Chapter TWELVE

Adventures in Journalism--How I Became a Journalist--Reporting
in the House of Commons--Humours of the _Globe_
Newspaper--Stanley: the Explorer’s Great Secret Revealed
for the First Time--Mr. Gladstone’s Kindnesses to Me--The
Lord Chancellor and my Books--The Mysterious Person Who
Sent the _Globe_ the First News of the _Victoria_ Disaster
Twelve Hours Ahead of the First Intimation--I Nearly Lose
My Life at Bow Street during the Police Strike--How I
nearly “Killed” Queen Victoria--Cardinal Manning Becomes
My Friend--He Takes a Drink with the Reporters--I Go
with George Augustus Sala to Describe the “Holy Coat” at
Treves--We Become Pilgrims from Metz--The Editor of the
Berlin _Punch_ is Sent to Prison for Six Months for Copying
my _Globe_ Article.

_Who’s Who_ states that while studying art in Paris I forsook the Quartier Latin and became a journalist.

It happened in this way. I had met the great _feuilletonist_, Emile Richebourg, the dark-eyed, serious, bearded man whose domestic novels ran for years in _Le Petit Journal_, and it occurred to me, tired as I was of the art school, to try and write a short story. I wrote many without success. One day I completed one of fifteen hundred words that I called _La Pipe Cassée_, and it was published. Zola read it, and I suppose it met with his approval, for he sought me out in my shabby rooms, _au troisième_, off the Boul’ Mich’, and his great encouragement urged me to continue.

I did, and achieved some success. So much, indeed, that one day I forsook art, and after a tour of Europe, mostly on foot, became a clerk in a silk-weaving factory in Genoa, and later on arrived in London, where, after some adventures, I became a journalist. I was subsequently appointed on the staff of the _Globe_, the Government organ which at that time was in the zenith of its popularity.

At first I was a reporter in the gallery of the House of Commons, my seat being beside H. W. Lucy, or “Toby, M.P.,” as he was known in _Punch_ in the days of Gladstone and Parnell. Then very soon I was promoted to be sub-editor, and began the journalistic and literary career that I have pursued till to-day.

I do not think that I ever took myself seriously, as did some of my fellow-craftsmen, mostly untravelled novelists of both sexes. I have ever regarded novel-writing as a sea of adventure, where very often the best writer finds himself stranded while the mediocre teller of stories struggles safely into port.

In my student days in Paris I met many young artists, lawyers, and literary men, who afterwards made their mark; but again, when sub-editor of London’s oldest evening newspaper, the _Globe_, I met many more celebrities whose names are to-day household words. The contributors of the “By-the-Way” column were, in themselves, the best collection of literary brains in London. Davenport Adams, the dramatic critic, who wrote the standard _Dictionary of the Drama_, and who was a bosom friend of Henry living and Ellen Terry, and who wore a faded velveteen coat day and night, and who smoked the vilest of cigarettes; Joe Knight, the jovial editor of the _Athenæum_; Algernon Locker, the clever assistant-editor of _Punch_ to-day; the brilliant C. L. Graves and his equally brilliant collaborator E. V. Lucas, and the great Lord Salisbury, Premier of England. All these wrote the front page of the _Globe_, in the days when I sat, amid clicking tape-machines, doling out the world’s news to those who cared to pay a penny for the pale pink sheet.

It is not generally known that those “turn-overs” in the _Globe_ describing the happenings of an imaginary village called Wozzle, by “A Wozzleite,” were written by the great Lord Salisbury, then Prime Minister, who really described the little town of Hatfield, where he had his country seat.

Again, we had for years an unknown poet who dropped his brilliant contributions of topical verse into the letter-box in the Strand, and though we published them two or three times a week, he never applied for any payment, and nobody knows even to-day of his identity.

I found my days of journalism full of interest, because I met so many cultured and interesting people. Though my office hours were from seven in the morning till four in the afternoon, I was sufficiently eager to write fiction--as Zola had urged me to do--till late each night, and often to the small hours.

In those days the late Sir George Armstrong was chief proprietor of the _Globe_, with Sir William Madge as manager. My instructions were to run it as a paper written by gentlemen for gentlemen, and I endeavoured to do my best to make it _The Times_ of the evening.

My best reporter was Charles F. Palmer--who later became editor when I resigned to become a novelist--and who eventually, under Horatio Bottomley’s wing, became Member for the Wrekin Division. It is a thousand pities that poor Palmer, a sturdy and devoted friend, was cut off in his prime. I helped him by speaking at his election meetings in the Wrekin Division, and I had great hopes of him as an Independent Member. Through twenty years he had occupied a seat daily in the Reporters’ Gallery in the House of Commons, and no man in all Britain had a more intimate knowledge of British politics or of Parliamentary procedure.

