“But she ought to like it,” Joan told him almost tearfully. “If she’s going to marry a young judge. You’ll need lots of publicity and the support of the paper. Every time her picture’s in the paper, it’ll help you.”
“No, no!” The judge was waving his hat and briefcase at her. “I’m in a frightful hurry, dashing to make a train. Why should they want that picture so much? Why all the interest in us?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Joan snapped, and wondered what in the world made her speak so rudely. Probably it was the sting of disappointment. Then, too, there was the added anxiety of the knowledge that the Star was after the picture, too. Oh, the Journal mustn’t be beaten! “I don’t know why Plainfield is so interested. For all I care you can marry as many girls as you please. But the people are interested, and my paper gives ’em what they want. And they want that picture.”
Joan was flinging her remarks after the judge, as she followed him across the room, for he was hurrying off, now.
Joan reached the corridor just in time to see the elevator flattening out its iron gates with judge and briefcase inside. He was gone!
Well, she’d take the papers he had given her back to the Journal office, and then she’d think up some way to get the picture of Miss King. Instead of being stumped by the judge’s curt refusal, she was now all the more determined to get it.
She left the papers with Chub, and since the staff seemed busy, she went on home and started weeding the zinnia bed. She could think better if she were doing something. She rather liked weeding the garden, especially the flowers on the Journal side of the house, for then she could watch all the excitement that went on over there and not miss anything. The zinnias, being on that side, always received extra attention. It was shady there now, too. She had to help Tim. He mustn’t fail—not after that other mistake he had really made. Oh, it seemed as though he were hoodooed. But this trouble could not be blamed upon any one. Not even the mysterious Dummy could have caused this.
Was Tim going to be a good reporter, after all? Daddy had had strong ideas on what kind of a person was cut out for a reporter. Tim seemed to like sports. Perhaps he should have tried to be a coach or something, instead of a reporter.
Tim simply had to get that picture somehow. If only Editor Nixon hadn’t said, “Don’t fall down on this,” it wouldn’t be so bad. He must think that Tim was not doing his best, after all. That’s why he had given him the hard assignment. If she could get that picture, then Tim would have to admit she was a real help. Besides, the editor expected the reporters to let nothing short of accident or death keep them from fulfilling an assignment.
Just then, the Doughnut Woman came around the house toward the kitchen door. “Is your ma to home, Joan?”