Dummy smiled at her respectful use of his name and took them into his own hands. “It’s that sport editor,” he mused, motioning to the final paragraph in the story. “I know ’most every one’s typewriting from comparing the proof sheets with the original copy, and he put this extra paragraph on to this story of your brother’s.”
He pointed with a crooked finger. “Typing is really just as characteristic as handwriting. That fellow, Mack, is always in such a hurry that he never holds his shift key down when he typewrites, and the capitals are always a bit above the line.” The man’s face wrinkled up. “Besides, I hated to tell this until I was sure it was serious, but one day, I heard Mack telephoning news tips to the Star. The city editor over there, that Tebbets, is his foster uncle, I’ve just discovered, and he’s in their employ. And that day of the picnic, I did some spying myself, following the two of them while they hatched their schemes. Dirty business, but it’s sometimes done.”
Joan’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to speak, but the proofreader grabbed her elbow. “Keep mum on this, and we’ll break it to Nixon when he comes back.”
It seemed ages, waiting. Chub asked her a half-dozen times what she was dreaming about, for she hardly listened to his chatter. Her head was going round. They had thought Dummy was scheming with Tebbets at the picnic. Mack must have been on ahead, in front of his adopted uncle. And Mack had told her he suspected Dummy! Was Mack the spy? It seemed possible. She remembered how peeved he had been that time she had mentioned that his machine had heads on the commas.
Finally, Mr. Nixon came; he had stayed until the edition was safely out and had brought back some loose papers in his hands. The rest were on the truck for the newsboys. Things began to hum again. Gertie’s voice, busy on the front office phone, floated out to them. She was assuring the subscribers who were calling that they would get their papers soon, that the delivery wasn’t going to be very late, after all.
Dummy took Joan’s arm and led her up to Mr. Nixon’s desk.
“This young lady has been doing a bit of sleuthing around here,” he said, “and has hit on something really big!” And then they told him, Dummy writing the important words on a pad on the desk and motioning with his head toward Mack, so that the rest of the staff wouldn’t know what they were talking about. Dummy told Mr. Nixon about shadowing Mack and Tebbets at the picnic, saying he was about to relate all this yesterday when his story had been so untimely interrupted by Amy’s screams. “I couldn’t explain until I was sure,” Dummy stated. “Then when that charity play story was lost, I was sure he was up to mischief again. I tried to get him to confess. We had an argument and he grabbed my pencil away. But I knew then that he was not on the level.”
Mr. Nixon wasn’t convinced right away. He was puzzled. “I’ve always believed that young Martin made the mistakes and then was scared to admit them. But—maybe, now—and if Mack is really Tebbets’ ward. Tebbets is a hard fellow. He probably bullied Mack into doing it—if he did.” And he fussed over the papers and stroked his chin.
Joan said nothing. She was recalling Tebbets at the picnic—how he had spoken to Mack, and how he had ignored cunning little Ruthie. He was just the type of man who could make Mack do most anything.
Suddenly, the editor marched over to Mack with the copy in his hand. Mack was bending over his machine with his green shade over his eyes.