CHAPTER XV
JOAN MEETS ALEX
Even Tim seemed to have more respect for Joan after her write-up of theDavis kiddie window. Mr. Dugan had been satisfied, too, and had sentJoan a tiny sun suit of bright green hue, for her to give to Tommy. Hesaid it was in appreciation of the nice write-up she gave them. MissBetty was always being given all sorts of things, even a tip once from awealthy woman, whose party she had written up extravagantly. “Ithappened I was a little short of news that day!” Miss Betty explained.
Joan was helping Tim more and more. She had gradually fallen into thehabit of getting the stuff for the Ten Years Ago To-Day column ready forhim every day.
Miss Betty was right when she said that the articles in the files werelike stories. To-day, she found an engrossing one—all about a man whohad 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 nodeficiency and had reported that the man had simply made a mistake. Joancouldn’t help feeling sorry for him, whoever he was, running away likethat when he’d done nothing wrong. She knew how helpless one felt when amistake happened that wasn’t expected like that. She read parts of italoud to Tim.
“Hair slightly gray, blue eyes—um, that would fit a lot of people,” Timsaid. “It’s not specific enough. That’s the most important thing tolearn in the newspaper world—get details.” Joan finished her typing andTim was pleased when she handed it to him.
Tim was in a good humor. He whistled as he reached for his hat. “Want togo along?” he asked. “The paper’s on the press and things are dull, soNix’s sending Lefty out to the Boyville School to take pictures of theboys’ band in their new uniforms. And I’m to go along to see if I can’tget a feature out of it.”
She would adore it. “But—Amy’s waiting for me—” she faltered. She had onthe flowered organdie of palest yellow. She and Amy had planned a callon a visiting girl. But a chance to go with Tim! They could do theother, any time.
“Take her along,” he invited. They found Amy waiting on the sidewalkengaged 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 heldopen the sagging door. “Sure, you can both go along.”
Lefty was nice, and rather young. Not so young as Tim, of course, butstill, young. Joan and Amy climbed in. It might be just taking a ride toAmy, going out ten miles or so in the country on this sunshinyafternoon, but to Joan it was covering an assignment. Now that she was areporter, too! Amy began chattering away, saying that this was the firsttime she had ever sat behind Tim and noticed what good-looking ears hehad. Tim reddened at this, but did not get peeved. Amy always flatteredthe boys and they seemed to like it. Lefty was occupied with thedriving. Joan wished that Chub could have come along, too.
Soon they passed through a tiny village. Nothing much there but a brickschool, a few houses and stores, and an ugly frame building that borethe 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 ofthe road, hidden behind a Christmas tree hedge that seemed to stretchfor miles. It was the home of Mr. West, one of the wealthiest men in thecountry. Through the vine-covered entrance gates, they had a peep at awinding path, leading over a rustic bridge and past a sparkling pond.
Then, the red-roofed buildings of the Boyville School came into sight asthey started upgrade. Lefty turned in between the two bleak posts andpassed a big, bold sign, which announced:
BOYVILLE Plainfield Township Truant School
At the desk inside the main building they were greeted by Mr. Link, theprincipal, 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 thisway.” He opened a door at the back of the room and led them out into acavelike place. It was a tunnel, with round, sloping walls of cold, graystone and about as high as a tall man. Dampness rushed at them from thefrigid walls.
The principal noted their puzzled expressions as the four stepped intothe chill, queer place. “This tunnel is a part of our subway system,” heexplained. “All our buildings are connected with this tunnelunderground. It saves a lot of time and trouble. Food is taken in largethermos cans from the main kitchen to the cottage dining rooms. Thetunnel even runs to the old isolation hospital, across the lots fromthese buildings. But we don’t use that hospital any more, for we had sofew 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 reekedof soap and water. Past a pantry and dining room, where tables were setwith 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, thisbare, unlovely building. They followed Mr. Link up to the second floorof the cottage, where there was a living room, with the boys’ studybooks in apple-pie order on the table. Joan caught a glimpse of thedormitory through an open door, with rows of scrupulously neat cots. Hadthe boys smoothed those beds? She marveled, but Mr. Link had said thatthe boys helped the matron with all the household tasks.
The second floor was on a level with the ground, and when they came outthe front of the cottage they spied the band, about twenty boys inuniforms of French blue, with red-lined capes, costumes which Amypronounced “simply gorgeous!” The boys’ shiny instruments sparkled inthe sun. Lefty pulled out the slender black stems of his tripod and setit up. Tim took charge of the boys, who obeyed him meekly, eyeing theprincipal 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 cordhanging just so. Then Lefty squinted into his camera—he was so slow anddeliberate, at times.
