CHAPTER III
JOAN ON THE BEAT
Joan opened the drawer to her dresser by sticking the buttonhook intothe keyhole. The handle had been gone for years, but she never minded,except when she forgot and shut the drawer tight. Then she had to resortto the buttonhook.
She carefully tucked inside the little tan booklet _Journal Style_ thatshe had been studying, and shut the drawer again tight. She borrowed itwhenever she had a chance. Tim hadn’t missed it, and she hoped he wouldnot find out that she had it. He would only tease; for he refused tobelieve how frightfully in earnest she herself was about getting a jobon the _Journal_ one of these days.
She went down the stairs, tying her middy tie and saying under herbreath, “Never call a bridegroom a groom. A groom is a horseman.” Thathad been one of the bits of advice in the booklet.
Tim was just going out of the door when she reached the kitchen.
Every morning during the past week since Tim had become a reporter onthe _Evening Journal_, he had managed to slip out of the house beforeJoan was up and around. But this morning he wasn’t so far ahead of herbut that she could catch up with him. Perhaps her chance had come. She’dgo with him this morning to see what having a beat was like.
She sat down on the edge of a chair, and poured most of the contents ofthe cream pitcher into her cup of cocoa to make it cool enough toswallow in a gulp or two. Then she reached for a crumbly, sugary sliceof coffee cake.
“No cereal, thanks. I’m in a hurry.” Joan started for the door, thecoffee cake in one hand. At her mother’s look, she added, “I’ll eat anextra egg at lunch to make up the calories, but I must go now.”
She dashed out.
What luck! Tim was just coming out of the front door of the _Journal_office when she reached the sidewalk. She paused there, pretending to beabsorbed in nibbling her cake, her eyes ostensibly fastened on thecracks in the sidewalk. The sidewalk was worth looking at—it was brickand the bricks were laid diagonally. It had been a game, when she wassmall, to walk with each step in a brick.
Tim mustn’t see her. He would accuse her of tagging, and he was crossenough with her as it was. For all week she had been offering bits ofinformation, like, “Mrs. Redfern has had her dog clipped,” and asking,“Is that _news_, Tim?”
And Tim, harried with his new work, would snap out an answer in thenegative. Poor Tim had already, as he often remarked, written up“battle, murder, and sudden death” since he had taken the job on the_Journal_.
He went on, now, up the slight slope of Market Street. Joan, slippingalong as though headed for the _Journal_ office, went too. At the_Journal_ door, she paused and watched while Tim crossed through thetraffic of Main Street and started on towards Gay Street. Block byblock, or “square” as they say in Ohio, she trailed after, looking intothe shop windows every now and then, lest he should turn around.
He kept right on, however—straight to the Plainfield railroad station,where he disappeared through the heavy doors. Joan, across the street,stopped in front of the _Star_ office. Somehow, the _Star_ office seemedalmost palatial with its white steps and pillars, in contrast with thesomewhat shabby _Journal_ office. That was because the _Star_ was agovernment newspaper, that is, a political man owned it. Tim had oncesaid that about one third of the newspapers in the United States wereowned by politicians. The _Journal_ wasn’t, though.
But Joan wouldn’t have traded the _Journal_ office for the shiny new oneof the _Star_. She loved every worn board in the _Journal_ floor, everybit of its old walls, plastered with pictures and old photographs.
She crossed the street and opened the heavy door by leaning her weightagainst it. Tim was at the ticket window. The ticket agent was shakinghis head, and Tim went on.
No news there, Joan guessed, as she, too, went across the sunny stationand out the opposite door to where the express men were hauling trunks,and travelers were waiting for trains.
Back to Gay Street, through the musty-smelling Arcade, then Tim entereda small florist shop, crowded with flowers. Joan looked in the window.The girl at the counter reminded her of Gertie in the business office ofthe _Journal_. She was chewing gum, and as she talked to Tim, her handswere busy twisting short-stemmed pink roses onto tiny sticks of wood.Tim got his pencil and pad, and wrote leaning on the counter.
When Tim opened the door, a whiff of sweet flowers was wafted to Joanwho was innocently gazing into the window of the baby shop next door.
Tim hurried on up toward the corner, brushing past two ragged childrenwho stood by the curb, both of them crying. They might be “news,”thought Joan, but Tim was hurrying on. Joan took time to smile at thesmaller child. Though she wore boy’s clothing, Joan could tell she was agirl by her mass of tangled, yellow curls. “What’s the matter, honey?”she asked.
