CHAPTER IV
“NO MORE MISTAKES”
Joan, with pounding heart, lifted her eyes and looked at Mr. AlbertJohnson. He was a man of about fifty and was seated in the chair atTim’s desk. His hair was thin and his face was round. He was holding hisgray felt hat and his yellow gloves in his hands resting upon a yellowcane between his knees. He was tapping the cane on the floor—not withimpatience, Joan realized, but it was that cross kind of a tapping noisethat a person makes when he is very angry and is trying to controlhimself. Mr. Johnson’s face told her the same thing. It was red, now,and his mouth was set like a bulldog’s. His eyes glared at her. Tim wasstanding there, too, silent. The rest of the office staff was watchingthe scene, and pretending not to.
“And are you the young woman who typed this—this—” Mr. Albert Johnsonlifted up his hat and his hand shook as he held a folded newspapertoward her, “this ridiculous story about me?”
“Yes,” was Joan’s faint answer. “But—”
“Why,” the man seemed to be seeing her now for the first time, “why,you’re nothing but a child. Are you really able to run a typewriter?”
“Yes,” she said again. She hated to be called a child.
“Very, very peculiar.” Mr. Johnson tapped his yellow cane harder thanever.
Joan could bear it no longer. “But I’m just positive I wrote that nameAlbert Jackson,” she burst out.
The bulldog man eyed her. “Can you prove it?”
“No, the copy was different. It was changed.” She was full of themystery, having just come from the discussion over it with Chub and Amy.“We’re working on it—the mystery—now, and maybe we’ll have it clearedup. We have a suspect already.”
The man still glared at her. “Young woman, do you know that I’m partowner of this paper with your Uncle John—the general manager is youruncle, isn’t he?—and that I’m a lifelong friend and chief backer of the_Journal’s_ candidate for the coming election?”
“Oh, dear!” Joan almost sobbed. “I knew you lived out on North MarketStreet, so I imagined you must be somebody, but I never dreamed you wereall that!”
The bulldog man’s eyes actually twinkled and the yellow cane was still.
“Well, I am,” he snapped, “all that. Of course, you’re too young tounderstand about politics, but if you’re big enough to help around anewspaper office, you must know how disastrous it is to have a mistakelike this come out in the paper.” He waggled the newspaper again.
“Oh, I do!” breathed Joan, fervently.
“It’s going to cost this young man his job, I’m afraid.” Mr. Johnsonturned his head slightly toward Tim. Her brother’s face was white.
“Oh, no, please!” beseeched the girl. “It wasn’t his fault, at all. Idid it, so why should he lose his job? He needs the money so badly forcollege this fall.” Why, it’d be terrible to have Tim lose his job.
Tim gave her a look that said, “You didn’t need to say _that_.”
“But your brother admits he read the copy over, after you’d typed it.”Mr. Johnson leaned over his cane. “First off, I suspected somethingcrooked, but when I found out just a kid had made the mistake.... Yourbrother did read it over, didn’t he?”
Joan nodded dumbly. Then her mind, in its wretchedness, went back to themystery. “But, Mr. Johnson,” she began, unmindful of Tim’s watchfuleyes, “don’t you think that when we both read the story over, it’smighty queer that it had a mistake like that in it, and neither of ussaw it?”
“But you probably did it unconsciously. You’re young. The boy’s new atthe job and was in a hurry. He let it slip,” answered the man. “You see,I know a lot about newspaper work.”
“Do you know anything about mysteries?” Joan couldn’t help but ask.Somehow this fierce little man was not so fierce as he seemed. He hadhad a perfect right to be angry. Indeed, there was something reallyrather likable about him.
A smile played about his bulldog features. “Well,” he drawled. “I oughtto. I have indigestion bad, lots of times, and then I can’t get tosleep, so I keep a good detective story right by my bed, all the time. Iguess I read about one a week.”
“And don’t you think we have a mystery here?” Joan dropped her voice.
In answer, Mr. Johnson motioned Tim to leave. “I’ll talk with this youngwoman alone,” he said, and shoved a chair toward her. “Now, let’s getthis straight. To begin with, before we go on to your little mystery,let me ask you, do you realize how serious a mistake like that is?”
“It’s libel,” said Joan, sadly. “I’ve lived next to the _Journal_”—shepointed through the smudgy window to her red brick home—“all my life,and I do know how terrible mistakes are. Daddy was city editor, and Iknow how particular he was about it.”
“Well, then what about me?” asked Mr. Johnson.
