Joan punched him to cease speaking. The whole office mustn’t be informed that they were suspecting poor old Dummy.
“Who is he, anyway?” asked Mack. “With his gentlemanly manners and his quiet ways. Still waters run deep, you know.”
Every one admitted Dummy was a mystery.
When the editor heard that the charity play had been postponed, he was wild, in the parlance of the office. He cornered Tim. “Didn’t you write up a big spiel about it?” he almost groaned. “And the play didn’t come off.”
“The story wasn’t in,” Tim told him.
“But I sent it out back early this morning.”
Tim shrugged his innocence. “I know, but it’s—well, it’s gone!”
“A lucky break for you, Tim,” conceded the editor, after he had listened to the story. “You better keep on being careful. One more bust, and out you go. You see, Tim, I like you and all that, but as editor, I’m responsible for everything in the paper. If mistakes are getting into the paper, it’s up to me to see who’s making ’em, p.d.q., and get rid of him. I’ve told you all this before.”
Again Joan felt like shouting that Tim had made only one mistake—the omission of Mrs. McNulty’s and the two other names. Mr. Nixon was stubborn. He was convinced that Tim had made the mistakes. He would probably not believe otherwise until she and Chub cleared up the mystery and brought the guilty party to him.
She and the office boy fairly sleuthed Dummy, hoping to get something to report to Mr. Johnson. On Fourth of July, which was a week later, Joan stumbled upon another clew. “This mystery is getting to be as bad as the Alger books,” she thought.