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            You’re all the best reviewers in the entire cosmos! I really appreciate your reviews; you’re so nice! Thanks so much. (Sorry if I seem overly enthusiastic. I just get way too happy about reviews for some reason. I think it’s actually the result of a deep underlying inferiority complex that I try to hide through my outer self-deprivation and—yeah, I’ll shut up now) LOL.

For anyone who didn’t get Opal’s little barb in the first chapter, here’s an explanation of why “Gibson Girl” is an insult to the twenties girl.

The Gibson Girl look was a very popular look of the pre-WW1 era, inspired by the drawings of *you guessed it* Mr. Gibson . A "Gibson Girl" would wear a long skirt and high-collared shirt. She was very feminine and broke few gender barriers. Later, during the twenties, the flapper look came in (which broke a lot of gender barriers), and "Gibson Girl" came to mean someone old-fashioned and out-of-style, or, when referred to by feminists, someone who "submitted to the male race."

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            It was raining heavily in the Windy City. Wilfred sighed crossly as a tidal wave of rainwater splashed against his trench coat. Ah, the luxury of pedestrian travels. After using a few choice words to colorfully express his opinion of the driver whose car had so pleasantly attired him, he stalked across the street, ignoring the catcalls of the local newsies in regard to his clothing. They were, after all, young and underprivileged, so their actions were a result of their upbringing. Despite these valiant efforts to remain impassive, a slight smirk managed to make its way across his face when another tidal wave soaked through a pile of unsold newspapers. “Hey! What’re you doing, moron! You’re paying for every single on of – get back here, bastard! You dirty, filthy, rich old…” The scrawny newsie held up his skinny fist threateningly as he stepped towards the car.

            Wilfred sighed. Consciences are definitely hindrances. He tossed two dollars on top of the stack. “Will that cover them all?” he asked. The newsie stared up at him suspiciously, squinting despite the darkness of the sky. Kid needs glasses. “Whatcha want my sopping newspapers for?”

“So I can chase dogs around with them,” Wilfred snapped. “Now how much?”

            The newsie shrugged. “Two and thirty cents, bucko, and we got a deal. And I’ll cut it if you’ll chase that nasty black one up by Miss Pratt’s. That thing bit my leg once, the bastard.” Wilfred threw two dollars and fifty cents into the boy’s hands. The kid looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “You thick, mister? I said thirty cents. It’s only fifteen of them or something.”

            Wilfred shrugged and shouldered his massive stack of daily news. “Try the local diner,” he replied, heading on his way. The boy squealed with delight. “You must be awful dim, sir, but I’ll humor you. Mum says we oughta be nice to the slow people.” Wilfred smirked as he heard the boy’s muffled footsteps race towards the diner. Now what am I going to do with these things?

            He tucked the bundle under his arms, and continued on his way. It was a lucky thing his coat was waterproof, or he’d be in deep. The sidewalks were slick with a coating of heavy rainfall, and water ran down the gutters and splashed off of door posts. Everything was wet. Cars without side windows were covered in towels or blankets in a feeble attempt to protect the interior workings. Flappers were rushing out of the dance halls with newspapers held over their heads, quickly followed by aspiring male partners.

            Wilfred stopped in front of a tall, imposing building, number fifteen on Wells Street. Written in gold-painted letters across the door were the words Chicago Daily News. This particular newspaper was run by Mr. Walter A. Strong. While it was not the city’s most popular newspaper, it was a heavy seller. Alike its sales superior, the Chicago Tribune, the Daily News used a conservative style of journalism, but often abandoned the discussions of high society for those of urban crime and murder. It was the perfect place to post a story that would reach all levels of Chicagoan lifestyle.

            Wilfred stepped inside, and was immediately affronted by a mess of noise. He was instantly appreciative of the printing press’s distant location, else his ears might have exploded. The constant clacking of manual typewriters pounded a symphony of literary achievement against his sensitive eardrums. Every few moments, a young voice would pipe “Copy!” and rip the finished article from his typewriter. Wilfred stared down at his feet, and noticed with shame that the newspapers were disintegrating from their sogginess, leaving a trail of newspaper shreds in his wake.

            “Wilfred!” Everett Alistar, reporter extraordinaire, flung back both arms invitingly, edging around another desk and knocking someone’s articles onto the floor. A huge smile lit his handsome face, and his light brown hair fell into his eyes as he leaned forward with an eyebrow raised. Wilfred smiled brightly in return. Everett was a lively, happy person with little or no tranquility in his manner. He was a bold, boisterous, merry individual, who was constantly laughing. He flung an arm round Wilfred’s shoulder, completely oblivious to his friend’s shy embarrassment.