Tim was chatting with the principal. “No, we don’t use the honorsystem,” Mr. Link was saying. “I don’t believe it would work. The boysare bad boys, or they wouldn’t be here. We treat them like the prisonersthey are.”
Joan decided to wander about a bit by herself, while the pictures werebeing taken. She strolled back into the cottage, without the othersmissing 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 ofabout 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 donothing but stutter and seemed overcome with embarrassment. He was sodifferent from Chub, who was plump and had red hair and freckles. Thisboy was tall and lanky, with a shock of very light hair and big blueeyes. He stared down at the scrub brush in his rough, red hands. “I—I’mon the clean-up crew this week,” he said.
“I came with my brother—he’s a cub reporter—and the photographer to takepictures of the band boys,” Joan explained. “Their uniforms are nice.”She could not help but compare them with the blue overalls and fadedshirt that he was wearing. He was barefooted, too.
“Ye-ah. They’re nice. We wear uniforms, too—brown ones with brassbuttons.”
He seemed loath to turn back to his work while she was there, so sheturned and started on. “Say,” he called after her, “do me a favor? Tellme something. Do you know much about a newspaper?”
Did she? When she had lived next to one all her life! She nodded, toosurprised at his question to speak.
“Well,” he went on, “do you know where I could go to school to studyrunning a linotype machine?”
Joan didn’t know. “But I’ll find out and write you,” she promised. Heseem
ed to want to know so badly!
Instantly, his thin face lighted up. “Gosh, would you? I’d sure like toget a letter. The other fellers do, sometimes, but I never have. Justaddress 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 Iplayed 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 AlexWhite. “I used to sell papers. Know Papa Sadler?”
Of course. Every one did. Papa Sadler was the name the boys gave to thejolly, middle-aged circulation manager, who managed the newsboys,collected their receipts, and paid them their commissions. Joan recalledhow Papa Sadler and his “gang” had enjoyed the picnic. Once Alex hadbeen one of those happy-hearted boys who swarmed around Papa Sadler,quarreling for the best routes and showing off and having fun! How hadhe 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 hadsix kids of her own and I was a bother.” His voice dropped. “I’ll beever so much obliged to you, if you get me that information,” he said ina funny, formal way. “I’m going to get out on parole soon, for goodbehavior, and I just gotta know if I can go somewhere and learn thelinotype trade.”
“Good-by, Alex White.” With a quick impulse, she reached out and shookhis 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 forEric Reynolds. Yet, each boy, hardly older than herself, knew firmlywhat he wanted to be. She guessed Alex’ name had reminded her ofEric—the names were something alike.
She kept thinking about Alex all the rest of the afternoon while theprincipal showed them over the school. They visited the classrooms andthen 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 anappropriation that might be used for printing, if the boys showed enoughinterest. But printing is different from manual labor. It takes realknowledge and skill. Our boys couldn’t learn it, I’m afraid.”
She was sure they could, especially boys like Alex, who wanted to. ButMr. Link was not the type of man to argue with. She was still thinkingabout Alex when they drove home and passed the beautiful West estatewhich was almost next door. Wasn’t there some way out for Alex? Why, shefelt toward him almost the way she had about Tommy. He was as bad off asTommy. She wanted to help him too, as they had Tommy. Maybe the_Journal_ would do something. Dummy seemed to like kids, and he knew theback office. Maybe he could get one of the linotype men to teach Alex,but that did not seem probable. Besides, Dummy was a villain, eventhough he did seem nice. Amy often remarked, “He’s either just a niceold man or a deep-dyed villain.”
“Some difference between old man West’s kid and the Boyville Schoolboys, 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 towear those horribly unbecoming khaki uniforms.”
* * * * *
Cookie often said that a fire was the most exciting thing a reportercould be sent to cover. Of course, Tim wasn’t really sent to cover thefire that broke out on the West estate two nights later, but he wasthere 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 turnscoming back to the office every few hours during the evening to seewhether anything had “broken.” Tim had not yet been assigned to any ofthis night duty. Mack had been at the office when the report of the firecame in, and he had phoned for Lefty and his camera and specialequipment to take night pictures. Lefty, driving up to the curb to pickup Mack, honked also for Tim.
Joan had been sitting on the porch steps, too, with Em cuddled in thelap of her plaid skirt. Now, she jumped up, spilling Em, and dashedafter her brother. “A fire! Oh, Tim, let me go, too. Mother’s gone to anAuxiliary 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 heragain. 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 youdon’t care to go with us, you might hire a taxi and put it on your pettycash account. That is, if you haven’t padded it too much already thisweek.”
