Decatur Daily Democrat, Volume 28, Number 187, Decatur, Adams County, 8 August 1930 — Page 5

FAME FOR MR. BEATTY James Norman Hall

C. 1)0 w and Co T <lrygoodM W** hsids occupied a four- " “ ,cr covering half "* n m** U**een Commercial River Klrocta The burt»nJ East >• u firm W ere on He., to 1M ,uU ?\ 0 .W manager with * M mv.,»gor of import. b |9 ' U , rt ' L adv rtlslmr manager » l,h bis. remainder of the » I,h h a Jr considerably more !<,urth ir ,f’ 1U was taken up by "> whal ‘ anting department, a ,hP ,m e ° ut ,n ° rderly ' mlnl Lr fashion, with narrow r* Mn * ular fo r streets and wire each of thcm <•«** X six each of them with ’ il fM nants m one of the cages .m the main corridor (Brth man who had been in the ” S * f the How Company for emP ‘ Oy thL twenty years. His was Herbert Beatty. ~ woU ld be difficult to describe 7Jttv In any vivid manner. “ r B ? ttat he was quietly T L2d that his linen was 1mand his boots carefully i r '' af >.!a is not to distinguish g* £m thousand, of other bookkeepers Obhim in a crowd —but this the most curious •bserver of human nature, touchn7elbows with him in a crowd w „uld not have noticed him, unwhich is equally unthlnkBeatty had been guilty Lome act of gross and unusual conduct, and even then the eccentrjeity would have been rememI bere d rather than the man himse'f Ho was a lonely man. without el o S e friends or any living relatives so far as he knew, and his life flowed on from year to year In unbroken monotony. Although he spent forty-five hours weekly in his little wire enclosure, be neither spoke nor thought of It as a cage. Ho entered it. six romings out of seven, as willingly as a bee enters its hive, and much more punctually. Having ju'ted oft his boots with a flannel doth which he kept in a drawer, be slipped into his black alpaca offlee-coat. Then he marked out with a neat cross, in red ink, the ! jato of the previous day on the calendar —two crosses on a Monday. Then he opened the ledgers In which he took such pride, and was immediately engrossed In his work. This was purely of a routine nature, as familiar to him as breathing, quite as necessary, and almost as instinctively performed. He was rarely disturbed, had no decisions to make and was never asked for his opinion about anything. At twelve-thirty he went but GJ' lunch. He patronized always the «ame white-tiled restaurant on East River street, a large, clean. Impersonal sort of place catering to the employes of the wholesale houses in the vicinity. An immense sign on the wall of this restaurant read: “We serve more than three-thousand lunches daily, between the hours of twelve and two." During the past ten years Mr. Beatty himself had | »lone been served with that number of lunches; three-thousand lettuce sandwiches. Three-thou-sand pieces of custard pie, threethousand glasses of milk. But although his order was the same, aummer and winter, none of the waitresses ever remembered what It was or appeared to recognize , him as an old patron. In winter he spent the whole , of his luncheon hour in this place ! reading the Morning Post. On line days in summer, he would go, I after his meal, to a small park | near the City Hall, two blocks distant There he would buy a ( bag of salted peanuts, and after I eating a few of them would give the rest to the pigeons that frequented the square. They would eat out of his hand, perch on his outstretched arm, even on his head. He liked to think that they were his pigeons, and he enjoyed the moment of attention they brought him from other midday loungers in the park. When he had doled out the last of the peanuts, he dusted the salt from his fingers and sat down to enjoy his newspaper. t Mr. Beatty was one of the numberless army of men and women who have made possible the success of the modern American newspaper, whose reading is con- ; nned almost entirely to its columns. It amused him. instructed nim, thought for him. He found there satisfaction for all his mod«t needs, spiritual and cultural. e turned first to the comic secsmllln K over the adventures ot Mutt and Jeff and the vlcissludes of the Gump family. These mu' ® ? Pro real t 0 htm - and hb "Wed their fortunes closely to 'day. Next he read e itorial of Dr. Francis Crake J 1 ® admired and respected osophpr ot senlus. Anwxv th° a^ re ° f the Mornln S Bost the Enquirer’s column. The enquirer sauntered daily through cho± eCt8 ’ asklng of four P®°P'®chosen more or less at random. Their queatlon of Current Interest, small nh e ‘. a ' t ° B ' eth ®'’ with a aal ‘ Photograph of each Individum'n u r Printed ln the COl ‘ Waned ’ H® att y 8 interest never *aned In this feature of his fanewspaper. Indeed, there gagehi” 1 11* 1 . 0 ? W ®' ery Page t 0 en " h attention that his lunchtime h A/. Paßs ‘’ d 1,1 a Ilaßh of t , Wenty minutes past one fore £ th ° Pllrk and b ®- wL „ . balf ' h °ur had struck Work. again # at his desk and at o>i?u,0 > i? u ,, BUltry midsummer dav Usual h ” h " TVBB enjoying h» Dark noontlme recreation in the a OUn S man wearing horn-

