JIMMY BLAINE GETS A SCOOP
There were two morning newspapers in Wakely; one pink and one yellow.
On week mornings half of the town read the pink journal and the other
half the yellow one. On Sunday mornings the whole town read both. Jimmy
Blaine worked for the yellow one.
It was Jimmy Blaine’s regular business to go out on any consignment
the powers that be might send him. It was his irregular business to
make news if there was no news, thereby adding to his fame and bulging
out his weekly pay envelope. While the Major was telling his tale Mrs.
Trescott was the only one to notice how shiny Jimmy’s eyes were and how
quick and almost feverish was his breathing. Before the last course was
served Jimmy jumped from his seat.
“’S’cuse me, but I must be a-hustling. No, Miss Celeste, no _souffle
aux pruneaux_ for me this evening,” in answer to the hostess’s proffer
of prune whip. “S’long everybody! See you in the morning.” Jimmy was
gone.
Several chuckles bubbled up from the depths of Mrs. Trescott’s satin
bodice. That evening, when Mrs. Trescott made her usual weekly
pilgrimage to the kitchen to speak to Aunt Maria and slip her the
customary Saturday night tip she gave her an extra five cents,
commissioning her to purchase the Sunday morning yellow journal for her.
“Moughty ’stravagant Mis’ Trescott when they’s allus pufectly good
Sunday papers a goin’ ter waste ’roun’ here. All you is got ter do is
jes’ wait a while. Major Simpson has one, an’ Miss Celeste has one an’
Mr. Jimmy Blaine is mo’n apt ter have two or three. I allus say ’taint
no trouble ter start Monday mornin’ fiah at this here Mason Bluemange.
If you want ter save yo’ nickel I’ll see that you gits the very fust
paper that anybody gits through with.”
“That’s very kind, Maria, but I want one all to myself to-morrow
morning, and want it before anybody has pawed over it and mixed it up.
I have an idea there will be something of especial interest to me.”
Mrs. Trescott was right. Jimmy Blaine had not foregone the pleasures
of prune whip for nothing. He had rushed pell mell to the office and
frantically pounded out on an extra typewriter the whole story of Major
Simpson and the shoplifter. He had named no names, thereby carefully
sidestepping any chance for a libel suit, but he had so accurately
described Burnett & Burnett’s that the whole of Wakely could but guess
the department store mentioned in the story. The stage setting was
realistic, the local color perfect, but the young journalist had let
his fancy run riot where description of characters were concerned.
Mrs. Trescott received her private Sunday morning newspaper, literally
damp from the press. Aunt Maria was what she called “an early stirrer”,
and the first newsboy that shouted his wares in the neighborhood of
Maison Blanche was nabbed and made to deliver by the intrepid old cook,
who patiently climbed the two flights of steps to Mrs. Trescott’s
third-floor-back hall bedroom and poked the paper in her door.
“Here you am, Mis Trescott, an’ a cup er cawfy ter tide you over come
brekfus time. You mus’ be ’spectin’ of some funeral notice ter make you
so besirous of a private paper.”
Aunt Maria well knew that Mrs. Trescott had to watch her pennies very
closely and the extravagance of five cents spent for first peep at a
newspaper could mean little short of a death and a funeral.
“Perhaps!” chuckled the lady, “but I’ll come read the news to you after
while, Maria. I am more than obliged to you for your kindness. No doubt
the coffee will help me bear up,” and then the old lady gave another
deep soul-satisfying gurgle as she unfolded the damp newspaper and ran
her eyes eagerly over the news columns.
There it was, just as she knew it would be, but better, so much better!
“Oh, the rascal, the young rascal! He has made a romance of that old
fool Major’s finding the widow from his own part of the country and her
helping him to track the criminal. He even has in the doughnuts and
coffee and the pink parasol.”
It might be said that Mrs. Trescott stopped chuckling and chortled.
What difference did it make if one was poor and old and condemned to
spend one’s days in a third-floor-back hall bedroom if one had a sense
of humor equal to Mrs. Trescott’s. Her humor was the type that needed
no second person with whom to enjoy the ridiculousnesses of life. Her
solemn countenance gave no inkling to the outside world of the riot of
fun going on within. The gurgling laughter that sought an outlet was to
the uninitiated no more mirthful than the bubble of air arising from
an old submerged mud turtle, appearing on the surface of the water and
breaking.
“I’d like to hear what the Burnetts have to say this morning,” she
gasped. “Oh, that will be unprintable I am sure, but our Jimmy Blaine
could make copy of it nevertheless. And the little shoplifter--no doubt
she is happy at being put in the paper as beautiful beyond compare,
with a dark mysterious past that tugs against her better nature--but
the better nature prevails and she returns the stolen goods. I wonder
Jimmy did not announce an engagement between her and Mr. Theodore
Burnett. I think I’ll suggest it to him. A suggestion is all that is
necessary to our Jimmy. Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy!”
