Joan of the Journal

by Helen Diehl Olds

  CHAPTER IX

  A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

  Tim was being careful these days. His whole job depended on hisaccuracy. The editor had said to Mack when he commissioned the sporteditor once to read copy, “You have to watch Martin’s stuff. He’s apt tomake mistakes.”

  Tim _had_ made but one mistake, though Joan could not prove it. So hehad to be extra careful.

  Joan was out in the grassy yard, one morning, playing a game of croquetwith Em, the cat. Joan did the playing for both herself and heropponent, who stalked about with a very disinterested air. Joan wasplaying with one eye on the _Journal_ office. Suddenly Chub rapped onthe window and called her over.

  When she reached the _Journal_ office, Chub was standing outside one ofthe phone booths, waving the telephone receiver at her. “It’s for you.”

  Joan went inside the airless booth—still partly filled with smokebecause one of the men of the staff had been in there recently. Thebooth had penciled numbers all over the woodwork. That list of numbersin one corner were those of the undertakers. Tim let her call them oncein awhile, when he was pretty sure there were no deaths, and hadinstructed her to call him to the phone if there were any to bereported. Joan had learned to know the different voices at the other endof each number. She did not like that part of the cub’s job. It seemedso cold-blooded to ask, “Anything for the _Journal_?” She was alwaysrelieved to have the politely mournful voice say, “No, nothing to-day.”

  “Listen, Jo,” it was Tim at the other end of the wire. His voice soundedexcited. “I’m stuck out here in Baiting Town, covering a Lodge picnic,and I can’t get back in time. I just realized that I’ve let a mistake gothrough. It’s that story about the charity play. I wrote it up from thedress rehearsal yesterday morning. It was to come off last night, butthe leading lady came down with tonsillitis and it’s been postponed. Sokill the story for me, won’t you? Grab it off the hook, if it hasn’tbeen set.”

  Kill it! That had a horrible sound, but that meant only voiding thestory—throwing it out. She hoped it hadn’t really got into print, forthen they would have to stop the presses. That would be dreadful. Chubhad told her once that it cost the _Journal_ a great deal of time,expense and labor to stop the presses. But it would have to be done. Thepaper couldn’t come out with a long story about a play that had not comeoff. Tim had been so proud of that play assignment, too. “Give me abouta column on this,” the editor had said and had consented to Tim’sattending the dress rehearsal in order to have the story all set up,ready to come out on the heels of the performance.

  Joan slammed down the receiver and dashed through the swinging door tothe composing room. She went straight to the big hook where the day’scopy hung and began thumbing through it. As she stood there, she becameaware of some sort of confusion going on in the proofreader’s corner. Heand Mack seemed to be having an argument.

  Dummy could argue, though he seldom did. It was too much trouble for anyone to carry on his part in writing. Mack would write something, Dummywould read the pad, and he would write. Mack would write again. ThenDummy would merely point to an item already written on his pad. Thisseemed to provoke Mack even more, for he would have to write newarguments.

  Joan had gone through all the stories on the hook and had not found theone about the charity play. As she started over again to look once more,she glanced back at the two men over in the corner.

  Dummy was beginning to write something, asserting whatever it was withfierce strokes of his pencil. Mack, reading as Dummy wrote, seemedcrosser than ever and grabbed Dummy’s pencil. This infuriated theproofreader, and Joan did not wonder. To have his pencil taken away fromhim like that! Why, that was as if some one seized your tongue and heldit so you could not speak.

  Well, the story wasn’t here. She’d have to ask Dummy what happened toit. Maybe he had not read proof on it yet.

  As she approached, both men glanced up and dropped their quarrel,pretending that there had been no argument. Joan was puzzled. PerhapsMack had been merely teasing poor old Dummy. But no, the proofreader’seyes were hard and glittering with real anger. Joan felt it had beenmore than a mere bandying of words. Mack strolled off, abruptly,sauntering with his important little way, that caused Amy to call him“high hat.” Being on the copy desk once in a while was giving him thebig head, Chub said.

  Joan looked at Dummy. He did not look like a villain. However, she feltagain as she had when she had discovered his eyes upon her that firstday Tim was on the paper. What was there peculiar about him? Was itshyness or secretiveness?

  He had regained his pencil now, and Joan borrowed it to write on theclean pad sheet that he presented, “Where is the story about thecharity....”

  “Yes,” he wrote without waiting for her to finish. “Where is it? That’swhat I want to know.”

  That’s what they had been arguing about, Joan guessed.

  “The story was wrong—” Joan began.

  “I know it,” Dummy had the pencil again. “I went to the hook to get itto keep it out, because another story came through about Miss FlorenceWebb having tonsillitis.”

  Joan was sure he had intended to make changes in one of Tim’s stories.But she did not say or write anything. She was too worried. Had thestory gone through? Suddenly, as she stood there, thinking, theresounded in her ears a familiar and terrible racket, unearthly andunending. The presses were running.

  “Stop the presses!” She ran toward the big Goss giant in the pressroom.She could not let that story come out. The _Journal_ would lookridiculous, printing something that hadn’t happened.

