“Sh!” warned Joan. She was bewildered. Mistakes. It seemed to be in every one’s mind. First Tim had mentioned mistakes, then Bossy, and now Chub! She wanted to ask more about the mysterious mistakes, but she knew Chub would tell her when he was ready and no sooner.
They went around to the other side of the big Goss press, where a crowd of newsboys, both white and colored, were waiting for the papers. Joan hardly noticed their grins. She rushed to the levers that were shoving the papers, already folded, and let one be shot right into her hands.
She looked down at the folded paper, opened it out, and searched the front page. Tim’s story wasn’t there. She had expected it would be, with a two-column head, at least. But now she realized that was silly. A new cub reporter wouldn’t make the front page, right off like that! She turned the pages and hunted. On the back page, she found it—about two paragraphs long and under the regular obituary heading. She was thrilled, anyway.
She clasped the damp paper, reeking of fresh ink, to her chest and the inky letters reprinted themselves in a blur upon the front of her white middy. “My brother wrote that!”
Over the paper she caught a glimpse of Dummy, who had left his corner in the other room and appeared now around the big press. Why, the man had rather a scared look. Had he read her lips and was he afraid of her brother, perhaps? Maybe Tim’s job wasn’t so safe as they thought. The man might be plotting against the manager’s nephew. Joan had read of such things, but her thoughts were rather vague.
CHAPTER III
JOAN ON THE BEAT
Joan opened the drawer to her dresser by sticking the buttonhook into the keyhole. The handle had been gone for years, but she never minded, except when she forgot and shut the drawer tight. Then she had to resort to the buttonhook.
She carefully tucked inside the little tan booklet Journal Style that she had been studying, and shut the drawer again tight. She borrowed it whenever she had a chance. Tim hadn’t missed it, and she hoped he would not find out that she had it. He would only tease; for he refused to believe how frightfully in earnest she herself was about getting a job on the Journal one of these days.
She went down the stairs, tying her middy tie and saying under her breath, “Never call a bridegroom a groom. A groom is a horseman.” That had been one of the bits of advice in the booklet.
Tim was just going out of the door when she reached the kitchen.