Mr. Nixon came out front again, and Chub, afraid of being pressed into service, made an exit. Mr. Nixon called Miss Betty to his desk. Joan saw her shake her head. Then he motioned to Joan, and she went over. “Wonder if you could do something for me? I want a story about these two boys who won the prizes. Miss Betty’s tied up with a church wedding, and Tim’s busy, too. Think you could do it? Get their pictures, and find out something about ’em. Your brother can write it up. You’ve got the addresses. Get Burke to give you some petty cash for street car fares.”
“Oh, I’ll walk,” Joan told him. It was like asking for money to have Burke dole out nickels and dimes when she wasn’t really on the pay roll. Just being sent out like this was pay enough for her. She had some change in her pocket, anyway. She dived into a phone booth to inform Mother importantly that Mr. Nixon was sending her out. Mother would hate to hear about the assignment, but Joan was thrilled. Of course, it wasn’t a real assignment, for Tim would write it up, but she was really helping him, now.
It was too far to walk. She boarded a red and yellow street car at the corner, and went north on Market Street, past Mrs. McNulty’s. Joan wished she had on the new flowered organdie Mother had made for her. Still, the pleated tan silk skirt with sweater to match, a gay triangle scarf around her shoulders and a jaunty béret on her head looked very nice, indeed. This costume seemed more grown up than most of her clothes. What if she had on the old plaid skirt and a middy! She got off right in front of the Reynolds residence. Going places was always fun till she got there. Then she was often seized by an attack of bashfulness. Now, she walked up the bluestone path to the house and rang the bell before she got panicky. The door was opened by a colored man in a white coat. “Master Eric’s up in his room,” he said in reply to her question. “Mrs. Reynolds is giving a party on the west porch. I’ll call Master Eric.” He showed her into a living room as large as the editorial room at the Journal. Joan’s dusty oxfords sank into the velvet of the Chinese blue rug on the floor. There was a grand piano and on its polished surface was Eric’s picture—an almost life-size of his head only. Joan heard the voices of the guests on the porch, the clink of china, and she smelled the food. A uniformed maid, bearing a tray of dishes, entered from the sun porch.
Eric came down the stairs. He was a tall boy, with dark hair, slightly wavy, that he tossed back from his forehead with a quick movement of his head. He had dark eyes, and a nice smile, but he was rather pale. He was shyly surprised when she informed him that he had won the second prize, though he did not seem so pleased about it as she had expected. Was he disappointed that he had not won first? He should have, but he did not need the money. She knew he’d enjoy the big game, for he must like baseball to have written such a splendid letter.
Eric’s mother, a tall woman with glasses on a gold chain—came in, too. “I’m serving luncheon to my guests.” Her voice was cold and ungracious. “But I suppose I can arrange to have Eloise serve you and your friend, also, Eric.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” declined Joan. “I had my lunch long ago, and I have another call to make. But I would like a picture of Eric.”
The boy seemed relieved that she was not going to stay. Mrs. Reynolds hurried off. The maid came into the room again, with steam coming from the tray.
“Won’t you have a cup of tea, Miss?” she asked Joan, holding out a cup, and as Joan shook her head, she offered it to Eric.
“None for me, either.” He put out his hand to wave the cup away, and the girl jerked the cup back, causing a few drops to fall on his hand.
Eric’s face got whiter than ever. He cradled his fingers in his other hand. “My fingers!” he spoke as if in agony.