Joan of the Journal

by Helen Diehl Olds

  CHAPTER VII

  CHUB GETS AN IDEA

  Joan happened to be in the _Journal_ office that morning when Tim gotthe assignment.

  “Martin, get a picture of this girl that’s going to marry Judge Hudson,”Editor Nixon said over his red date book. “We’ll use it to-morrow. Now,don’t fall down on this.”

  Tim reddened a bit at this, but he said nothing. He had never been sentout after a bride’s picture before. But Joan guessed that Editor Nixonwas giving him an opportunity to retrieve himself for the mistakes.Therefore, she knew immediately that he simply must get that picture.

  Miss Betty had sent for Joan to help her check up some lists of weddingguests that morning. Her part was to verify the names and initials bylooking them up in the city directory. The _Journal_ was “death onaccuracy,” as Tim often said.

  “The Judge is marrying that Miss Edith King,” Miss Betty told her.“Tim’s a whiz if he gets that picture. The Kings pride themselves ontheir modesty, I guess. Anyway, I’ve been squelched by some of the bestpeople, but never quite so thoroughly as when Mrs. King made up herdaughter’s mind that they didn’t want her picture in the paper.”

  Tim had heard part of Miss Betty’s conversation and came over. “Isuppose I might ask the Judge for his girl’s picture.”

  “I did,” replied the society editor, “with my most winning smile. Toldhim what a wonderful girl he was marrying and all that. She’s got himunder her thumb. He admitted he had dozens of pictures of his fiancée,but he doesn’t dare let us have one. ‘She told me not to.’ When anengaged man says that, you might as well give up.”

  Joan knew Judge Hudson, or “Judge Hal” as he was called. He was theyoungest judge in the municipal court, and every one liked him.

  Cookie looked up from his desk in the corner. He was always willing tohelp a new man. “Don’t give up before you try, Tim,” he warned now.“When the editor says get something, he doesn’t mean for you to comeback empty-handed.”

  “I told Lefty to snap her getting into her car some time, if he gets achance,” stated Miss Betty.

  “It’s up to me to round up the studios.” Tim reached for his hat.

  It made no difference whether a person wanted his picture in the paperor not. If the _Journal_ thought it should go in, in it went. Thephotographers in town helped out, too. They couldn’t offer a picturewithout the customer’s consent, of course, but they could and did permitthe reporters to look over their records, and, when they found what theywanted, would make a proof of it for the paper—in return for many favorsin the way of advertising “readers” or “puffs,” little squibs in thesocial column that looked like real bits of news. The paper guaranteedthe photographers would be protected in event of trouble.

  This part of the newspaper game had always worried Joan a bit, but Chub,the office boy, had told her, “Ugh, half the time when folks say no,they really mean yes, and are tickled pink when the picture comes out.Anyway, after the picture’s been published, they can’t do anything.Besides, what’d a newspaper be without pictures?”

  Even Miss Betty stood up for the newspaper ethics.

  “If people would only understand,” sighed Cookie, “that a reporter is areasonable creature. It would not hurt that Miss King to give us justone picture, and then every one would be happy. Reporters will alwaysplay fair if treated right. People show their true character by the waythey react to a newspaper inquiry,” he went on; “if they’re snobs, itcomes out. A newspaper is a public institution and folks should helpreporters instead of hindering them.”

  “I’m glad he didn’t give me that assignment,” rejoiced the societyeditor, now. “I’ll be glad when June is over. I’ve described so manybridal costumes, I’ve used up all the adjectives in my Roget’s_Thesaurus_. If you ever get married, Jo, take pity on the poor societyeditor and don’t do it in June.”

  At lunch time, Tim came home, frowning and silent. It was not until hestarted on his dessert, which was his favorite apple cake, that Joandared ask him how things had gone that morning.

  “Went to the three best studios,” he mumbled.

  “And none of them had Miss King’s picture?” she asked, and then realizedhow silly that was, because if Tim had the photo, he wouldn’t be sogrumpy-looking.

