Joan of the Journal

by Helen Diehl Olds

  Produced by Roger Frank and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  JOAN OF THE JOURNAL

  It was the story of the Charity Play]

  JOAN OF THE JOURNAL

  By

  Helen Diehl Olds

  ILLUSTRATED BY ROBB BEEBE

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Publishers New York

  By arrangement with D. Appleton-Century Company

  COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY

  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must not bereproduced in any form without permission of the publisher.

  Copyright, 1927, 1928, 1929, 1930 by the Methodist Book Concern

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  To my sons Bob and Jerry just because ...

  CONTENTS

  I. JOAN GETS A JOB II. THE JOURNAL FAMILY III. JOAN ON THE BEAT IV. “NO MORE MISTAKES” V. THE ANNUAL OUTING VI. TIM’S SECOND WARNING VII. CHUB GETS AN IDEA VIII. CHUB TAKES A HAND IX. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE X. TOMMY-BY-THE-DAY XI. THE DAY NURSERY XII. RICH BOY, POOR BOY XIII. ERIC XIV. SACRED COW XV. JOAN MEETS ALEX XVI. THE HONOR SYSTEM XVII. TIM MAKES THE FRONT PAGE XVIII. DUMMY’S STORY XIX. THE COMMA’S TAIL

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  It was the story of the Charity Play “I’ll talk with this young woman alone,” he said “Mark ’em ‘first’ and ‘second’,” Tim shouted “Are you a deaf-mute or aren’t you?”

  CHAPTER I

  JOAN GETS A JOB

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Joan called over her shoulder to Mother, asshe scurried around past the lilac bushes by the kitchen windows.

  Oh, suppose she were too late!

  Tim had gone into the _Journal_ office, just as she had started doingthe dishes. Joan rarely minded doing dishes, because the windows abovethe kitchen sink looked across at the _Journal_ office and she couldwatch everything that went on over there. Usually, she lingered over thedishes, just as she hustled over the bed making because the bedroomswere on the other side of the house. But to-day, she had done the dishesin less than no time, because she wanted to be nearer the scene ofaction than the kitchen windows.

  She hurried now, though it was rather undignified for a person fourteenyears old to run in a public place like this. That was the trouble withliving right down town. No privacy. Joan thought of the rows and rows ofnew homes out at the end of Market Street, and then looked back at herown little home—also on Market Street. It was a tiny, red brick house,tucked in between the _Journal_ office and the county court house, setback behind a space of smooth green lawn. It was like living in a publicsquare. But Joan had lived there all her life and really loved theexcitement of it.

  Uncle John, who was general manager of the paper, would probably be busyand tell Tim to wait, as though he were just anybody applying for asummer-time job and not his own nephew, Joan’s seventeen-year-oldbrother.

  Joan crossed the green plot to the nearest window of the _Journal_—shehad climbed in and out of those windows as a little girl. She could seeChub, the red-haired office boy, wandering around. He was never verybusy this time of the afternoon after the paper was on the press. Joanwas as much at home in the _Journal_ office as in her own brick housenext door. As a baby, she had often curled up on a heap of newspapersand taken her nap, regardless of the roar and throb of the presses. Thatwas when Daddy had been alive and had been city editor. He had been soproud of his baby girl that he had often taken her to work with him inan afternoon when Mother was busy and things at the office were slack.

  She had grown up with the roar and clatter of the machines, and thesmell of hot ink, and she loved it all, just as other girls might love abattered old piano in the parlor—just because it spelled home.

  Uncle John’s office was at the end of the editorial rooms, just by theswinging door into the composing room. “Sanctum sanctorum” she and Timcalled Uncle John’s office. Joan stationed herself out of sight, underthe buckeye tree, and peered through the dirty, streaked window. Shecould see Uncle John’s desk, with its crowded cubby-holes, frayedblotter, and books about to fall off.

  She craned her neck and saw Tim standing before the desk, twisting hiscap in his hands. Of course, talking to Uncle John wasn’t anything, butasking for a job as a cub reporter was. They were talking together, andTim looked so serious, Joan would hardly have recognized him.