While I was on the _Globe_ I fretted at being so much confined in the office, and whenever I could I went forth to report current events happening in London; more especially the mysteries of crime. I assisted in the investigation of each of the “Jack-the-Ripper” murders in Whitechapel, accompanied by two friends--Charles Hands, who was afterwards on the staff of the _Daily Mail_, and Lincoln Springfield, who was reporter of the _Star_, and who is to-day proprietor of that most breezy and popular journal, _London Opinion_. During the “Ripper” scare ours was a three-handed game. We practically lived as a trio in Whitechapel, and as each murder was committed we wrote up picturesque and lurid details while we stood on the very spot where the tragedy had occurred. One evening Springfield of the _Star_ would publish a theory as to how the murders had been done, together with a facsimile of those letters in red ink, received by Scotland Yard the day before; next night Charlie Hands would have a far better theory in the _Pall Mall_, and then I would weigh in with another theory in the _Globe_. Only recently the actual identity of “Jack the Ripper” has been discovered and will be found for the first time disclosed in Chapter XVII.

Sir H. M. Stanley, the African explorer, was for many years my intimate friend.

An incident that occurred in 1890, while I was still sub-editor of the _Globe_, is very curious, and has never been before disclosed. I will tell it exactly as it happened.

Stanley had returned after being lost for two years in the Forests of Perpetual Night, and was the idol of the hour, lecturing and being fêted everywhere, with honours being bestowed on him for his daring to lead his gallant little band into the very heart of the Unknown. He had written his monumental work _Through Darkest Africa_, which was just about to be published, and, moreover, it was announced with great _éclat_ that he was to be married to Miss Dorothy Tennant, the clever author of _London Street Arabs_, and other books. The whole world was excited at the romance.

One warm afternoon I was seated in my office in the Strand, examining piles of “copy” that came pouring in from all sources, sheeting what news should appear in the “Special” edition of that night’s paper. My office boy suddenly announced that a man was in the office below, asking to see “the editor.”

In reply to my inquiry as to what he was like, the boy said:

“He looks like a workman, sir. He won’t go away till he sees you. He says he has something very important to tell you.”

Thinking he might have some exclusive news, I ordered him to be shown up. He proved to be a tall, thin, rather loosely-built man of about forty, in a shabby old jacket and faded and patched blue trousers, such as are worn by engineers.

As he stood cap in hand, I asked him his business, when he replied:

“Well, the fact is, sir, I’m a seafaring man, and I’m stranded! I’ve had some funny experiences, and I thought if I told you some of them to put in your paper, perhaps you might give me something, so that I can get up to Liverpool to join another ship. I’ve been a long time in Africa.”

“Well, lots of people have been in Africa,” I remarked dubiously.

“Yes, I know. But they haven’t been where I’ve been.” And then he went on to mention places of which I had never heard. He began to tell me a remarkable story of how he deserted from his ship, on board of which he had been a stoker, and of his wanderings along the African coast. Then he started to describe what he had seen. Some of this I took down in shorthand, and still have my notes.

“Well,” I said at last, “I confess I know very little of West Africa, but I have a friend who has been there, and he no doubt would like to have a chat with you.” And then I gave him a few shillings and he promised to return next afternoon at three o’clock.

I had formed an opinion that he was only cadging, and that I should never see him again.

Later, however, I telephoned to Stanley, who was then living in De Vere Gardens, and he promised to come and interview the fellow, who had given his name as George Harding.

Next afternoon Stanley arrived just before three, and when the man was shown up I introduced him as my friend.

“Oh! you know something about Africa, sir?” Harding said, never having met Stanley before, and quite unaware of his identity.

The great explorer admitted that he knew a little concerning the Congo.

“Ah! That’s just where I’ve been, and up the Aruwimi, too,” said the man. “Do you know it?”

“Yes, I do,” Stanley replied, evidently much taken aback.

“How funny! I thought I was the only white man who’d been up in those forests,” he said, and then he began to speak of various tribes and their chiefs, and the names of native villages; all of which held Stanley absolutely agape. Time after time he tested the man’s knowledge of places and things.

I got out the large map of Africa where there were great blanks showing unexplored country, and with his finger Harding pointed to different spots where native villages were situated, and the direction of rivers of which Stanley alone knew the names; for the book _Darkest Africa_ had not yet been published, and was only in its proof stage.

Then Stanley questioned him about certain other tribes, their chiefs, their habits, and apparently learned much that was of interest to him. The man described the pigmies, and gave such details concerning their life that the great explorer sat utterly astounded.

