CHUB GETS AN IDEA
Joan happened to be in the _Journal_ office that morning when Tim got
the assignment.
“Martin, get a picture of this girl that’s going to marry Judge Hudson,”
Editor Nixon said over his red date book. “We’ll use it to-morrow. Now,
don’t fall down on this.”
Tim reddened a bit at this, but he said nothing. He had never been sent
out after a bride’s picture before. But Joan guessed that Editor Nixon
was giving him an opportunity to retrieve himself for the mistakes.
Therefore, she knew immediately that he simply must get that picture.
Miss Betty had sent for Joan to help her check up some lists of wedding
guests that morning. Her part was to verify the names and initials by
looking them up in the city directory. The _Journal_ was “death on
accuracy,” as Tim often said.
“The Judge is marrying that Miss Edith King,” Miss Betty told her.
“Tim’s a whiz if he gets that picture. The Kings pride themselves on
their modesty, I guess. Anyway, I’ve been squelched by some of the best
people, but never quite so thoroughly as when Mrs. King made up her
daughter’s mind that they didn’t want her picture in the paper.”
Tim had heard part of Miss Betty’s conversation and came over. “I
suppose I might ask the Judge for his girl’s picture.”
“I did,” replied the society editor, “with my most winning smile. Told
him what a wonderful girl he was marrying and all that. She’s got him
under her thumb. He admitted he had dozens of pictures of his fiancée,
but he doesn’t dare let us have one. ‘She told me not to.’ When an
engaged man says that, you might as well give up.”
Joan knew Judge Hudson, or “Judge Hal” as he was called. He was the
youngest judge in the municipal court, and every one liked him.
Cookie looked up from his desk in the corner. He was always willing to
help a new man. “Don’t give up before you try, Tim,” he warned now.
“When the editor says get something, he doesn’t mean for you to come
back empty-handed.”
“I told Lefty to snap her getting into her car some time, if he gets a
chance,” stated Miss Betty.
“It’s up to me to round up the studios.” Tim reached for his hat.
It made no difference whether a person wanted his picture in the paper
or not. If the _Journal_ thought it should go in, in it went. The
photographers in town helped out, too. They couldn’t offer a picture
without the customer’s consent, of course, but they could and did permit
the reporters to look over their records, and, when they found what they
wanted, would make a proof of it for the paper—in return for many favors
in the way of advertising “readers” or “puffs,” little squibs in the
social column that looked like real bits of news. The paper guaranteed
the photographers would be protected in event of trouble.
This part of the newspaper game had always worried Joan a bit, but Chub,
the office boy, had told her, “Ugh, half the time when folks say no,
they really mean yes, and are tickled pink when the picture comes out.
Anyway, after the picture’s been published, they can’t do anything.
Besides, what’d a newspaper be without pictures?”
Even Miss Betty stood up for the newspaper ethics.
“If people would only understand,” sighed Cookie, “that a reporter is a
reasonable creature. It would not hurt that Miss King to give us just
one picture, and then every one would be happy. Reporters will always
play fair if treated right. People show their true character by the way
they react to a newspaper inquiry,” he went on; “if they’re snobs, it
comes out. A newspaper is a public institution and folks should help
reporters instead of hindering them.”
“I’m glad he didn’t give me that assignment,” rejoiced the society
editor, now. “I’ll be glad when June is over. I’ve described so many
bridal costumes, I’ve used up all the adjectives in my Roget’s
_Thesaurus_. If you ever get married, Jo, take pity on the poor society
editor and don’t do it in June.”
At lunch time, Tim came home, frowning and silent. It was not until he
started on his dessert, which was his favorite apple cake, that Joan
dared ask him how things had gone that morning.
“Went to the three best studios,” he mumbled.
“And none of them had Miss King’s picture?” she asked, and then realized
how silly that was, because if Tim had the photo, he wouldn’t be so
grumpy-looking.