That was a snub for Mack! For the _Journal_ staff rumored amongthemselves that Mack often treated Miss Betty to sodas and candy,charging it up to his expense account as car fare or stamps. He did itbecause he wanted Miss Betty to like him better than she did Tim. Theydidn’t know that it was true, but the remark silenced Mack, for he saidnothing as Joan climbed into the back seat. She wished she dared askthem to stop for Amy. At the corner, however, they passed Chub on hisway to a movie on “passes.” When he saw Lefty and the camera, he did notwait for anything. He hopped up on the running board and climbed overthe door into the back seat.
“Gee!” he said, when he heard the news. “Wouldn’t you know it wouldhappen 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 FireHall stood open, revealing dark emptiness within. Men, women, andchildren were running about in the road—all in the direction of thefire. Lefty had to honk often and drive cautiously.
Now they could see the red glare in the sky, beyond the blur of thetrees. At the entrance to the estate was a cluster of people. Leftysteered over the rustic bridge and past the pond, now dim and dark. Asthey approached the house, they could feel the heat of the fire, hearthe crackle of it and the fall of the timber under the axes of theVolunteers. Lefty parked the car, and the _Journal_ men hurried out, Timleaving orders that Chub was to look out for Joan. Lefty swung hiscamera 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 madeJoan’s eyes blink as she peered about. She saw that the Volunteers hadconfined the fire to one wing of the house.
Chub came darting back. “Say, a bunch of kids from the Boyville Schoolare helping the Volunteers. They phoned the principal and he sent aboutfifty of ’em down. Freed on their word of honor to go back. Trying out anew 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 Volunteerhose 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 ofboys, clad in khaki uniforms. They were passing armfuls of books fromone to another, along the lines, like a bucket brigade. Firemen workingwithin the burning home, beat their way through the smoke and appearedin the long French windows with the stacks of books.
Joan felt sure Alex was with the boys and scrutinized each face. Finallyshe 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 shehad expected. Perhaps he thought that she went
with Tim on all hisassignments. She wished she did! But luck like this—going with him twicein the same week—wouldn’t happen again in a long time.
Mr. West was helping to save the books, too. He was hatless andcoatless, and running here and there. He didn’t look like amillionaire—this little gray-haired man who, now that his family andhome 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 inthe line.
Joan felt a little put out. Boys had all the fun! She couldn’t staythere, for a Volunteer, who looked like a butcher, waved her off.
From near the car she watched Lefty’s silhouette as he bent over histripod, snapping pictures in the light of the flames.
Presently, the fire was out, only a wet odor of smoke in the air, thecharred part of the home looking like the injured wing of a great, whitebird. Chub came through the smoke. “Come on and say good-by to Alex,” hesaid. “He’s a good scout.”
They started along the winding path toward the entrance gates, where theboys were forming in lines to march back.
“Gosh, what a tough-looking guy,” Chub pressed her arm as they nearedthe pond, where, by the water, half hidden by a clump of bushes, theymade out a big figure standing, with brass buttons gleaming like stars.He was talking to another khaki-suited shadow, and his voice soundedthreatening. “Lissen, I’m going to beat it, if I want to, and if you tryto 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. Helooked as embarrassed as he had when Joan had discovered him scrubbingthe floor. “Oh, hello,” he said. “This is Charley Falls. He was justhaving 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 theirtwo-mile march back to the school.
Chub and Joan went back and found the photographer busy taking aflashlight picture of the ruins and the crowds. At length, Lefty foldedup his tripod and came to the car.
“This Boyville stuff will make a good feature,” Mack was saying. “Theysaved the old man’s books, all right. They say he’s going to dosomething 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 whizzedaround past the smoky house and out through the gates where the boys hadstarted their march. They did not pass the boys, though it hardly seemedpossible that they could have reached the school before this. There werelights here and there in the Boyville School and it looked really prettyat night, like a fairy castle, so high on the hill. Even the cold stonegates and plain sign took on a different look in the moonlight, Joanthought, 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 andthe smoke in her eyes had made Joan rather sleepy. It was silly to havecome on to the school. Of course, the boys had all returned. Fromwithin, 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 boysdidn’t come back. The boys came across lots by the old hospital buildingbecause it was so much shorter than all the way around by the road, andwhen 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 theboys. He had a bit of paper in his hand, and he leaned nearer to let thedash 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.”