Two and a Motor E-Book

Robert Barr

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

In "Two and a Motor," Robert Barr presents a compelling narrative that deftly intertwines themes of ambition, social class, and the transformative power of technology in early 20th-century society. Through Barr's sharp wit and keen observation, the novel unfolds in a vibrant literary style, combining elements of realism and satire. The story centers around the burgeoning automobile industry, reflecting the socio-economic landscape of the time, and explores how the advent of the motor vehicle revolutionizes human interaction while simultaneously exposing societal divisions. This engaging backdrop serves not only as a setting but also as a character that shapes the destinies of the individuals involved. Robert Barr, a prolific writer and member of the late Victorian literary scene, found inspiration in his own experiences as an immigrant and adventurer. His background, which includes a career as a journalist, infused his writings with authenticity and a poignant understanding of the human condition. Barr's firsthand insights into the challenges of societal progression, combined with his sharp commentary on class dynamics, make "Two and a Motor" a significant exploration of its era. This novel is recommended for readers interested in the intersection of technology and society, as well as those who appreciate a richly drawn character landscape. Barr's mastery in weaving humor with serious themes invites readers to reflect critically on their own world, making it a timeless piece worthy of both academic study and leisurely enjoyment.

Leseprobe

Robert Barr

Two and a Motor

Published by Good Press, 2020

[email protected]

EAN 4064066301729

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

TWO and a MOTOR

Table of Contents

By ROBERT BARR

THIS is the amazing story of a frivolous young man who became suddenly and intensely interested in a certain branch of scientific Investigation. Research becomes the most absorbing of purists, and takes hold of a man—especially a young man—like drink, or cholera, or gambling. It may be stated that the particular line of research with which we have to deal was at the same time being followed by a notably beautiful girl; but that is neither here nor there. I insist that it is science which holds us in thrall, so we may treat the girl as incidental.

First let us understand our young man. His name was J. L. Spofford, his age was twenty-six; yet he had already achieved a reputation of sorts in the newspaper and magazine world. Jack Spofford, as his associates called him, was a very modern product, keen in his profession, and up to stuff generally.

Time was when an editor sat in his chair and waited for good things to fall into his lap. He chose the best, or the worst, or the intermediate, and his periodical was good, bad, or indifferent accordingly. His position was a comfortable one, and so was bis chair; but one eager day there arose another kind of editor, and from that moment our slow-going friend was out of date, although he did not recognise this at the time. The new editor was like a commander-in-chief of a hotly contested campaign. He did not wait for things, but went more than three-quarters of the way to meet them; and when an Astonishing Event, emerging from obscurity, met the new editor, the event was forthwith grasped, shaken into shape, dressed in such flowing robes of language that it sometimes was unable to recognise itself, then flung forward and presented to the world as the greatest thing that ever was. Did a doctor in Scandinavia invent a new cure for toothache, the modern editor's man with fountain pen and camera was at his door almost before the first patient's jaw had stopped throbbing. Did an intrepid traveller penetrate to the Forbidden City, he was met by the new reporter on the slope of the pass five hundred miles from the nearest telegraph-office. Was there a rumour that a scientist in France had discovered a ray that would probe to the centre of the earth, the new editor's man had it all in type before members of the Royal Society received their invitations to attend the first demonstration.

Now, Jack Spofford was not a new editor; he was merely one of the numerous talented young men whom the needs of the new editor had called forth. Already an interesting writer, he came, by a sort of instinct, at the popular points of any new discovery—able to write understandingly about it, even though he had never heard about it the day before. It was a modern case of ignorance being bliss, for ignorance was one of the necessary equipments of his profession. A learned scientific man will write accurately enough, but his product will be incomprehensible to the layman, and deadly dull to anyone but his peers.