  “I did find one place where she’d had a picture taken,” Tim said. “Butit didn’t do me any good. I found her name on the list at Barton’sstudio, for back a couple of years. But when Mr. Barton went to hisfiles to look up the plate to make me a proof—he files ’em by years,see?—he found that that was the year his studio was damaged by fire, andall the plates ruined.”

  “Oh, Tim!” Joan knew how tragic it was. “But can’t you find any one whohas a picture of Miss King?”

  “Fat chance she hasn’t posted all her friends not to give the _Journal_her picture since she’s so dead set against it.” Tim jabbed savagely atthe second piece of cake.

  When Tim had finished his lunch, Joan made up her mind to go over to the_Journal_ office. Maybe Miss Betty would have some suggestion to offerin this dilemma. If only she could really help Tim!

  Mother saw her hurrying through the dish-washing and knew why.

  “Joan, I do wish you would be like other girls,” she complained, “andsit down once in a while with a bit of embroidery, instead of traipsingaround after Tim.”

  “Girls don’t do that any more, Mother, unless they’re going to take upembroidery as a career,” Joan laughed. “And I’m not. I’m going to be areporter like Miss Betty and I have to learn all I can about the job, tobe ready. There’s a girl in my class who’s going to be an architect.She’s taking lessons, already. Her father’s one, and he’s teaching her.”

  Tim was scowling and talking to Miss Betty when Joan reached the_Journal_ office. “The chief’s on his ear about that King girl’spicture,” he said. “I’ve been to _every_ studio in town, and I can’t getit. And I’m afraid the _Star_ will come out with it.”

  “Gosh!” ejaculated Miss Betty. “Municipal court judges would staybachelors, if they knew how much trouble their modest, retiringbrides-to-be made us.”

  “Isn’t there _any_ way to get it?” Joan appealed to Miss Betty.

  “I don’t know,” the society editor answered, as her fingers pounded outwrite-ups of social functions. “I don’t believe Tim can get that pictureanyway, short of going over to the King home and snatching it off themantel.”

  “Oh, is there one on their mantel?”

  Miss Betty laughed at her eagerness. “There is. I saw it with my own twoeyes when I went there to cover the announcement tea last week. The teatable was right in front of the fireplace, so that’s where I parked,having had no lunch that day, and the caterer behind the table mistakingme for one of Plainfield’s sub-debs. That’s how I happened to notice thepicture. I was tempted to grab it then.”

  Miss Betty was joking, most likely, but Joan noticed that Chub waslistening, intently, too.

  “I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask the Judge again,” said Tim.

  “Let me ask him,” begged Joan. “I’ll coax so hard.”

  “Well, no harm for the kid to try, I guess.”

  Joan started off to Plainfield’s weather-beaten city hall, and foundJudge Hal in his office, with his hat on and a briefcase under his arm.He was fumbling on his desk, among the papers.

  “I’m from the _Journal_,” she explained.

  The judge looked at her. “New office girl?”

  “Well, sort of....” she answered. After all, wasn’t she?

  “Here, then,” he thrust some papers into her hand. “I’m glad you came.You look more reliable than that red-headed imp. Here’s the stuff the_Journal_ wanted about that case.”

  Joan took them. “But I wanted to ask you about Miss King’s picture?Couldn’t you let me have one? It’d be such a favor, and would help mybrother so much. He’s the cub reporter.”

  The judge stared. “Miss King’s picture?” he repeated, and he seemedcross. “Well, I
should say not. You’re the second one that’s asked forthat to-day. Some young upstart from the _Star_ was bothering me aboutit, too. Miss King’s shy and retiring,” he interrupted, “and doesn’tlike publicity.”

  “But she ought to like it,” Joan told him almost tearfully. “If she’sgoing to marry a young judge. You’ll need lots of publicity and thesupport of the paper. Every time her picture’s in the paper, it’ll helpyou.”

