JOAN MEETS ALEX
Even Tim seemed to have more respect for Joan after her write-up of the
Davis kiddie window. Mr. Dugan had been satisfied, too, and had sent
Joan a tiny sun suit of bright green hue, for her to give to Tommy. He
said it was in appreciation of the nice write-up she gave them. Miss
Betty was always being given all sorts of things, even a tip once from a
wealthy woman, whose party she had written up extravagantly. “It
happened I was a little short of news that day!” Miss Betty explained.
Joan was helping Tim more and more. She had gradually fallen into the
habit of getting the stuff for the Ten Years Ago To-Day column ready for
him every day.
Miss Betty was right when she said that the articles in the files were
like stories. To-day, she found an engrossing one—all about a man who
had disappeared right here in Plainfield. The man had been a bookkeeper,
Mr. Richard Marat, and had discovered a deficiency in his books, and,
fearing arrest, had fled—no one knew where. Reading ahead in the files,
Joan learned that experts had examined the man’s books, had found no
deficiency and had reported that the man had simply made a mistake. Joan
couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, whoever he was, running away like
that when he’d done nothing wrong. She knew how helpless one felt when a
mistake happened that wasn’t expected like that. She read parts of it
aloud to Tim.
“Hair slightly gray, blue eyes—um, that would fit a lot of people,” Tim
said. “It’s not specific enough. That’s the most important thing to
learn in the newspaper world—get details.” Joan finished her typing and
Tim was pleased when she handed it to him.
Tim was in a good humor. He whistled as he reached for his hat. “Want to
go along?” he asked. “The paper’s on the press and things are dull, so
Nix’s sending Lefty out to the Boyville School to take pictures of the
boys’ band in their new uniforms. And I’m to go along to see if I can’t
get a feature out of it.”
She would adore it. “But—Amy’s waiting for me—” she faltered. She had on
the flowered organdie of palest yellow. She and Amy had planned a call
on a visiting girl. But a chance to go with Tim! They could do the
other, any time.
“Take her along,” he invited. They found Amy waiting on the sidewalk
engaged in conversation with Lefty, who was in his old car at the curb.
Amy had on an organdie, too—hers was pale pink. “Hop in, kids,” he held
open the sagging door. “Sure, you can both go along.”
Lefty was nice, and rather young. Not so young as Tim, of course, but
still, young. Joan and Amy climbed in. It might be just taking a ride to
Amy, going out ten miles or so in the country on this sunshiny
afternoon, but to Joan it was covering an assignment. Now that she was a
reporter, too! Amy began chattering away, saying that this was the first
time she had ever sat behind Tim and noticed what good-looking ears he
had. Tim reddened at this, but did not get peeved. Amy always flattered
the boys and they seemed to like it. Lefty was occupied with the
driving. Joan wished that Chub could have come along, too.
Soon they passed through a tiny village. Nothing much there but a brick
school, a few houses and stores, and an ugly frame building that bore
the words, “Black Stump Volunteer Firemen’s Hall.”
“Is Black Stump a village?” Amy asked.
“Sure is,” Lefty nodded. “You are now in its busy center.”
“It’s a queer name for a town,” Joan remarked.
A little farther along, they came to a large estate on the right side of
the road, hidden behind a Christmas tree hedge that seemed to stretch
for miles. It was the home of Mr. West, one of the wealthiest men in the
country. Through the vine-covered entrance gates, they had a peep at a
winding path, leading over a rustic bridge and past a sparkling pond.
Then, the red-roofed buildings of the Boyville School came into sight as
they started upgrade. Lefty turned in between the two bleak posts and
passed a big, bold sign, which announced:
BOYVILLE
Plainfield Township Truant School
At the desk inside the main building they were greeted by Mr. Link, the
principal, a stern, gray-haired man, as erect as a general, and Mr.
Bassett, his drooping little clerk.
“The band is waiting at the East Cottage,” Mr. Link said. “Come this
way.” He opened a door at the back of the room and led them out into a
cavelike place. It was a tunnel, with round, sloping walls of cold, gray
stone and about as high as a tall man. Dampness rushed at them from the
frigid walls.
The principal noted their puzzled expressions as the four stepped into
the chill, queer place. “This tunnel is a part of our subway system,” he
explained. “All our buildings are connected with this tunnel
underground. It saves a lot of time and trouble. Food is taken in large
thermos cans from the main kitchen to the cottage dining rooms. The
tunnel even runs to the old isolation hospital, across the lots from
these buildings. But we don’t use that hospital any more, for we had so
few contagious cases, we found it better to take them to Plainfield.”
Now he was opening a door, leading them up into a vast place that reeked
of soap and water. Past a pantry and dining room, where tables were set
with white cloths and napkins, rolled into rings, marked each place.