“I did find one place where she’d had a picture taken,” Tim said. “But
it didn’t do me any good. I found her name on the list at Barton’s
studio, for back a couple of years. But when Mr. Barton went to his
files to look up the plate to make me a proof—he files ’em by years,
see?—he found that that was the year his studio was damaged by fire, and
all the plates ruined.”
“Oh, Tim!” Joan knew how tragic it was. “But can’t you find any one who
has a picture of Miss King?”
“Fat chance she hasn’t posted all her friends not to give the _Journal_
her picture since she’s so dead set against it.” Tim jabbed savagely at
the second piece of cake.
When Tim had finished his lunch, Joan made up her mind to go over to the
_Journal_ office. Maybe Miss Betty would have some suggestion to offer
in this dilemma. If only she could really help Tim!
Mother saw her hurrying through the dish-washing and knew why.
“Joan, I do wish you would be like other girls,” she complained, “and
sit down once in a while with a bit of embroidery, instead of traipsing
around after Tim.”
“Girls don’t do that any more, Mother, unless they’re going to take up
embroidery as a career,” Joan laughed. “And I’m not. I’m going to be a
reporter like Miss Betty and I have to learn all I can about the job, to
be ready. There’s a girl in my class who’s going to be an architect.
She’s taking lessons, already. Her father’s one, and he’s teaching her.”
Tim was scowling and talking to Miss Betty when Joan reached the
_Journal_ office. “The chief’s on his ear about that King girl’s
picture,” he said. “I’ve been to _every_ studio in town, and I can’t get
it. And I’m afraid the _Star_ will come out with it.”
“Gosh!” ejaculated Miss Betty. “Municipal court judges would stay
bachelors, if they knew how much trouble their modest, retiring
brides-to-be made us.”
“Isn’t there _any_ way to get it?” Joan appealed to Miss Betty.
“I don’t know,” the society editor answered, as her fingers pounded out
write-ups of social functions. “I don’t believe Tim can get that picture
anyway, short of going over to the King home and snatching it off the
mantel.”
“Oh, is there one on their mantel?”
Miss Betty laughed at her eagerness. “There is. I saw it with my own two
eyes when I went there to cover the announcement tea last week. The tea
table was right in front of the fireplace, so that’s where I parked,
having had no lunch that day, and the caterer behind the table mistaking
me for one of Plainfield’s sub-debs. That’s how I happened to notice the
picture. I was tempted to grab it then.”
Miss Betty was joking, most likely, but Joan noticed that Chub was
listening, intently, too.
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask the Judge again,” said Tim.
“Let me ask him,” begged Joan. “I’ll coax so hard.”
“Well, no harm for the kid to try, I guess.”
Joan started off to Plainfield’s weather-beaten city hall, and found
Judge Hal in his office, with his hat on and a briefcase under his arm.
He was fumbling on his desk, among the papers.
“I’m from the _Journal_,” she explained.
The judge looked at her. “New office girl?”
“Well, sort of....” she answered. After all, wasn’t she?
“Here, then,” he thrust some papers into her hand. “I’m glad you came.
You look more reliable than that red-headed imp. Here’s the stuff the
_Journal_ wanted about that case.”
Joan took them. “But I wanted to ask you about Miss King’s picture?
Couldn’t you let me have one? It’d be such a favor, and would help my
brother so much. He’s the cub reporter.”
The judge stared. “Miss King’s picture?” he repeated, and he seemed
cross. “Well, I should say not. You’re the second one that’s asked for
that to-day. Some young upstart from the _Star_ was bothering me about
it, too. Miss King’s shy and retiring,” he interrupted, “and doesn’t
like publicity.”
“But she ought to like it,” Joan told him almost tearfully. “If she’s
going to marry a young judge. You’ll need lots of publicity and the
support of the paper. Every time her picture’s in the paper, it’ll help
you.”
“No, no!” The judge was waving his hat and briefcase at her. “I’m in a
frightful hurry, dashing to make a train. Why should they want that
picture so much? Why all the interest in _us_?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Joan snapped, and wondered what in the world
made her speak so rudely. Probably it was the sting of disappointment.
