photographs in the papers,” said the elder Miss Bunting.
 
“Well, they won’t put mine in,” said her sister. “It’s horrid¹⁸. I shall go right off now and have it taken again.”
 
“They’ll interview the Ded!”
 
“No, no,” said Mr. Bunting terrified. “Your mother——”[75]
 
“It’s your place, my dear,” said Mrs. Bunting.
 
“But the Ded—” said Fred.
 
“I couldn’t,” said Mr. Bunting.
 
“Well, some one’ll have to tell ’em anyhow,” said Mrs. Bunting. “You know, they will——”
 
“But it isn’t at all what I wanted,” wailed¹⁹ the Sea Lady, with the Daily Gunfire in her hand. “Can’t it be stopped?”
 
“You don’t know our journalists,” said Fred.
 
The tact²⁰ of my cousin Melville saved the situation. He had dabbled²¹ in journalism²² and talked with literary fellows like myself. And literary fellows like myself are apt at times to be very free and outspoken²³ about the press. He heard of the Buntings’ shrinking terror of publicity as soon as he arrived, a perfect clamour—an almost exultant²⁴ clamour indeed, of shrinking terror, and he caught the[76] Sea Lady’s eye and took his line there and then.
 
“It’s not an occasion for sticking at trifles, Mrs. Bunting,” he said. “But I think we can save the situation all the same. You’re too hopeless. We must put our foot down at once; that’s all. Let me see these reporter fellows and write to the London dailies. I think I can take a line that will settle them.”
 
“Eh?” said Fred.
 
“I can take a line that will stop it, trust me.”
 
“What, altogether?”
 
“Altogether.”
 
“How?” said Fred and Mrs. Bunting. “You’re not going to bribe²⁵ them!”
 
“Bribe!” said Mr. Bunting. “We’re not in France. You can’t bribe a British paper.”
 
(A sort of subdued²⁶ cheer went around from the assembled Buntings.)[77]
 
“You leave it to me,” said Melville, in his element.
 
And with earnestly expressed but not very confident wishes for his success, they did.
 
He managed the thing admirably.
 
“What’s this about a mermaid?” he demanded of the local journalists when they returned. They travelled together for company, being, so to speak, emergency journalists, compositors in their milder moments, and unaccustomed to these higher aspects of journalism. “What’s this about a mermaid?” repeated my cousin, while they waived²⁷ precedence dumbly one to another.
 
“I believe some one’s been letting you in,” said my cousin Melville. “Just imagine!—a mermaid!”
 
“That’s what we thought,” said the younger of the two emergency journalists. “We knew it was some sort of hoax²⁸, you[78] know. Only the New Paper giving it a headline——”
 
“I’m amazed even Banghurst—” said my cousin Melville.
 
“It’s in the Daily Gunfire as well,” said the older of the two emergency journalists.
 
“What’s one more or less of these ha’penny fever rags?” cried my cousin with a ringing scorn. “Surely you’re not going to take your Folkestone news from mere²⁹ London papers.”
 
“But how did the story come about?” began the older emergency journalist.
 
“That’s not my affair.”
 
The younger emergency journalist had an inspiration. He produced a note book from his breast pocket. “Perhaps, sir, you wouldn’t mind suggesting to us something we might say——”
 
My cousin Melville complied.[79]
 
II
The rising young journalist who had first got wind of the business—who must not for a moment be confused with the two emergency journalists heretofore described—came to Banghurst next night in a state of strange exultation³⁰. “I’ve been through with it and I’ve seen her,” he panted. “I waited about outside and saw her taken into the carriage. I’ve talked to one of the maids—I got into the house under pretence³¹ of being a telephone man to see their telephone—I spotted³² the wire—and it’s a fact. A positive fact—she’s a mermaid with a tail—a proper mermaid’s tail. I’ve got here——”
 
He displayed sheets.
 
“Whaddyer talking about?&rdq............