“He was only fooling, Amy,” cheered Joan.
But Amy’s sobs rose higher. “Look at my hands. I’ll never get the stuff off. I just stopped in to see if you were here, Jo, and he stopped me—”
Mr. Nixon was waving his hands about like a madman. “Such an office! One dumb-bell reporter isn’t enough. The whole force is dumb! I won’t put up with this. I guess I’m still city editor. Clear out of here, you kids.” He turned from Amy to Joan. “And you, too.”
“Me?”
He nodded.
“But Mr. Johnson said—” she began.
“I don’t care what Mr. Johnson said!” he cut her short. “I won’t have this office turning into a kindergarten. Where is that boy? I’ll skin him alive for this.” But the red-haired office boy had vanished from the scene.
There was nothing to do but depart. Amy went ahead, stalking out with dignity, holding her inky hands aloft, her tear-wet nose high in the air.
Joan gave a wild glance around, appealingly. No one dared go against the city editor. Mack was scowling. Dummy looked bewildered. Cookie was sympathetic but helpless. Miss Betty flashed her a smile, in spite of everything.
“I’ll see you to-morrow, Jo,” she said. “I may want you to pay a bill at the toggery shop for me.”