Then, too, there was the added anxiety of the knowledge that the _Star_
was after the picture, too. Oh, the _Journal_ mustn’t be beaten! “I
don’t know why Plainfield is so interested. For all _I_ care you can
marry as many girls as you please. But the people are interested, and my
paper gives ’em what they want. And they want that picture.”
Joan was flinging her remarks after the judge, as she followed him
across the room, for he was hurrying off, now.
Joan reached the corridor just in time to see the elevator flattening
out its iron gates with judge and briefcase inside. He was gone!
Well, she’d take the papers he had given her back to the _Journal_
office, and then she’d think up some way to get the picture of Miss
King. Instead of being stumped by the judge’s curt refusal, she was now
all the more determined to get it.
She left the papers with Chub, and since the staff seemed busy, she went
on home and started weeding the zinnia bed. She could think better if
she were doing something. She rather liked weeding the garden,
especially the flowers on the _Journal_ side of the house, for then she
could watch all the excitement that went on over there and not miss
anything. The zinnias, being on that side, always received extra
attention. It was shady there now, too. She _had_ to help Tim. He
mustn’t fail—not after that other mistake he had really made. Oh, it
seemed as though he were hoodooed. But this trouble could not be blamed
upon any one. Not even the mysterious Dummy could have caused this.
Was Tim going to be a good reporter, after all? Daddy had had strong
ideas on what kind of a person was cut out for a reporter. Tim seemed to
like sports. Perhaps he should have tried to be a coach or something,
instead of a reporter.
Tim simply had to get that picture somehow. If only Editor Nixon hadn’t
said, “Don’t fall down on this,” it wouldn’t be so bad. He must think
that Tim was not doing his best, after all. That’s why he had given him
the hard assignment. If she could get that picture, then Tim would have
to admit she was a real help. Besides, the editor expected the reporters
to let nothing short of accident or death keep them from fulfilling an
assignment.
Just then, the Doughnut Woman came around the house toward the kitchen
door. “Is your ma to home, Joan?”
The Doughnut Woman came to the house every Wednesday. She had been
coming for years. Her basket was faintly stained with grease and smelled
sweetly of warm, powdered sugar. Mother always bought a dozen doughnuts
every Wednesday, because Tim liked them and because she felt sorry for
the Doughnut Woman. She had pathetic brown eyes and wore the most
outlandish clothes. To-day, hot as it was, she was wearing a green plaid
silk blouse and a black skirt. A wide sailor hat and flat-heeled shoes
completed her costume.
“Mother’s taking a little nap,” Joan told her. “But she left the
doughnut money. I’ll get it.”
When she came back, there was Chub parked on the kitchen steps. “I saw
the doughnuts and came on over,” he explained. “Thought I heard you call
me.”
Joan laughed. He hadn’t thought so at all, but he was welcome. Mother
never cared if she gave Chub a doughnut or so. It always amused Mother
that Chub admired Tim so much.
“Now don’t you two go eat ’em all up before your brother comes home.”
The Doughnut Woman handed Joan one of the paper bags from her basket.
“You know he does dote on my doughnuts. Well, I use the best of
everything in them. You could feed my doughnuts to a baby. They wouldn’t
hurt it.”
“They sure are good.” Chub bit into one Joan offered him and made a
sugar mustache upon his lips. He was eyeing the Doughnut Woman over the
sugar morsel.
“Tell your ma I hope she gets a good rest. I’m glad she don’t have to
peddle doughnuts the way I do, when the days is so hot,” said the
Doughnut Woman as she took her leave.
The two watched her around the house. “Isn’t she a scream?” asked Joan.
“She looks like some of the pictures in the files of the _Journal_
fifteen years ago. Mother has a blouse like that in the attic, only it’s
even worse looking because it’s red.”