The little girl hung her head and was too shy to answer, but the brotherspoke up. “Mamma’s dead and papa’s gone,” he said.
Tim was up at the corner, now, going into the public library, and Joanhurried on. Maybe it wasn’t true anyway.
Joan stood behind a tall rack of out-of-town newspapers while shelistened as Tim asked the stiff-backed, white-haired librarian,“Anything for the _Journal_ to-day?” That must be the formula cubreporters used. But Miss Bird had said no, softly but surely, almostbefore he had the question asked.
Then, across the street to the post office. Joan, feeling safe in therevolving door, watched while Tim approached the stamp window. He wasgetting some news, for the clerk was talking to him.
Just then, a brisk business man of Plainfield, hurrying into the postoffice to mail a letter while the engine of his car chugged at the curb,banged into the section of the revolving door behind Joan with suchforce that she was sent twirling twice around the circle of the door,and in the dizziness of the unexpected spin, she shot out of the door—onthe post office side, instead of the street side. Tim, leaving the stampwindow and coming toward the door, bumped into her!
“I beg your pardon—” he began, before he recognized his sister. Then,“Jo, you imp! Where’d you come from?”
“Tim, I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “But I had to see what you did on yourbeat.”
“Tagging me—making a fool of me,” Tim fairly sputtered.
“Tim, there’s two children on Gay Street, crying—I think it’s ‘news.’”
“News! What do you know about news?” scoffed Tim. “Probably lost thepenny they were going to spend on candy.”
“No, the boy said that their mother was dead and their father went away.If the mother just died, you could at least get an obit out of it,” sheexplained.
“Sounds like a decent human interest story,” Tim admitted. “Say, maybethe father couldn’t pay the rent and got dispossessed.”
They came successfully through the revolving doors and started down GayStreet together. “Is that the gang over there?” He pointed across at theboy and girl. “They do look forlorn. Maybe I’ve found a big story. Yougo on home, Jo. I don’t want you following me around on my beat. Lookscrazy.”
No use trying to explain her real motive to him. “Did the flower shopgirl give you a story?” she asked, partly to make conversation andpartly because she was curious.
“A wedding. I’ll hand it over to Betty.”
“What’d the post office man give you?”
“Just a notice about the letter carriers organizing a bowling team,” hetold her. “Run on, now. Maybe this isn’t anything. You can meet me atthe _Journal_ and I’ll tell you.”
She did go on, then. Tim might tell Mother if she didn’t, and then she’dbe told not to bother her brother. She couldn’t expect them tounderstand that she’d only been trying to help.
Joan was sitting on the sunny stone step of the _Journal_ office, halfan hour later, when Tim returned.
“It’ll be a dandy feature,” he announced. “May even make the frontpage.” He forgot it was just his “kid” sister to whom he was talking. He_had_ to tell some one. “That father deserted those children. I tu
rnedthem over to the Welfare Society.” He told her details, excitedly.
Joan hung about the _Journal_ office, though Tim hinted openly that sheshould go home. She wasn’t going to leave now. Tim was working hard overhis story of the deserted children. The father’s name was Albert Jacksonand he lived in South Market Street, a poor section of the city.
Tim was getting nervous over the story. He was sitting on the edge ofhis chair and squinting at the machine before him. Finally, he jerkedthe page out, crushed it into a wad and dropped it on the floor.
“Nixon’ll jump on me for such awful-looking copy,” he muttered. “I’llhave to do the whole thing over.”
The editor often remarked that “copy” didn’t need to be perfect, but ithad to be understandable to avoid mistakes, and he often told the youngreporters, when they handed him scratched-up copy, “Don’t economize onpaper. There’s plenty around here and it’s free. Do it over, if thereare too many changes.”
Tim reached for the sheet and straightened it out. “It’s written allright, I guess—”
“Just copying?” Joan queried. “Oh, Tim, let me do it.”
“Think you can?” Tim glanced around the office. Mr. Nixon was out tolunch, or he would have refused right off.
“Of course,” Joan assured him. “I’ve often copied lists of guests forMiss Betty. You know, sometimes folks write up their own parties andlots of the county correspondents write in longhand. She lets me copythem for her.”
