Miss Betty had sent for Joan to help her check up some lists of wedding guests that morning. Her part was to verify the names and initials by looking them up in the city directory. The Journal was “death on accuracy,” as Tim often said.
“The Judge is marrying that Miss Edith King,” Miss Betty told her. “Tim’s a whiz if he gets that picture. The Kings pride themselves on their modesty, I guess. Anyway, I’ve been squelched by some of the best people, but never quite so thoroughly as when Mrs. King made up her daughter’s mind that they didn’t want her picture in the paper.”
Tim had heard part of Miss Betty’s conversation and came over. “I suppose I might ask the Judge for his girl’s picture.”
“I did,” replied the society editor, “with my most winning smile. Told him what a wonderful girl he was marrying and all that. She’s got him under her thumb. He admitted he had dozens of pictures of his fiancée, but he doesn’t dare let us have one. ‘She told me not to.’ When an engaged man says that, you might as well give up.”
Joan knew Judge Hudson, or “Judge Hal” as he was called. He was the youngest judge in the municipal court, and every one liked him.
Cookie looked up from his desk in the corner. He was always willing to help a new man. “Don’t give up before you try, Tim,” he warned now. “When the editor says get something, he doesn’t mean for you to come back empty-handed.”
“I told Lefty to snap her getting into her car some time, if he gets a chance,” stated Miss Betty.
“It’s up to me to round up the studios.” Tim reached for his hat.
It made no difference whether a person wanted his picture in the paper or not. If the Journal thought it should go in, in it went. The photographers in town helped out, too. They couldn’t offer a picture without the customer’s consent, of course, but they could and did permit the reporters to look over their records, and, when they found what they wanted, would make a proof of it for the paper—in return for many favors in the way of advertising “readers” or “puffs,” little squibs in the social column that looked like real bits of news. The paper guaranteed the photographers would be protected in event of trouble.
This part of the newspaper game had always worried Joan a bit, but Chub, the office boy, had told her, “Ugh, half the time when folks say no, they really mean yes, and are tickled pink when the picture comes out. Anyway, after the picture’s been published, they can’t do anything. Besides, what’d a newspaper be without pictures?”