“Do I tell you the truth, sir?” asked the man presently. “I thought I was the only white man who had ever been right up the Aruwimi, but you’ve evidently been there too.”

“Yes, you have certainly told the truth,” was Stanley’s halting reply. “I confess I am amazed to find that you have been there--evidently before me, from one or two of your remarks. One of those chiefs you knew died nearly a year before I got there and had been succeeded by his brother.”

The man Harding then told us more of his astounding adventures--how he had escaped from a cannibal tribe, after witnessing one of their disgusting orgies, and how he had become husband of a chief’s daughter, as well as many thrilling episodes and narrow escapes he had during his four and a half years in the Congo forests.

Eventually Stanley gave him a five pound note, without revealing his identity, and made an appointment to meet him on the following day.

When he had gone, the famous African explorer, whose name was on everyone’s lips, stood staring at me pale and aghast. At first he could not utter a word.

“Only fancy, Le Queux, that fellow has done all the journey that I have done--and more!” he gasped. “He was alone! _He is a greater traveller than I have ever been!_”

A few days later _Through Darkest Africa_ was published, and Stanley’s reputation became established throughout the world. But to the day of his death, a few years later, he befriended the unknown stoker who had really been the actual discoverer of the Aruwimi, the Forests of Perpetual Night, and the pigmies.

While on the staff of the _Globe_ I met Mr. Gladstone on several occasions, and more than once he showed me kindnesses. I recollect one day, when he opened a new wing of Guy’s Hospital, the Press were invited to the luncheon, and it was expected that the Prime Minister would make an important declaration of policy towards Turkey.

I chanced to arrive half-an-hour before the luncheon, and long before any other representatives of the Press, when, to my surprise, I was informed that Mr. Gladstone had already spoken, for his pressing engagements would not allow him to remain to the luncheon. Just as I had been told this the Prime Minister recognized me, and, approaching, said in a low voice:

“There was no pressman here when I spoke, was there?”

I replied that there was not.

“Then come along. Lets go into that little room over there,” and he took me across to what was apparently a sister’s private room, and while I sat at a plain deal table the Grand Old Man leaned against it and repeated his speech, which I took down.

But he turned it into the third person, dictating: “Mr. Gladstone, having performed the formal opening ceremony, addressed those present, and said that the policy of the Government towards the Sublime Porte was----”

He dictated for about a quarter of an hour without hesitation in that low, husky, yet perfectly clear voice of his, seated easily on the corner of the table and swinging his leg as he spoke.

“Will that do, Mr. Le Queux?” he asked, laughing, as at last he stood up.

“Excellently, sir,” was my reply, as I closed my notebook and thanked him.

“I suppose the others will be horribly annoyed,” he said. “They have all gone in to luncheon now, and are no doubt waiting for me to appear. If you are going towards the Strand I can set you down at your office.”

And thus I drove through the city beside the great Prime Minister.

The _Globe_ was the only newspaper to publish the speech that night, and I had the satisfaction of knowing that _The Times_ was compelled to use my report next morning.

Mr. Gladstone was also very kind to me when I published my second novel, _Zoraida_. From Hawarden he wrote: “Quite by accident I saw your novel, _Zoraida_, when staying at Chatsworth a fortnight ago, and I read it. I want to congratulate you on your fertility of invention and your vivid scenes of the Great Sahara and its desert wanderers. The book has interested me.--W. E. GLADSTONE.”

I fear the praise was ill-deserved, but I confess I was much gratified.

I afterwards learned that it was at Mr. Gladstone’s suggestion that Queen Alexandra, then Princess of Wales, read my novels, and gave a standing order for each of my books to reach her as soon as it was published.

Somebody in the bookselling world discovered this fact, and when King Edward ascended the throne, I was at once advertised by enterprising publishers as “The Queen’s favourite novelist.” Among other notable people who professed themselves interested in my novels, and personally congratulated me, were Earl Balfour, Lord Derby, Lord Birkenhead, Mr. Lloyd George, Bishop Ryle, Father Bernard Vaughan, Sir Edwin Cornwall, Sir Henry Duke, and Mr. Justice Bray.

At a private house in the West End, where I was dining one night with a number of distinguished people, soon after the publication of _The Invasion_, Lord Halsbury, a little tubby figure, sidled up to me and said very severely:

“Ah! So you are William Le Queux, eh? Well, I only wish I were still Lord Chancellor. I would have had you up before the House for writing that alarming book on the coming war.”

I was rather resentful, and he saw it.

Then the dear old lawyer laughed, and with a sly wink added:

“Wouldn’t you have liked it, eh? What an advertisement it would have been for Roberts, Northcliffe, and your book!”

