“No, I guess not,” agreed the office boy. “Come on, let’s get back before all the food’s eaten.”
Just like a boy, always thinking of food—even in the midst of a mystery. However, the exercise of the game and the swim had given Joan a ravenous appetite, too, so she raced Chub down the steep cliff, stones clattering loose after them until it sounded in that quiet place as though mountains were falling.
When they reached the picnic table, Miss Betty was signaling that she was saving places for them next to her own and Tim’s. The Star staff had just left, she said, for they had to get back to their work.
“Oh, boy, fried chicken!” Chub whistled as he viewed the table.
It was a wonderful spread, every one declared. Besides the fried chicken, there was cold baked ham, golden mounds of potato salad, sliced tomatoes, pickles, olives, and towering plates of bread and butter sandwiches.
During the meal, Betty motioned across the table to Mr. Nixon. “Listen to this, will you, chief?” She unfolded a page of familiar yellow copy paper, and cleared her throat preparing to read something aloud. Every one became quiet and listened.
“This is our cub reporter’s write-up of the game this afternoon,” she said and began to read: “‘Lefty Dale did a Dick Merriweather stunt this afternoon, when in the ninth inning in the game between the Journal and the Star, he poled a circuit clout à la Babe Ruth, with the bases loaded to bring his team from behind with two outs in the last frame.’”
The account went on in Tim’s best baseball manner and told of the game, inning by inning, up to the victorious end.
“Why, that’s good, Martin!” the editor said when Miss Betty had finished reading. “Wish I could publish it as it is, but the general reading public of Plainfield doesn’t want to read about our triumphing over our rivals with all the gory details. Since we aim to give them what they want, just a mere note of the picnic and game score will have to suffice. But your write-up is fine.”
Tim was eating and grinning all at the same time. Mack was scowling at his forkful of salad. Was he afraid that Tim would steal his job from him? Or—was it that he was provoked that Miss Betty was promoting the cub reporter this way? Joan had tried to decide whether Miss Betty wasn’t beginning to like Tim better than she did Mack. But the society editor treated them both as two brothers whom she expected to be pals. Joan was disappointed that the office romance wasn’t blossoming faster.