“The paper’s out,” she shouted.
“Sure is.” Mr. Nixon came in from the composing room, where he had been wrestling with the job of “putting the paper to bed.” He had a smile on his face. “How does your brain child look to you in black and white, Tim?”
He held out a paper, with the headline, “HUTTON BLDG. ON MAIN STREET BURNS.”
Joan hung over the curve of Tim’s arm, despite jabs from his elbow, and together they read the story. All through the first paragraph, or “lead,” that told the “Who, where, what, when, and why,” of the story, as every lead should, on through Tim’s splendid description of the fire, and the fireman’s brave rescue of the dog, to the jubilant reunion of the boy and dog, which Tim had written in his best style.
“That dog stuff was good,” Cookie said. “The story wouldn’t have been anything without that part. You were pretty smart to get that, Martin.”
Joan glowed as she bent over the story. The very last sentence puzzled her. “What does that mean, Tim?” She put her finger on, “The police feel that the circumstances surrounding the cause of the fire are most suspicious and have started an investigation.”
“Gosh, I never wrote that!” Tim’s face got white. “I ended my story right here with, ‘The building is owned by Edward Hutton of Cleveland, Ohio, who is to be a candidate in the election for governor this fall. The loss is unestimated at present, but it is stated that it was covered by insurance.’”
“Maybe it was printer’s pi,” suggested Joan.
Chub hooted. “Pi’s when the type’s upset, silly. This is a mistake.”
Mr. Nixon had grabbed the paper. “I read proof on this myself, and I swear that wasn’t there—but still— Why, this is terrible, casting such reflections at Mr. Hutton. Why couldn’t you be careful, Martin? You must have written it, and I let it slip.”