            “Wilfred! How are you?” he cried, roaring above the thunderous clack of the typewriters. Wilfred smiled nervously in return. “I am fine, Everett. And you?”

“MARVELOUS!”

Wilfred flinched at the sound. As much as he enjoyed Everett’s company, he was still desperately uncomfortable round noise. It reminded him of his father and Chester, and the argument that had taken place last night. Seeing as his friend was obviously unable to think with so much clamor round him, Everett led the way through the jumbled desks. A dozen gorgeous typists waved flirtatiously at him as they went about their tasks, and he winked roguishly in return. Ladies were Everett’s specialty.

            Everett’s office consisted of a small desk made of dark wood, and a deep green carpet. Three chairs were left in front of his desk, and Wilfred took a seat in one of them. To his left was a wall covered in Everett’s many front-page reports. A fan was spinning above their heads, though it was quite unnecessary in the rainy weather. Three lamps were posted to the wall, shedding light in the windowless office.

Everett went behind the desk and plopped into his seat, grinning. “I’m so glad you came by, Wilfred. I haven’t seen you in ages!” Wilfred smiled happily with his lips. He leaned forward so that his clasped hands came to rest on the wood of the desk, and Everett followed suit, still smiling. “So, how’s Jane? She as wonderful as ever?” Wilfred laughed. “She is still a goddess, Everett. I will not grow tired of her.”

“Of course you won’t, Wilfred. You’re too sweet for that. Cigar?” Everett held one of the ‘Cuban treasures’ towards his friend.

“Please, Everett. That smells of wet dog.” Wilfred’s face twisted with disgust.

“Only because you’re my guest.” Everett regretfully returned the cigars to his desk drawer. He was rather fond of the things.

            “Actually, Everett,” Wilfred began, a twinge of remorse biting at him, “I’m here for some business.” Everett’s dark, delicate eyebrow arched. “Business, eh? What sort of business are we discussing?” He leaned back in his chair, propping both feet on the desk. Wilfred jerked rearward so as to save his nose from a collision with the layers of shoe polish on Everett’s feet. His friend laughed.

            He reached into his coat and pulled out four pages of handwritten opinion. It was his editorial, warning people of the dangers of the stock market. He couldn’t keep his secrets to himself. He had seen the corruption in his own company; the managers warning their favorites that stocks would drop the next morning; the favorites running to their friends with similar warnings. Wilfred wouldn’t be surprised if his own father was part of the dishonesty. 

            Everett placed his head in his hand as soon as he saw it. “Please, Wilfred, tell me it’s not.” Wilfred shifted uncomfortably. What was so wrong with his editorials? “It is an editorial,” he began nervously, “about the dangers of the stock market.” No one wanted to hear about it, but he had to tell them. What would happen if he kept his secret? This thing would come crashing around the heads of everyone.

            “Wilfred,” Everett began, still unable to meet his friend’s pleading eyes. God help you, you little innocent.“You know I cannot publish that.”

“Of course not. You are not the publisher. I was just thinking that if you showed it to him…”

“No one wants to read of that.”

“But I have to warn them! They don’t understand! They’re drawing the noose around their own necks! Please, Everett! I have to…”

            Wilfred, don’t you understand? Even I am part of this fraud you cannot bear. Not a soul is free from it, save you and your irrational ideals. “Please, Wilfred, don’t make this any harder.” Wilfred was glaring at him now. How could he? How could he just outright refuse to even show his work to that publisher? “I’m not asking you to recommend it, Everett. Only show it to him.”

            The reporter sighed and looked up from his hands. This could work. Mr. Strong would never suspect that it was another one of Wilfred’s desperate forewarnings if it was not recommended. He might even, in a tight spot, publish the thing to fill a blank space. “Very well. I suppose I can show it to him, and say it came on the doorstep or something.”

            Wilfred grinned from ear to ear. “Thank you, Everett. Thank you dearly.” Now that the horrible burden of his knowledge was lifted, he could easily permit himself to waste a few hours in Everett’s office, talking about the latest inconsequential political squabbles and mocking the participants. He was about to speak when the door opened.

            A man with auburn hair and hazel eyes stalked purposefully into the room. He was muscular and well-dressed, likely a popular local athlete of some sort. Stubble was growing on his chin, and Wilfred suspected it was from lack of shaving and not age, judging by the man’s facial features.

