The office door opened with a rush and shut with a bang. In the little
whirlwind caused by the draught it made, the papers on our desks rose,
swirled in the air, and played tag upon the floor. Everybody but me
stopped work and glanced up to nod or frown at the woman who had come
in. I did not stop. I knew too well who it was. There was only one
person on the _Searchlight_ whose entrance caused that sort of
commotion. Besides, I had heard the whisper of silk petticoats, and
smelled the strong odor of _peau d'Espagne_ which always preceded Miss
Mollie Merk to her desk.
Mollie Merk was Mr. Hurd's most sensational woman reporter--the one
who went up in air-ships and described her sensations, or purposely
fell in front of trolley-cars to prove that the fenders would not
work. She was what she herself called a "breezy writer," but her
breeziness did not exhaust itself in her literature. She was a breezy
person generally--small and thin and dark, and so full of vitality
that she always arrived anywhere as if she had been projected by some
violent mechanical force. She spoke very rapidly, in short explosive
sentences. She openly despised the young and made epigrams about them
to show her scorn. Before I had been on the _Searchlight_ a week she
announced that I would be endurable if I had a redeeming vice; and our
fellow-reporters went around quoting that remark and grinning over it.
After I had written a few "big stories" her manner changed to one of
open wonder, and she began to call me "the convent kid" and give me
advice, addressing me as if I were an infant class. When she was in
the same room with me I felt that she was mentally patting my head. I
appreciated her kind heart and her value to the _Searchlight_; but I
did not really like Mollie Merk.
Usually when she catapulted into the office she exchanged a few shouts
of greeting with "the boys" and then went directly to her desk, where
she dropped into her chair like a bag of ballast from a balloon, and
began to write with a pen that scratched louder than any other. But
to-night she followed the _peau d'Espagne_ across the room to me and
clapped her hand on my shoulder.
"'Lo, Iverson," she said, in her loud and breathless way. "Still on
the job? 'Can' it. I'm your vesper-bell."
I felt myself instinctively drop away from her hand. In her greeting
she had done two things I particularly disliked. She had called me
"Iverson"--it was a vulgar habit of hers to address other women by
their last names--and she had spoken of something connected with my
convent life, which was too sacred to be joked about. Still, I knew
she meant well. I looked up at her and tried to smile, but all I could
do was to drag one side of my mouth down to my chin in humble
imitation of Mr. Hurd when he is talking to a member of the staff.
Mollie Merk seemed to appreciate it. She roared, and her hand clapped
my shoulder again.
"Cheer up, Iverson," she said. "Worst's yet to come." And she added,
all in one breath, "I'm-going-to-give-a-party-for-you!"