CHAPTER XII
RICH BOY, POOR BOY
The _Journal_ started a contest to boost circulation. The boy readerswere asked to write in on the subject of their favorite baseball player.The scheme worked, too, for the lists showed many new subscribers sincethe boys had been sending in their letters. Every day now, Tim waswriting a story about how the letters were coming in and which playerwas leading in popularity for that day—a funny little column, so full ofwit and real sport news that even Mr. Nixon noticed it.
“We’ll make a regular columnist out of you, Martin,” he teased. “Thatand sports seem to be your long suits. Guess you like ’em better thanstraight news stuff. But stick at the cub job. You have lots to learn.”He glanced at Tim’s copy in his hand. “Don’t say an accident took place;weddings take place, accidents occur. And remember _Journal_style—‘street’ gets lower case, ‘Avenue,’ upper case.”
Mr. Nixon couldn’t give a real compliment to save his soul, Joanthought, but Tim was grinning understandingly, and promised to rememberabout street and Avenue. That meant that Avenue was spelled with acapital, while street was not. Purely _Journal_ style.
From the very first day of the contest they were swamped with letters.Miss Betty and Mack took turns reading them, but soon they were too busyto get them read every day, and the letters began to pile up.
“Shut your eyes and pick one for the prize,” suggested Mack. That waslike him.
“That wouldn’t be fair,” objected Miss Betty.
She went to Editor Nixon about it. He glanced around the office, aworried pucker between his bushy brows. His eyes lighted upon Joan, whowas spending most of her time in the _Journal_ office these days, nowthat Tommy was safely off her hands. (She had to watch for newdevelopments on the Dummy mystery.) Burke had hunted through theenvelopes for hers one pay day! The editor was now so accustomed toseeing her around that now he practically gave her an assignment.
“Look here,” he waved his fat, blue pencil toward her. “Why can’t youand the office pest read over these baseball fan letters?” He meantChub.
Wasn’t it lucky that English had always been Joan’s favorite and easiestsubject at school? She could judge the letters with a critical eye. Chubwasn’t much use that way. He didn’t recognize bad grammar even when itstared him in the face. But he was a big help, for he knew the baseballstuff. “This one sounds good,” he’d say. “But it’s something he’s readsomewhere. He hasn’t thought it up himself.”
The _Journal_ was offering two prizes. The first was to be a check fortwenty-five dollars. Uncle John had offered it himself. The second prizewas two seats to the best baseball game of the season in Ohio, to beplayed that year in Cleveland. Not only that, but the lucky winner wouldbe introduced to Babe Ruth and would be given a baseball autographed bythe famous player. The second prize, so every one thought, was about asnice as the first prize, and was worth as much in actual money, for allexpenses were to be paid for the trip, the car fare, tickets, and so on,having been donated. It was the kind of prize to fascinate a boy. Andyet, twenty-five dollars was a lot of money.
When the contest ended, Joan and Chub had narrowed the letters down totwo which were decidedly better than the rest. This afternoon’s paperwas to announce the prize winners. Mr. Nixon had handed the two bestletters back to Joan, with, “You might as well do it all. You decidewhich one’s best. They both look good to me.”
Joan sighed again as she stared at the two letters before her. “I wishone of the rules of the contest had been for the boys to use pen names,”she said to herself. “Then I wouldn’t know who was who.”
She was sitting at the long, crowded table that stretched across themiddle of the editorial room; the desks were all around the windows andwalls. She had cleared a space on the table; it was here, every day forthe past weeks, she and Chub had read the letters written by the boyreaders of the _Journal_.
Joan realized she would have to make up her mind, now, for Tim, who waswriting up the announcement story, was looking over his typewriter ather for the names. The two letters seemed almost equally good, but onewritten by fifteen-year-old Eric Reynolds was slightly better than theother one, which was signed, “Jimmy Kennedy, age thirteen.” Joan knew ofthe Reynolds family—they lived in a big place, with a sunken garden anda tall, iron fence all around. Too bad a rich boy like Eric hadsubmitted a letter. Well, she might give him the second prize—the tripto the game and the autographed ball. He didn’t need the money, and fromJimmy Kennedy’s address on South Washington Street, she knew that helived in one of the soot-streaked, gray-painted houses, which had theirback yards cut into triangles by the railroad running along there. Jimmyought to have the money prize. Yet his letter wasn’t quite as good asEric’s. But Eric was rich, and Jimmy was poor. Rich boy, poor boy! Itreminded her of
Rich man, poor man, Beggarman, thief, Doctor, lawyer, Merchant, chief!