“I didn’t know that.” Tim gave her his chair. “Well, go ahead. Thattypewriter makes me nervous. Some of the letters don’t hit. The comma’snothing but a tail. See? It doesn’t write the dot part at all. You’dthink I’d rate a better typewriter than this old thrashing machine.”
Joan made no reply. She was too thrilled to speak—to think of helpingTim! She must do her best and not make any mistakes. She smoothed outthe copy sheet and placed it on the sliding board.
“Albert Jackson of—” her fingers struck the keys slowly but surely.
When she finished the sheet, Tim read it over and placed it on Mack’sdesk. He read copy while Nixon was out at lunch, rather than let thework pile up.
The sport editor’s face was always smile-lit, like that of an æstheticdancer. He teased every one. When Gertie from the front office walkedthrough, with stacks of yellow ads in her hands, he had a tantalizingremark ready for her. He started the rumor in the office that Gertie wasmaking love openly and loudly to Dummy’s silent back.
Joan went back to the _Journal_ after lunch to bask in the last-minuterush, just before the paper was locked up, or “put to bed”—that last,breathless pause to see whether anything big is going to break beforethe paper is locked into the forms. She was glad school was over—supposeshe’d have had to miss all this excitement of Tim’s job!
She and Chub went out into the press room again and she grabbed anotherfolded newspaper, damp with fresh ink, from the press. She turned thepages, the narrow strips of cut edges peeling away from them as sheopened out the paper. There was the story she’d typed—on the back page,among the obituary notices. It was almost as though she herself hadwritten it. Why, the name was wrong. Instead of starting “AlbertJackson,” as she had written it, the story began, “Albert Johnson ofNorth Market Street—” a different name and address.
“I guess that won’t make much difference,” reflected Joan, as shecarried the paper back to the editorial office to show to Tim.
“You never can tell,” grinned Chub, as he trotted along beside her, hisrubber sneakers slipping over the oil spots on the cement floor. He hadnot been an office boy in a newspaper office for two summers fornothing. He knew any mistake was apt to be serious. “That’s what I wastelling you about, Jo—mistakes.” But Joan hardly heard him.
Tim was furious when he saw the story.
Miss Betty, busy already writing up a lengthy account of a wedding thatwould take place to-morrow, for the next day’s paper, paused in themiddle of her description of the bridal bouquet to console the cubreporter.
“Mistakes do happen, Tim,” she laughed. “Think of the day I wrote up ameeting of the Mission Band and said that the members spent theafternoon in ‘shade and conversation,’ only to have it come out as ‘theyspent the afternoon in shady conversation’!”
But Tim refused to be cheered, and Joan began to realize that themistake was serious, for Mr. Nixon, the editor, had a set look on hisface, too.
“Does it really make so much difference?” she asked.
“Does it?” Tim glared at her, his eyes darker than ever. “With AlbertJohnson one of the most influential men in town?”
Then Joan understood. It was the name and address of a real resident ofPlainfield that had been printed, and that was bad. The man wouldn’trelish reading in the paper that he had deserted his children when hehadn’t at all.
“I can kiss my job good-by,” groaned Tim. “Why weren’t you careful?”
“I’m sure I wrote it right!” To think she had brought all this on Tim.
“But you couldn’t have, Jo,” he insisted.
“I’ll hunt up the copy for you, Tim,” offered Chub. This was often partof his duties.
Joan went with him. They went up to the high stool, before a tall, flattable, where Dummy read yards and yards of proof every day. It was sucha nuisance having to write everything out to him. He directed them tothe big copy hook where used copy was kept for alibis. Joan fumbledthrough the sheets and found the story. It had “Martin” up in theleft-hand corner, the way Tim marked all his copy. The story started,“Albert Johnson of North Market Street.”
“Why, it’s written wrong!” she gasped. Her eyes fell on Dummy’s bowedgray head. He gave a start as he bent over his pad, wrote something, andheld it out to her. “That’s the way the copy came to me,” she read.
It was certainly a mystery how she could write one thing, and it couldbe changed into something different. There was nothing to be gained byscribbling notes to the Dummy, and so Joan and Chub filed back.
Tim was glummer than ever when she told him the news. “You must havewritten it that way, without realizing,” he said. “We’ve asked Mack, andhe says it came to him that way.” He bent over his typewriter and bangedaway. He was doing rewrites now.
