Death In the Afternoon

One afternoon last week, newsmen on the New York Star were called to a hastily planned staff meeting. They knew that things had been going badly for the tabloid; as they filed into the fifth-floor advertising office they feared the worst. Dapper little Publisher Bartley C. Crum, looking worn and grim, climbed atop a desk.

"I have something," he said, "that I regret very much having to say . . . Tonight's issue will be our last one. We have made every effort to raise new capital, and get this paper refinanced, and it is just not possible." When Crum jumped down, rumpled, bespectacled Editor Joseph Barnes, flushed and close to tears, gritted out his thanks to the staff.

Unkept Promises. In that five-minute meeting, the life flickered out of a newspaper that had been a sometimes noble, often confused experiment. In nine years, it had cost Chicago's wealthy, well-intentioned Marshall Field some $7,000,000. He had hoped for a change when Crum & Barnes took over last spring (TIME, May 10). They had big plans, high hopes and promises of plenty of money from new investors. The promises were not kept. Field had had to pump in another $600,000 and Joe Barnes had to neglect his editing to hunt more money.

Under the new team, the Star had gained in ads and circulation (from 98,000 to 141,000), but costs had gone up too. The weekly deficit had risen from $15,000 to $30,000. The Star had suffered from PM's reddish complexion and amateurish approach. It had been stuck with distribution contracts, and wire-service costs that it could not afford ($72,000 a year for U.P., $135,000 for A.P.).

Untold News. When last week's meeting broke up, staffers went through the motions of getting out two more editions. In the composing room, printers set up a front-page box bearing a curt farewell. As had happened too often, readers had to turn to other papers to get the complete news; the Star did not even carry an obit on its own death.

Between chores, newsmen called their families to break the bad news. Some began dialing other papers for jobs. But for many of the editorial crew of 101 it would be a tough winter; other Manhattan newspapers were in a cost-cutting mood.

After the staff had finished the night's work, they gathered in nearby Lorenzo's, the office pub, to drink things over. They talked loudly, drank vigorously, and tried to laugh often. When City Editor Wayne Adams walked behind the bar for a moment, someone cheered: "Look--you've got a job already." But for all the forced jokes they felt disillusioned and lost. In a few hours, the wake was over; the lights went out at Lorenzo's for the night, and at the Star for good.

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