  Oh, he had to get that job! It was during graduation week, when Tim hadhad to have a new outfit for the commencement exercises, that Mother haddone some figuring and suddenly discovered that perhaps there would notbe enough money for college for Tim, after all. Tim had had his heartset on going to the State University at Columbus that fall. Joan herselfhad even dreamed of attending the big football games while he was there,and when they cheered, “Martin! Atta boy, Martin!” she would say, asmodestly as she could, “That’s my brother!” Tim was good in allsports—had been a leader in them all through high school. It was theonly thing he really liked, but, in a town like Plainfield, excelling insports offered no method of earning money during the summer months.

  Tim had stalked about for days, gloomy as could be, after Mother’sannouncement. Then one evening, when Uncle John had dropped in forsupper, he had said, “Want a job, do you? Well, come over, and talk tome some time. Maybe I can fix you up. We’re adding new names to the payroll every week, and you might as well get yours on, too.”

  If he’d said anything like that to Joan, she would have been in seventhheaven, she thought. But Tim seemed only mildly thrilled. Of course, hewanted the job, but it was only a job to Tim, while a job on the_Journal_ had been Joan’s lifelong dream.

  Finally, as she watched now, she saw Uncle John get up and walk aroundhis desk. He shook hands with Tim and patted him on the shoulder. Timgrinned all over his face, then turned and went out the door, whileUncle John went back to his cluttered desk. Joan could have watched Timas he went through the editorial rooms and the business office and thefront door of the _Journal_, for there were rows of windows all facingher own green yard, but instead, she turned and raced to their kitchendoor.

  “Mother!” her voice vibrated through the old house. “Tim got the job!”

  Mrs. Martin looked up from the oven where she had slipped in a cake, andsmiled. “That’s nice.”

  Joan sank down on a kitchen chair that was peeling its paint. “Mother,it’s wonderful!”

  “Joan, don’t get so excited.” The oven door banged. “It’s not you that’sgot the job.”

  “I really feel as though it was, honest,” declared the girl. “You know,I’ve always dreamed of having a job on the _Journal_ and now I haveit—or rather Tim has, but it’s all in the family.”

  “You should have been a boy, Jo,” Mrs. Martin made her oft-repeatedremark. As it was, Joan’s dark, straight hair was always given a boyishbob, and there were some boyish freckles on her short nose, too. “Timmay be the image of his father, but you’re just the way he was, crazyabout the newspaper. I don’t see what you see in it. Though I guess ithas been better since John’s been managing it. But as soon as we cansell this house without a loss, we’ll move.”

  “Mother!” Joan wouldn’t feel she were living without the _Journal_ nextdoor. But she didn’t take her mother’s words seriously. Mother wasalways talking vaguely of selling the house and had suggested it inearnest recently. The interest on the mortgage was high and being in abusiness block, it was hard to find a buyer. If she could retain it,until some one wanted it for business purposes, they might make a niceprofit. But Plainfield was a slow-growing town. Uncle John advisedholding it until some one wanted it for a business.

  “Your poor father just slaved for that paper, and it never got himanywher
e,” went on her mother. “I hope you get over the notion of beinga reporter by the time you’re Tim’s age, and take up stenography.”

  “Ugh.” Joan made a little face. “Office work—not me!”

  No, she was going to be a reporter, no matter what. Hadn’t Daddy taughther to typewrite when she was only eleven, and didn’t even Tim think shewas a “pretty good typist”? Daddy had always said she had a “nose fornews,” too. She remembered feeling her pug nose speculatively the firsttime he said that, wondering what it meant. Her nose did turn upinquisitively. Now she knew, “nose for news” meant she had the naturalcuriosity that it took to make a good reporter.

  Then the door opened and Tim came in, still wearing the broad grin withwhich he had left the _Journal_ office.

  “I’m glad you got it, son.” Mrs. Martin spoke before Tim could say aword.

  “Just like that kid, to tell everything before any one else gets achance.”

  He was really cross. That’s the way he was most of the time, these days.They had been good chums until his senior year in High School, when hehad assumed such superior airs. He had acted especially high and mightysince his graduation last week. As far as Joan could find out, he hadnothing against her except her age. Could she help it that she wasnearly four years the younger? She was almost as tall as Amy Powell, herbest friend, and Amy was fifteen years old. He was usually nice to Amy,too, but then Amy had a grown-up way around the boys.

