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The Bread Line




[Illustration]




The Bread Line

A Story of a Paper


By
Albert Bigelow Paine


[Illustration]


New York
The Century Co.
1900


Copyright, 1899,
By THE J. B. LIPPINCOTT CO.

       *       *       *       *       *

Copyright, 1900,
By THE CENTURY CO.




  To Those Who have Started
  Papers, to Those Who have
  Thought of Starting Papers,
  and to Those Who are
  Thinking of Starting Papers.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE

      I THE FIRST DINNER                                               1

     II FRISBY'S SCHEME                                               15

    III A LETTER FROM THE "DEAREST GIRL IN THE WORLD,"
          OTHERWISE MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND, TO MR.
          TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK                              29

     IV SOME PREMIUMS                                                 36

      V A LETTER FROM MR. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK
          TO MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND                         52

     VI CASH FOR NAMES                                                61

    VII A LETTER FROM MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND TO
          MR. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK                          84

   VIII THE COURSE OF EVENTS                                          92

     IX IN THE SANCTUM                                               108

      X A LETTER FROM MR. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK
          TO MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND                        116

     XI THE GENTLE ART OF ADVERTISING                                125

    XII A LETTER FROM MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND TO MR.
          TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK                             144

   XIII THE HOUR OF DARK FOREBODING                                  149

    XIV A LETTER FROM MR. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK TO MISS
          DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND                                158

     XV FINAL STRAWS                                                 165

    XVI AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW                                    176

   XVII A TELEGRAM FROM MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND TO MR.
          TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK                             187

  XVIII GRABBING AT STRAWS                                           188

    XIX A LETTER FROM MR. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK TO MISS
          DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND                                196

     XX THE BARK OF THE WOLF                                         204

    XXI THE LETTER LIVINGSTONE READ                                  209

   XXII THE BREAD LINE                                               214

  XXIII THE LAST LETTER--TO MR. AND MRS. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE, OLD
          POINT COMFORT, VIRGINIA                                    227




The Bread Line




I

THE FIRST DINNER


This is the story of a year, beginning on New Year's eve.

In the main it is the story of four--two artists and two writers--and of
a paper which these four started. Three of them--the artists and one of
the writers--toiled and dwelt together in rooms near Union Square, and
earned a good deal of money sometimes, when matters went well. The
fourth--the other writer--did something in an editorial way, and thus
had a fixed income; that is, he fixed it every Saturday in such manner
that it sometimes lasted until Wednesday of the following week. Now and
then he sold a story or a poem "outside" and was briefly affluent, but
these instances were unplentiful. Most of his spare time he spent in
dreaming vague and hopeless dreams. His dreams he believed in, and,
being possessed of a mesmeric personality, Barrifield sometimes
persuaded others to believe also.

It began--the paper above mentioned--in the cafe of the Hotel Martin,
pronounced with the French "tang," and a good place to get a good dinner
on New Year's eve or in any other season except that of adversity, no
recollection of which period now vexed the mind of the man who did
something in an editorial way, or those of the two artists and the
writer who worked and dwelt together in rooms near Union Square. In
fact, that era of prosperity which began in New York for most bohemians
in the summer of '96 was still in its full tide, and these three had
been caught and borne upward on a crest that as yet gave no signs of
undertow and oblivion beneath. But Barrifield, still editing at his old
salary, had grown uneasy and begun to dream dreams. He did not write
with ease, and his product, though not without excellence, was of a sort
that found market with difficulty in any season and after periods of
tedious waiting. He had concluded to become a publisher.

He argued that unless publishers were winning great fortunes they could
not afford to pay so liberally for their wares.

He had been himself authorized to pay as much as fifteen cents per word
for the product of a certain pen. He forgot, or in his visions refused
to recognize, the possibility of this being the result of competition in
a field already thickly trampled by periodicals, many of them backed by
great capital and struggling, some of them at a frightful loss, toward
the final and inevitable survival of the richest. As for his companions,
they were on the outside, so to speak, and swallowed stories of
marvelous circulations and advertising rates without question. Not that
Barrifield was untruthful. Most of what he told them had come to him on
good authority. If, in the halo of his conception and the second bottle
of champagne, he forgot other things that had come to him on equally
good authority, he was hardly to be blamed. We all do that, more or
less, in unfolding our plans, and Barrifield was uncommonly optimistic.

He had begun as he served the roast. Previous to this, as is the habit
in bohemia, they had been denouncing publishers and discussing work
finished, in hand, and still to do; also the prices and competition for
their labors. The interest in Barrifield's skill at serving, however,
had brought a lull, and the champagne a golden vapor that was fraught
with the glory of hope. It was the opportune moment. The publication of
the "Whole Family" may be said to have dated from that hour.

Barrifield spoke very slowly, pausing at the end of each sentence to
gather himself for the next. Sometimes he would fill a plate as he
deliberated. At other times he would half close his eyes and