Ignorance, then, is a necessary part of a young writer's stock-in-trade, because he thus appreciates the difficulties of the unlearned reader; and when he has overcome his own lack of knowledge, he is in a position to present the case lucidly on his pages. It must not be supposed that on account of this first unacquaintance with his subjects his work is therefore full of error. Just the reverse is the case. It must be as accurate as a scientific treatise and as interesting as a detective story. The young man who is able to unite these two requirements may travel all over the world free of expense to himself, receiving the remuneration of a great financier. This is the kind of young man Jack Spofford was, holding a position so important on the Daily Argus that there was bestowed upon him a room entirely to himself in the Argus building, where none of the young cubs of journalism were allowed to intrude without invitation.

Spofford sat in this room one day, leaning back luxuriously with his feet on the desk, thinking he was thinking, but certain he was smoking, when there came a timid knock at his door.

"Come in!" he roared, as a lion is entitled to do, whereupon the door opened gently, as if it had some hesitation about bringing interruption upon an inmate so important. A young woman, veiled, stood on the threshold, and Jack's feet came down with a thump to the floor, while, with equal celerity, he removed his pipe from between his teeth.

"Are you the proprietor?" she asked.

"No such luck," he replied with emphasis.

"The editor, then?"

"No; the editor won't be here till five o'clock."

His sentences were curt, and his tone proclaimed the annoyance he felt, not at the young lady, as she probably supposed, but at the Irish porter downstairs who had permitted her to come up. This useful person was adamant so far as the generality of man was concerned, but a pretty woman always had him at her mercy, and a visible proof of that fact now stood in the doorway, evidently hesitating between a desire to retire and a determination to advance.

"The one I wished to see," she continued, after an embarrassing pause, "was Mr. Spofford; but I thought perhaps I should have to obtain permission from the editor or the proprietor before calling upon him."

"No such permission is necessary, madam," replied Jack, now upon his feet; "my name is Spofford. Won't you come in and sit down and tell me what I can do for you?"

The young woman entered and took the chair he had drawn forward for her, he seating himself at his desk again, regretting his former abruptness, and wishing she would raise her veil, for her face seemed tantalisingly pretty, partially obscured though it was. She took from the bag at her side several thin, crinkly papers, on whose semi-transparent surface some plans seemed to be drawn. These she smoothed out a little nervously on the desk, noticeably at a loss how to begin. Then she plunged suddenly into her subject.

"I have read many of your articles, Mr. Spofford, and I thought perhaps you might write one on a new motor-car which my father has invented, and which he thinks will revolutionise the traction problem of to-day."

She spoke rapidly, as if reciting something she had learned by heart.

A cynical smile smile to Jack's lips: he had met this sort of thing so often before, but it was trebly disappointing to find an engaging young woman acting as solicitor in a case which he looked upon as the endeavour to obtain a free advertisement—the one unforgivable crime in a newspaper office.

"Madam," he said, with some return of his former manner, "have you any idea why a great daily is published?"

"I suppose it is to give to the world the news of the day; and, besides, a great newspaper should defend the right and expose wrongdoers."

There was a certain air of finality in the laying down of these principles which rather amused Mr. Jack Spofford.

"M—m, yes," he replied, "quite so, quite so. Nevertheless, a journal like ours incurs a large expenditure of money day by day in salaries, telegraphing, and special information. This necessitates a keen eye being kept on our advertising pages, from which comes most of our revenue. I believe there are many hundreds of motor-cars on the market, each destined to revolutionise traffic, and the proper method of proclaiming their virtues to the world is through the assistance of our advertising manager."

"But you wrote an article on the Edison battery a week or two since," she protested.

"Ah, yes, Edison is always interesting: he and I are the two great masters of fiction now before the world. The public cries for Edison, whereas it would not read the exploits of the estimable Mr. Jones, for instance."

"There was your account of the possibilities of radium," went on the girl, as if she had not heard his demurrer. "You made that subject so beautifully clear that for the first time I understood it; and I am sure if you investigated this new cell which my father has invented, you would find it equally interesting, and perhaps of much more practical use to the world."