  Only at times did he seem the same old brother. To think that only ayear ago they had been such chums, even to having a secret code betweenthem. When she was small, it had amused her to learn that Tim’s realname, Timothy, was also the name of a grain. “Oats and beans andbarley,” she used to sing the old song at him, and somehow or other intheir play that phrase came to mean, “Danger. Look out.” It had beenconvenient lots of times in their games, Hie Spy and Run Sheep Run. Butthey hadn’t used it for a long time now.

  “Tim, I just couldn’t help telling. I was so excited.” She tried to makeher dark eyes sober and her voice sorry sounding, now.

  “She’s the limit.” Tim turned to his mother. “Reads what I’m writingover my shoulder and breathes down my neck till I’m nearly crazy.”

  He, like Mother, refused to believe she was in earnest about being areporter.

  “You ought to be glad I do snoop around,” Joan told him, as she wipedoff the table for Mother. “You know Edna Ferber’s _Dawn O’Hara_ wasrescued from the wastebasket by her sister, so you see! When do youstart in?”

  “To-morrow.” Tim drew up his shoulders, proudly. “Uncle John says theyreally need a cub reporter since they put Mack on Sports. That’s theplace I’d really like! But—they need a cub, and I’m it. Decent enoughsalary, too, Mother; I’ll be able to pay you some board, besides savingfor the University.”

  Mother smiled. “That’s fine!”

  “I stopped at Nixon’s desk and he gave me my beat.” Tim pulled a scrapof yellow paper from his pocket.

  “What _is_ your beat?” Joan squirmed to see.

  He let her read: Railway Station Flower Shops Library Post Office

  “I have to go round there every day and scare up news,” he said. “Therest of the time, I’ll be busy doing obits and rewrites.” (That meantobituary notices and articles rewritten from other newspapers.)

  Joan gazed at him over the plates and things she was carrying into thechina closet. She always just drained them, and they were dry now. “Andcan I go with you?”

  “On my beat?” came the scandalized echo. “I should say not!”

  But, as she put the plates away, Joan schemed to go. How else could shelearn what a cub reporter did on his beat? And since she wanted to be areporter some day herself, she must not miss this opportunity.

  “And I mustn’t make any mistakes.” Tim followed her into the diningroom. “Uncle John says we can’t stand a black eye with election timecoming off in the fall.”

  “Why, what has that to do with it?” Joan asked.

  Tim, always willing to display his knowledge, went on to explain that aman named William Berry from Western Ohio and called “Billy Berry” inpolitical circles, was running for governor of the state. He had boughtthe _Journal’s_ rival, _The Morning Star_, the only other newspaper intown, and was trying every way to “get in good with the people,” toinsure his election. The _Journal_, opposed to certain methods and pastactions of Billy Berry, had had to double their efforts against thisman, who was not the right one for governor at all. The _Journal_ hadits own candidate, Edward Hutton, who lived in Cleveland, but who spenta great deal of time on his estate in the beautiful Ohio Valley countrynear Plainfield. The _Journal_ and Edward Hutton’s followers werestriving to show every one that he was the better man for governor.

  Joan listened intently and tried hard to understand. “And is the_Journal_ Uncle John’s ‘political tool’?” she asked.

  “No, he’s not interested in politics himself, but he is interested ingetting Hutton elected.” Tim was really being very decent aboutexplaining. “Everything good we can say about him will help.” He brokeoff and started upstairs. “I’ve got to study to be ready for my job.”

  Study what, Joan wondered, but she knew better than to ask. He had beensuch a peach telling her so much, she mustn’t get him provoked with her.She wandered out to the yard and called Em, the cat. Em really belongedto the _Journal_ but she spent most of her time at the Martins’. Daddyhad named her Em—which is a very small newspaper measure—when she hadbeen a tiny, black kitten that you could hold in the palm of your hand.Now, she was a big, shiny cat. She rubbed against Joan’s plaid sporthose, entreatingly. Joan picked her up and cuddled her slippery lengthon her shoulder.