“Much as we all like you, Tim, we can’t let any mistakes like thishappen,” the editor said. “I’m responsible for everything in the paper,and if anything gets in wrong, I have to discover who’s the guilty partyand get rid of him.”
Joan and Chub crept away to the open back window, perched themselves onthe broad sill, with their legs outside.
“I bet that Dummy’s like Dumb Dora in the comic strip, ‘She ain’t sodumb,’” remarked Chub. “There’s something queer about him. I’ve alwayssaid so. And there’s been queer things going on. You know what I toldyou about the mysterious mistakes. They’ve been happening before Tim goton the paper. But I couldn’t prove _who_ made ’em. Now, I’m sure it’sDummy.”
“He couldn’t help it, when the story came to him wrong.”
“But, Jo, if you’re sure you wrote it right, then somebody changed itand I think Dummy did. He’s got it in for Tim somehow, or for the paper,and put that mistake there on purpose. He thinks no one would dareaccuse him, being a deaf-mute.”
“But nothing was erased. I looked especially to see. Perhaps I did writeit wrong,” began Joan, and then broke off, “Oh, there’s Amy.”
A figure in an orchid sweater was waving to them from the corner. It wasAmy in a new sweater. She adored clothes. Amy didn’t know a thing abouta newspaper, and Chub was always disgusted with her for that. Tim,surprisingly enough, thought her a “decent kid” and really treated herwith respect. Amy openly admired Tim—she thought him so romanticlooking.
“Jo, you wretch!” she said now, crossing the lawn to the _Journal_window. “You’re never at home since Tim got that job. I’ve been phoningyou all afternoon and I think your mother’s tired of answering.”
Chub got
off the window sill. “Here,” he offered Amy a seat.
“There’s room for all of us.” Amy was always nice to every malecreature, even though he might be just a red-haired, freckle-faced,chubby office boy.
They all sat together and Joan confided the new mystery to Amy. ThoughAmy knew little about newspaper life, she knew mysteries. She agreedthat Dummy seemed a most suspicious character.
“But he’s so refined and nice,” Joan demurred.
“Spies are always refined like that,” was Amy’s reply. Her ideas werebased on prolific reading. “The more refined they are the worse theyare, always.”
“Oh!” Joan’s mouth dropped open. “I wonder,” she mused. “Say, Amy,you’ve said something. I believe he is a spy.”
Amy had no notion of what the man could be spying for, but Joan’s eagermind was grasping at ideas. Bits of Tim’s conversation about thepolitical candidate came to her—the importance of not having mistakes inthe _Journal_ just at this time. That man, Dummy, had been hired to spyupon the _Journal_ and to see that somehow mistakes were made, mistakesthat would give the _Journal_ that “black eye” that Tim talked about;mistakes that would eventually elect the _Star’s_ candidate. She was alittle hazy about how it worked. But of course, a deaf man had beenchosen because no one would bother to argue much with a deaf person. Itwas too much trouble to write everything.
“I’ve read of things like that,” admitted Chub, when she had explainedher ideas. “We’ll be detectives,” he announced. “And we’ll be on thewatch for developments. I’ve a peachy book, _How to Be a Detective_.”
“Maybe—maybe it’s like this,” ideas came to Joan. “Maybe Dummy wants tobe a reporter himself and is jealous of Tim’s job. Maybe he doesn’t likeit because Tim’s only seventeen and a full-fledged reporter. That’s whyhe makes the mistakes look like Tim’s. Still, I can’t help but likeDummy. He’s so kind and mild. But he _is_ sort of spooky, somehow.”
Tim came to the window behind them now.
“Jo,” his voice was hoarse and scared-sounding. “Come in here. Mr.Albert Johnson wants to talk to you.”
Joan jumped off the sill to the soft grass, and stood for a momenttrying not to tremble while she looked down at Em, who had just come upand was sniffing at her ankles. What was going to happen, now?
“Don’t let ’em scare you, Jo.” Chub’s grimy hand was pressing hers. “The_Journal’s_ got insurance that takes care of libel suits.”
Libel suits. Oh, dear, that had a dreadful sound. Would Uncle John fireTim for her mistake—if it had been a mistake?
“All right, Tim, I’m coming,” she called in a voice, that in spite ofher, trembled, as she came in out of the sunshine, in through the windowof the _Journal_ office to meet Mr. Albert Johnson.
Joan of the Journal Page 3