THE GLOBE GETS A SCOOP.
Not until the taxicab turned into Elm Street back in town once more did
Helen Wier speak. She simply crouched in one corner of the taxicab and
stared out of the window. There she clutched at Figg’s arm. “That’s my
street,” she pointed at the one they left. “I have to see my mother
right away. I do,” she was emphatic, jerking his arm savagely, “I do!”
Then North became the cunning editor. “Not immediately,” he spoke in
conciliatory tones. “The shock would kill her. She has to be prepared.
We’ll attend to that at the Globe office.”
Renfro stared at Helen. How white and thin she looked! Her voice had
sounded hollow back there in the cave. Now as he afterwards described
it, she looked hollow, too. Leaning against his knees, Lang Tammy was
staring up at him with happy eyes. From time to time he kissed his hand
and gave Figg hostile growls.
Everything at the Globe was waiting for them. Outside a long line of
newsboys was waiting for the extras to be shot through the presses and
out to them on the street in a few minutes.
A crowd of girls from the business office stared through the windows
at the motley procession. The elevator man, watching outside his cage,
rushed in again and seized the lever. They shot up to the editorial
floor and rushed into the room where Warriner had his star writer at
his machine and his copy boys ready.
He looked at the crowd. “Shoot!” he commanded. “The girl first.”
And Helen Wier encouraged by North told her story in weary, strained
gasps. “I was in the library alone reading that night. I heard a noise.
There was somebody in the room. He had a gun pointed at me. He said he
would kill me if I screamed. He said there was some one in the other
room who would kill my mother if I didn’t come with him. His forehead
was bleeding. Something was wrong with his eyebrows--”
“Oh, yes,” Renfro jumped forward and jerking off his cap, turned down
the band. “His eyebrows were missing. They froze to the window pane.
He jerked them off and I found them on the pane. That’s how I found
Helen.”
North jerked him over to one side. “Your time next,” he commanded, and
nodded at Helen.
“Outside the house, he made me walk into the shrubbery. I was afraid
they would shoot my mother.” Helen’s tone was full of worry. “They
didn’t--did they?”
“No, no, she’s safe,” North clipped out his words.
The typewriter stopped its clicking. The feature writer rolled out one
sheet, Warriner grabbed it and another one was in its place.
“Shoot!”
Warriner gave the command again. “They gagged me then. A woman helped
him. She was Maggie. And they put me in a wagon. We rode miles. It was
cold and I didn’t have any coat--just an old rug they put around me. We
went through some buildings. And then down into the cave.”
It was Renfro whom North asked to give a description of Bart and
Maggie. He told his own story first--of the first night he had seen
the stranger peering into the Wier home, the second experience, his
attempt to telephone the Judge, of the line out of order, and then of
his finding the eyebrows frozen to the window pane.
The reporters moved closer to him while he talked. North interrupted
to ask questions. Warriner gave orders to copy boys, to the writers at
their machines, through a telephone to the press room and through it
all managed to hear every word of the story.
When Renfro at the close of his story again took off his cap,
pulled down the band and exhibited his specimens--The Missing
Eyebrows--carefully opened one of the square packages and took one
look, held it to North, and then handed it to one of the men. “Have
them photographed and a plate made,” he ordered.
And then he was down to the press room. North once more took
command--got more detailed stories from both Renfro and Helen, had
half a dozen reporters writing at once--descriptions of the cave, of
the rooms there, of Maggie and Bart and then one of Lang Tammy who was
still by Renfro’s side, his nose firmly clutched by one of the boy’s
muscular hands.
There was a shout below. Morrison and Bruce both jumped. “The paper’s
off the press,” the reporter nearest the chute yelled and North turned
to Helen, “Get ready to go home,” he said kindly, “I’ll telephone your
mother.”
“Telephone mine,” for the first time Renfro remembered his parents. “I
can’t get home and back before it’s time to carry my route.”
North motioned to the cub reporter. “Tell Bruce to send some other boy
out on Horn’s route tonight,” he commanded. “I want to take Horn home
myself.”
The trip down the stairway was made more slowly this time. North
noticed that Renfro was limping. He reached out his hand and steadied
him. “Best story of the year,” he muttered. “And we scooped them all.”
And Renfro understood him. But he didn’t say anything except to nod at
Lang Tammy. “I’m going to keep him,” he said, “I wonder if they’ve got
Bart and Maggie yet.”
“Figg will tend to them,” North smiled. “I sent him back with some of
the boys to get the story for the next edition.”
At the door his editor’s mantle seemed to drop. He looked first at
Helen and then at Renfro. He had several children out at his home.
“You’re great kids!” he grinned.
But there was a volume in that grin and both of them realized it. In
the taxi he was quite as laconic. “Your folks will about die! I talked
to both of your dads.”
Yet it was Helen’s mother who was waiting on the porch when the taxi
drove up in front of the Wier home. She rushed down the walk as Helen
rushed toward the house. Half way they met.
North turned his head. But he heard Mrs. Wier talking. She had taken
Renfro’s hand. The tears from her eyes dropped on it but she talked
bravely, and in a collected manner, giving him the greatest eulogy he
had ever received.