  Dummy sensed her words and followed, trying with gestures to soothe her.If she had not known he was a villain, she would have thought him verynice. He always treated her as though she were grown up. But she knew hereally wanted that story to go through.

  However, his glances and gestures were kind enough—as consoling aswords. He smiled as she seized one of the damp, fresh papers. What didthat smile mean? He was a puzzle.

  Joan opened out the paper, and with the proofreader looking over hershoulder, she went through the whole issue, column by column.

  “It isn’t in!” she cried. Tim was safe. By some miracle, the charityplay story had been left out. The presses would not have to be stopped,after all. Oh, blessed relief!

  Dummy had taken the paper from her limp hand, and was going through itagain. Then he shook his head. Was he relieved, too? Or was he sorrythat the terrible mistake hadn’t been made? Was he merely jealous ofTim’s job or was he a spy, as they thought?

  Things looked suspicious, though, she thought. Mack and Dummy had beenarguing about this very story. And where _was_ the story? It seemed tohave simply disappeared. She had really no facts to present to Mr.Johnson. She’d have to wait and watch some more. She and Chub had beenso busy chasing that picture of Miss King, working so hard to get itthat they very nearly got into hot water because they got the wrong one,while all the time something really important was brewing right undertheir noses here in the back room of the _Journal_.

  Joan, hurrying out to the editorial office to tell Chub the latestdetails, brushed past Bossy, who was ambling into the front office witha bundle of papers on his arm. He was muttering to himself, “Quaregoin’s on around heah, dat’s what I say.”

  Bossy was always mumbling under his breath, and Joan paid no attention.She had had an inspiration (what she and Amy called a brain throb).Perhaps Chub in his eagerness to help Tim had realized the story waswrong and had held it from going into the paper. Chub, however, deniedknowing anything about the mysterious disappearance of the charity playstory. His guileless, freckled face helped corroborate his innocence.Joan felt he was telling the truth. Chub might be mischievous and fullof faults, but he did not lie. He listened intently while she told himthe latest developments.

  When Tim came in, they had to discuss it all over again. He was relievedthat the story hadn’t been printed, but he was dumbfounded that it haddisappeared right off the hook. “Come on, I’m goin
g to look over the layof the land,” he said to Joan. “I want to get to the bottom of this. Itsurely looks crooked. Besides, I don’t like to lose that write-up withall my carefully phrased compliments for each and every member in thecast. I can use it whenever the play does come off.”

  Dummy was still in his corner. Although the paper was out, theafternoon’s work was not over for the _Journal_ family. No sooner wasone edition out than they went to work assembling news stories andarticles for the next day’s paper. Not news items, necessarily, mostlyrewrites and things that had no special time value. The back officeusually worked, pressmen and all, until four o’clock or after.

  Tim satisfied himself that the story was not on the big hook; then hewent over to the proofreader’s corner. Joan saw Dummy’s eyes upon them.“It certainly is funny how that story could vanish—” he began.

  Joan wanted him to be careful how he worded his conversation to Dummy,lest the proofreader guess himself to be under suspicion. If she said,“Sh!” he would read her lips and know she was warning her brother to beon his guard and he might divine that they were suspecting him.

  “Oats and beans and barley,” she said, instead. She had never expectedreally to use that old slogan in a crisis like this, but it came inhandy.

  Tim stared. Then he understood and stopped speaking. Joan gave him alook that meant, “I’ll explain later.” Tim conducted a cautious, writtenconversation with Dummy but found nothing new about the mystery.

  “He and Mack were arguing about that story being gone,” Joan told herbrother; “that’s why I didn’t want you to say anything much. He’d readyour lips and be warned. See?”

  But both Dummy and Mack denied any knowledge of the lost story.

  “Dummy’s a crackerjack proofreader,” Tim mused, when he and Joan wereback in the editorial room. “Uncle John says it’s really uncanny howquick and accurate he is.”

  “That’s because his speech and hearing are gone,” said Miss Betty. “Theother senses become more acute. I read that somewhere.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” admitted Tim.

  “But he hasn’t good sense if he’s been letting mistakes get by him,”thought Joan.

  “Ye-ah,” put in Chub, “but that makes it more mysterious why he shouldmake mistakes. Makes me think more than ever that he—”

  Joan punched him to cease speaking. The whole office mustn’t be informedthat they were suspecting poor old Dummy.

  “Who is he, anyway?” asked Mack. “With his gentlemanly manners and hisquiet ways. Still waters run deep, you know.”

  Every one admitted Dummy was a mystery.

  When the editor heard that the charity play had been postponed, he waswild, in the parlance of the office. He cornered Tim. “Didn’t you writeup a big spiel about it?” he almost groaned. “And the play didn’t comeoff.”

  “The story wasn’t in,” Tim told him.

  “But I sent it out back early this morning.”

  Tim shrugged his innocence. “I know, but it’s—well, it’s _gone_!”

  “A lucky break for you, Tim,” conceded the editor, after he had listenedto the story. “You better keep on being careful. One more bust, and outyou go. You see, Tim, I like you and all that, but as editor, I’mresponsible for everything in the paper. If mistakes are getting intothe paper, it’s up to me to see who’s making ’em, p.d.q., and get rid ofhim. I’ve told you all this before.”

