The two big busses chugged at the curb. Joan, in a sleeveless green linen frock, with her tightly rolled bathing suit dangling by a string from one finger, had been out a dozen times to have the driver of the first bus assure her that he was saving two seats next to himself for her and Chub. The busses were draped all around with huge placards announcing, “The Annual Outing of the Plainfield Evening Journal.”
The staff had raced all morning, and by noon, the forms were locked and the big presses roaring. The paper was “on the street” half an hour later, and by one o’clock the Journal family was ready to start.
But first, they must all line up in front of the Journal office, while Lefty, the staff photographer, snapped a picture. Miss Betty wailed that she was sure he had taken it while her mouth was open. Then, every one scrambled aboard. Chub captured the two seats reserved for him and Joan, and they were delighted to find that Cookie had squeezed himself next to them. Betty sat in the last seat of all, between Tim and Mack. Both of them were in their baseball suits, as were all the team.
The editor and his wife sat in the seat right behind Joan and Chub. Mr. Nixon had his year-old daughter on his knee. His wife (the office staff called her Mrs. Editor) often brought the baby down to the office and let her play on the files of out-of-town papers spread out on the long table where Tim did his pasting when he had an extra long story. Joan thought little Ruthie very sweet and waved to her now.
Lefty came with his camera over his shoulder and extra plates under his arm, for he planned to take more pictures later. Uncle John, who was as fat as Cookie, was there, too, with his family. That was Aunt Elsie and Cousin Eleanor. Aunt Elsie’s facial expression showed plainly that she was present only because Uncle John had insisted that her attendance would be good policy. Cousin Eleanor was about Tim’s age and ignored Joan almost completely, but played up to Tim. It was Aunt Elsie and Cousin Eleanor, Joan was sure, who made Mother hate having Joan hang around the Journal. They both felt above the newspaper and thought Mother should feel so, too.
The head pressman and his wife and their three little boys filled one entire seat. Joan saw Dummy coming, old and dignified. Would he enjoy a picnic? Papa Sadler, as the circulation man was called, and his scores of newsboys, went in the other bus.
At last the busses were filled, and after the usual query, “Is every one here?” they started. Chub and Joan, from their positions of advantage, watched the driver and the route through the city. Out to Yellow Springs Street and then straight toward Cliff Woods. It was about a half hour’s ride after they passed the city limits, marked by the charred ruins of what had been a match factory.
The flat dusty road stretched out ahead. They passed a swiftly moving traction car. Fields of yellow mustard plant reflected the sunshine. Blackberry bushes grew on the roadside and brushed their branches against the Journal busses. Joan sniffed deeply when they passed a grove of locust trees in bloom.
The sight of the old match factory had started the editor and Cookie reminiscing about that fire which had occurred several years ago.
“Is a fire the most exciting thing that a reporter can be sent to write up?” Joan forgot the scenery long enough to ask Cookie her question.