I can only here say that in addition to endeavouring to work in the interests of my King and country, as every man should, I have at times tried to entertain them with healthy, if exciting, fiction. I am, alas! only too well aware of my own failings, of my hopeless grammar when compared with the perfect English of some of my contemporaries, yet to my critics I would point out that my early knowledge of other languages interfered seriously with my knowledge of English. I am a cosmopolitan, and for that I would crave the reader’s forgiveness for any grammatical errors in this book or in others I have written.

But in this chapter I am dealing with my early struggles--the days when I was by day a London journalist and by night a struggling novelist; when four hours’ sleep sufficed me, and when I used every morning at half-past six to walk round Covent Garden in order to get a breath of the fresh vegetables from the country. The dust of London was, in those days, over my heart.

Another rather curious circumstance occurred to me during my journalistic career. As usual, I entered my room at the _Globe_ at seven o’clock one morning--for I have ever been an early riser, and even to-day am often at my desk at five o’clock and work till noon--when I saw on my blotting-pad several private telegrams in their buff envelopes, distinguishable from the ordinary Press and “agency” telegrams on their multiplicated “flimsies,” as they are called in Press parlance.

One of them I opened bore the words “_Editor Globe--Victoria sunk_.” There was no name of the sender, but the message had been despatched a few hours before from a small town on the Tunisian coast.

This intrigued me. I looked up Lloyd’s Shipping List and found two _Victorias_. Then in the Navy list I found H.M.S. _Victoria_ was the British flag-ship in the Mediterranean.

I dashed along to the Admiralty and there interviewed the official on duty.

“Probably a hoax,” he said. “We’ve had no news of it. No name is given of the sender, you see.”

“But is the Fleet anywhere off the coast of Tripoli or Tunis?” I asked.

“How do I know where the Mediterranean Fleet is?” asked the dapper young man. “No, don’t publish the report. I expect it is somebody trying to pull your leg--perhaps a tourist who has gone to see the ruins of Carthage and thought he might have a bit of fun.”

So I replaced the telegram in my pocket and returned to the office. Four times during that day I sent to the Admiralty to ask if they could throw any light on the mysterious telegram, but they were unable. No word reached them till twelve hours after the first news of the disaster arrived that H.M.S. _Victoria_, with Vice-Admiral Sir George Tryon on board, had been sunk in collision with the _Camperdown_ on account of a faulty manœuvre on Sir George’s part. The Admiral remained on the bridge as his vessel sank under him, while twenty-two officers and three hundred and thirty-six crew also perished.

Official knowledge often comes many hours after what is known and discussed in London and New York newspaper offices long before the authorities are informed.

The _Globe_ on that June day, in 1893, was the first to give the news of the disaster to the world--news that they had received early in the morning.

But till to-day the sender of that mysterious telegram has never revealed himself. I have often wondered who despatched it from the shore so quickly after the disaster occurred.

In the strike of the Metropolitan Police in London I narrowly escaped serious injury--even death. After the last edition of the _Globe_ had gone to press, I strolled round to Bow Street Police Station--only a minute’s walk from the office--to see what was happening, for it seemed very grotesque that the police of London should go on strike and leave malefactors to do what they liked.

The streets were crowded by all the hooligans from the East End, cheering the police and jeering against all law and order. The whole underworld of London seemed to have been let loose that night, and had assembled in that rather narrow street that leads from the Strand to Long Acre.

I managed to get to the steps of the police station, where Charlie Hands was standing with my reporter Charles Palmer and Lincoln Springfield, when suddenly a heavy earthenware spittoon was flung from an upper window of the section-house, and, escaping my ear by an inch, smashed on to the pavement. Another inch, and it would have undoubtedly smashed my skull.

Not long afterwards I sat in Bow Street Police Court, where the charge against Oscar Wilde was being investigated, my interest being all the keener because I had met him many times at Lady (Walter) Palmer’s fine house in Grosvenor Square, she being one of Wilde’s best friends.

I reported the whole of Bottomley’s trial in connection with the Hansard Union, when “Mr. Bottomley in the Box” appeared day after day on the contents-bills of the _Globe_ and the _Echo_. From a youth I had always attentively studied criminology, so I endeavoured to attend every sensational murder trial at the Old Bailey. Often I had as companion my very old friend George R. Sims. Throughout thirty years we frequently sat together at the Old Bailey, watching murder trials, the last occasion being when we sat side by side through the trial of Smith, who murdered his “brides” by drowning them in their baths.

Let me whisper it. Both Sims and myself, rather portly persons, got into those fatal zinc baths produced in court during a luncheon interval, while several famous counsel looked on, making humorous remarks.

