_A New Week Dawns_
Monday morning dawned clear and bright. There were no traces in the sky
of the storm which on the previous day had devastated so many farms west
of Rolfe. The air was warm with a fragrance and sweetness that only a
small town knows in springtime.
Helen exchanged greetings with half a dozen people as she hurried down
the street to start her first day at the office as editor of the
_Herald_.
Grant Hughes, the postmaster, was busy sweeping out his office but he
stopped his work and called to Helen as she turned down the alley-way
which led to the _Herald_ office.
"Starting in bright and early, aren't you?"
"Have to," smiled Helen, "for Tom and I have only half days in which to
put out the paper and do the job work."
"I know, I know," mused the old postmaster, "but you're chips off the old
block. You'll make good."
"Thanks, Mr. Hughes," said Helen. "Your believing in us is going to
help."
She hastened on the few steps to the office and opened the doors and
windows for the rooms were close and stuffy after being closed overnight.
The young editor of the _Herald_ paused to look around the composing
room. Tom had certainly done a good job cleaning up the day before. The
four steel forms which would hold the type for the week's edition were in
place, ready for the news she would write and the ads which it would be
Tom's work to solicit. The Linotype seemed to be watching her in a very
superior but friendly manner and even the old press was polished and
cleaned as never before.
Helen returned to the editorial office, rolled a sheet of copypaper into
her typewriter, and sat down to write the story of the storm. She might
have to change certain parts of the story about the condition of the
injured later in the week but she could get the main part of it written
while it was still fresh in her memory.
Hugh Blair had always made a point of writing his news stories in simple
English and he had drilled Helen and Tom in his belief that the simpler a
story is written the more widely it will be read. He had no time for the
multitudes of adjectives which many country editors insist upon using,
although he felt that strong, colorful words had their place in news
stories.
With her father's beliefs on news writing almost second nature, Helen
started her story. It was simple and dramatic, as dramatic as the sudden
descent of the storm on the valley. Her fingers moved rapidly over the
keyboard and the story seemed to write itself. She finished one page and
rolled another into the machine, hardly pausing in her rapid typing.
Page after page she wrote until she finally leaned back in her swivel
chair, tired from the strain of her steady work.
She picked up the half dozen pages of typed copy. This was her first big
story and she wanted it to read well, to be something of which her father
would be proud when he read the copy of the paper they would send him.
She went over the story carefully, changing a word here, another there.
Occasionally she operated on some of her sentences, paring down the
longer ones and speeding up the tempo of the story. It was nine-thirty
before she was satisfied that she had done the best she could and she
stuck the story on the copy spindle, ready for Tom when he wanted to
translate it into type on the Linotype.
Helen slid another sheet of copypaper into her typewriter and headed it
"PERSONALS." Farther down the page she wrote four items about out-of-town
people who were visiting in Rolfe. She had just finished her personals
when she heard the whistle of the morning train.
The nine forty-five in the morning and the seven-fifteen in the evening
were the only trains through Rolfe on the branch line of the A. and T.
railroad. The nine forty-five was the upbound train to Cranston, the
state capital. It reached Cranston about one o'clock, turned around there
and started back a little after three, passing through Rolfe on its down
trip early in the evening, its over-night terminal being Gladbrook, the
county seat.
Helen picked up a pencil and pad of paper, snapped the lock on the front
door and ran for the depot two blocks away. The daily trains were always
good for a few personals. She meant to leave the office earlier but had
lost track of the time, so intense had been her interest in writing her
story of the storm.
The nine forty-five was still half a mile below town and puffing up the
grade to the station when Helen reached the platform. She spoke to the
agent and the express man and hurried into the waiting room. Two women
she recognized were picking up their suit cases when she entered. Helen
explained her mission and they told her where they were going. She jotted
down the notes quickly for the train was rumbling into town. The local
ground to a stop and Helen went to the platform to see if anyone had
arrived from the county seat.
One passenger descended, a tall, austere-looking man whose appearance was
not in the least inviting but Helen wanted every news item she could get
so she approached him, with some misgiving.
