Joan ate her own lunch in a hurry, and swished through the dish-washing, but even so, by the time she reached the Journal office again, it was almost time for the paper to be off the press. They had speeded up things to get out early with the fire story.
Tim was humming to himself as he hunted through the files for the Ten Years Ago To-Day column. “What do you think?” he whispered to Joan, when she came in. “Nixon said that my story was fine.”
Gertie from the front office came through the composing room door, giggling as usual. “I declare,” she told Mack, “that Dummy’s the creepiest thing I ever saw. I just met him snooping around like a cat.”
Miss Betty and Tim expostulated, but Mack, queerly enough, chimed in with Gertie’s tale. “I always have thought he was an impostor, somehow.” Joan was surprised that he said that much.
“We’ve always thought he was a spy,” said Chub, before Joan could stop him.
“A spy,” echoed Gertie. “Why should he spy on us?”
“Berry. Elections,” muttered Tim. Had he heard them talking or did he just guess it, Joan wondered. “Trying to get Mr. Hutton in bad with the public.”
“I don’t believe it. You’re too romantic, Tim,” laughed Miss Betty. “Why, Mack, what are you looking so funny for?”
Mack ran his finger around the back of his collar. “It’s this blamed heat. I never saw an office with such rotten ventilation.”
But Joan thought it was because Miss Betty had told Tim he was “romantic.” Or was it because he was afraid she’d give it away that he, too, thought Dummy a spy? Then she saw through the window, a stream of newsboys going by, with papers under their arms.