In that case, Sir E. Marshall-Hall rose to such brilliancy as an advocate that Smith would undoubtedly have been acquitted if the accused had not, at the very last moment, taken his defence into his own hands. Smith was hanged, but Sir E. Marshall-Hall’s magnificent conduct of the case--like, later on, the defence of Greenwood at Carmarthen Assizes--won for him the admiration of both Bench and Bar, as well as great popularity with the public.

A more able, astute, and learned counsel there is none in the kingdom. For many years he has been my friend, and I think I can safely say that he is personally one of the most modest, large-minded, and most charitable men I have ever met.

Those large, dark, penetrating eyes, which terrify a witness under cross-examination, that big, mobile countenance, those eyebrows that shift up and down, and yet, in contrast, that pleasant, easy-going, even fraternal manner that he sometimes assumes towards the jury, is that of a great legal genius, a man who studies the psychology of crime and who knows its degrees as few other men in England know them.

The country admires him, it is true, but I happen to know that criminal judges, even though he falls foul of them sometimes, admire and trust him even more.

Once I congratulated him on a great success at an Assize Court in the north, whereupon he simply sighed, and, turning to me, said:

“Luck, my dear fellow--only luck!”

My work on the _Globe_ was not without its humorous side. On one well-remembered day I had been out to snatch a hasty lunch at Simpson’s, across the way, when on my return I glanced at the tape-instruments as usual. On one of them was a startling message, printed on the slip:

“_Her Majesty the Queen died at Windsor at ten o’clock this
morning._”

I re-read it, and held my breath.

My next action was to telephone down to the printers to place the margins of the paper in deep mourning, telling the head printer that the Queen was dead.

My message caused the greatest consternation in the printing works, but all goes like clockwork in the office of any London evening newspaper, and it was a standing joke that if the last trump sounded the _Globe_ should come out with an “extra special.”

Ere I had time to consider what I should write concerning the great calamity that had overtaken the nation the head printer was in my room, exhibiting a wet contents bill in heavy mourning, with the words “Death of the Queen.”

In the meantime Mr. “Jack” Jewell, the sporting editor, who, for so many years as “Larry Lynx,” wrote the sporting article for the _Globe_ and also Sir William Madge’s weekly paper, _The People_, had passed through the printing-room and heard the news. He went out into the Strand, where he met the sub-editor of the _Echo_, and told him of the calamity.

I stood alone in my room, undecided. All was ready. I had written some lines that began with the words:

“The whole British nation, and the world, will learn with
deepest sorrow that Her Majesty Queen Victoria passed away at
Windsor Castle, where she was spending Easter, at ten o’clock
this morning. No further details of our national calamity have
reached us before going to press.”

I had the proof in “double-leads,” as the printers call it, in my hands.

Everyone was out at lunch--Sir George Armstrong, the chief proprietor, Sir William Madge, the manager, and all the staff, except Charles Palmer who came in at that moment.

“Inquire of the Press Association,” Palmer suggested.

It only required me to press a bell on my table to set the great presses going, and to launch on the world the unexpected news that “Victoria the Good,” who had just celebrated her second jubilee, was dead!

I rang up, and in answer to my eager inquiry I heard an insulting voice say:

“Whatever we send out is true. Ours is a reliable service, you know. Others are not.”

And he rang off.

Of Reuter’s, and of the Central News, I inquired, but both declared that they knew nothing of the Queen’s death.

At that moment the inspector of the Exchange Telegraph Company, an electrician, who visited the newspaper offices each hour to renew the spools of tape, ink the machines, and see they were in working order, entered the room without knocking, as he always did.

I pounced on him instantly, asking:

“What about this report of the Queen’s death that your people have sent out?”

“Queen’s death? What do you mean?” he asked, staring at me.

Then with a smile on his face the little man, who for years had trudged from one newspaper office to another all day long, dived into the huge waste-paper basket set beneath the automatic machine to receive the hundreds of yards of printed tape that we never used, and presently drew out a piece about six inches long, on which were the words--after giving the time--“John Walters, for thirty years coachman to----”

_It was the Queen’s coachman who had died!_

And so I very narrowly made the _Globe_ the laughing stock of the whole world.

Yet as a matter of fact the _Echo_ did actually publish the report--as a rumour only--and many copies were sold outside the Royal Exchange before the edition was suppressed.

No! The life of a news-editor is not exactly a bed of roses.

The dear old _Globe_ has, alas! passed away, and is merged into the _Pall Mall Gazette_, after Charles Palmer became editor, and fell foul of the German-paid betrayers during the war.