“Oh, I’m sure the _Journal_ will make it right some way—write acontradictory story and explain that the Albert Johnson who lived onNorth Market Street is not the Albert Jackson who deserted his twochildren. Tim’ll write you something nice, I know. And the publicity mayeven help you.” She smiled encouragingly. Oh, if she could only get Timout of this mess!
“I’ll talk with this young woman all alone,” he said.]
“Well, all right, I’ll risk that.” The man cleared his throat. “And nowto business. Who’s the suspect?”
Joan slid her chair up until her red plaid skirt touched thegray-trousered knees of Mr. Albert Johnson. His cane was leaning backagainst his arm now. She told him all about the Dummy—how the copy musthave been changed, and Dummy had insisted that it had been handed to himlike that, when she knew she hadn’t written it wrong.
Then she went on and told him how she and Chub and Amy had jumped to theconclusion that Dummy was a spy. “Every crime has a motive, you know,”she assured him earnestly. “And so we thought it all out. Of course,we’ll have to have more evidence than just that before we can accusehim.”
“Of course,” nodded Albert Johnson. “Now, listen here. I’m part ownerhere and I’ll fix it for your brother to stay on here, and for you tostick around this office as much as you like, on one condition.”
“Yes, indeed.” Joan felt she would promise anything to save Tim.
“I want you to promise me to watch out for ‘developments’ as you callthem, and come to me the next time anything suspicious happens. I don’tmind admitting things look queer. And don’t you accuse any one until youcome to me. Remember?”
That would be easy! They were going to watch for developments, anyway.And Tim’s job would be safe.
Mr. Johnson got Tim back to the desk, and shook his hand, before he wentinto Uncle John’s little office with the frosted glass door and the“John W. Martin” on it. Joan watched his bulldog profile shadowed thereuntil Mother telephoned to Tim to “send Joan home to help with dinner.”Amy had left long ago.
Nothing very exciting happened anyway, Joan learned later. Uncle Johnhad been on the verge of firing Tim, but after his talk with Mr.Johnson, he said Tim could remain on probation, providing no moremistakes happened. That evening, Tim spent hours wording an apologyconcerning Mr. Johnson for the paper, and Joan insisted that he tell thepublic what a nice man Mr. Johnson was.
Tim told her that Mr. Johnson was a wealthy man who dabbled in politicsas a pastime, so she understood how he had time to bother withmysteries. The _Journal_ staff would be interested in it, but they wereall too busy to do much more than wonder. She did not tell any one thatshe had enlisted Mr. Johnson’s services in the detective work.
Tim’s write-up of Mr. Johnson must have met with his approval, becausehe telephoned Joan about twenty minutes after the paper was out, that hewas about ready to forgive the entire affair. He asked Joan whether shewere watching out for the mystery.
She was. Now that she had gained permission from Uncle John and theeditor, through Mr. Johnson, to “stick around” the office, she fairlycamped there every waking moment. Of course, Miss Betty and Tim tookadvantage of having su
ch a willing young worker around. Miss Betty lether copy the news from the suburban towns, which usually came in inlonghand. Joan loved it and worked painstakingly. Tim grumbled at times,Mack teased, Cookie joked, and even the editor got used to seeing heraround.
“Newspaper work is hard,” Cookie would tell her when she would make alittle face about being sent on so many errands for Tim. “Make up yourmind to get used to hard work and nothing else. You work as hard as youcan on one story; then it’s printed and over with and you start onsomething else. Always some new excitement on a newspaper.”
Joan understood that, for look how soon every one had forgotten theepisode of the mysterious mistake about the Albert Johnson story—orappeared to. But she and Chub had not. The office boy had a new solutionto offer every day.
“The life of a newspaper is just ten minutes,” Cookie told her anothertime.
Ten minutes. She glanced around at the staff all working feverishly toget out the paper. And the actual interest in the paper lasted onlyabout ten minutes. That was true, she guessed. Still, all the _Journal_family seemed to enjoy their jobs.
After a week, Joan suddenly realized that she had joined the staff justin time for the annual outing. June nineteenth was just June nineteenthto a lot of people in Plainfield, but to the members of the _Journal_family, it was the big day of the year—the one day when they droppedtheir labors of supplying the town with news and took an afternoon andevening off. The _Journal_ members were jolly for the most part whilethey worked. But when they took time off to play they were a perfectcircus. Joan looked forward to the picnic.
A neat “box,” that is, a little outlined notice, appeared on the frontpage of the paper at the beginning of the week, announcing that the_Journal_ would come out early on Friday in order that the staff and allemployees could attend the annual picnic. Of course, it would be anunusually slim paper that day, but the subscribers did not mind one dayin the year. Always by one o’clock on June nineteenth the paper was outon the street and the staff ready to pile into the two big busseschartered for the occasion.
