Joan of the Journal

by Helen Diehl Olds

Miss Betty Parker waved hello from her desk by the window. Miss Betty had the distinction of being the only woman on the editorial staff. “Here, woman!” was the way the men often summoned her to the telephone.

There was a pink rose on Miss Betty’s desk. Had Mack, the sport editor, who was there with a green eye shade and a pencil behind his ear, given it to her? Joan thought it must be lovely to write all those society items about the people who lived on the North Side and who gave teas and parties and luncheons and things. Beside that, Miss Betty conducted an Advice to the Lovelorn Column, which Joan read every evening. She signed her answers, Betty Fairfax. Mack tried to make Joan believe that he wrote the questions, but she knew better than that, because they had had them before he came to the Journal, which was only a few months ago.

Somehow, Joan did not like Mack, although he was really almost as good-looking as Tim. Tim was dark, with wavy hair and dark eyes, while Mack was very blond, with a reddish mustache. Tim had been loud in his protest against Mack when he first joined the Journal family, and especially when he had been made sport editor. “That sissy! Imagine him a sport editor.” But later, he admitted that Mack was a smart fellow. “He has a ‘nose for news’ all right and he certainly can write,” Tim had added admiringly.

Mack’s corner had been fixed up with appropriate sport pictures before he came. He had added no new ones. Tim would have.

There was a member of the Journal staff, of whom Joan approved whole-heartedly. That was old James Cook, a veteran reporter, called Cookie by all who knew him. He was fat and old, but kind, and always as gracious to Joan as though she had been Miss Betty’s age.

“Well, well,” he greeted her now, as he shuffled over to the files. “I thought the day wouldn’t be complete without your shining face around here. Especially now with brother Tim on the pay roll. When are you going to steal Miss Betty’s job away from her?”

He was not teasing, like Mack. But Joan was embarrassed. She really did hope to have Miss Betty’s job in a few more years, but it hardly seemed polite to admit it.

“Just as soon as I get to be the star reporter around here on double space rates,” Miss Betty laughed in reply to Cookie, and Joan did not need to answer.

Cookie was one of the nicest men in the world—always ready to help any one. He would even pitch in and help Miss Betty write up social items, pink teas and things when she got rushed. “I can describe a wedding gown as well as any one,” he would brag. He had once been on the New York Banner, but his health had failed and now he was content to putter along here on the Journal, doing desk work. He was liked by every one. He was always willing to answer all Joan’s questions about the newspaper. He had taught her long ago that “news is anything timely that is of interest,” and Joan had learned that phrase by heart before she was ten. He had told her that the word “news” came from the letters of the four points of the compass, north, east, west, and south.

“Cookie,” Joan reminded him, “you’re always saying you are going to tell Chub and me some of your experiences on that big New York newspaper. When are you?”