But, as she put the plates away, Joan schemed to go. How else could she learn what a cub reporter did on his beat? And since she wanted to be a reporter some day herself, she must not miss this opportunity.
“And I mustn’t make any mistakes.” Tim followed her into the dining room. “Uncle John says we can’t stand a black eye with election time coming off in the fall.”
“Why, what has that to do with it?” Joan asked.
Tim, always willing to display his knowledge, went on to explain that a man named William Berry from Western Ohio and called “Billy Berry” in political circles, was running for governor of the state. He had bought the Journal’s rival, The Morning Star, the only other newspaper in town, and was trying every way to “get in good with the people,” to insure his election. The Journal, opposed to certain methods and past actions of Billy Berry, had had to double their efforts against this man, who was not the right one for governor at all. The Journal had its own candidate, Edward Hutton, who lived in Cleveland, but who spent a great deal of time on his estate in the beautiful Ohio Valley country near Plainfield. The Journal and Edward Hutton’s followers were striving to show every one that he was the better man for governor.
Joan listened intently and tried hard to understand. “And is the Journal Uncle John’s ‘political tool’?” she asked.
“No, he’s not interested in politics himself, but he is interested in getting Hutton elected.” Tim was really being very decent about explaining. “Everything good we can say about him will help.” He broke off and started upstairs. “I’ve got to study to be ready for my job.”
Study what, Joan wondered, but she knew better than to ask. He had been such a peach telling her so much, she mustn’t get him provoked with her. She wandered out to the yard and called Em, the cat. Em really belonged to the Journal but she spent most of her time at the Martins’. Daddy had named her Em—which is a very small newspaper measure—when she had been a tiny, black kitten that you could hold in the palm of your hand. Now, she was a big, shiny cat. She rubbed against Joan’s plaid sport hose, entreatingly. Joan picked her up and cuddled her slippery length on her shoulder.
What did it matter if Em shed black hairs over Joan’s white middy? Joan never bothered much about clothes. She wore middies almost all the time because they were easy to get into and were comfortable. She wished she might always wear knickers, but since she couldn’t, she wore pleated skirts as often as she could. The one she had on to-day was a real Scotch plaid.
Joan began to hunt for four-leaf clovers in the short-cropped grass. If she found one, she’d give it to Tim, to bring him good luck in his new work. They could have them for “talismen” like Lloyd and Rob in The Little Colonel books. She was half afraid that Tim would not be a good reporter; he was too—temperamental somehow.
She glanced often toward the Journal windows. Mother hated having her run over there so much—was afraid Uncle John wouldn’t like it, so she was never to go without an excuse. But Chub often called her to the windows to keep her posted on everything that went on.