  Again Joan felt like shouting that Tim had made only one mistake—theomission of Mrs. McNulty’s and the two other names. Mr. Nixon wasstubborn. He was convinced that Tim had made the mistakes. He wouldprobably not believe otherwise until she and Chub cleared up the mysteryand brought the guilty party to him.

  She and the office boy fairly sleuthed Dummy, hoping to get something toreport to Mr. Johnson. On Fourth of July, which was a week later, Joanstumbled upon another clew. “This mystery is getting to be as bad as theAlger books,” she thought.

  The _Journal_ was coming out early that day, with a diminished edition,as on the day of the annual outing, in order that the staff might have abit of a holiday. Every one was busy, working extra hard, so busy thatthey did not even have time to let Joan help. She had stayed homeinstead, spending the time trying to console Em.

  Poor Em did not like the fireworks. Living right in the heart of thetown like this, she suffered agonies. The boys on the street, and the_Journal_ newsies, hanging around waiting for the paper to come out,would hurl “two-inchers” and snakes-in-the-grass in her direction. Shewould meow and hiss like a wild thing. Finally, she would flee to asafer place. Now, she had just disappeared through one of the backwindows of the _Journal_. Joan knew more newsboys were waiting backthere—boys ready to tease the cat. She determined to go after her petand lock her in the house until the terrible—to Em, at least—day ofindependence was over.

  Joan scurried through the editorial office and through the door to outback. She caught sight of Em’s slim, black body scuttling along ahead ofher over the cement floor, on velvet-soft paws. Now she was under themake-up tables, where the long galleys of print were assembled in anewspaper form.

  Then the cat darted across the composing room and into the pressroom,over to the far corner where rolls of paper, as high as Joan herself,were stored. Em, frantic at being chased, even by Joan, played hide andseek about the paper rolls. Joan called her endearing names, and finallyrounding her into a corner, stooped to pick her up. She quieted the catwith reassuring words. Her eyes wandered to the floor. Why, what wasthat, there in the corner? It looked like yellow copy paper, severalsheets pasted together, the way Tim did when he wrote a long story. Shestarted to turn the paper over, idly, with the toe of her oxford, whenher foot touched something hard underneath. She pushed the paper offwith her foot. The thing was long and hard and dirty with dried ink anddust; it was a galley of type, still set up in its narrow tin trough.Newspapers are notoriously untidy places; still, Joan was surprised tofind the set-up type here, for the type was always melted down in alittle furnace and reused in the linotype machines. She was about to goon when her eyes were attracted by Tim’s name peeping out from a fold ofthe yellow paper—MARTIN, written all in capitals, the way he always didin the upper left-hand corner. It must be one of his stories. She drapedEm over her arm while she picked up the paper and smoothed it out on herknee.

  It was the story of the charity play, the story that had disappeared offthe hook. She examined the galley and found it to be the proof of thestory and underneath were the proof sheets, too. No wonder it had notbeen in the paper, for every evidence of the story had been hidden awayhere in this corner. Some one had done it who had not quite dared todestroy the story. It could not have been Chub, trying in his bunglesomeway to help Tim. She believed firmly in his honesty.

  She’d save the story for Tim, because he had said he could use it later.She folded it up and tucked it under her middy. The proof sheets and thegalley of type she put back into the corner and left.

  Chub vowed he knew nothing about the story being hidden. He thought,like Joan, that Dummy must have taken it to put a mistake in it somehowand then, panicky at being almost caught, had hidden it away.

  She vowed then that she would watch developments more closely than ever.But, as it happened, she did not.

  Later, she recalled Cookie’s statement that reporters were always keyedup over something, forgetting the big excitement of one assignment whenthe next one came along. Yes, that was true. Think how wrought up shehad been over the deserted children, over Miss King’s picture, and nowover the charity play story.

  “Something exciting every day on a newspaper,” Miss Betty told her whenJoan tried to tell the older girl these thoughts. “You’d love it,Sub-Cub.” That was their new name for Joan.

  “I’d like the same thing, over and over,” Tim grumbled, thumping on histypewriter keys. He was peeved that morning because he had been sent tointerview a set of six-months-old triplets, whose parents had rented agarage, though they owned no car. They needed the
space to park thetriple baby carriage, which was too wide to enter their front door!

  “At least, I mean, I’d like to write about the same _kind_ of thingevery day,” he went on. “Then I could work up a style of my own—andfollowers.”

  “Ah, the lad aspires to be a columnist!” jeered Mack, who had a habit ofoverhearing everything that was said, since his desk was next to Tim’s.

  “No, not exactly.” Tim was fussed. Why did Mack always tease?

  Cookie looked up from his corner. “I had dreams, too, once,” he said.“Hang on to yours, Tim. They’re mighty precious.”

  Cookie was right about forgetting one thrilling story for new interestsand about there always being something new in newspaper life. DespiteJoan’s resolve to watch developments, she was so preoccupied for thenext few weeks that she hardly thought of Dummy and the mysteriousmistakes at all.

  For it was that very Saturday morning that she met Tommy.