In my book _Scribes and Pharisees_, written long ago, I have described the inner working of the _Globe_ office, and revealed much that I believe has amused people. I referred to Palmer as the “weevil,” because he was so clever in any investigations that he undertook as second reporter, under William Jeans. One unwritten law of the _Globe_ was that no member of its staff had ever been discharged. Sir George Armstrong was a humorist, and always very lenient. An apprentice in our editorial department, named Knight, was once called up and told to resign. But he continued to draw his salary as usual, and still remained there for years after I left.

Jack Jewell, the original “Larry Lynx,” was a great character, and a most hearty, good-humoured soul. But he had periodical bursts of merriment, and sometimes did not turn up in the mornings. On such occasions his office-boy, named Tilbury--a particularly bright lad--would read up the morning papers and write out “Larry Lynx’s Latest” tips for the day--an event that happened ten or a dozen times a month.

And, funnily enough, the office-boy’s tips were often more correct than those given by our popular sporting editor!

So much for journalistic tipsters!

Though I am not a Roman Catholic, the late Cardinal Manning became a very generous friend to me. One day he called on me at the _Globe_ office to enlist the paper in the cause of some charity. I took it up, and in return His Eminence gave me the run of his private library at the Archbishop’s house at Westminster. I often spent my evenings there, and on several occasions the dear old soft-voiced Cardinal came in and chatted to me about journalism and literature. He afterwards gave me a letter of introduction to Cardinal Rampolla at the Vatican, which was of the greatest use to me.

Here is a little story that will show the broadmindedness of His Eminence.

A new Roman Catholic church was to be consecrated at Hounslow, and with other representatives of the Press I journeyed down there one very hot summer’s morning. I arrived late; the church was crowded to overflowing, and the ceremony had started. I saw the impossibility of sitting inside, so I stood by an open window and heard the beautiful service.

Afterwards Father O’Sullivan, the resident priest, on coming out, beckoned me over, and with three or four pressmen led me into his house near by.

“You fellows will find some whiskey and glasses,” he said hurriedly, his round face beaming. “After I’ve seen to the Cardinal I’ll join you. Phew! The heat! You must all be just as thirsty as I am!”

And he closed the door. Beneath the table stood a big wicker-covered jar of excellent Irish whiskey, and on a tray some glasses, so we helped ourselves to the very welcome refreshment, and began to smoke.

Presently Father O’Sullivan joined us, and somebody told a good story, which set us all laughing merrily as we stood around with our glasses in our hands.

Of a sudden the door again opened, and His Eminence the Cardinal, very feeble and frail, stood before us.

In an instant he took in the situation, and, laughing, said:

“Ah, gentlemen! I see that you are far better off than I am! I’m thirsty too!”

“Will your Eminence take a glass of water?” asked the priest quickly. “I must apologize that none was provided in your room!”

“No apology is needed,” the Cardinal assured him, smiling. “But I really will take some water.”

So, laughing merrily at the situation, the famous Cardinal, who would no doubt have been elected Pope had he lived, stood with us, sipping his water, and chatting with us, while we drank our whiskey.

When he left, he remarked:

“I am very pleased, gentlemen, to see that Father O’Sullivan is entertaining you so pleasantly.”

A few days later, when I saw him in his library, he mentioned the incident, and, with a laugh, remarked:

“Though Father O’Sullivan forgot my water he didn’t forget his own whiskey, did he?”

One morning I set out from Charing Cross for the city of Treves, on the Moselle, in order to see and describe for the _Globe_, the Holy Coat, which is exhibited in the ancient cathedral once every fifty years.

I was alone as far as Brussels, but when changing trains, to go south to Treves, I saw on the platform the burly figure of old George Augustus Sala, the veteran travelling correspondent of the _Daily Telegraph_.

“Hulloa, Le Queux!” he cried merrily. “Are you going to see this confounded coat?”

I admitted that I was, and we travelled together all day. On our arrival at Treves we found that it was quite impossible to obtain beds, the whole place being filled with pilgrims from all over Europe--an unwashed crowd that had arrived to see the relic of whose authenticity I am not in a position to judge.

Tents had been erected all over the countryside and down the streets of the old Roman town, and one could hardly get to the cathedral for the dense throng.

We found vacant seats before what seemed to be the best café in the place, and Sala at last had a private chat with the proprietor.

“I happen to be one of the honorary guardians of the Coat,” the man said. “But, unfortunately for you journalists, the Bishop has to-day given orders that no mere sightseers shall be allowed to enter the cathedral.”

“Oh, then that settles it, Le Queux!” said Sala, fixing me with his cross-eye. “We must become pilgrims.”

