“He couldn’t help it, when the story came to him wrong.”
“But, Jo, if you’re sure you wrote it right, then somebody changed it and I think Dummy did. He’s got it in for Tim somehow, or for the paper, and put that mistake there on purpose. He thinks no one would dare accuse him, being a deaf-mute.”
“But nothing was erased. I looked especially to see. Perhaps I did write it wrong,” began Joan, and then broke off, “Oh, there’s Amy.”
A figure in an orchid sweater was waving to them from the corner. It was Amy in a new sweater. She adored clothes. Amy didn’t know a thing about a newspaper, and Chub was always disgusted with her for that. Tim, surprisingly enough, thought her a “decent kid” and really treated her with respect. Amy openly admired Tim—she thought him so romantic looking.
“Jo, you wretch!” she said now, crossing the lawn to the Journal window. “You’re never at home since Tim got that job. I’ve been phoning you all afternoon and I think your mother’s tired of answering.”
Chub got off the window sill. “Here,” he offered Amy a seat.
“There’s room for all of us.” Amy was always nice to every male creature, even though he might be just a red-haired, freckle-faced, chubby office boy.
They all sat together and Joan confided the new mystery to Amy. Though Amy knew little about newspaper life, she knew mysteries. She agreed that Dummy seemed a most suspicious character.
“But he’s so refined and nice,” Joan demurred.
“Spies are always refined like that,” was Amy’s reply. Her ideas were based on prolific reading. “The more refined they are the worse they are, always.”