“Has she?” Chub asked. “Do you suppose you could find it for me—an
outfit like that? I’d like to have it ready, in case I needed it some
time. In case I wanted to fool people again the way I did last April
Fool’s Day, remember?”
Joan did. She and Amy had been invited to a party given by one of their
classmates. Chub had offered to escort them there and had arranged to
meet them on a certain corner. When Joan and Amy reached the place,
there was no one there under the dim street light but a dumpy colored
woman, with a basket on her arm, bent over what appeared to be a thick
stick. There the two girls had waited, with increasing annoyance, for
Chub who had not appeared at the end of twenty minutes. In no uncertain
words they said exactly what they thought of a boy who would treat two
girls like that. Finally, almost with tears of vexation in their eyes,
they decided to hail the next street car and go to the party alone and
unescorted.
Hardly had they mounted the car steps than the colored woman came
hobbling after them, screaming, “Hey, wait for me!” She picked up her
skirts, displaying two legs in knickers and boyish hose and shoes, and
ran to the car. In the glare of the lighted street car, they saw a rim
of red hair peeping under the bandanna when the woman approached. It was
Chub, ready with nickels to pay their fares. The stick he had been
leaning on was nothing but a ball bat. He had been particularly elated
at having fooled Amy.
“But, Chub,” Joan objected now, “it’s suffocating in the attic.”
“Oh, come on, be a sport,” he pleaded; “I want to assemble my ensemble
for Hallowe’en.”
“Well, all right,” she gave in. The attic was so hot she stayed there
only long enough to yank the red silk blouse and other things out of the
trunks. She found an old tweed skirt of mother’s and a panama hat that
Tim had discarded. The skirt was too small in the waist for Chub, but
they made it fit with a big safety pin. It reached to his ankles. The
panama hat brim came down over his eyes. His own dusty brown oxfords
gave just the right effect. As a final touch, Joan, really interested
now, added a pair of shell-rimmed glasses that Tim had once worn to a
movie party when he had assumed the role of Harold Lloyd.
“It’s perfect, Chub,” she giggled. “Wait till I get Mother’s covered
basket, and you’ll look exactly like the Doughnut Woman.”
She found the basket in the pantry, and Chub put the rest of the
doughnuts in the bag to give it a bit of reality.
“Guess I’ll go over to the office and give the folks a laugh,” he
decided. “You stay here or they’ll guess who I am.”
Joan turned again to her weeding and her thoughts. How could she get
that picture for Tim? Betty’s joking remark about snatching the picture
off the mantel came to her now, as she pulled viciously at the weeds.
Remembering Cookie’s story—how he had been forced to play the part of
chore boy to get that story of the wedding in the East—she wondered
whether she might not go to the King home on some pretense and get the
picture, returning it after it had been in the paper. If this were a
movie, now, she’d dress up as a dainty little maid with cap and apron
and get a job in the King household and then disappear with the picture.
But she had to do something _quick_!
The idea of a disguise seemed so safe. But maids in caps and aprons did
not walk the streets in Plainfield. Anyway, she wouldn’t really have the
nerve to go herself, though, and there was no one she could send on such
an errand. Chub would be willing enough, but he would only bungle
things.
She looked up and saw Chub still standing at the sidewalk in front of
her home. He hadn’t gone to the _Journal_ office, but was just standing
there. Now, he was starting, slowly because of the long skirt, but he
was going north instead of over to the _Journal_. Where could he be
going in that garb?
Suddenly she realized that his mind had been working along the same
lines as her own. She was sure just where Chub was going and why—he was
going after that picture. It was just like him, and he, too, wanted to
help Tim.
Oh, she shouldn’t let him. Why, that was a terrible thing, even for a
mischievous office boy to do.
“Chub,” she called, “you better come back here.”
But the strangely attired figure hurried on. “Well, let him go,” thought
Joan. “Maybe he won’t get the picture after all, but if he does it’ll be
wonderful.” She hopped up, deciding, “I’ll just trail along after him.”
Why, this was even more thrilling than the mystery about Dummy.