“The boys are just outside this cottage,” said the principal.
Cottage! It certainly wasn’t the cozy place the word suggested, this
bare, unlovely building. They followed Mr. Link up to the second floor
of the cottage, where there was a living room, with the boys’ study
books in apple-pie order on the table. Joan caught a glimpse of the
dormitory through an open door, with rows of scrupulously neat cots. Had
the boys smoothed those beds? She marveled, but Mr. Link had said that
the boys helped the matron with all the household tasks.
The second floor was on a level with the ground, and when they came out
the front of the cottage they spied the band, about twenty boys in
uniforms of French blue, with red-lined capes, costumes which Amy
pronounced “simply gorgeous!” The boys’ shiny instruments sparkled in
the sun. Lefty pulled out the slender black stems of his tripod and set
it up. Tim took charge of the boys, who obeyed him meekly, eyeing the
principal all the time. He had the smaller boys sit on the lower step,
the taller ones behind, the two buglers on each end, with the gold cord
hanging just so. Then Lefty squinted into his camera—he was so slow and
deliberate, at times.
Tim was chatting with the principal. “No, we don’t use the honor
system,” Mr. Link was saying. “I don’t believe it would work. The boys
are bad boys, or they wouldn’t be here. We treat them like the prisoners
they are.”
Joan decided to wander about a bit by herself, while the pictures were
being taken. She strolled back into the cottage, without the others
missing her. As she ventured along she suddenly heard a swish, swish,
and looking over to the corner of the living room, she spied a boy of
about her own age, kneeling beside a pail of soapy, gray water,
scrubbing the floor.
“O gosh!” He jumped to his feet. His face got red. “I—I—” he could do
nothing but stutter and seemed overcome with embarrassment. He was so
different from Chub, who was plump and had red hair and freckles. This
boy was tall and lanky, with a shock of very light hair and big blue
eyes. He stared down at the scrub brush in his rough, red hands. “I—I’m
on the clean-up crew this week,” he said.
“I came with my brother—he’s a cub reporter—and the photographer to take
pictures of the band boys,” Joan explained. “Their uniforms are nice.”
She could not help but compare them with the blue overalls and faded
shirt that he was wearing. He was barefooted, too.
“Ye-ah. They’re nice. We wear uniforms, too—brown ones with brass
buttons.”
He seemed loath to turn back to his work while she was there, so she
turned and started on. “Say,” he called after her, “do me a favor? Tell
me something. Do you know much about a newspaper?”
Did she? When she had lived next to one all her life! She nodded, too
surprised at his question to speak.
“Well,” he went on, “do you know where I could go to school to study
running a linotype machine?”
Joan didn’t know. “But I’ll find out and write you,” she promised. He
seemed to want to know so badly!
Instantly, his thin face lighted up. “Gosh, would you? I’d sure like to
get a letter. The other fellers do, sometimes, but I never have. Just
address it, ‘Alex White,’ and I’ll get it.”
“Don’t your parents write you?” Joan was curious.
“Haven’t any,” came the quick answer. “They both died when I was little,
and I lived with Aunt Florrie, and she used to switch me every time I
played hooky to hang around the pressroom at the _Journal_—”
“The _Journal_!” gasped the girl. “Why, I live next to it!”
“Then I’ve been in your alley a million times, I guess,” drawled Alex
White. “I used to sell papers. Know Papa Sadler?”
Of course. Every one did. Papa Sadler was the name the boys gave to the
jolly, middle-aged circulation manager, who managed the newsboys,
collected their receipts, and paid them their commissions. Joan recalled
how Papa Sadler and his “gang” had enjoyed the picnic. Once Alex had
been one of those happy-hearted boys who swarmed around Papa Sadler,
quarreling for the best routes and showing off and having fun! How had
he happened to end up here?
“Didn’t you like school?” she ventured.
“Nope, couldn’t stand it. Played hooky until the truant officer came,
and Aunt Florrie said she wished he would send me here, because she had
six kids of her own and I was a bother.” His voice dropped. “I’ll be
ever so much obliged to you, if you get me that information,” he said in
a funny, formal way. “I’m going to get out on parole soon, for good
behavior, and I just gotta know if I can go somewhere and learn the
linotype trade.”
“Good-by, Alex White.” With a quick impulse, she reached out and shook
his soapy, moist hand. “That’s an easy name. I can remember it.”
It was too bad about Alex. How different things were for him than for
Eric Reynolds. Yet, each boy, hardly older than herself, knew firmly
what he wanted to be. She guessed Alex’ name had reminded her of
Eric—the names were something alike.