  “No, no!” The judge was waving his hat and briefcase at her. “I’m in afrightful hurry, dashing to make a train. Why should they want thatpicture so much? Why all the interest in _us_?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Joan snapped, and wondered what in the worldmade her speak so rudely. Probably it was the sting of disappointment.Then, too, there was the added anxiety of the knowledge that the _Star_was after the picture, too. Oh, the _Journal_ mustn’t be beaten! “Idon’t know why Plainfield is so interested. For all _I_ care you canmarry as many girls as you please. But the people are interested, and mypaper gives ’em what they want. And they want that picture.”

  Joan was flinging her remarks after the judge, as she followed himacross the room, for he was hurrying off, now.

  Joan reached the corridor just in time to see the elevator flatteningout its iron gates with judge and briefcase inside. He was gone!

  Well, she’d take the papers he had given her back to the _Journal_office, and then she’d think up some way to get the picture of MissKing. Instead of being stumped by the judge’s curt refusal, she was nowall the more determined to get it.

  She left the papers with Chub, and since the staff seemed busy, she wenton home and started weeding the zinnia bed. She could think better ifshe were doing something. She rather liked weeding the garden,especially the flowers on the _Journal_ side of the house, for then shecould watch all the excitement that went on over there and not missanything. The zinnias, being on that side, always received extraattention. It was shady there now, too. She _had_ to help Tim. Hemustn’t fail—not after that other mistake he had really made. Oh, itseemed as though he were hoodooed. But this trouble could not be blamedupon any one. Not even the mysterious Dummy could have caused this.

  Was Tim going to be a good reporter, after all? Daddy had had strongideas on what kind of a person was cut out for a reporter. Tim seemed tolike sports. Perhaps he should have tried to be a coach or something,instead of a reporter.

  Tim simply had to get that picture somehow. If only Editor Nixon hadn’tsaid, “Don’t fall down on this,” it wouldn’t be so bad. He must thinkthat Tim was not doing his best, after all. That’s why he had given himthe hard assignment. If she could get that picture, then Tim would haveto admit she was a real help. Besides, the editor expected the reportersto let nothing short of accident or death keep them from fulfilling anassignment.

  Just then, the Doughnut Woman came around the house toward the kitchendoor. “Is your ma to home, Joan?”

  The Doughnut Woman came to the house every Wednesday. She had beencoming for years. Her basket was faintly stained with grease and smelledsweetly of warm, powdered sugar. Mother always bought a dozen doughnutsevery Wednesday, because Tim liked them and because she felt sorry forthe Doughnut Woman. She had pathetic brown eyes and wore the mostoutlandish clothes. To-day, hot as it was, she was wearing a green plaidsilk blouse and a black skirt. A wide sailor hat and flat-heeled shoescompleted her costume.

  “Mother’s taking a little nap,” Joan told her. “But she left thedoughnut money. I’ll get it.”

  When she came back, there was Chub parked on the kitchen steps. “I sawthe doughnuts and came on over,” he explained. “Thought I heard you callme.”

  Joan laughed. He hadn’t thought so at all, but he was welcome. Mothernever cared if she gave Chub a doughnut or so. It always amused Motherthat Chub admired Tim so much.

  “Now don’t you two go eat ’em all up before your brother comes home.”The Doughnut Woman handed Joan one of the paper bags from her basket.“You know he does dote on my doughnuts. Well, I use the best ofeverything in them. You could feed my doughnuts to a baby. They wouldn’thurt it.”

  “They sure are good.” Chub bit into one Joan offered him and made asugar mustache upon his lips. He was eyeing the Doughnut Woman over thesugar morsel.

  “Tell your ma I hope she gets a good rest. I’m glad she don’t have topeddle doughnuts the way I do, when the days is so hot,” said theDoughnut Woman as she took her leave.

  The two watched her around the house. “Isn’t she a scream?” asked Joan.“She looks like some of the pictures in the files of the _Journal_fifteen years ago. Mother has a blouse like that in the attic, only it’seven worse looking because it’s red.”