“Mark ’em ‘first’ and ‘second,’” Tim shouted. “I’m going to run thewhole letters, just as written.”
Joan patted Em before she decided. Em loved this table, too. Now, shewas curled upon a heap of papers from small surrounding towns that MissBetty clipped for social items, and was batting her topaz eyes, almostasleep. Then, Joan bent over with the stub of blue pencil Mr. Nixon hadgiven her, and with quick decision, she wrote a Roman I on Jimmy’sletter and a II on Eric’s.
There, she had done it! Mr. Nixon was standing by Tim’s typewriter,waiting for the copy. It was the last bit, for the composing men wereready to lock up the forms. “End that sentence,” he commanded Tim.“We’re waiting on that story.” He vanished through the swinging door.
Joan continued to sit at the table. Things were always so hurried untilpress time, and then the rush was over. She and Chub often workedpuzzles and tried writing headlines and doing all sorts of things atthis time of the day. Chub always had a new enthusiasm, and Joan foundmost of them interesting. Somehow, the things boys did were always morefun than what girls did. For awhile, Chub had been studying a book, _Howto Be a Detective_, and was always trying to make a mystery out ofeverything. Dummy, of course, was a real mystery. No one could denythat. Now, Chub had sent away for a book of magic.
“Mark ’em ‘first’ and ‘second’,” Tim shouted.]
To-day he came up to the long table, with an ink bottle in his hand. Heput it on the table and uncorked it. “It’s magic ink,” he informed her.“I made it. The book showed how—out of different chemicals. It writesjust like any ink, but only lasts a day or so, and then it becomesinvisible. To get it back, you have to hold it over heat.”
He was about to demonstrate its powers when Em, suddenly awake, stood upand patted her front paws at the bottle, sniffing and scratching.
“What ails her?” asked the office boy.
Joan wrinkled up her nose. “It’s that ink. It has a funny smell—shehates some smells like gunpowder, but this is sort of like sassafras.She likes it. She thinks it’s catnip, I guess.”
Em had succeeded in wetting one paw. Then she rolled over and over uponthe floor, rubbing her nose with her paws, her eyes beaming, purringloudly all the while.
Mr. Nixon came out front again, and Chub, afraid of being pressed intoservice, made an exit. Mr. Nixon called Miss Betty to his desk. Joan sawher shake her head. Then he motioned to Joan, and she went over. “Wonderif you could do something for me? I want a story about these two boyswho won the prizes. Miss Betty’s tied up with a church wedding, andTim’s busy, too. Think you could do it? Get their pictures, and find outsomething about ’em. Your brother can write it up. You’ve got theaddresses. Get Burke to give you some petty cash for street car fares.”
“Oh, I’ll walk,” Joan told him. It was like asking for money to haveBurke dole out nickels and dimes when she wasn’t really on the pay roll.Just being sent out like this was pay enough for her. She had somechange in her pocket, anyway. She dived into a phone booth to informMother importantly that Mr. Nixon was sending her out. Mother would hateto hear ab
out the assignment, but Joan was thrilled. Of course, itwasn’t a real assignment, for Tim would write it up, but she was reallyhelping him, now.
It was too far to walk. She boarded a red and yellow street car at thecorner, and went north on Market Street, past Mrs. McNulty’s. Joanwished she had on the new flowered organdie Mother had made for her.Still, the pleated tan silk skirt with sweater to match, a gay trianglescarf around her shoulders and a jaunty béret on her head looked verynice, indeed. This costume seemed more grown up than most of herclothes. What if she had on the old plaid skirt and a middy! She got offright in front of the Reynolds residence. Going places was always funtill she got there. Then she was often seized by an attack ofbashfulness. Now, she walked up the bluestone path to the house and rangthe bell before she got panicky. The door was opened by a colored man ina white coat. “Master Eric’s up in his room,” he said in reply to herquestion. “Mrs. Reynolds is giving a party on the west porch. I’ll callMaster Eric.” He showed her into a living room as large as the editorialroom at the _Journal_. Joan’s dusty oxfords sank into the velvet of theChinese blue rug on the floor. There was a grand piano and on itspolished surface was Eric’s picture—an almost life-size of his headonly. Joan heard the voices of the guests on the porch, the clink ofchina, and she smelled the food. A uniformed maid, bearing a tray ofdishes, entered from the sun porch.