And pilgrims we became next day, for we both bought blue peasants’ blouses and caps, and with a rosary each, we together went in under a big blue banner borne aloft by a pilgrimage from Metz. As Sala chanted with seriousness, in his deep bass voice, it was all I could do to keep a straight face. But we were the only journalists who got in, and I recollect that my description published in the _Globe_ was headed “The Holy Coat at Treves: By an Amateur Pilgrim.”

The editor of the _Kladderadatsch_, the _Punch_ of Berlin, copied my article without giving me credit for being its author, and was promptly sent to prison for six months for daring to call into question the genuineness of a “holy” relic. And serve him right. I did not hold, however, with a writer in the _Pall Mall_ who, a few days afterwards, declared that a “holy pair of trousers” had been discovered in a church in a village somewhere in Bohemia!

* * * * *

Among the many leading lights of the legal profession whom I met during my journalistic days, I have pleasant recollections of Mr. Justice Avory, Sir Archibald Bodkin, Lord Justice Scrutton--of copyright knowledge, and a good friend of all authors; Sir Henry Duke, who was at that time a journalist on the staff of the _Daily Telegraph_; Sir Edward Marshall-Hall, K.C.; and also of my old practical joking friend, Charles Gill, who afterwards rose to become a King’s Counsel, Recorder of Chichester, Senior Counsel to the Treasury, to the Bankers’ Association, and to the Jockey Club, as well as a Bencher of the Middle Temple.

But at the time of the story I am about to relate we were both young, and he was glad enough to earn a few guineas at police or county courts. We had a mutual friend in a stout, highly-humorous solicitor named George Lay, who practised mainly at the Brentford Police Court, and, like Gill, was well known in London theatrical circles.

One day, during a General Election, I went down to the riverside town of Staines, where a very hot contest was in progress. On the previous night the parties in opposition had come to fisticuffs at a meeting. Dixon-Hartland, the banker, was contesting the constituency in the Conservative interest, and it seemed a foregone conclusion that he would be re-elected.

I arrived at the Bridge House Hotel at Staines, about six o’clock, and had ordered some dinner in readiness for the meeting at the Town Hall at seven, when to my surprise in walked Charles Gill, wearing his monocle, accompanied by George Lay. The local bench of magistrates had been sitting, and both had been engaged in opposition in a serious case of assault on a wife by a jealous husband.

They greeted me, and, as we sat down to dinner, inquired the reason of my visit to Staines.

I told them, whereupon, after a brief silence, Gill made a suggestion.

“Look here, Lay,” he said, “why shouldn’t we stay and have a bit of fun? We’ve been slanging each other all day. Why not let us continue?”

“How,” asked Lay, always ready for an adventure.

“Well, let’s go to this election meeting with Le Queux. You support Dixon-Hartland, and I’ll take the part of the other Johnnie--what’s his name? You sit in front and I’ll sit at the back, and we’ll create some real trouble between us, eh?”

George Lay at once agreed.

We ate our dinner and went to the meeting. Lay sat in the second row, with Gill far away at the back. The chairman made a comfortable speech to a packed audience extolling the virtues of the candidate who sat on the platform smiling down on his supporters.

All went quietly until Dixon-Hartland rose to speak. Gill allowed him to make a few statements, and then, to everyone’s surprise, he rose and loudly protested in his most forensic language against the statement--something with regard to Ireland--and appealed to the chairman and to the audience, causing a great sensation.

Whereupon George Lay rose, and, turning to the interrupter with a flow of vituperation that could only be possessed by a brow-beating police-court solicitor, inquired the name of “this gentleman, this unknown outsider, who has come here to upset our meeting!”

That was a signal for a sharp quarrel between the pair. They shouted at each other, both crimson with anger, and shook their fists threateningly. They called each other nasty names, till the chairman, with great difficulty, called them to order, and at last stopped the uproar.

Then, all being quiet again, the candidate proceeded. But Gill allowed him to go on for only about five minutes, when again he rose to object. Again Lay jumped up, and again the pair attacked each other with violence, cheered by one portion of the audience and hissed by the other.

Four times was this repeated, till the audience at last took sides with the objector and his opponent, and would no longer listen to the candidate. The uproar became intense, the chairman became powerless, the crowd got out of hand, chairs were smashed, and the meeting broke up in terrible confusion. I myself narrowly escaped from an infuriated partisan of the opposition candidate, who was flourishing the leg of a broken table.

When I got outside I saw Gill standing on the step of the Town Hall still haranguing the crowd.

Afterwards we all three took the last train from Staines to London, and many a time we laughed over our joke.

