Joan of the Journal

by Helen Diehl Olds

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHUB TAKES A HAND

  And as for Chub—

  He had had no idea of going over to the _Journal_ office and showingoff. He hadn’t known precisely how else to get away from Joan, and thathad been as good a way as any. Not that he would really have mindedconfiding his scheme to her. She was a good sport, and usually as muchfun as a boy. But somehow he felt in his bones that she might object,and when Joan felt strongly about anything, she could lay down the lawto him and be as bossy as her friend, Amy. He had decided not to giveher the opportunity. After it was all over and he had the picture safelyin his hands, that was time enough to tell her how he had come by it.

  It was the old Doughnut Woman who’d given him the idea of getting intothe King home, disguised, and capturing the picture. He had nearly toldJoan his plan, but hesitated, realizing what a “stickler” for honestyshe was.

  No, this was something Joan had better not get mixed up with. Girlscouldn’t do things like this; things like masquerading and snatchingthings off people’s mantels were for men to do. Chub had come to the_Journal_ office, full of stories he had read about newspaper reporters.Of course, he supposed things like that didn’t really happen in reallife, though old Cookie was always saying stranger things happened thanwere ever read in books. Hadn’t Cookie played the rôle of chore boy inorder to get that story when he was on the _New York Banner_? And thesecret about Dummy and the mysterious mistakes—gosh, now, that’d make aswell detective story.

  He had walked as slowly as possible around the house and at Joan’s frontsteps his courage had almost given out. Suppose one of the staff shouldsee him and recognize him even in this get-up! It was one thing to dressup like an old colored mammy with face black beyond recognition and tostand on a half-dim street corner at night for a joke on Joan and Amy.This was different. It was broad daylight. He began to feel just alittle foolish in the outfit. Besides, the skirt was hot and scratchy.Perhaps he oughtn’t to go. But—he wanted to for Tim. He adored Joan’sbrother.

  He stood at the sidewalk, almost ready to turn back, when he caughtJoan’s eyes upon him. He knew that she suspected he was up to something,but he did not dream she had really guessed his secret. That decidedhim, if she was going to start bossing him, that this was his clew to doexactly as he pleased. He turned and hurried down the street toward theNorth Side. Joan wasn’t going to tell him what he could and could notdo.

  Anyway, even if some of the _Journal_ people did see him from thewindows, they would think him only some sort of peddler. He looked alittle like a gypsy, he reflected.

  Slowly he made his way along North Market Street. After he had passedseveral pedestrians who cast only casual glances in his direction, hefelt better and began to walk more confidently. At one corner, justbefore he crossed the bridge, right in front of the Plainfield jail, hemet Amy but she did not know him. He could not stifle a giggle. It was asilly sounding giggle. Perhaps people would think he was a crazy person.

  Amy was hurrying along, with a rolled-up something under her arm that heguessed was her bathing suit. For all her being a perfect lady, Amy wasa good swimmer, and Chub had to admire her for that. Otherwise, hethought her a total loss and wondered that Joan tolerated her. Would shebe surprised if she knew who he was? What was she looking so scaredabout, anyway? Was she scared of him in this rakish get-up? Then herecalled that Amy always dreaded to pass the jail. Gosh, she sure was asimp. Why, he bet Joan would just as soon go right up and interview oneof the jailbirds. Joan was a good sport.

  How different everything looked when you were pretending to be some oneelse. It was almost as though he were walking down a strange street in astrange city.

  Over the bridge, the residential part of Market Street began. Severalmore blocks, then around a corner and there on Maple Street was the Kinghome, a big yellow house with a wide porch across the front, set up on aterrace. The street was shady and deserted. Except for Amy, he had notmet any one he knew. It hadn’t been so bad, and soon he would have thepicture in his hands. Wouldn’t Joan be surprised, and Tim—just think howpleased he’d be to have the office boy risk everything for him likethis.

  He had his plan all mapped out. He’d go to the front door, and boldlyask whether doughnuts were wanted. It would probably be answered by amaid and when she went to ask Mrs. King about the doughnuts, Chub wouldseize the picture. If she bought the doughnuts right away, why, Chub’dsell her the solitary bagful, with the short dozen in it that was in hisbasket, and would manage some way to get into the house.

  Up the steps and across the porch. Masquerading was fun, after you gotused to it. But the long skirt was swelteringly hot. The panama hat wastight and hurt him where the bows of the spectacles pressed into hishead.

  No one answered his ring right away, so Chub peeped through the door. Itopened into the living room, which looked like a furniture ad. Justacross the room was a red brick fireplace. Chub pressed his face closertill the spectacles clinked against the glass. There was a picture of agirl on the fireplace. Just as Miss Betty had said. He had been ratheranxious for fear she had been joking. The _Journal_ folks did joke somuch you never could tell when they weren’t stringing you.