"I'm the editor for the _Rolfe Herald_," she explained, "and I'd like to
have an item about your visit here."
"You're what?" exclaimed the stranger.
"I'm the editor of the local paper," repeated Helen, "and I'd like a
story about your visit in town."
"You're pretty young for an editor," persisted the stranger, with a smile
that decidedly changed his appearance and made him look much less
formidable.
"I'm substituting for my father," said Helen.
"That quite explains things," agreed the stranger. "I'm Charles King of
Cranston, state superintendent of schools, and I'm making a few
inspections around the state. If you'd like, I'll see you again before I
leave and tell you what I think of your school system here."
"I'm sure you'll thoroughly approve," said Helen. "Mr. Fowler, the
superintendent, is very progressive and has fine discipline."
"I'll tell him he has a good booster in the editor," smiled Mr. King.
"Now, if you'll be good enough to direct me to the school I'll see that
you get a good story out of my visit here."
Helen supplied the necessary directions and the state superintendent left
the depot.
The nine forty-five, with its combination mail and baggage car and two
day coaches, whistled out and Helen returned to the _Herald_ office.
She found a farmer from the east side of the valley waiting for her.
"I'd like to get some sale bills printed," he said, "and I'll need about
five hundred quarter page bills. How much will they cost?"
Helen opened the booklet with job prices listed and gave the farmer a
quotation on the job.
"Sounds fair enough," he said. "At least it's a dollar less than last
year."
"Paper doesn't cost quite as much," explained Helen, "and we're passing
the saving on to you. Be sure and tell your neighbors about our
reasonable printing prices."
"I'll do that," promised the farmer. "I'll bring in the copy Tuesday and
get the bills Friday morning."
"My brother will have them ready for you," said Helen, "but if you want
to get the most out of your sale, why not run your bill as an ad in the
_Herald_. On a combination like that we can give you a special price. You
can have a quarter page ad in the paper plus 500 bills at only a little
more than the cost of the ad in the paper. It's the cost of setting up
the ad that counts for once it is set up we can run off the bills at very
little extra cost."
"How much circulation do you have?"
"Eight hundred and seventy-five," said Helen. "Three hundred papers go in
town and the rest out on the country routes." She consulted her price
book and quoted the price for the combination ad and bills.
"I'll take it," agreed the farmer, who appeared to be a keen business
man.
"Tell you what," he went on. "If you'd work out some kind of a tieup with
the farm bureau at Gladbrook and carry a page with special farm news you
could get a lot of advertising from farmers. If you do, don't use
'canned' news sent out by agricultural schools. Get the county agent to
write a column a week and then get the rest of it from farmers around
here. Have items about what they are doing, how many hogs they are
feeding, how much they get for their cattle, when they market them and
news of their club activities."
"Sounds like a fine idea," said Helen, "but we'll have to go a little
slowly at first. My brother and I are trying to run the paper while Dad
is away recovering his health and until we get everything going smoothly
we can't attempt very many new things."
"You keep it in mind," said the farmer, "for I tell you, we people on the
farms like to see news about ourselves in the paper and it would mean
more business for you. Well, I've got to be going. I'll bring my copy in
tomorrow."
"We'll be expecting it," said Helen. "Thanks for the business."
She went around to the postoffice and returned with a handful of letters.
Most of them were circulars but one of them was a card from her father.
She read it with such eagerness that her hands trembled. It had been
written while the train was speeding through southwestern Kansas and her
father said that he was not as tired from the train trip as he had
expected. By the time they received the card, he added, he would be at
Rubio, Arizona, where he was to make his home until he was well enough to
return to the more rigorous climate of the north.
Helen telephoned her mother at once and read the message on the card.
"I'm going to write to Dad and tell him all about the storm and how happy
we are that everything is going well for him," said Helen.
"I'll write this afternoon," said her mother, "and we'll put the letters
in one envelope and get them off on the evening mail. Perhaps Tom will
find time to add a note."
Helen sat down at the desk, found several sheets of office stationery and
a pen, and started her letter to her father. She was half way through
when Jim Preston entered.