Eric came down the stairs. He was a tall boy, with dark hair, slightlywavy, that he tossed back from his forehead with a quick movement of hishead. He had dark eyes, and a nice smile, but he was rather pale. He wasshyly surprised when she informed him that he had won the second prize,though he did not seem so pleased about it as she had expected. Was hedisappointed that he had not won first? He should have, but he did notneed the money. She knew he’d enjoy the big game, for he must likebaseball to have written such a splendid letter.
Eric’s mother, a tall woman with glasses on a gold chain—came in, too.“I’m serving luncheon to my guests.” Her voice was cold and ungracious.“But I suppose I can arrange to have Eloise serve you and your friend,also, Eric.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” declined Joan. “I had my lunch long ago, and I haveanother call to make. But I would like a picture of Eric.”
The boy seemed relieved that she was not going to stay. Mrs. Reynoldshurried off. The maid came into the room again, with steam coming fromthe tray.
“Won’t you have a cup of tea, Miss?” she asked Joan, holding out a cup,and as Joan shook her head, she offered it to Eric.
“None for me, either.” He put out his hand to wave the cup away, and thegirl jerked the cup back, causing a few drops to fall on his hand.
Eric’s face got whiter than ever. He cradled his fingers in his otherhand. “My fingers!” he spoke as if in agony.
“Why, it couldn’t have hurt much,” Joan remarked.
“No, it didn’t,” he admitted, “but it might have.”
Afraid of getting hurt! What a sissy! And Joan had rather liked himuntil then. She asked him a few questions for the paper, and left, withthe big photograph tucked under her arm.
The street car back to town carried her past the _Journal_ office. A fewblocks more and she was at Washington Street. Joan knew her Plainfield.She realized that the first thing a reporter must do is to learn thecity. She studied maps and knew the names of all the streets and evensome of the alleys. She wanted to learn as much as she could, so thatshe could soon be a real reporter.
Jimmy’s house was just like a dozen others on the street. The front ofit looked shut up, but when Joan knocked it was immediately answered bya boy, who looked young for thirteen. “Are you Jimmy Kennedy?” sheasked. “I came to tell you that you won the first prize—”
“I ain’t Jimmy. I’m Johnny,” the boy interrupted. He turned and shoutedinto the house at the top of his voice. “Hey! Everybody! Jimmy’s won thefirst prize.”
Instantly, it seemed to Joan, boys of all ages appeared. There were onlyfive altogether, however, she found out when they quieted down and shecould count them. Jimmy was the oldest. Johnny, who had shouted thenews, was next. Then, there were Joe and Jeff, and little Jerry, thefour-year-old baby of the family. The boys’ mother appeared from thekitchen, drying her hands on her apron. “For shame, you boys, not to askthe newspaper lady in.” (She thinks I’m grown up! thought Joan.) “Comein, my dear, and we’ll have some lemonade all around to celebrate. Sure,it’s grand news that Jimmy will be getting a prize. That Jimmy, he’sthat crazy about baseball! He’s been wild to go to that game and getthat signed baseball.”
The mother seemed to have the prizes mixed, but Joan said nothing. Howglad the mother’d be to have him win the money. They all sat around theoilcloth-covered table. Young Jerry squirmed into Joan’s lap. Shemanaged to drink her lemonade and eat the sugary cookies withoutspilling any on his dark Dutch-cut hair or sailor suit. He had great,blue eyes like all his brothers, and looked like “Sonny Boy” of moviefame. Jimmy had more freckles than any of the others. He seemed bashful,though jolly, but somehow not so elated over the prize as she hadthought he would be. But boys were funny that way. They never showed howthey really felt. Perhaps, after all, he was just embarrassed and a bitbewildered to have won twenty-five dollars. She glanced around thecluttered, shabby kitchen and was satisfied that she had decided rightabout the prizes. They could buy something nice with the money, or putit away for Jimmy’s education.