The judge too talked to the boy, as one man does to another. Helen left
her mother’s arm to come over to him. “But you won’t be hard on Bart,
daddy,” she begged. “You--see--now--we know--how--cruel--it--is to be
away from the people we love.”
Judge Wier nodded his head. He looked up at North. “I will attend to
them,” he smiled, “but still I feel it would not be best to quote me on
that. Just say that I shall not be too harsh on these people.”
Mrs. Wier nodded. Then she looked at Renfro. “His mother is waiting,”
she said.
And North took Renfro back to the taxi in which Lang Tammy was waiting.
As they crossed town, Renfro nodded toward the street. “This is my
route,” he said. “They call it Old Grief.”
“The turkey route,” North laughed. “We’re going to use that story
tomorrow in our Thanksgiving number.”
He nodded at some of the dilapidated buildings on a cross street. “Want
to change it?” he asked.
“No sir!” Renfro’s answer was emphatic.
Mary Dugan was standing out close to the curbing, a clean white apron
tied around her expansive waist. Her hand reached out and grasped
Renfro’s with all the force a man gives an obstinate pump handle. And
she shook it manfully.
Now, Mary Dugan was of the kissing type, but she respected manhood.
And in fifteen minutes Renfro had grown from a boy to a man in her
estimation. Nor did she weep though she had shed copious tears when
she had heard the story. “I missed them eyebrows last night,” she
said, “and I’ve dressed both of them turkeys which was left. The three
charity ones I carried out to the preacher’s parsonage myself. I told
them to eat one themselves, as he did the free advertisin’ for you.”
Proudly she led the way to the house after she had delivered her
speech. Renfro’s mother caught him in her arms in the most genuine,
motherly embrace he had known for a long time. She sobbed and sobbed
and could not talk. But he knew without her saying a word how happy she
was.
Mr. Horn laughed nervously to North. “I’ve been through Hell a thousand
times during the last twenty-four hours,” he said. “But thank Heaven I
had the courage to go through alone. I never told my wife a word about
Renfro’s being gone until you told me that he was safe. She thought he
was visiting.”
He managed a few fatherly hugs in spite of his wife’s constant clinging
to Renfro. His eyes were charged with love and beyond that a look
of pride. He started to say something directly to Renfro about his
feelings but with a great effort Renfro managed to wriggle out of his
mother’s arm and start toward the dining room.
“Where are you going, Hooch?” Mary Dugan sprang to her feet with the
suspicion in her mind that Renfro was hungry.
But Renfro waved her aside. “I’m going to call up the office,” he
returned. “I want to find out of Morrison if there have been any
complaints on my route.”
THE END.
The next RENFRO HORN book will be
_THE LUCK OF A RAINY NIGHT_
THE LUCK OF A RAINY NIGHT
or
Renfro Horn Wins the $10,000 Reward
In this second book of the Renfro Horn series of Newspaper Boys’
stories, Renfro Horn wins the enmity of the carrier on Route No.
19, because Renfro is held up as a model carrier by the Circulation
management of the Globe.
And on the darkest, rainiest night of the year, the carrier of Route
No. 19 plans to lure Renfro to a desolate place where he hopes to
give him a beating. But Renfro, who has been keen on the trail of the
Insurance Mystery, stumbles on the body of the man who is supposed to
be dead, and he wins the reward which the Insurance company has offered
for the location of Clyde Truesdale.
THE RISE OF ROUTE 19
or
Renfro Gets a Regular Detective Badge
“Old Grief” has now been made a respectable route under Renfro Horn’s
careful carrier service, and the Globe has the largest number of
subscribers in that section of the city, so to test Renfro Horn’s
fighting spirit, Bruce, the circulation manager, offers Renfro Route
19, one of the bad routes along the river front, where the house boats
are moored, and a better route in a better part of the city.
But Renfro Horn, being in quest of success and excitement takes Route
19 and thus begins an interesting series of adventures for this boy
carrier, who is the peer of the city’s best detectives. It ends with
the Mayor of the city pinning on his coat lapel a regular detective
badge, because Renfro has found the stolen finger prints.
THE WHITE BAG’S SECRET
or
Renfro Horn Trails Down the Thieving Dog.
By Stephen Rudd.
The jewels of Mrs. Laidlaw Garth have mysteriously disappeared. Mary
Dugan’s cousin, Bridget O’Hara, is the maid in the house and is under
suspicion.
Renfro and Mary believe she is innocent. Through the location of one of
his old paper bags, Renfro gets a clue which leads him to believe that
Mrs. Garth’s dog, “Bluff,” stole the jewels. He and Mary set out to
find them, and they are successful, of course.
But there is thrill in this story for any red blooded boy.
Published by the R. H. Gore Publishing Co.
THE CLUE OF THE TWISTED PAPER
or
The Mystery of the Lost Girl.
By Stephen Rudd.
Can a paper, which a newspaper carrier boy twists into a roll and
throws on a porch, contain a clue to the identity of the girl who has
forgotten who she is or where she comes from? Renfro Horn, the carrier
boy detective, proves this can be done.
He and Mary Dugan do it.
And the lost girl--well she is a wonder child. But read all about this
absorbing mystery in “The Clue of the Twisted Paper.” It’s coming soon.
Published by the R. H. Gore Publishing Co.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s note
Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.