America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

The air in the editorial office of The New York Daily News became very quiet.

The gold-embossed invitation lay quietly on Arthur Kennedy's desk.

Everyone in the editorial department was watching Arthur.

"Arthur..."

The first to break the silence was the old editor Miller.

This seasoned veteran of the newspaper industry, who had been working in the field for thirty years, walked over shakily. His eyes, clouded from years of reviewing manuscripts, were now filled with a kind of terrified pity.

"Kid, you've gone too far."

Miller lowered his voice.

"In New York, you can curse God because God doesn't collect taxes; but you should never, ever, mock the Tammany Society in an article."

"Arthur, come in."

Editor-in-Chief Jason's voice came from the office doorway.

……

Inside the editor-in-chief's office, the blinds were tightly shut, with only a few dim rays of the setting sun filtering through the gaps, dividing the room into a series of interwoven light and shadow cages.

Editor-in-Chief Jason had his back to Arthur, his hands on the desk, his shoulders heaving violently.

"Mr. Hearst just called me."

Jason turned around.

"He was very happy. He said 'Honest Man' tripled the newspaper's sales, and he even wanted to buy you an apartment in Manhattan."

Arthur sat down calmly. "So what are you worried about, editor-in-chief? The boss is very happy. Isn't this every editor-in-chief's dream?"

Jason roared, grabbed a stack of documents from the table, and slammed them down in front of Arthur.

"Harst's hometown is all over California, he has estates there, and congressional friends! The mayor can't touch a hair on his head! But what about us? Arthur, look at this office, look at those printing presses downstairs, still smoking!"

Jason strode up to Arthur, grabbed him by the collar, and his voice was low and almost hoarse:

"This is New York! It's the backyard of 'Gentleman Jimmy' and the Tammany Society! With just a flick of the mayor's finger, the police can find an ounce of contraband liquor in your pocket on your way home from get off work, and you won't even have a chance to explain."

Arthur gently brushed Jason's hand away and straightened his collar:

"So, in your view, the mayor's invitation is a fire extinguisher?"

Jason sat back in his chair, looking as if he had used up all his strength.

"Arthur, take my advice. Tomorrow night at the ball, you must wear your best suit to see the mayor. Whatever he offers you at the ball, you must accept it."

"If he asks you to publicly admit in the newspaper that 'Mr. Silas' was just a 'humorous misunderstanding,' you do it. If he gives you a check for five thousand or ten thousand dollars, you pocket it and then thank him profusely."

Jason paused, a complex look of shame, typical of a veteran journalist, flashing in his eyes, but that shame was quickly overwhelmed by his survival instinct:

"That was Walker's way of giving you a way out. As long as you bow your head, you'll be the most popular critic in all of New York, and you can continue living your respectable life. But if you utter even a single barbed word in that setting..."

"Arthur, no one can save you. Hearst won't go to war with the entire New York political scene for an assistant editor. He'll just treat you as an outdated headline and toss you into the trash can."

……

When Arthur pushed open the door to the editor-in-chief's office and walked back into the hall, the diverse characters in the editorial department were on full display.

Brent, who used to boss him around, was now sitting not far away, a cold, almost overflowing smile on his lips.

Although he tried to feign shock, his eyes, gleaming with jealousy, betrayed him.

"Congratulations, Mr. Kennedy," Brent said sarcastically, his voice loud enough for half the floor to hear.

"I never expected to find such a 'big shot' in our office. Being personally invited by the mayor, it seems your future is bright."

A low chuckle rippled through the crowd, a malicious echo.

Most of Arthur's colleagues, who were usually very polite to him, lowered their heads at this moment.

Some were pretending to read newspapers, while others huddled together and whispered, their gazes like tiny steel needles, occasionally piercing Arthur's back.

"How much hush money do you think the mayor will give him?"

"Hush money? I think it's more like severance pay. If he doesn't know what's good for him, we'll see 'Anonymous male body found in the Hudson River' news in the social section by tomorrow night."

"Sigh, youthful arrogance. In New York, honest men don't live to see their retirement. If I were him, I'd be begging the mayor for my life right now."

At that moment, the old editor Miller handed Arthur an unlit cigar, his eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and sorrow.

"Son, Uncle Miller will teach you a lesson."

Old Miller said in a low voice:

"New York's prosperity is like an expensive piece of silk. You lift it up and see the patches and fleas underneath. That's amazing."

"But if you want to point out that patch in public and say it's ugly, you're taking away the livelihood of everyone who wears silk."

Miller patted Arthur on the shoulder with a heavy thud.

"Go to the ball and apologize to the mayor. Tell him you wrote those articles because you were young, wanted to be famous, and were misled by certain people."

"The mayor is a man who cares about his image. As long as you make him feel in public that he has conquered that 'honest man,' he will give you a way out. Don't be like those dead heroes; the living Silas can at least drink champagne."

Arthur took the cigar but didn't light it. He glanced around the office where he had worked for months.

Here you'll find the timid Jason, the vicious Brent, the worldly old Miller, and countless ordinary people who, while sympathizing with him, are even more afraid of losing their $20-a-week job.

These faces, overlapping, are they not the best footnote to the "Mr. Silas" he wrote about?

Thank you everyone for your suggestions.

Arthur suddenly spoke, his voice clear and loud, drowning out all the whispers.

He sat back down at the old typewriter, his long, slender fingers resting on the slightly yellowed keycaps.

"Arthur, what are you doing?" Editor-in-Chief Jason exclaimed at the office door.

"I'm preparing my speech for tomorrow night, editor."

Arthur answered without turning his head, his fingertips beginning to dance rapidly.

The crowd exchanged bewildered glances. In their view, Arthur's actions clearly indicated that he had accepted the advice and was preparing to devise those flowery, sycophantic words to praise the corrupt mayor and win his forgiveness.

Brent let out a disdainful sneer and turned back to his work.

Jason breathed a sigh of relief; as long as Arthur would back down, the newspaper's crisis would be averted.

However, no one saw that the first line of the title Arthur typed on the typewriter paper was:

Mr. Silas's Will.