Corrupting The Press
by
When Joel Bird was up for Governor of Missouri, Sam Henly was editing the Berrywood Bugle; and no sooner was the nomination made by the State Convention than he came out hot against the party. He was an able writer, was Sam, and the lies he invented about our candidate were shocking! That, however, we endured very well, but presently Sam turned squarely about and began telling the truth. This was a little too much; the County Committee held a hasty meeting, and decided that it must be stopped; so I, Henry Barber, was sent for to make arrangements to that end. I knew something of Sam: had purchased him several times, and I estimated his present value at about one thousand dollars. This seemed to the committee a reasonable figure, and on my mentioning it to Sam he said “he thought that about the fair thing; it should never be said that the Bugle was a hard paper to deal with.” There was, however, some delay in raising the money; the candidates for the local offices had not disposed of their autumn hogs yet, and were in financial straits. Some of them contributed a pig each, one gave twenty bushels of corn, another a flock of chickens; and the man who aspired to the distinction of County Judge paid his assessment with a wagon. These things had to be converted into cash at a ruinous sacrifice, and in the meantime Sam kept pouring an incessant stream of hot shot into our political camp. Nothing I could say would make him stay his hand; he invariably replied that it was no bargain until he had the money. The committeemen were furious; it required all my eloquence to prevent their declaring the contract null and void; but at last a new, clean one thousand-dollar note was passed over to me, which in hot haste I transferred to Sam at his residence.
That evening there was a meeting of the committee: all seemed in high spirits again, except Hooker of Jayhawk. This old wretch sat back and shook his head during the entire session, and just before adjournment said, as he took his hat to go, that p’r’aps’twas orl right and on the squar’; maybe thar war’n’t any shenannigan, but he war dubersome–yes, he war dubersome. The old curmudgeon repeated this until I was exasperated beyond restraint.
“Mr. Hooker,” said I, “I’ve known Sam Henly ever since he was so high, and there isn’t an honester man in old Missouri. Sam Henly’s word is as good as his note! What’s more, if any gentleman thinks he would enjoy a first-class funeral, and if he will supply the sable accessories, I’ll supply the corpse. And he can take it home with him from this meeting.”
At this point Mr. Hooker was troubled with leaving.
Having got this business off my conscience I slept late next day. When I stepped into the street I saw at once that something was “up.” There were knots of people gathered at the corners, some reading eagerly that morning’s issue of the Bugle, some gesticulating, and others stalking moodily about muttering curses, not loud but deep. Suddenly I heard an excited clamor–a confused roar of many lungs, and the trampling of innumerable feet. In this babel of noises I could distinguish the words “Kill him!” “Wa’m his hide!” and so forth; and, looking up the street, I saw what seemed to be the whole male population racing down it. I am very excitable, and, though I did not know whose hide was to be warmed, nor why anyone was to be killed, I shot off in front of the howling masses, shouting “Kill him!” and “Warm his hide!” as loudly as the loudest, all the time looking out for the victim. Down the street we flew like a storm; then I turned a corner, thinking the scoundrel must have gone up that street; then bolted through a public square; over a bridge; under an arch; finally back into the main street; yelling like a panther, and resolved to slaughter the first human being I should overtake. The crowd followed my lead, turning as I turned, shrieking as I shrieked, and–all at once it came to me that I was the man whose hide was to be warmed!