Joan wanted him to be careful how he worded his conversation to Dummy, lest the proofreader guess himself to be under suspicion. If she said, “Sh!” he would read her lips and know she was warning her brother to be on his guard and he might divine that they were suspecting him.
“Oats and beans and barley,” she said, instead. She had never expected really to use that old slogan in a crisis like this, but it came in handy.
Tim stared. Then he understood and stopped speaking. Joan gave him a look that meant, “I’ll explain later.” Tim conducted a cautious, written conversation with Dummy but found nothing new about the mystery.
“He and Mack were arguing about that story being gone,” Joan told her brother; “that’s why I didn’t want you to say anything much. He’d read your lips and be warned. See?”
But both Dummy and Mack denied any knowledge of the lost story.
“Dummy’s a crackerjack proofreader,” Tim mused, when he and Joan were back in the editorial room. “Uncle John says it’s really uncanny how quick and accurate he is.”
“That’s because his speech and hearing are gone,” said Miss Betty. “The other senses become more acute. I read that somewhere.”
“Sounds reasonable,” admitted Tim.
“But he hasn’t good sense if he’s been letting mistakes get by him,” thought Joan.
“Ye-ah,” put in Chub, “but that makes it more mysterious why he should make mistakes. Makes me think more than ever that he—”