  He waited and then pressed the bell again—hard. Perhaps it didn’t ringunless you pressed it very hard.

  Some one came across the room and the door was opened suddenly. It was amaid, big and fat and as black as the ink he used to put on theadvertising roller. She almost filled the doorway. It would be hard topass her.

  “D-do you want any doughnuts?” Chub’s chin quivered now when he began tospeak, in spite of himself.

  The colored woman eyed him, and took in every detail from the glassesdown to the sport hose and oxfords. “What you mean, ring ma do’bell likedat?”

  “Why—I thought maybe it was broken,” Chub explained.

  “Hit will be broken, if you keep on ringing hit like dat,” she snapped.“What’s the idea of ringing hit dat way?”

  Chub remembered his character. “Do you want some doughnuts? Nice, freshdoughnuts, only thirty cents a dozen.”

  “No, we don’t.” The door began to shut.

  “I use the best of everything in them,” Chub persisted, recalling theDoughnut Woman’s chatter. “You can feed them to the baby.”

  “Hain’t got no baby,” was the answer. “I wouldn’t feed ’em to no dog.”

  Somehow, she reminded Chub so much of himself, as he had looked andacted April Fool’s Day, that he almost laughed. The door began again toclose.

  Chub, frantic that his plan was failing when he was this near his goal,put one sturdy oxford in the door and held it open. He couldn’t give up,now. “Just go ask the lady of the house if she’d like some nice, freshdoughnuts, my good woman.” He had heard that phrase, “my good woman,” onthe stage, and thought it would impress the maid.

  He had to get that picture!

  “Ma name’s Sarah, and not ‘my good woman’ like dat. I ain’t aiming tobudge. I done told you, we don’t want none of your doughnuts.” She beganmumbling under her breath again.

  What should he do? Ideas, usually so ready for him in an emergency,seemed to have left him stranded, now. Then he had a thought. “Butyou’re new here, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Right new,” Sarah admitted. “But what’s dat to you?”

  “Well, Mrs. King’s been getting doughnuts for years and years,” Chubrattled on, with a sick smile. “I’m just sure she wants them. Just askher, will you?”

  Sarah was unconvinced, but she edged a bit, wheeled around in thedoorway and waddled toward the stairs at the end of the room.

  Chub dashed to the fireplace, and grabbed the picture. There was onlyone there. He was out of the house like a flash, his tweed skirtflapping against his legs, the bag of doughnuts rattling around in thebasket.

  “Tell Mrs. King I had to have this, but I’ll send it back all right,” hecalled over his shoulder in panting gasps, as he hurried down the stepsto the sidewalk.

 
Fat Sarah loomed in the doorway, calling wild words. Now she wasstarting down the steps after Chub, wheezing and groaning and waving herpink-palmed black hands.

  She was coming down the sidewalk! “Stop, thief! Robber! Help! Murder!”

  Chub was glad that the street was deserted and that he was a goodrunner. He picked up the tweed skirt and went faster.

  Black Sarah followed to the corner, but Chub was around it and down analley by that time. He could outrun Sarah, even in a gunny sack, he wassure. Clutching the picture in one hand, the basket bouncing on hisother arm, he trotted down the alleys parallel to Market Street.Suddenly his skirt seemed to be grabbing him about the ankles, gettinglonger and longer. He transferred the picture to his other hand, andfelt at the back of the skirt. The pin was gone, and the skirt wascoming off. Chub let it fall to the ground, stepping out of it as heran, kicking it ahead with one foot and catching it up in his arms,without slacking his speed. He probably looked crazier than ever now,with his short knickers and that red blouse. Just before the last alleybrought him to the bridge, where he would have to cross intoPlainfield’s business section, he decided to discard his disguise rightthere. He peeled off the blouse, flipped off the glasses, and pulled offthe hat. Then he squeezed everything into the basket. He put the pictureinside, too, for safekeeping.

  Chub was so elated over his success that he felt like racing when hecame out on the street again. It was so good to be free of thosecumbersome old clothes, too. At the bridge, he passed two men talkingtogether.

  “They’re saying up the street that the King home has just been robbed,”one of them said.

  Chub shuddered as he hurried on. He supposed he was a thief. But he wasmerely borrowing the picture for the paper. He would have it back on theKing fireplace, safe and sound, to-morrow. He’d take it back himself.No, maybe Sarah would recognize him even without his disguise and wouldwallop him with her mighty black arm. She was capable of anything. He’dsend it back by a regular messenger.

  “Yoo-whoo! Chub, wait!” He heard a call and looked back over hisshoulder. Joan was coming toward him.

