The Bromley Gibberts Story

"The Bromley Gibberts Story" by Robert Barr is a fictional narrative that intertwines humor and social commentary, exploring the lives of the quirky Gibberts family in the suburban town of Bromley. Through a series of engaging and comedic events, the book delves into themes of family dynamics, community interactions, and the absurdities of everyday life. Barr's witty prose and imaginative storytelling invite readers to reflect on the idiosyncrasies of modern living, making it a delightful read for fans of lighthearted literary humor.

• Short story

								
The room in which John Shorely edited the Weekly Sponge was not
luxuriously furnished, but it was comfortable. A few pictures decorated
the walls, mostly black and white drawings by artists who were so
unfortunate as to be compelled to work for the Sponge on the
cheap. Magazines and papers were littered all about, chiefly American
in their origin, for Shorely had been brought up in the editorial
school which teaches that it is cheaper to steal from a foreign
publication than waste good money on original contributions. You
clipped out the story; changed New York to London; Boston or
Philadelphia to Manchester or Liverpool, and there you were.

Shorely's theory was that the public was a fool, and didn't know the
difference. Some of the greatest journalistic successes in London
proved the fact, he claimed, yet the Sponge frequently bought
stories from well-known authors, and bragged greatly about it.

Shorely's table was littered with manuscripts, but the attention of the
great editor was not upon them. He sat in his wooden armchair, with his
gaze on the fire and a frown on his brow. The Sponge was not
going well, and he feared he would have to adopt some of the many prize
schemes that were such a help to pure literature elsewhere, or offer a
thousand pounds insurance, tied up in such a way that it would look
lavishly generous to the constant reader, and yet be impossible to
collect if a disaster really occurred.

In the midst of his meditations a clerk entered and announced--"Mr.
Bromley Gibberts."

"Tell him I'm busy just now--tell him I'm engaged," said the editor,
while the perplexed frown deepened on his brow.

The clerk's conscience; however, was never burdened with that message,
for Gibberts entered, with a long ulster coat flapping about his heels.

"That's all right," said Gibberts, waving his hand at the boy, who
stood with open mouth, appalled at the intrusion. "You heard what Mr.
Shorely said. He's engaged. Therefore let no one enter. Get out."

The boy departed, closing the door after him. Gibberts turned the key
in the lock, and then sat down.

"There," he said; "now we can talk unmolested, Shorely. I should think
you would be pestered to death by all manner of idiots who come in and
interrupt you."

"I am," said the editor, shortly.

"Then take my plan, and lock your door. Communicate with the outer
office through a speaking-tube. I see you are down-hearted, so I have
come to cheer you up. I've brought you a story, my boy."

Shorely groaned.

"My dear Gibberts," he said, "we have now----"

"Oh yes, I know all about that. You have matter enough on hand to run
the paper for the next fifteen years. If this is a comic story, you
are buying only serious stuff. If this be tragic, humour is what you
need. Of course, the up-and-down truth is that you are short of money,
and can't pay my price. The Sponge is failing--everybody knows
that. Why can't you speak the truth, Shorely, to me, at least? If you
practiced an hour a day, and took lessons--from me, for instance--you
would be able in a month to speak several truthful sentences one after
the other."

The editor laughed bitterly.

"You are complimentary," he said.

"I'm not. Try again, Shorely. Say I'm a boorish ass."

"Well, you are."

"There, you see how easy it is! Practice is everything. Now, about this
story, will you----"

"I will not. As you are not an advertiser, I don't mind admitting to
you that the paper is going down. You see it comes to the same thing.
We haven't the money as you say, so what's the use of talking?"

Gibberts hitched his chair closer to the editor, and placed his hand on
the other's knee. He went on earnestly--

"Now is the time to talk, Shorely. In a little while it will be too
late. You will have thrown up the Sponge. Your great mistake is
trying to ride two horses, each facing a different direction. It can't
be done, my boy. Make up your mind whether you are going to be a thief
or an honest man. That's the first step."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Go in for a paper that will be entirely stolen
property, or for one made up of purely original matter."

"We have a great deal of original matter in the Sponge."

"Yes, and that's what I object to. Have it all original, or have it all
stolen. Be fish or fowl. At least one hundred men a week see a stolen
article in the Sponge which they have read elsewhere. They then
believe it is all stolen, and you lose them. That isn't business, so I
want to sell you one original tale, which will prove to be the most
remarkable story written in England this year."

"Oh, they all are," said Shorely, wearily. "Every story sent to me is a
most remarkable story, in the author's opinion."

"Look here, Shorely," cried Gibberts, angrily, "you mustn't talk to me
like that. I'm no unknown author, a fact of which you are very well
aware. I don't need to peddle my goods."

"Then why do you come here lecturing me?"

"For your own good, Shorely, my boy," said Gibberts, calming down as
rapidly as he had flared up. He was a most uncertain man. "For your own
good, and if you don't take this story, some one else will. It will
make the fortune of the paper that secures it. Now, you read it while I
wait. Here it is, typewritten, at one-and-three a thousand words, all
to save your blessed eyesight."

Shorely took the manuscript and lit the gas, for it was getting dark.
Gibberts sat down awhile, but soon began to pace the room, much to
Shorely's manifest annoyance. Not content with this, he picked up the
poker and noisily stirred the fire. "For Heaven's sake, sit down,
Gibberts, and be quiet!" cried Shorely, at last.

Gibberts seized the poker as if it had been a weapon, and glared at the
editor.

"I won't sit down, and I will make just as much noise as I want to," he
roared. As he stood there defiantly, Shorely saw a gleam of insanity in
his eyes.

"Oh, very well, then," said Shorely, continuing to read the story.

For a moment Gibberts stood grasping the poker by the middle, then he
flung it with a clatter on the fender, and, sitting down, gazed moodily
into the fire, without moving, until Shorely had turned the last page.

"Well," said Gibberts, rousing from his reverie, "what do you think of
it?"

"It's a good story, Gibberts. All your stories are good," said the
editor, carelessly.

Gibberts started to his feet, and swore.

"Do you mean to say," he thundered, "that you see nothing in that story
different from any I or any one else ever wrote? Hang it, Shorely, you
wouldn't know a good story if you met it coming up Fleet Street! Can't
you see that story is written with a man's heart's blood?"

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