She kept thinking about Alex all the rest of the afternoon while the
principal showed them over the school. They visited the classrooms and
then went through the shops where such things as plumbing, carpentry,
and laundry work were being taught.
“But no printing?” Joan asked, suddenly bold.
“That’s right,” laughed Lefty. “Drum up your own trade.”
But the principal answered her seriously. “Well, there is an
appropriation that might be used for printing, if the boys showed enough
interest. But printing is different from manual labor. It takes real
knowledge and skill. Our boys couldn’t learn it, I’m afraid.”
She was sure they could, especially boys like Alex, who wanted to. But
Mr. Link was not the type of man to argue with. She was still thinking
about Alex when they drove home and passed the beautiful West estate
which was almost next door. Wasn’t there some way out for Alex? Why, she
felt toward him almost the way she had about Tommy. He was as bad off as
Tommy. She wanted to help him too, as they had Tommy. Maybe the
_Journal_ would do something. Dummy seemed to like kids, and he knew the
back office. Maybe he could get one of the linotype men to teach Alex,
but that did not seem probable. Besides, Dummy was a villain, even
though he did seem nice. Amy often remarked, “He’s either just a nice
old man or a deep-dyed villain.”
“Some difference between old man West’s kid and the Boyville School
boys, isn’t there?” Lefty said and brought Joan out of her thoughts.
“It wouldn’t be so terrible,” Amy said, “if only they didn’t have to
wear those horribly unbecoming khaki uniforms.”
* * * * *
Cookie often said that a fire was the most exciting thing a reporter
could be sent to cover. Of course, Tim wasn’t really sent to cover the
fire that broke out on the West estate two nights later, but he was
there and so was Joan. The _Journal_ staff did not work in the evenings.
Every one was usually gone by five or so, but the reporters took turns
coming back to the office every few hours during the evening to see
whether anything had “broken.” Tim had not yet been assigned to any of
this night duty. Mack had been at the office when the report of the fire
came in, and he had phoned for Lefty and his camera and special
equipment to take night pictures. Lefty, driving up to the curb to pick
up Mack, honked also for Tim.
Joan had been sitting on the porch steps, too, with Em cuddled in the
lap of her plaid skirt. Now, she jumped up, spilling Em, and dashed
after her brother. “A fire! Oh, Tim, let me go, too. Mother’s gone to an
Auxiliary meeting, and I don’t want to stay alone.”
That was just an excuse so Tim’d take her.
“All right,” he grunted. “If the rest don’t mind, I don’t.”
“O.K. with me.” Lefty was always nice.
But Mack said, “Why does that kid have to be forever hanging around?”
Was he afraid she would tell the mystery? He had not mentioned it to her
again. He probably wanted to solve it himself and reap the glory.
“Pipe down, Mack.” Lefty told him. “This happens to be my car and if you
don’t care to go with us, you might hire a taxi and put it on your petty
cash account. That is, if you haven’t padded it too much already this
week.”
That was a snub for Mack! For the _Journal_ staff rumored among
themselves that Mack often treated Miss Betty to sodas and candy,
charging it up to his expense account as car fare or stamps. He did it
because he wanted Miss Betty to like him better than she did Tim. They
didn’t know that it was true, but the remark silenced Mack, for he said
nothing as Joan climbed into the back seat. She wished she dared ask
them to stop for Amy. At the corner, however, they passed Chub on his
way to a movie on “passes.” When he saw Lefty and the camera, he did not
wait for anything. He hopped up on the running board and climbed over
the door into the back seat.
“Gee!” he said, when he heard the news. “Wouldn’t you know it would
happen on _Star_ time?” Since the _Journal_ came out in the afternoon,
the _Star_ would have the story first.
The town of Black Stump _was_ busy now. The big double doors of the Fire
Hall stood open, revealing dark emptiness within. Men, women, and
children were running about in the road—all in the direction of the
fire. Lefty had to honk often and drive cautiously.
Now they could see the red glare in the sky, beyond the blur of the
trees. At the entrance to the estate was a cluster of people. Lefty
steered over the rustic bridge and past the pond, now dim and dark. As
they approached the house, they could feel the heat of the fire, hear
the crackle of it and the fall of the timber under the axes of the
Volunteers. Lefty parked the car, and the _Journal_ men hurried out, Tim
leaving orders that Chub was to look out for Joan. Lefty swung his
camera over his shoulder and ran into the flickering, leaping shadows.
Chub dashed off and Joan was alone.
People were all about, shouting, talking, screaming. The smoke made
Joan’s eyes blink as she peered about. She saw that the Volunteers had
confined the fire to one wing of the house.