Now Joan could go along. She and Tim had both gone when Daddy waseditor, but that was long ago. All the employees took their families,and Joan would go. Mother, too, perhaps. But no, Mrs. Martin declinedthe invitation immediately.
“Bounce around in those uncomfortable, crowded busses for an hour, geteaten alive by mosquitoes and things, and come home as tired as thoughI’d done two weeks’ washing? No, thank you. I’ll take the day off, too,but I’ll run out and see sister Effie. She’s thinking about having herappendix taken out, and wants my advice.”
The big event at the picnic was the baseball game, and this year the_Journal_ team was scheduled to play the _Star_. The _Journal_ team thisyear was excellent—Mack, Mr. Nixon, Lefty the photographer, Burke thebookkeeper, Cookie, the two advertising men, and one of the pressmen.Chub and Bossy always sat on the bench—that is, they were substitutesand hardly hoped for an opportunity to play. Would Tim get to play, Joanwondered. The first day he had come to work, Chub grabbed him. “You’lltry out for the team, won’t you? I bet you’re a peacherino pitcher.”Joan could easily see that Chub thought Tim mighty near perfection.Well, she thought so, too, most of the time, herself. He had been a starin the game at high school, but the men on the _Journal_ team were allolder than he was.
The owners of the _Journal_ were proud of the prowess of the _Journal_team and their interest in baseball. The owners had this year orderedbaseball suits for the team, and the _Journal_ nine had challenged the_Star_ team to a game to be played at the annual outing.
The suits arrived one day during Tim’s first week on the paper and thatafternoon no one worked. Fortunately, Bossy did not come in with theboxes until the paper was out. Bossy’s eyes were just visible over thebig flat suit boxes. Instantly, every member of the staff forgot thatthe paper must come out to-morrow just as to-day. They’d all workovertime to-morrow and get it out in record time, but now they had tolook at the suits.
They were striped gray flannel with “Journal” written across the frontin flaming red letters.
Bossy’s brown eyes were almost popping out of his face. He had alwaysplayed substitute, but he was a bit puzzled now. Was he to have one ofthe suits?
“Here’s my fat one,” Cookie held up a shirt by the sleeves across hisplump front. He was a dandy catcher but a bit slow on bases.
“This skinny one must be yours, Mack!” The editor tossed him a graybundle. “Just look through these, Bossy. There was one ordered for you.”
Bossy’s eyes blinked behind their glasses. “Deed and I will, sah.”
Then the red socks were distributed. “Double up your fist and if it goesaround that, it’ll fit.” Miss Betty did the measuring.
Chub was squeezing into his suit, putting it on over his everydayclothes, and soon the others followed his example. Cookie looked like ayoung boy in his. They all paraded up and down, until Miss Betty rushedto her typewriter and began pounding out a poem to celebrate theoccasion. She called it, “The Wearing of the Gray.” They all clappedwhen she read it aloud. She tried to coax Mr. Nixon to promise to printit.
“Luckily for me,” said the editor, “the _Journal’s_ policy is never toprint poetry.”
Whereupon Miss Betty made up a jingling tune to go with the words, andtaught it to every one to use as a cheer.
“Let’s have a bit of practice.” The editor was in rare good humor, forthey usually practiced in the late afternoons. “But, since I seem torecall a certain mishap, I suggest we step outside for our practice.”
He meant the time that they had had a few “passes” right there in thebig editorial room, one day when work was slack, and Chub had missed aball. The glass in the ticker, which reeled out yellow lengths of newsbulletins, had been broken since that day.
They went through the windows to the grassy place by Joan’s home. Emscurried out of the way at the first ball.
Joan sat on her own side steps and looked on. How handsome Tim was, inthat gray uniform and cap! Chub sat beside her, both of them engrossedin watching the men making catches and putting out imaginary opponents.“We _have_ to beat the _Star_,” she vowed.
Suddenly, Mr. Nixon, who was captain by courtesy, called Tim. “Leftyhere and I have been watching you play, Tim. You’re fast and sure. Ibelieve I’ll put you in as shortstop.”
Tim grinned. Every one seemed delighted. Miss Betty was loud in herexclamation. Only Mack was silent. He appeared peeved. Why should hecare whether Tim was on the team or not?
“No clews to the mystery,” Chub said glumly. “I’ve been watching fordevelopments every minute. Maybe we’ll get some at the picnic.”
“Maybe.” Joan hoped so, because she did want to solve the mystery andmake it up to Tim for having got him into such a mess with the AlbertJohnson story.