  What did it matter if Em shed black hairs over Joan’s white middy? Joannever bothered much about clothes. She wore middies almost all the timebecause they were easy to get into and were comfortable. She wished shemight always wear knickers, but since she couldn’t, she wore pleatedskirts as often as she could. The one she had on to-day was a realScotch plaid.

  Joan began to hunt for four-leaf clovers in the short-cropped grass. Ifshe found one, she’d give it to Tim, to bring him good luck in his newwork. They could have them for “talismen” like Lloyd and Rob in _TheLittle Colonel_ books. She was half afraid that Tim would not be a goodreporter; he was too—temperamental somehow.

  She glanced often toward the _Journal_ windows. Mother hated having herrun over there so much—was afraid Uncle John wouldn’t like it, so shewas never to go without an excuse. But Chub often called her to thewindows to keep her posted on everything that went on.

  Pretty soon, she heard his familiar, “Yoo-whoo!”

  A window in the _Journal_ office opposite was pushed up, and Chub stuckhis red head out. “Come here a minute.”

  Chub was just Joan’s age and her special pal. He knew almost everythingthere was to know about a newspaper office. He was sympathetic withJoan’s ambitions to newspaper fame, and was always willing to answer anyof her questions. When work was slack at the _Journal_, the two oftenhad games together—even playing mumble-peg on the worn, splintery floorof the editorial office.

  “I suppose you know the news?” he grinned, as she came to the window.

  “About Tim? Sure thing,” she answered. “Say, Chub, do me a favor, andthink up something to call me over to the _Journal_ about, to-morrowafternoon, will you? It’ll be Tim’s first day, and I’ll be so anxious toknow how everything goes, but I don’t dare let on to him.”

  “O.K.” That was Chub’s favorite expression at the present. He got a newone every few weeks.

  “Say, Jo,” he lowered his voice. “There’s something queer going on overhere. Mystery. I’m working on it—oh, gee, there’s Cookie waving somecopy at me. I gotta go. But I’ll tell you more as soon as I really findout something.”

  The red head was withdrawn, and Joan went back to the kitchen steps,depositing Em beside her saucer of milk.

  A mystery at the _Journal_! What
could it be? And would it affect Tim?Joan rather guessed so, from Chub’s remarks. Joan loved mysteries, andChub knew it. Besides, if Chub had discovered it, then it was bound tobe a really good one. A real man’s mystery—nothing silly, like themysteries Amy tried to concoct.

  In a little bit, Tim came out, in a radiant mood, Joan could tell at aglance. “Grab your swimming suit, kid. I want to get in a last swimbefore I start my job—I’ll be too busy as a cub, and don’t want to goalone.”

  It was wonderful having Tim decent to her, Joan thought as she flew todo his bidding. Would he always be this agreeable, now that he was happyand important over having a job? She hoped so.

  After supper, Joan sat on the side steps and listened to the drone ofthe humming bird that visited the honeysuckle vines, and looked up atthe stars above the _Journal_ office roof.

  “To-morrow, I start my job,” she thought. She really could not have beenmore interested if she herself, instead of Tim, were to report at the_Journal_ at eight o’clock in the morning.

  Soon, there was a little jingle behind her. It was Tim, putting out themilk bottle, with its pennies and nickels, for Mother—also a signal thatJoan should come on to bed.

  As she went through the dining room to the stairs, a slim tan bookletlying there on the dining room table caught her eye. It was entitled_Journal Style_, and was a little pamphlet on what a cub should andshould not do. She had never seen a copy of it before. She supposed theywere just given to the new men and that was why. That was what Tim hadbeen studying that afternoon up in his room, and this evening, too,probably while she sat on the steps.

  She opened it. “The lead of every story should answer, if possible, thequestions: Who? What? Where? When? and How?”

  Why, this was just exactly what she wanted! She hooked one of the chairsup to the table with her foot and began to read.

  About an hour later, Mother’s voice called her. “Joan, aren’t you _ever_coming up to bed?”

  She left the book where she had found it, and stumbled up the stairs,trying to remember all the hints to reporters she had read.

  To-morrow. The Job! That reminded her of Chub’s mystery. What could hemean, and when would he tell her?