Chub came darting back. “Say, a bunch of kids from the Boyville School
are helping the Volunteers. They phoned the principal and he sent about
fifty of ’em down. Freed on their word of honor to go back. Trying out a
new honor system. They marched down here, two and two, somebody said.
They’re hustlers. Come and watch.”
Joan followed, stepping over the bumpy, mended places in the Volunteer
hose stretched along the ground. “I know one of the boys at the home,”
she told Chub. “Alex White. I wonder if he’s here.”
By the burning wing, which was Mr. West’s library, were three lines of
boys, clad in khaki uniforms. They were passing armfuls of books from
one to another, along the lines, like a bucket brigade. Firemen working
within the burning home, beat their way through the smoke and appeared
in the long French windows with the stacks of books.
Joan felt sure Alex was with the boys and scrutinized each face. Finally
she located him up near the front, and she and Chub edged up. “Hello,
Alex,” she said when he looked up.
“’Lo,” he answered, and didn’t seem half so surprised to see her as she
had expected. Perhaps he thought that she went with Tim on all his
assignments. She wished she did! But luck like this—going with him twice
in the same week—wouldn’t happen again in a long time.
Mr. West was helping to save the books, too. He was hatless and
coatless, and running here and there. He didn’t look like a
millionaire—this little gray-haired man who, now that his family and
home were in no danger, was all eagerness to save his precious books.
“I’m going to help, too,” announced Chub, and Alex made room for him in
the line.
Joan felt a little put out. Boys had all the fun! She couldn’t stay
there, for a Volunteer, who looked like a butcher, waved her off.
From near the car she watched Lefty’s silhouette as he bent over his
tripod, snapping pictures in the light of the flames.
Presently, the fire was out, only a wet odor of smoke in the air, the
charred part of the home looking like the injured wing of a great, white
bird. Chub came through the smoke. “Come on and say good-by to Alex,” he
said. “He’s a good scout.”
They started along the winding path toward the entrance gates, where the
boys were forming in lines to march back.
“Gosh, what a tough-looking guy,” Chub pressed her arm as they neared
the pond, where, by the water, half hidden by a clump of bushes, they
made out a big figure standing, with brass buttons gleaming like stars.
He was talking to another khaki-suited shadow, and his voice sounded
threatening. “Lissen, I’m going to beat it, if I want to, and if you try
to stop me, you’ll be sorry! See?”
The other boy raised his hand as if to strike, but as he twirled about,
he discovered Chub and Joan and let his hand drop. It was Alex. He
looked as embarrassed as he had when Joan had discovered him scrubbing
the floor. “Oh, hello,” he said. “This is Charley Falls. He was just
having a little joke. Weren’t you, Charley?”
Charley did not answer except with a snort of disgust as he turned away.
At the gates the boys were already in lines, shuffling their feet,
clouds of pale gold dust blowing up in the light of the gate lamps.
“Good-by!” Alex called over his shoulder as he ran to join the others.
Then, the tramp, tramp of their feet sounded as the boys began their
two-mile march back to the school.
Chub and Joan went back and found the photographer busy taking a
flashlight picture of the ruins and the crowds. At length, Lefty folded
up his tripod and came to the car.
“This Boyville stuff will make a good feature,” Mack was saying. “They
saved the old man’s books, all right. They say he’s going to do
something big for the Boyville boys. We’ve decided to follow it up.
Drive on up to the school and see whether all the boys return.”
Lefty stepped on the starter, and in a second, the car had whizzed
around past the smoky house and out through the gates where the boys had
started their march. They did not pass the boys, though it hardly seemed
possible that they could have reached the school before this. There were
lights here and there in the Boyville School and it looked really pretty
at night, like a fairy castle, so high on the hill. Even the cold stone
gates and plain sign took on a different look in the moonlight, Joan
thought, as they turned in and drove up to the main building.
“Just Mack and I’ll go in,” decided Lefty. “Five of us look like a gang,
and that principal’s an old bear, anyway.”
The ones on the back seat sat and waited. The excitement of the fire and
the smoke in her eyes had made Joan rather sleepy. It was silly to have
come on to the school. Of course, the boys had all returned. From
within, they could hear the low drone of voices, rhythmic and even.
Mack rushed down the steps. “What a wow of a story! Two of the boys
didn’t come back. The boys came across lots by the old hospital building
because it was so much shorter than all the way around by the road, and
when they got here, two of them were missing!”
“Which ones?” Joan hardly knew she asked the question.
Mack looked at her. Of course, he did not know that she knew any of the
boys. He had a bit of paper in his hand, and he leaned nearer to let the
dash light fall on it. “Had to bribe one of the kids to tell me that.
Couldn’t get anything out of that clam, Link.” He consulted the paper.
“Charley Falls and Alex White,” he read. “That’s the kids’ names.”