v. St 9 jra IMjjjam I™ I < ■ Izr wO 1 ifto- ® . . . „ “Thanks, Mr. Beatty, tomorrow the whole city will know your views on immigration,”

rimmed spectacles and with a camera slung over his shoulder, sat down on the bench beside him. Mr. Beatty was not aware of this at the moment for he was in the midst of Dr. Crake’s editorial for the day: “Clothes as an Index ot Personality." In three short paragraphs Dr. Crake had evolved his philosophy on this subject. "Show me a man who is slovenly in his dress and I will show you one that Is slovenly in his morals. A clean collar is the index of a clean mind. It matters not how modest your income, or how humble your station in life, you cannot afford to be in- , different to the appearance you i present to your fellow men. NeatI ness pays. It is investment at . compound interest in the Bank of I Success, and it will bring in divi- ; deeds when you least expect I them." So Dr. Crake in his first ■ paragraph. Mr. Beatty heartily | approved of these opinions and he thought, not without a touch of pride, that Dr. Crake would have approved of him. Upon turning the page of his paper he noticed his companion on the bench. The young man nodded cordially. "A scorcher, Isn’t it?" he said. Mr. Beatty was slightly startled. It was not often that a stranger spoke to him. "Yes, it is warm.” he replied, a little apologetically, as though he were somehow to blame for the heat. , "Hottest day this summer.' said the young man. "What do you suppose the thermometer at the Morning Port building registered at noon?" "Oh, I couldn’t say. I fancy it was pretty high.” "One hundred and two In the shade; and it’s hotter than that, inside. Fress-room like a furnace. city-room worse. Glad I didn't have tb stay there." “Are you—do you mean that you are employed on the Morning Post ?” "Yes. I run what we call the Enquirer’s column. You may have read it sometimes?” "Oh. yes! Well! Isn’t that remarkable! Why, I always—” "Well, that's my job on the Post, or one of them. I’m supposed to be working at it now. You know, that is really why I sat down on this bench. The question for to-morrow is. ‘Do you favor restricted Immigration?’ When I saw you sitting here I thought, there's a man. If I’m not mistaken, who has views on this subject. Would you mind letting me have them. Mr.—but you haven’t told me your name, I think?" "Beatty. Herbert Beatty.” “Are you in business in the city?” • “Yes. I’m a bookkeeper with William C. Dow and Company.” “That's fine! We’ll be glad to , have a man of your profession I represented in the Enquirer's col- | Umn. You don’t object, do you. ;Mr. Botty? You know, you can

DECATUR DAILY DEMOCRAT

tell me precisely what you think our immigration policy should be. The Post wishes to offer its readers the opinions of intelligent men on both sides of the question.” Never, not even in his most sanguine moments, had it occurred to Mr. Beatty that he might one day be called upon to express, publicly, his opinion of any question. Now that the opportunity had come, he was dazed, stupefied. The sound of the young man's voice camo to him with a strange, far-off effect He understood in a dreamlike way that this reporter was preparing to direct the attention of a city of two million inhabitants to his, Herbert Beatty’s, views upon a matter of great public concern. He watched, fascinated, while the young man drew a notebook from his pocket, slipped off the rubber band, opened it on his knee. What could he say? What were his views? Dr. Crake had dealt with this subject in one ot his editorials only a few weeks before. If only he could remember what he had said, perhaps it would help him to— Ot a sudden he was conscious that the young man was speaking. “I suppose you think there is something to be said on bqth sides, Mr. Beatty?" “Oh, yes! I —you see—you have taken me a little by surprise. One doesn't like to be too sure—l hardly know —perhaps—” "But wouldn’t it, in your opinion, be a good thing if the government were to adopt a fairly cautious restriction policy, say for the next twenty-five years?" "Well, yes, I believe it would.” "We would know by that time where we stand, don’t you think, with respect to the great foreignborn population already in America? With this information to guide us, we could then decide what our future policy should be,” Mr. Beatty heartily agreed with this. It seemed to him a sound way of looking at the matter. The reporter made some rapid entries In his notebook, snapped on the rubber band, and clipped his pencil to his waistcoat pocket. “Thanks very much, Mr. Beqtty. You're the fourth man I’ve interviewed to-day. The views of the other three were rather extreme, both for and against restricted immigration. I’m glad to have found one man who fayors moderation —a wise middle course. Now then, you'll let me take ychir photograph? We like to print these with the replies in the column. I’ll not be ten seconds. If you’ll stand there —a little more this way—Good! That will do Snap! That's done it! Thanks once more, Mr. Beatty. To-mor-row the whole city will know your views on the ImmigrAtio i 'problem, and I’ll venture to sa» that nine out of ten men wi,i 'agree with them. Well, good-bye ■ I must be getting along."

