Joan of the Journal

by Helen Diehl Olds

He had walked as slowly as possible around the house and at Joan’s front steps his courage had almost given out. Suppose one of the staff should see him and recognize him even in this get-up! It was one thing to dress up like an old colored mammy with face black beyond recognition and to stand on a half-dim street corner at night for a joke on Joan and Amy. This was different. It was broad daylight. He began to feel just a little foolish in the outfit. Besides, the skirt was hot and scratchy. Perhaps he oughtn’t to go. But—he wanted to for Tim. He adored Joan’s brother.

He stood at the sidewalk, almost ready to turn back, when he caught Joan’s eyes upon him. He knew that she suspected he was up to something, but he did not dream she had really guessed his secret. That decided him, if she was going to start bossing him, that this was his clew to do exactly as he pleased. He turned and hurried down the street toward the North Side. Joan wasn’t going to tell him what he could and could not do.

Anyway, even if some of the Journal people did see him from the windows, they would think him only some sort of peddler. He looked a little like a gypsy, he reflected.

Slowly he made his way along North Market Street. After he had passed several pedestrians who cast only casual glances in his direction, he felt better and began to walk more confidently. At one corner, just before he crossed the bridge, right in front of the Plainfield jail, he met Amy but she did not know him. He could not stifle a giggle. It was a silly sounding giggle. Perhaps people would think he was a crazy person.

Amy was hurrying along, with a rolled-up something under her arm that he guessed was her bathing suit. For all her being a perfect lady, Amy was a good swimmer, and Chub had to admire her for that. Otherwise, he thought her a total loss and wondered that Joan tolerated her. Would she be surprised if she knew who he was? What was she looking so scared about, anyway? Was she scared of him in this rakish get-up? Then he recalled that Amy always dreaded to pass the jail. Gosh, she sure was a simp. Why, he bet Joan would just as soon go right up and interview one of the jailbirds. Joan was a good sport.

How different everything looked when you were pretending to be some one else. It was almost as though he were walking down a strange street in a strange city.

Over the bridge, the residential part of Market Street began. Several more blocks, then around a corner and there on Maple Street was the King home, a big yellow house with a wide porch across the front, set up on a terrace. The street was shady and deserted. Except for Amy, he had not met any one he knew. It hadn’t been so bad, and soon he would have the picture in his hands. Wouldn’t Joan be surprised, and Tim—just think how pleased he’d be to have the office boy risk everything for him like this.

He had his plan all mapped out. He’d go to the front door, and boldly ask whether doughnuts were wanted. It would probably be answered by a maid and when she went to ask Mrs. King about the doughnuts, Chub would seize the picture. If she bought the doughnuts right away, why, Chub’d sell her the solitary bagful, with the short dozen in it that was in his basket, and would manage some way to get into the house.

Up the steps and across the porch. Masquerading was fun, after you got used to it. But the long skirt was swelteringly hot. The panama hat was tight and hurt him where the bows of the spectacles pressed into his head.

No one answered his ring right away, so Chub peeped through the door. It opened into the living room, which looked like a furniture ad. Just across the room was a red brick fireplace. Chub pressed his face closer till the spectacles clinked against the glass. There was a picture of a girl on the fireplace. Just as Miss Betty had said. He had been rather anxious for fear she had been joking. The Journal folks did joke so much you never could tell when they weren’t stringing you.