            Everett swore loudly, using one of Wilfred’s particular favorites. “Arthur, if I have told you two thousand times, I have told you three thousand, knock on the door before entering! God gave you two hands, and your elbows still bend. Use them!” Arthur laughed quietly and strode gracefully over to the desk, nodding casually to Wilfred in greeting. He was clasping three typed sheets of an article in his hands; these he dropped on the desk. Everett quickly snatched them up, desperate to discover the error before his friend did.

            Arthur smirked, hands clasped behind his beck. “Everett, the mistakes you miss are always on the second page, because you skim it over.” Wilfred laughed softly into his hands, but not quietly enough, for Arthur noticed his amusement and smiled invitingly. “Hello, there. I’m Arthur Irving. And you are?”

“Wilfred Elton.”

“Pleased to meet you, Wilfred.”

“Likewise.”

            Everett frowned crossly at the highlighted mistake in an article he had already proofread. “Or, to be more suiting, Arthur Irking, because of his impertinent condescendence.” Arthur tilted his head back and laughed good-naturedly. Wilfred smirked behind his hand in the quiet of the office. All they could hear was the slight hum of the fans, and a distant clack of typewriters. Everett’s fingers, which usually drummed out jazz tunes on the desktop, were for once still as they guided his eyes over the words.

After a few minutes of pondering, Everett hastily tossed the article into Arthur’s hands, which caught it quickly. “Fine, you wicked perfectionist, go retype it,” he snapped irritably. Arthur saluted mockingly, drawing two fingers to his forehead and snapping them in a quick release. “Yes, sir!” he yelped, knocking his two heels together in ridicule of esteem. He was grinning with the expectant air of an ambitious toady as he balanced on his tiptoes. Everett grabbed one of the heavy textbooks on his desk and raised it as if to fling, a wicked grin smeared across his face.

Arthur laughed loudly. “Are you still coming to my soiree?” he asked, covering his head with both arms and cringing. Everett lowered the book onto his desk and nodded, his fingers still lingering on the binding of the weapon.

Arthur’s bright eyes caught the gesture, and he was locked in his pose for a few seconds. “Oh, and you are invited as well, Wilfred. Please bring someone, as I have very few to invite to my house,” Arthur continued, standing upright again and brushing his clothing free of a nonexistent dust. Everett mumbled his own theories as to the source of this problem, and only Wilfred seemed to hear, for Arthur strode out without another word, clasping the papers in one hand.

            Everett smiled fondly. “He’s pert as the devil, but awfully friendly, you know,” he said, turning his chair to smile at his guest. Wilfred smiled in return. “That seems obvious, considering that he just invited me to his gathering, after meeting me for only a few seconds.”

Everett leaned forward on the desk, locking his hands together. “Arthur thinks he has a third eye or something on his forehead. Supposed to make him know people or something like that. He’s a little odd.” Everett shrugged as if it were out of his hands, and turned to one of the papers on his desk. “Same age as us, you know. Immigrant from Ireland with his mother’s temper. Holy Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you do not want to come up against Mrs. Irving. She’s a regular shrew, that one.” He brought his favorite ballpoint pen to the first of the paper stack. It was his cue for Wilfred to leave, and he tried his best to be discreet about it. What it really meant was that he had much more work on his hands than he had realized, and was torn between neglect of his work and disregarding his friend. Neither appealed to him, but he knew which was more important, though he would never admit it aloud.

Wilfred nodded towards his old friend and stood up. He understood the call of the workplace well enough; being on a three-day leave could not make one forget that. But it was quite a pity that the chair was so comfortable, or else he would not have minded leaving so much. He knew that Jane would be over at her neighbor’s house this very moment for tea. Mrs. James was very fond of her tea, and Jane was the only one benign enough to tolerate her shameless gossip long enough for even a short visit. Wilfred could barely stand to see Jane’s sparkling eyes and timid laughter wasted on that wretched English hag and her abominable beverages. But she would soon be released from the prison of moistened leaves, and it was then he would ask her to accompany him to Arthur’s gathering.

As Wilfred headed for the door, Everett looked up from his paper to speak the customary farewells, and his messages were soon returned. A short, quiet pause ensued while Wilfred paused to prepare himself for the clatter. He could already hear the cries of “Copy!” springing from every corner of the reporter’s room. 

“Oh, and Wilfred?” As the blonde man turned around, Everett smiled. “Arthur was wondering if you could invite that Cora girl along with your Jane. I told him I’d ask you because we were friends, but, quite frankly, I’m interested in meeting her too.”

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Aaaah. Two new characters. Do you like them? Or do they annoy you? Who do you like better? Please tell all!