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Page 79 text:
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PGM' F1 7'fj 1:U1lI' TH E H O IVI. E R, 1 93 4 Q C. X y . . s a.HddQZ ZEJ fha d',60,'i2evf+jai1-. ifgii K By XYILLIAM XVooD VVALKICD slowly into High Park. The terrific din caused by the cars and the hur- rying, restless shoppers and tradesmen still rang in my ears. For days I had been search- ing for a job-and hours of that monotonous tramping drove me nearly crazy. I sat down with a sigh of relief on an empty but wel- coming park bench. A morning paper was scattered over it and I man- W :rl ,N aged to reas- -' semble t h e ,K I majority of '44 , A the pieces. ' gli 1 ,- Theltork ,,,e y Wfanted col- I 7 . umns stared -A. at me bale- ' .- fully, p a g e REEY-LELAS I' 1 after page of marvellous opportunities for brilliant sales- men, carpenters and laborers. Nature had not been very kind to me. I had been rich, powerful and important. Now I was suited for nothing. I glanced bitterly at the edi- torials and the screeching headlines they had. A slight jarring shook the bench and I realized I had been joined by a companion in mis- fortune. As he sat down beside me on that Saturday morning I knew him to be a man with a grievance. I have met his kind on trains, in buses, on park benches, and their stories, which are always easy to draw out, are occa- sionally rather interesting. I opened my paper wider, and began to scan the headlines. Almost instantly I recognized the pressure of the shoulder, the craning neck that meant that my companion had risen to the bait of free news. I made a pretence of noticing him for the first time, and noddedl politely. His face seemed oddly familiar. Good afternoon, I said. He did not notice my greeting but continued PRIZE SHORT STORY to stare over my shoulder. Headlines, he murmured, life and ad- venture at a glance. How I love them! Yes, I said, they certainly satisfy the craving for the sensational. I used to be an editor myself once, he went on, his eyes eagerly absorbing the printed page, so I feel their power more than the average person. Ah ! I said, and doubtless you have some good stories to tell about scare headlines that never reached the press. I have - one, he said, looking at me for the first time, his little bald head cocked on one side, his mournful blue eyes striving to recall dim memories and misty faces. Your face seems vaguely familiar, he added abrupt- ly, somewhere I've-but to go on to my only story. It happened to me personally. I leaned back and waited for his grievance The sun was shining in Slavogia, but the hearts of its inhabitants were heavy and grey. And in Verson, the capital city of the little state people drew in each breath carefully, as if laboring under a heavy burden. In the newspaper offices the greyness of the dull routine pervaded everything, from the dusty files to the even dustier printers and proof-readers. As for the little editor, he was but a shadow of a man. He was well-paid and well-housed, but there was something missing from his life. To an editor, the hum of an office, the clicking of many typewriters, and all the pleasant noises connected with gathering news and putting it out for an avid public are life itself. But in Verson the press was muzzled. Revolution had broken out. The king and queen had disappeared, none knew where-and the country was ruled by the heavy hand of a Dictator. He had whirled into power, riding at the head of a large and victorious army. The people welcomed him with open arms. But disillusionment soon came, as they labored under his ever-increas- ing despotism.
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Page 80 text:
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THE HOIVLEK193-l The little editor suffered with the rest. Iiach day he was handed an outline of the day's news , and each day it consisted of dry, safe generalities. The little editor yearned with all his soul to splash his paper with headlines, and to rouse up the people from the sluggish rut into which constant oppression had forced them. Instead he had to lull them into false security with optimistic reports of the new regime. Then one day while he was going through his roll top desk, he came upon a yellow frag- ment of paper, crushed down at the back of a drawer unopened for years. Scrawled upon it was a story that a Hurried reporter had left in the desk in the early days of the rev- olution. It was a startling story-so startling that he trembled as he grasped its significance. At last the mystery that had surrounded the disappearance of the king and queen was ex- plained. The reporter told how he, hidden in the courtyard of the palace, had witnessed the massacre of the royal couple-with the Dic- tator standing by. The little editor gasped as he realized the power that he held in his hands. The people thought they had been deserted by their king and queen when the rebels marched on the city. How would they react to the true story? His eyes gleamed as he turned the Himsy paper over and over. XVhat a headline! lVhat a sen- sation! Dare he print it? XVould this iniiame the country to rebellion against their hated Dictator? Yes-he decided suddenly-it was worth it. He would risk everything on one last glorious extra. The story was rushed to press. A carefully prepared outline of the Dictator's simple home life was tossed aside and in its stead a violent Genuissa's Truckle Bed my love for thee. Genuissa smiled to herself. Riches we have not, my beloved husband, but there still remains my bed. VVhether it would build thee a city such as thy heart desireth, I cannot tell. Arviragus regarded her closely, thinking that perhaps she suffered from fever, and looked about for the leech. But Genuissa laughed aloud with amusement and happiness. Stoop thy broad shoulders, she cried, and Page Forty-Fitfc denunciatory article was printed. Half an hour later the sensation was shouted on the streets by hastily enrolled reinforcements of news- boys. It was the first extra Slavogia had ever seen. The ex-editor mopped his brow. The mob went crazy, he exclaimed, stark, staring mad! Long years of hated oppression had made them sullen and brooding. Their former king, who had been the most heartless ruler Slavogia had ever had, they now regarded as a saint and martyr. They stormed the palace. The guard and the army joined them and the Dictator lied from the country. Then by some strange twist of mob psychology they turned to the man who had stirred them to action. The little man smiled sardonically. They carried me-their saviour-to the palace and installed me on the throne. I was to inaugu- rate a new era of prosperity! He plucked idly at a bit of grass clinging to his shabby suit. Headlines shot me onto a throne, he smiled, but headlines brought me down again-I need not go into that. I was not a very good king. His voice was wistful. He rose abruptly, and turned to go. XVords started to my lips, but something held them back. The last I saw of him was his shiny pink tonsure twinkling in the sunshine, as he moved off across the park. I rose, tucked the paper under my arm and walked slowly out into the hum and rush of the city. My thoughts fled back to the stirring days in the little state of Slavogia, for they were as familiar to me as to the little ex- editor, whose scare headlines had sent me fleeing from my country to end on a park bench in a great Canadian city. I had been the Dictator of Slavogia! fContinued from page 431 draw forth the bottom of the bed. Therein thou shalt find not only the four chests of silver that my father promised thee, but also two chests of gold. Take them, with all my love, and build thy city. Thus in due time there arose fine buildings and fair roadways, surrounded by a wall. The people were very proud of their new town and the beautiful queen who had caused it to be built. They named it Kerglou and later Gloucester.
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