MR. BEATTY was conscious ot a feeling of profound relief as he entered his enclosure at the bookkeeping department. He rearranged the articles on his desk, flicked an imaginary fleck of dust from his adding-machine, and resharpened a pencil whose point had been a little blunted with use during the morning. So great was the virtue in these familiar practices, and so strong the habits of a lifetime, that he was then able to resume his work with a certain measure of calm. But his pleasantly disquieting thoughts returned at five o’clock. They seemed to be awaiting him In the street below, and occupied his mind to the exclusion of everything else. He entered the stream of homeward-bound pedestrian traffic, letting it carry him where it would, and presently found himself in front of the .Morning Post building. One of the plate-glass windows bore an inscription in gold lettering: “The •Morning Post. Your Paper— Everybody’s Paper. Guaranteed Circulation Over 450,000.” He gazed at this for some time as he thought over the events of the day. He could recall vividly the appearance of the young reporter, and the kind of notebook he had used—opening at the end, with wide spaces between the ruled lines—and the round blue pencil with the nickel pocket-clip. But he could not remember at all clearly the details of the interview. How long had it lasted? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Probably not more than five. The reporter had worked rapidly. . . . He had seemed pleased with his replies. . . . But just what was it he had said? ... A circulation ’of four-hundred-fifty thousand! And likely twice that many people actually read the Post, After his customary solitary supper, Mr. Beatty went to a moving-picture theatre for the seven-o’clock show. He returned to his lodgings at nine and went to bed. The following morning he awoke at a quarter to five, an hour before his usual time. It wa. ‘mpossible to sleep again, so he shaved, dressed, and went downstairs. The sky was cloudless; it would be another sweltering day. A horse-drawn milk wagon was just then making its rounds; otherwise the street was deserted. The stationery shop where he usually bought his morning paper was not yet opened. He went on to another several blocks distant, but that too was closed. The papers had already been delivered there; they were lying on the doorstep, loosely wrapped in a brown paper cover. Mr. Beatty looked up and down the street; there was no one in view. Quickly opening his penknife he cut the cord of the parcel and drew forth a copy of the Post. Then he discovered that he had only a penny, a quarter, and a half-dollar in his pocket, and the price of the

Post was three cents. He left the quarter on top of the parcel and hurried back to his lodgings where Mrs. Halleck, his landlady, was standing in the entryway. “Good morning, Mr. Beatty! Well! You are an early bird this morning! Wherever have you been at this time of day? My! Ain’t this heat awful? I don’t know what’s goin* to happen if we don't havy some rain soon to cool things off. You got the morning paper already?" He murmured a hasty reply, went up to his room on the third floor, and shut and locked the door. Then he opened his paper at the editorial page. ENQUIRER’S COLUMN Question for the day: "Do you favor Restricted Immigration?" Herbert Beatty, bookkeeper, with William C. Dow & Company, 400 Commercial street. “One hesitates in pronouncing un opinion Upon a question of such far-reaching importance, but It would seem advisable that we should now adopt a cautious, well balanced policy of restriction until such time as we shall have been able to assimilate the immense foreignborn population already on our shores. Twenty-five years hence we shall have gathered sufficient data with regard to our immigration policy to enable us to decide with some measure of confidence what our future policy should be.” Mr. Beatty's photograph gazing at him from the page, and the print of his own name looked so strange that he could hardly beHis Hunch A SHORT STORY By JACK WOODFORD PROBABLY Mickey had never even heard the racket about “Do Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do Unto You,” but, curiously enough, such is the paradox of life in this vale, that he actually observed tho axiom, even though he had never heard ot it, whereas thousands of people in town, who had had the axiom grinded into them from childhood up, and knew all about it, paid no attention to it. But, then, Mickey was a dip, which is to say a pickpocket, and he took his philosophies more seriously than most. , It was when he was returning to his room, at twenty minutes j past three, that he saw an officer pulling a box upon the corner. 1 Because it was such an early i hour, and because it was a seci