When Joan asked for a picture, Mrs. Kennedy set her glass down on thetable. “I declare, I don’t believe we’ve got a recent picture of Jimmy,”she announced, sadly. “The latest one was taken when he was about ten,Johnny’s age, in his surplice for the choir.” It showed a boy who lookedvery much as Jimmy did now, except that he wore a Buster Brown collar.
“Don’t give it to her, Mom!” protested Jimmy. “Everybody’ll think I’m ababy. Do they _have_ to have a picture?”
“The editor wants one,” Joan assured him. “There’s no time to get thestaff photographer to take one.” She did not say that the _Journal_would probably not bother sending Lefty out to take a picture. He hadmore important ones to take. Besides, it was always cheaper to borrow apicture. “But I’m sure Lefty—that’s the photographer—can fix this up,”she went on. “He can change the collar to the kind you’re wearing now.”
“Can he, honest?” Joe was all eyes. “By magic?”
Mrs. Kennedy took the picture out of the frame for Joan, and she left toget back to the office. When the picture came out the next afternoon,Jimmy Kennedy was wearing a grown-up collar and a four-in-hand tie,instead of a Windsor. Joan had known Lefty could do anything. The bigpicture of Eric and the smaller one of Jimmy were the same size in thepaper reproduction, and Jimmy’s looked just as nice as Eric’s, which hadbeen taken by the town’s best photographer.
Tim wrote up a dandy story, too, from the data Joan could give him.“Gee, you saw enough to write a novel about it!” he said, as she reeledoff the number of lamps, candlesticks, and clocks that graced theReynolds home. “I’m glad it’s a boy story this time,” he smiled. “I suregot tired of writing up babies!”
The _Journal_ sent the check to Jimmy and the game tickets to Eric. Joanwas in Uncle John’s office when he signed the check, for it was not anordinary check like the ones Burke made out for stamps and clean towels.It was a special check and had to be signed by Uncle John himself, withhis odd, illegible scrawl, John W. Martin. He always made anold-fashioned _M_. He had to hunt around for fresh ink, as the inkwellon his desk was full of dry, black chunks. He found a bottle behind thebooks on the desk and used that.
Both boys promptly wrote in with brief, polite notes of thanks. Joanread them over when they were published in the _Journal_, each one abare stick (two inches of print). They seemed too short and too polite.What was the trouble? They were not at all the frankly delighted, boyishnotes that you would have expected Eric and Jimmy to write.
Two days later, Gertie appeared in the little hallway between thatoffice and the editorial one. “A Jewis
h gentleman, very much out oftemper, is demanding to speak to Mr. Martin,” she announced. Then shesaw that Tim’s desk was vacant. “Isn’t the cub here?”
Joan looked up from the damp proof sheets of the society layout forSunday. She was helping Miss Betty and was pasting the typed captionsunder the proper picture. She shook her head at Gertie, as she carefullypressed down on a strip of copy paper, bearing the title, “To be MarriedThis Week.”
Gertie left, but reappeared in a flash. “Say, this gink won’t take nofor an answer. Madder’n a hornet. Says he wants to talk to some one whoknows something about those prizes the boys won.”
Joan forgot the brides and jumped up, grabbing a pad and pencil. Shestarted to the nearest phone booth, knowing that Gertie would switch thecall back to her. She clamped the head phones over her ears, and had herhands free to make notes. A tumult of quick Jewish phrases sounded inher ears. “Hey, you Mr. Martin, what you think this boy try pull tricklike this?”
“Who is it, please?”
“I tell you two, t’ree times. It’s Abie. You know me. I got Abie’sPawnshop on Main Street, near Spring.” His voice drifted away, as thoughhe were talking to some one else. “Well, all right, you talk, then, andtell Mr. Martin come quick, or I have you put in jail.”
Another voice, surprisingly familiar, inquired whether she were Mr.Martin.
“No, this is _Miss_ Martin,” Joan felt important, but puzzled over thatvoice. “Can I help you?”
“This is Eric Reynolds,” came the answer. “Will you please have some onefrom your office come over here and help me out. I’m in trouble.”