  * * * * *

  Hidden behind a tree, Joan had watched Chub’s encounter with Sarah,though she could not hear their conversation. When he had disappeareddown an alley, she had started on back home, so she was surprised to seehim hurrying along ahead of her when she reached the bridge. She knew hehad the picture, for she had seen it in his hand when he emerged downthe King steps, tripping over the tweed skirt. But he refused to show itto her until they reached her own yard, when he transferred the basketand its contents to her.

  Tim was at the editor’s desk when she and Chub came into the office.“Think we’re getting out a weekly?” the editor was bawling. “Is this allthe copy you can turn in?”

  “I would have had more,” Tim defended himself. “But I spent most of theday hunting for the King girl’s picture.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I haven’t it,” Tim answered and added, “yet.”

  Joan wished they could go over now, but she knew Tim would be provokedif Editor Nixon found out they had hunted for the picture. They could donothing but stand there in the doorway and listen.

  “It’s got to be in the hands of the engraver by ten in the morning,” theeditor said. “So get a wiggle on, Martin.”

  They reached Tim’s desk before he did, and held out the picture.

  “Oh, fine!” Tim did not even say thank you, but the grateful look on hisface repaid them for all their trouble. He went back to the editor’sdesk with the picture.

  “Good for you, Martin!” shouted the editor. “I didn’t believe anybodycould get that picture!” He looked at it. “Yes, that’s the girl, allright. Looks a bit like Jacqueline Joyce, the screen star, doesn’t it,Betty?”

  The society editor looked at it. “A little,” she agreed. “Seems to meI’ve heard people say that.”

  The _Star_ didn’t have the picture, after all. After the _Journal_ wasout, next afternoon, Joan started over to meet Miss Betty, who was goingto treat her at the tea room for helping her yesterday morning. The_Journal_ staff often went there between meals, and it somehow gave Joana deliciously grown-up feeling. Mother, scandalized at the idea, hadsaid, “There’s toast left from breakfast and plenty of fresh fruit, ifyou’re really hungry.” Joan had pointed out, “It isn’t that, Mother. Ijust want to eat _out_.”

  Besides, she wanted to confide to Miss Betty all about yesterday and toask her advice about the best method of returning the picture.

  When she entered the front office she found Chub, rather pale beneathhis freckles, laughing away with Gertie, the ad girl.

  “Oh, gee, Jo, you’re just about two minutes too late,” he grinned. “Youmissed it.”

  “What?”

  “The grand finale to the King act,” he went on. “Mamma King and DaughterKing—I suppose I should call them the Queen and the Princess—just lefthere, with....”

  “With the Betrothed Knight,” added Gertie.

  “The Kings?” Joan’s mind groped. “Was she provoked about the picture?”

  “Well, she was put out,” admitted Chub. “I thought Tim and me’d bothlose our jobs, immediately, if not sooner. But she never got to see Nix,and everything’s O.K. now. You see, it just happened that the _Journal_came out with the wrong picture. That was a picture of Jacqueline Joycethat we—we came across. Mamma King was fit to be tied. But I saved theday. I told ’em how we wanted to help the cub reporter, and how when aneditor says get it, he doesn’t mean you to come back empty-handed.”

  “The wrong picture!” Joan felt a little sick.

  “Chub apologized all over the place, ’n’ everything,” put in Gertie,“but he couldn’t make an impression until _he_ came in—”

  “Judge Hal,” Chub explained. “He was just back from Dayton and found outthey were down here. Hadn’t seen the picture, but only laughed about it,even when I had to admit that I was the ‘queer old character’ who Mrs.King said hooked it off the mantel. It seems he has a soft spot in hisheart for reporters, ’cause he used to be editor of his college mag.,and knows how mistakes happen. He was a prince, all right! He said _you_jumped all over him yesterday and he’d thought over all you’d said, anddecided you were right, and that it was mostly their own fault for notletting the paper have the picture. Well, somehow or other, _he_pacified them and took ’em home.”

  And they had tried so hard to help Tim. But to get out of it all sonicely!

  “He even got her to promise to give us her latest picture,” he went on.“He said you were such a spunky kid asking for it, and if no one knewanything but them, it didn’t need to be mentioned that the wrong picturewas used. They’re both going to pose for Lefty, this afternoon, theypromised.”

  Both of them! A special photo with “... by the Staff Photographer”printed underneath. That would be a real scoop for the _Journal_.Usually, the society people of Plainfield would smash Lefty’s camerarather than pose before it.

  Gertie was busy now, taking an ad for a customer who’d come in. Chubwhispered above the thump, thump of the stamp he was marking on the adsheets, “Well, Jo, there’s another mistake we couldn’t blame on Dummy.Maybe those others were real ones, too.”

  But Joan knew that the story she had typed had been changed.