The Complete Doom of London Series (Illustrated Edition). Fred M. White

      I

       Table of Contents

      THE editor of The Daily Chat wondered a little vaguely why he had come down to the office at all. Here was the thermometer down to 11O with every prospect of touching zero before daybreak, and you can’t fill a morning paper with weather reports. Besides, nothing was coming in from the North of the Trent beyond the curt information that all telegraphic and telephonic communication beyond was impossible. There was a huge blizzard, a heavy fall of snow nipped hard by the terrific frost and—silence.

      To-morrow—January 25th—would see a pretty poor paper unless America roused up to a sense of her responsibility and sent something hot to go on with. The Land’s End cables often obliged in that way. There was the next chapter of the Beef and Bread Trust, for instance. Was Silas X. Brett going to prove successful in his attempt to corner the world’s supply? That Brett had been a pawnbroker’s assistant a year ago mattered little. That he might at any time emerge a penniless adventurer mattered less. From a press point of view he was good for three columns.

      The chief “sub” came in, blowing his fingers. The remark that he was frozen to the marrow caused no particular sympathy.

      “Going to be a funeral rag to-morrow,” the editor said curtly.

      “That’s so,” Gough admitted cheerfully. “We’ve drawn a thrilling picture of the Thames impassable to craft—and well it might be after a week of this Arctic weather. For days not a carcase or a sack of flour has been brought in. Under the circumstances we were justified in prophesying a bread and meat famine. And we’ve had our customary gibe at Silas X. Brett. But still, it’s poor stuff.”

      The editor thought he would go home. Still he dallied, on the off chance of something turning up. It was a little after midnight when he began to catch the suggestion of excitement that seemed to be simmering in the sub-editor’s room. There was a clatter of footsteps outside. By magic the place began to hum like a hive.

      “What have you struck, Gough?” the editor cried.

      Gough came tumbling in, a sheaf of flimsies in his hand.

      “Brett’s burst,” he gasped. “It’s a real godsend, Mr. Fisher. I’ve got enough here to make three columns. Brett’s committed suicide.”

      Fisher slipped out of his overcoat. Everything comes to the man who waits. He ran his trained eyes over the flimsies; he could see his way to a pretty elaboration.

      “The danger of the corner is over,” he said, later, “but the fact remains that we are still short of supplies; there are few provision ships on the seas, and if they were close at hand they couldn’t get into port with all this ice about. Don’t say that London is on the verge of a famine, but you can hint it.”

      Gough winked slightly and withdrew. An hour later and the presses were kicking and coughing away in earnest. There was a flaming contents bill, so that Fisher went off drowsily through the driving snow Bedford Square way with a feeling that there was not much the matter with the world after all.

      It was piercingly cold, the wind had come up from the east, the steely blue sky of the last few days had gone.

      Fisher doubled before the wind that seemed to grip his very soul. On reaching home he shuddered as he hung over the stove in the hall.

      “My word,” he muttered as he glanced at the barometer. “Down half-an-inch since dinner time. And a depression on top that you could lie in. Don’t ever recollect London under the lash of a real blizzard, but it’s come now.”

      A blast of wind, as he spoke, shook the house like some unreasoning fury.