“Why, it couldn’t have hurt much,” Joan remarked.
“No, it didn’t,” he admitted, “but it might have.”
Afraid of getting hurt! What a sissy! And Joan had rather liked him until then. She asked him a few questions for the paper, and left, with the big photograph tucked under her arm.
The street car back to town carried her past the Journal office. A few blocks more and she was at Washington Street. Joan knew her Plainfield. She realized that the first thing a reporter must do is to learn the city. She studied maps and knew the names of all the streets and even some of the alleys. She wanted to learn as much as she could, so that she could soon be a real reporter.
Jimmy’s house was just like a dozen others on the street. The front of it looked shut up, but when Joan knocked it was immediately answered by a boy, who looked young for thirteen. “Are you Jimmy Kennedy?” she asked. “I came to tell you that you won the first prize—”
“I ain’t Jimmy. I’m Johnny,” the boy interrupted. He turned and shouted into the house at the top of his voice. “Hey! Everybody! Jimmy’s won the first prize.”
Instantly, it seemed to Joan, boys of all ages appeared. There were only five altogether, however, she found out when they quieted down and she could count them. Jimmy was the oldest. Johnny, who had shouted the news, was next. Then, there were Joe and Jeff, and little Jerry, the four-year-old baby of the family. The boys’ mother appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. “For shame, you boys, not to ask the newspaper lady in.” (She thinks I’m grown up! thought Joan.) “Come in, my dear, and we’ll have some lemonade all around to celebrate. Sure, it’s grand news that Jimmy will be getting a prize. That Jimmy, he’s that crazy about baseball! He’s been wild to go to that game and get that signed baseball.”
The mother seemed to have the prizes mixed, but Joan said nothing. How glad the mother’d be to have him win the money. They all sat around the oilcloth-covered table. Young Jerry squirmed into Joan’s lap. She managed to drink her lemonade and eat the sugary cookies without spilling any on his dark Dutch-cut hair or sailor suit. He had great, blue eyes like all his brothers, and looked like “Sonny Boy” of movie fame. Jimmy had more freckles than any of the others. He seemed bashful, though jolly, but somehow not so elated over the prize as she had thought he would be. But boys were funny that way. They never showed how they really felt. Perhaps, after all, he was just embarrassed and a bit bewildered to have won twenty-five dollars. She glanced around the cluttered, shabby kitchen and was satisfied that she had decided right about the prizes. They could buy something nice with the money, or put it away for Jimmy’s education.
When Joan asked for a picture, Mrs. Kennedy set her glass down on the table. “I declare, I don’t believe we’ve got a recent picture of Jimmy,” she announced, sadly. “The latest one was taken when he was about ten, Johnny’s age, in his surplice for the choir.” It showed a boy who looked very much as Jimmy did now, except that he wore a Buster Brown collar.
“Don’t give it to her, Mom!” protested Jimmy. “Everybody’ll think I’m a baby. Do they have to have a picture?”