  “Has she?” Chub asked. “Do you suppose you could find it for me—anoutfit like that? I’d like to have it ready, in case I needed it sometime. In case I wanted to fool people again the way I did last AprilFool’s Day, remember?”

  Joan did. She and Amy had been invited to a party given by one of theirclassmates. Chub had offered to escort them there and had arranged tomeet them on a certain corner. When Joan and Amy reached the place,there was no one there under the dim street light but a dumpy coloredwoman, with a basket on her arm, bent over what appeared to be a thickstick. There the two girls had waited, with increasing annoyance, forChub who had not appeared at the end of twenty minutes. In no uncertainwords they said exactly what they thought of a boy who would treat twogirls like that. Finally, almost with tears of vexation in their eyes,they decided to hail the next street car and go to the party alone andunescorted.

  Hardly had they mounted the car steps than the colored woman camehobbling after them, screaming, “Hey, wait for me!” She picked up herskirts, displaying two legs in knickers and boyish hose and shoes, andran to the car. In the glare of the lighted street car, they saw a rimof red hair peeping under the bandanna when the woman approached. It wasChub, ready with nickels to pay their fares. The stick he had beenleaning on was nothing but a ball bat. He had been particularly elatedat having fooled Amy.

  “But, Chub,” Joan objected now, “it’s suffocating in the attic.”

  “Oh, come on, be a sport,” he pleaded; “I want to assemble my ensemblefor Hallowe’en.”

  “Well, all right,” she gave in. The attic was so hot she stayed thereonly long enough to yank the red silk blouse and other things out of thetrunks. She found an old tweed skirt of mother’s and a panama hat thatTim had discarded. The skirt was too small in the waist for Chub, butthey made it fit with a big safety pin. It reached to his ankles. Thepanama hat brim came down over his eyes. His own dusty brown oxfordsgave just the right effect. As a final touch, Joan, really interestednow, added a pair of shell-rimmed glasses that Tim had once worn to amovie party when he had assumed the role of Harold Lloyd.

  “It’s perfect, Chub,” she giggled. “Wait till I get Mother’s coveredbasket, and you’ll look exactly like the Doughnut Woman.”

  She found the basket in the pantry, and Chub put the rest of thedoughnuts in the bag to give it a bit of reality.

  “Guess I’ll go over to the office and give the folks a laugh,” hedecided. “You stay here or they’ll guess who I am.”

  Joan turned again to her weeding and her thoughts. How could she getthat picture for Tim? Betty’s joking remark about snatching the pictureoff the mantel came to her now, as she pulled viciously at the weeds.

  Remembering Cookie’s story—how he had been forced to play the part ofchore boy to get that story of the wedding in the East—she wonderedwhether she might not go to the King home on some pretense and get thepicture, returning it after it had been in the paper. If this were amovie, now, she’d dress up as a dainty little maid with cap and apronand get a job in the King household and then disappear with the picture.But she had to do something _quick_!

  The idea of a disguise seemed so safe. But maids in caps and aprons didnot walk the streets in Plainfield. Anyway, she wouldn’t really have thenerve to go herself, though, and there was
no one she could send on suchan errand. Chub would be willing enough, but he would only bunglethings.

  She looked up and saw Chub still standing at the sidewalk in front ofher home. He hadn’t gone to the _Journal_ office, but was just standingthere. Now, he was starting, slowly because of the long skirt, but hewas going north instead of over to the _Journal_. Where could he begoing in that garb?

  Suddenly she realized that his mind had been working along the samelines as her own. She was sure just where Chub was going and why—he wasgoing after that picture. It was just like him, and he, too, wanted tohelp Tim.

  Oh, she shouldn’t let him. Why, that was a terrible thing, even for amischievous office boy to do.

  “Chub,” she called, “you better come back here.”

  But the strangely attired figure hurried on. “Well, let him go,” thoughtJoan. “Maybe he won’t get the picture after all, but if he does it’ll bewonderful.” She hopped up, deciding, “I’ll just trail along after him.”Why, this was even more thrilling than the mystery about Dummy.