Gill became more serious in his latter days. He was a member of the committee appointed in 1918 to inquire into German war crimes, and he worked very hard as a member of the sub-committee which was presided over by the late Mr. Justice Peterson and which dealt with the treatment of thousands of British prisoners of war in Germany.

From his position as counsel to the Jockey Club (of which he was also an honorary member) it will be gathered that Gill was interested in sport, and country pursuits were his principal relaxations from the depressing labour of his profession. Following the tradition of the Old Bailey, he was also a patron of the drama, and at one time was often seen at first-night performances. He was a popular member of the Turf, Garrick, Beefsteak, and other clubs.

* * * * *

One December morning I joined a big party headed by George Augustus Sala, and including Bennett Burleigh, the war correspondent, Melton Prior, the artist, and a number of kindred spirits of Fleet Street. We met at Euston Station, having been invited by the Cambrian Railways--I believe they were our hosts--to visit Barmouth, in North Wales, and describe its advantages as a winter resort against the then much-advertised Colwyn Bay.

We boarded a special train, which, after leaving Shrewsbury, stopped frequently, and champagne was served at the station bars.

At Barmouth the Town Council met us, and put us into most comfortable quarters at the Coes-y-Gedol Hotel. We were rather crowded, however, and Sala and myself, being constant fellow-travellers over Europe in those days, shared a room.

Sala wore his golf-cap in bed, I remember, just as Harry de Windt invariably does. Only I have seen Harry in a _wagon-lit_ sleeping in his bowler, for, curiously enough, the explorer is most fastidious about draughts.

Well, on the night of our arrival at Barmouth the council of that thriving watering-place, with its beautiful stretch of sands for bathing, gave us a splendid banquet of welcome. The Mayor, the local doctors, the Town Clerk, and other municipal officials told us of its warm winter climate and of its hours of winter sunshine, which were not eclipsed by those at St. Leonards or Bournemouth, and we sat spoon-fed with the little town’s advantages.

We retired to bed full of Barmouth and its coming winter life.

Sala, as he threw off his braces, said:

“By Heaven, Le Queux, according to the city fathers this place must be equal in warmth to Palermo or Algiers. Winter sunshine! I don’t see much sign of it, eh? I’m horribly cold!” and with a shiver he cast a glance with his blind eye towards me and soon dived into bed.

Next morning when we rubbed our eyes and looked out of the window the ground was deeply covered with snow! It snowed all day--and the next!

Those who had invited us naturally grew alarmed. They wondered what we would say.

George Augustus Sala on the second afternoon called an informal committee meeting in the smoking-room of the hotel, at which most of us were present.

“Look here, you fellows,” he said bluntly, “these people have done us very well, haven’t they? They can’t help the snow. They can help it at Colwyn Bay, where their weather report says it is always sunshine. Now I put it to the vote, for we are all of us sportsmen. Shall we tell the truth--or shall we lie? Now--the truth? Hands up!”

Not a hand was raised.

“Lies--artistic ones?” he asked, with his cocked eye glancing at the door in fear of any outsider intruding.

Every hand went up.

“The lies have it!” he answered, and the lies did have it. You have only to search the files of the London daily newspapers on the following day to read what gloriously bright sunshine and blue skies reigned at Barmouth during the visit of the London Press!

Probably journalists may object to the revelation of such secrets, but, after all, the town of Barmouth had, in a perfectly justifiable bid for winter prosperity, spent so much money on our entertainment that we all agreed that we had been placed in a most difficult position by the clerk of the weather.

And in journalism the truth is, after all, not always welcome. If everyone suddenly became candid concerning his neighbour, this would indeed be an uncomfortable world.

But there was a _dénouement_ of my story. One of my assistants on the _Globe_ knew what had happened. It was his duty to check the reports each morning from the Meteorological Office. He waited his time till about a fortnight later snow was reported at Colwyn Bay. He promptly replaced the word “fine” by “snow.” And he left the word “snow” against Colwyn Bay for weeks and weeks, notwithstanding the protests of readers at that North Wales resort.

When I protested, he said:

“Well, Colwyn Bay can’t have it all its own way. It has been sunny at Barmouth each day for the past few weeks, so why can’t we give Colwyn Bay a bit of snow?”

In May he changed the word opposite Colwyn Bay to “unsettled,” whereat the municipal authorities and hotel-keepers grew furious, and wrote some most uncomplimentary letters.

With the modern press-agent I have no patience. He is paid to exaggerate to the public the mediocre and magnify the unworthy person into a genius. He is a product of our present age of advertising. Given a financial backing your press-agent of to-day--clever and subtle in his paragraphs, I grant--can accomplish miracles in the social standing of his clients, be they the _nouveau riche_, the pretty chorus girl, the budding artist, the writer, or the crook.