"Good morning, Miss Blair," he said. "I've got the _Liberty_ ready to go
if you'd like to run down the lake and see how much damage the twister
caused at the summer resorts."
"Thanks," replied Helen, "I'll be with you right away." She put her
letter aside and closed the office. Five minutes later they were at the
main pier on the lakeshore.
The _Liberty_, a sturdy, 28-foot cruiser, was moored to the pier. The
light oak hood covering the engine shone brightly in the morning sun and
Helen could see that Jim Preston had waxed it recently. The hood extended
for about fourteen feet back from the bow of the boat, completely
enclosing the 60 horsepower engine which drove the craft. The steering
wheel and ignition switches were mounted on a dash and behind this were
four benches with leather covered cork cushions which could be used as
life preservers.
The boatman stepped into the _Liberty_ and pressed the starter. There was
the whirr of gears and the muffled explosions from the underwater exhaust
as the engine started. The _Liberty_ quivered at its moorings, anxious to
be away and cutting through the tiny whitecaps which danced in the
sunshine.
Helen bent down and loosened the half hitches on the ropes which held the
boat. Jim Preston steadied it while she stepped in and took her place on
the front seat beside him.
The boatman shoved the clutch ahead, the tone of the motor deepened and
they moved slowly away from the pier. With quickening pace, they sped out
into the lake, slapping through the white caps faster and faster until
tiny flashes of spray stung Helen's face.
"How long will it take us to reach Crescent Beach?" asked Helen for she
knew the boatman made his first stop at the new resort at the far end of
the lake.
"It's nine miles," replied Jim Preston. "If I open her up we'll be down
there in fifteen or sixteen minutes. Want to make time?"
"Not particularly," replied Helen, "but I enjoy a fast ride."
"Here goes," smiled Preston and he shoved the throttle forward.
The powerful motor responded to the increased fuel and the _Liberty_
shook herself and leaped ahead, cutting a v-shaped swath down the center
of the lake. Solid sheets of spray flew out on each side of the boat and
Preston put up spray boards to keep them from being drenched.
Helen turned around and looked back at Rolfe, nestling serenely along the
north end of the lake. It was a quiet, restful scene, the white houses
showing through the verdant green of the new leaves. She could see her
own home and thought she glimpsed her mother working in the garden at the
rear.
Then the picture faded as they sped down the lake and Helen gave herself
up to complete enjoyment of the boat trip.
There were few signs along the shore of the storm. After veering away
from Rolfe it had evidently gone directly down the lake until it reached
the summer resorts.
In less than ten minutes Rolfe had disappeared and the far end of the
lake was in view. Preston slowed the _Liberty_ somewhat and swung across
the lake to the left toward Crescent Beach, the new resort which several
wealthy men from the state capital were promoting.
They slid around a rocky promontory and into view of the resort.
Boathouses dipped crazily into the water and the large bath-house, the
most modern on the lake, had been crushed while the toboggan slide had
been flipped upside down by the capricious wind.
The big pier had collapsed and Preston nosed the _Liberty_ carefully
in-shore until the bow grated on the fresh, clean sand of the beach.
Kirk Foster, the young manager of the resort, was directing a crew of men
who were cleaning up the debris.
The boatman introduced Helen to the manager and he willingly gave her all
the details about the damage. The large, new hotel had escaped unharmed
and the private cottages, some of which were nicer than the homes in
Rolfe, had suffered only minor damage.
"The damage to the bathhouse, about $35,000, was the heaviest," said the
manager, "but don't forget to say in your story that we'll have things
fixed up in about two weeks, and everything is insured."
"I won't," promised Helen, "and when you have any news be sure and let me
know."
"We cater to a pretty ritzy crowd," replied the manager, "and we ought to
have some famous people here during the summer. I'll tip you off whenever
I think there is a likely story."
Jim Preston left the mail for the resort and they returned to the
Liberty, backed out carefully, and headed across the lake for Sandy
Point, a resort which had been on the lake for more years than Helen
could remember.
Sandy Point was popular with the townspeople and farmers and was known
for its wonderful bathing beach. Lake Dubar was shallow there and it was
safe for almost anyone to enjoy the bathing at Sandy Point.