In the mean time Jimmy was sleeping the sleep of a cub reporter happy
over a scoop and the fact that he had cleared a neat little sum on the
extra columns of space he had filled so successfully. Kit Williams,
his friend and room mate, had seized on the early edition Jimmie had
brought home with him and his mirth was loud and lusty over what Jimmy
had done to the Major.
“Gee. Ain’t he the kid?” he cried. “I could kiss him where he sleeps if
he wasn’t so unshaved.”
“You try it,” muttered Jimmy sleepily, having come to life just enough
to hear Kit’s ravings. “You try it and you’ll never shave again.” He
then turned over and pulled the covers over his tousled head, hoping
to be lost to the world until dinner time, breakfast offering no
inducements to one who had been up all night making news for the greedy
public.
Miss Willie Watts was greatly excited over the article. It seemed
to her very astonishing that the “paper” should know so much about
something that had only just happened. At first she did not connect
Jimmy Blaine with the story but when she did all she could say was:
“But how did he know so much about the appearance of the poor wicked
shoplifter when Major Simpson did not tell him any more than he did me?
And how did he know the widow was handsome and dashing, the one who
made the doughnuts and coffee? Major Simpson never said so in so many
words. Ah me! All widows are handsome and dashing, it seems. I wonder
if this won’t make the poor Major sick. I hope he won’t die--” and then
she began dreaming of his tombstone and how it would look:
“Major Sylvester Simpson, beloved husband of Wilhelmina--” etc.
Mrs. Celeste White read the story and thought Jimmy was pretty clever
but wished he had mentioned that the doughty hero lived at Maison
Blanche.
“A very good chance for some free advertising and I might just as well
have had it,” she grumbled. “Young people seem never to think of such
things.”
The Major read the whole paper before he came to the part of the
magazine section which carried his story. It was his custom to have
breakfast in his room on Sunday morning so that he might take his ease
before making the elaborate toilet he felt to be necessary for one
whose duty and pleasure it was to pass the plate in church.
“What’s this? What’s this?” he cried, glaring excitedly at
Jimmy’s lurid headlines. “Story of Seductive Shoplifter--dashing
widow--doughnuts and coffee--pink parasol--reunited after years of sad
separation--Ahem--handsome detective--Tracked to her lair shop girl
returns purloined articles! All will be forgiven and beautiful maiden
will continue her labor at large department store so popular in the
city of Wakely. Of course her identity will remain a secret--no person
but the wily detective and the generous employer being aware of her
identity.” The poor man groaned aloud and let his second cup of coffee
get chilled.
“Who, who can have done this? Ah--that wretched Jimmy Blaine! I forgot
he was connected with the press. This vile sheet has always disgusted
me. I never intend to read it again,” and then the old gentleman
settled himself to con every word of Jimmy’s scoop. He found it rather
pleasant to be written up as handsome and gallant, and the romance
between himself and the Mrs. Leslie hinted at in the article was on the
whole quite gratifying.
“But the Burnetts! What will they think?” While no names were mentioned
there could be little doubt of the identity of the persons in the story.
“Let them think what they choose,” was Major Simpson’s final decision.
“It is not for me, Sylvester Simpson, to account to the young Burnetts
for my method of tracking criminals.” And then he proceeded to justify
himself for having talked too freely before a cub reporter and even
persuaded himself that the publicity given the shoplifting episode was
a stroke of finesse that only a master mind, such as his, would have
been capable of originating.
“I can manage Charles,” he said to himself, “but I am not so sure of
Theodore. He is an opinionated youngster.”
In the mean time the “opinionated youngster” was doubled up with
laughter over the magazine section of the Sunday paper.
“Just when we thought we could put our hands on the criminals! Oh,
Major Simpson, Major Simpson, what a legacy our father and grandfather
left us in your portly person! And what will the little O’Gorman say to
this?”
What the little O’Gorman thought we may never know, but what she said
was:
“Oh, me, oh, my! As my father used to say; ‘The best laid schemes of
mice and men gang aft aglee.’”
She then betook herself to the quiet and peace of her own little
bedroom, there to work out a plan and incidentally to read a few pages
in her book of books, hoping her clever father might have left some
words of wisdom bearing more directly on misplaced publicity than on
the schemes of mice and men.
Mrs. Leslie’s indignation knew no bounds when she read what the
newspaper said about her.
“Dashing widow indeed! I never dashed in my life.”
“And certainly you never widded,” said Mary, trying not to laugh. “But,
dearest, you should be proud that your coffee and doughnuts got into
print, although anonymously. After all, nobody will know whose they
were unless you tell them.”
“You may be sure I’ll not do that. But one thing I am going to tell if
I have to do it with my dying breath: I shall tell Sylvester Simpson
that he is a pompous old idiot.”