Mrs. Trescott received her private Sunday morning newspaper, literally damp from the press. Aunt Maria was what she called “an early stirrer”, and the first newsboy that shouted his wares in the neighborhood of Maison Blanche was nabbed and made to deliver by the intrepid old cook, who patiently climbed the two flights of steps to Mrs. Trescott’s third-floor-back hall bedroom and poked the paper in her door.
“Here you am, Mis Trescott, an’ a cup er cawfy ter tide you over come brekfus time. You mus’ be ’spectin’ of some funeral notice ter make you so besirous of a private paper.”
Aunt Maria well knew that Mrs. Trescott had to watch her pennies very closely and the extravagance of five cents spent for first peep at a newspaper could mean little short of a death and a funeral.
“Perhaps!” chuckled the lady, “but I’ll come read the news to you after while, Maria. I am more than obliged to you for your kindness. No doubt the coffee will help me bear up,” and then the old lady gave another deep soul-satisfying gurgle as she unfolded the damp newspaper and ran her eyes eagerly over the news columns.
There it was, just as she knew it would be, but better, so much better!
“Oh, the rascal, the young rascal! He has made a romance of that old fool Major’s finding the widow from his own part of the country and her helping him to track the criminal. He even has in the doughnuts and coffee and the pink parasol.”
It might be said that Mrs. Trescott stopped chuckling and chortled. What difference did it make if one was poor and old and condemned to spend one’s days in a third-floor-back hall bedroom if one had a sense of humor equal to Mrs. Trescott’s. Her humor was the type that needed no second person with whom to enjoy the ridiculousnesses of life. Her solemn countenance gave no inkling to the outside world of the riot of fun going on within. The gurgling laughter that sought an outlet was to the uninitiated no more mirthful than the bubble of air arising from an old submerged mud turtle, appearing on the surface of the water and breaking.
“I’d like to hear what the Burnetts have to say this morning,” she gasped. “Oh, that will be unprintable I am sure, but our Jimmy Blaine could make copy of it nevertheless. And the little shoplifter—no doubt she is happy at being put in the paper as beautiful beyond compare, with a dark mysterious past that tugs against her better nature—but the better nature prevails and she returns the stolen goods. I wonder Jimmy did not announce an engagement between her and Mr. Theodore Burnett. I think I’ll suggest it to him. A suggestion is all that is necessary to our Jimmy. Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy!”
In the mean time Jimmy was sleeping the sleep of a cub reporter happy over a scoop and the fact that he had cleared a neat little sum on the extra columns of space he had filled so successfully. Kit Williams, his friend and room mate, had seized on the early edition Jimmie had brought home with him and his mirth was loud and lusty over what Jimmy had done to the Major.
“Gee. Ain’t he the kid?” he cried. “I could kiss him where he sleeps if he wasn’t so unshaved.”