The old resort was not nearly as pretentious as Crescent Beach for its
bathhouses, cottages and hotel were weather beaten and vine-covered. Art
Provost, the manager, was waiting for the morning mail when the Liberty
churned up to the pier.
"Storm missed you," said the boatman.
"And right glad I am that it did," replied Provost. "I thought we were
goners when I saw it coming down the lake but it swung over east and took
its spite out on Crescent Beach. Been over there yet?"
"Stopped on the way down," replied Jim Preston. "They suffered a good bit
of damage but will have it cleaned up in a couple or three days."
"Glad to hear that," said Provost, "that young manager, Foster, is a fine
fellow."
Helen inquired for news about the resort and was told that it would be
another week, about the first of June, before the season would be under
way.
They left Sandy Point and headed up the lake, this time at a leisurely
twenty miles an hour. Helen enjoyed every minute of the trip, drinking in
the quiet beauty of the lake, its peaceful hills and the charm of the
farms with their cattle browsing contentedly in the pastures.
It was noon when they docked at Rolfe and Helen, after thanking the
boatman, went home instead of returning to the office.
Tom had come from school and lunch was on the table. Helen told her
brother of the sale of the quarter page ad for the paper and the 500
bills.
"That's fine," said Tom, "but you must have looked on the wrong page in
the cost book."
"Didn't I ask enough?"
"You were short about fifty cents," grinned Tom, "but we'll make a profit
on the job, especially since you got him to run it as an ad in the
paper."
"What are you going to do this afternoon?" Mrs. Blair asked Tom.
"I'll make the rounds of the stores and see what business I can line up
for the paper," said the business manager of the _Herald_. "Then there
are a couple of jobs of letterheads I'll have to get out of the way and
by the time I get them printed the metal in the Linotype will be hot and
I can set up Helen's editorials and whatever other copy she got ready
this morning."
"The storm story runs six pages," said Helen, "and when I add a few
paragraphs about the summer resorts, it will take another page. Is it too
long?"
"Not if it is well written."
"You'll have to judge that for yourself."
"I walked home with Marg Stevens," said Tom, "and she said to tell you
the sophomore picnic planned for this afternoon has been postponed until
Friday. A lot of the boys from the country have to go home early and help
clean up the storm damage."
"Suits me just as well," said Helen, "for we'll have the paper off the
press Thursday and I'll be ready for a picnic Friday."
Tom went to the office after lunch and Helen walked to school with
Margaret. Just before the assembly was called to order, one of the
teachers came down to Helen's desk and told her she was wanted in the
superintendent's office. When Helen reached the office she found
Superintendent Fowler and Mr. King, the state superintendent of schools,
waiting for her. The state superintendent greeted her cordially and told
Superintendent Fowler how Helen had met him at the train.
"I promised to give her a story about my visit," he explained, "and I
thought this would be a good time."
Superintendent Fowler nodded his agreement and the state school leader
continued.
"I hope you'll consider it good news," he told Helen, "when I say that
the Rolfe school has been judged the finest in the state for towns under
one thousand inhabitants."
"It certainly is news," said Helen. "Mr. Fowler has worked hard in the
two years he has been here and the _Herald_ will be glad to have this
story."
"I thought you would," said Mr. King, and he told Helen in detail of the
improvement which had been made in the local school in the last two years
and how much attention it was attracting throughout the state.
"You really ought to have a school page in the local paper," he told
Helen in concluding.
"Perhaps we will next fall," replied the young editor of the _Herald_.
"By that time Tom and I should be veterans in the newspaper game and able
to add another page of news to the _Herald_."
"We'll talk it over next August when I come back to get things in shape
for the opening of the fall term," said Superintendent Fowler. "I'm
heartily in favor of one if Tom and Helen can spare the time and the
space it will require."
Helen returned to the assembly with the handful of notes she had jotted
down while Mr. King talked. Her American History class had gone to its
classroom and she picked up her textbook and walked down the assembly,
inquiring eyes following her, wondering why she had been called into the
superintendent's office. They'd have to read the _Herald_ to find out
that story.