lieve them his. He read the interview again, and a third and a fourth time. He had not been able to recall, before, just how he had worded his reply; he had been a little confused, of course, at the moment of the interview, and surprised at the suddenness of the question put to him by the reporter. What a faculty that young man had shown for getting immediately at the gist of his thought! That was a reporter's business, to be sure, but this one must be a particularly gifted interviewer. His own interview had been given the place of honor at the top of the column. He now turned to the views of the others: Morris Goldberg, haberdasher, 783 Fourth avenue. "I don’t think we've got room for any more foreigners in the United States. We ought to put the lid on tight, now. Business has been poor since the war. and there's too much competition already.” H. Lwight Crabtree, pastor, the Division Street Baptist Church. “I often think of America as a great melting-pot where all the various splendid elements which go to make up our Democracy are being fused, and the composite type, American, made perfect in the sight of the Father of us all. No, let us not forbid them, these brothers of ours from over the seas. Let us rather say: 'Welcome, ye poor and oppressed! Wo have room for you and more than room! Bask here In God’s sunlight! Enjoy our opportunities! Partake of our fellowship! And may you bequeath to your children a rich heritage of health and love and beauty in this glorious land. America!’ ”

tion of town so tough that even hard-boiled citizens did not often lounge about it at that hour, the street was deserted. The officer, Mickey observed, had handcuffed a man to him. Furthermore, the officer held in his hand, the handcuffed one, a bottle. A bottle whose significant shape was unmistakable. Mickey hadn't the slightest idea who the victim was. Nor had he the slightest idea who the cop was; but their relative positions interested him. And, besides, he hnd had a most successful evening and was in an expansive .mood. Evidently a small bootlegger, who didn't run with the right mob. and had not the proper protection. Didn't the sap have sense I enough to kick the bottle out ot the cop's hand, thereby destroying evidence? Mickey was contemptuous. Such a fellow hardly deserved his aid. And yet, was he not a member of the brotherhood. if even indirectly. And was his captor not one of those to be hated and feared by all of the brotherhood? • Mickey stepped back a little ! way. He was In the shadows.

John J. Canning, architect, 45 First National Bank building. "This question would have been timely fifty years ago. My answer then would have been: 'I favor exclusion, not restriction.’ That is my answer to-day." Over his breakfast at the dairy lunch-room at the corner, Mr. Beatty again read the interviews, gaining the conviction as he compared them, that his was by far the most sensible of the four. It was pleasant to think of the thousands of men who would that day read his opinions, learn ot his name—college professors, lawyers, doctors, government officials, perhaps Dr. Crake himself. He remembered now that Dr. Crake, too, had counseled moderation in dealing with the question of restricted immigration. He would be pleased to see his views upheld in the Enquirer's column. He could fancy him saying. “Now there’s a man that knows what he is talking about.” • The walk to the office on this memorable August morning was like a dream to him. Every newsboy at every corner seemed particularly anxious to sell him papers, and every passerby seemed to look at him with interest, with respect. He fancied several times that he had been recognized. He w'as almost afraid to enter the Dow building, and gave a sigh of relief when he was safe within his enclosure at the end of the corridor. He found it difficult to keep his mind on his work. The roar of traffic from the street was like a universal voice of acclaim loud with the name, Beatty—so loud, in fact, that he did not at first hear the 'voice of a small boy standing at

The policeman and his victim had their backs to him. By crouching very low he could see the bottle clearly. It was between the men. A clear target. And Mickey prided himself upon his ability its a marksman. Very carefully he considered every contingency. It he shot, he policeman could hardly blame the man he had handcuffed to him. True, he might think it was one of his mob; but, even so. he couldn’t directly blame him. And, too, the officer could hardly give chase, handcuffed as he was. By the time he got the cuffs off. Mickey would be betw’een the two houses and out in the open alley, every Inch and revice of which he knew intimately. In fact, if the bull should unhandcuff the man and give chase, Mickey could far outdistance him. and still his victim would escape in the ensuing excitement Impossible for the officer to return the fire quickly enough to get him before he could run in ' between the buildings. Chicago [ cops weren't that quick on the draw; and, besides, it was very dark. Mickey put his hand inside of his coat, grasped the butt of his

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the little window tn front ut his desk "Mr. Beatty! M r Dow wants to see you. Mr I: atty " He looked up qua 'jf. “Who did you say?” "Mr. William Dow wants to aeo you. He says you are to come up at once if you are not too busy.” Arriving at the fourth floor the hoy who had escorted hltn pointed to a glazed door at the end ot a passageway. "Mr. Ikiw is in there,” ho said, nnd left him. Mr. Beatty hesitated for a moment, then timidly approached the door and knocked, very gently. Receiving no reply ha knocked again, a trifle more firmly. "Come In!” Mr. Dow was busy with his morning correspondence. He finished the dictation of a letter before looking up. "Good morning." he said. "Yes?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was told that you wished to see me." "Oh, yes. Are you Mr. Beatty? I’ve just been r< adlng your little Interview in the Post. It was yours, I believe?” “Yes. sir. That Is —" "I rather liked your reply to that question, Mr. Beatty. 1 merely wanted to tell you this. But just what do you mean by ’a cautious, well-balanced policy of restriction?’ How would you put it into effect, supposing you had the power?" "Oh. I should hardly like to say, sir. I haven’t thought so very much— Perhaps—" “How would you begin? What nationalities do you think should first be restricted? Poles? Italians? Russian Jews?" "Well. yes. perhaps the Russians—but I can’t say that 1 am quite sure—" Mr. Dow gave him a thoughtful appraising glance. “How long have you been with us, Mr. Beatty?" “Twenty years, sir. the fourteenth of last April.” His employer pursed his lips In a soundless whistle. "Have you! As long as that? What do you think of our Accounting Department? Is it efficiently managed?” "Why. yes. I believe so. sir. At least—that Is, I am sure that you know much better than I do.” "Have you any suggestions to make as to how it might be better'd ?” “Oh, no. sir!" Mr. Dow gazed silently out of the window for a moment. "Well. I’m glad to have had this opportunity for a little chat with you. Mr. Beatty. That's ail for the present. Thanks for coming up." ON a November afternoon, several years later. Mr. Beatty, having fed his pigeons in City Hall Park, dusted the salt from his fingers with his handkerchief, and sat down to his customary after-lunch'on perusal of the Morning Post. It was a raw, blustery day, too chilly for comfort out of doors. He decided that hereafter he would spend his luncheon hour at the restaurant. But this was not to be. The following day he came down with an attack of bronchial pneumonia. Within a week he was dead. Mrs. Halleck, his landlady, was genuinely sorry to lose so old and dependable a lodger, but Bhe could not afford 1- ’ entiment :1 regrets interfere », i'!. -letting at once her third-floor-front, one of the best rooms in the house. Iler new lodger was a law-school student, moved in immediately. She had the room all ready for him but had forgotten to remove from the wall a bit of cardboard which hung by a string by the side of the bed. A newspaper clipping, yellow with age. was pasted on it. The young man glanced idly at it as he took it down. "One hesitates.” he read, "in pronouncing an opinion on a question of such far-reaching importance, but it would seem advisable that we should now adopt—” Whistling softly to himself, the new lodger arranged his belongings. He crumbled the piece of cardboard and threw it in the waste-paper basket. He hung a Maxfield Parrish picture in its place. The light was just right for it there. ♦ © McClure Newspaper Syndicate.

thirty-eight, grinning. Some pramonitlon, however, held him back. He stopped to consider, carefully, all over again. Usually his hunches meant something. Why had he such a strong hunch against the act this time? Mickey shrugged his shoulders. Pulling the gun forlh, he took careful aim. sighted until he could see the bottle perfectly along the barrel of his gun. It was an easy shot. Why, oh why this dread premonition? Slowly his finger pulled Lack the trigger. Expertly l.e squeezed both stock and trigger at the ' same time, so us not to interfere with his alm. And sis tho trigger r w back, ' the t.unch grew •onger. Any moment now. The trigger , was back just about tar enough > to catch. I And then, suddenly, the gun , roared. There was a deafening ■ explosion. Windows all around > shattered. Mickey rocked back i and forth on his feet, dazed. He > rubbed his eyes. Looked ahead. ; Both ot the men were gone Even r the call box was gone. • "Soup! Nitro glyc•i ine ! " t Mickey murmured to himself, s dazedly, as he fled down the alley.