“The story is only a means of getting the store’s name in the paper,” Cookie went on. Then he called across to the editor, “What is it this time, Nix?”
“Window display at Davis’,” was the answer. “And every one’s going to be busy this afternoon. Want it in to-day’s paper, too—and I’ve no one to send.”
Cookie was not sent out on stories any more; he was too old.
Joan suddenly felt as she had when she had been tempted to change Tim’s story about Tommy and the overcrowded Day Nursery. That had turned out all right. Should she take a chance again?
“Mr. Nixon,” she approached his desk timidly, “couldn’t I go?”
“You?” The editor looked up. “But you can’t write.”
“Oh, yes, I can,” Joan assured him. “I can compose right on the typewriter, too, just the way the rest of the reporters do. I—I,” she hated to tell him this, but she couldn’t miss such an opportunity, “I wrote part of that Day Nursery story for Tim. You see, I know more about babies than he does.”
“Babies—” repeated the editor. “This is a baby window display. Girl, I like your spunk and I believe I’ll let you try. Run along.”
Joan wanted to ask a dozen questions. Which window was it? Was she to see any one in particular? What kind of a write-up did he want? One of those chummy intimate chats that Miss Betty sometimes wrote, or a stiff, formal article?
But she didn’t ask any of them. He had said she could go. If she bothered him, he might change his mind. She said only, “O.K.,” the way Chub always did, and went over to Tim’s desk. There she helped herself to a yellow pencil, furnished by the Journal, and a folded pad of copy paper. She would take plenty of notes. She had helped often around the Journal, but this was the first assignment that she was to do all by herself and as luck had it, she had on her tan sweater outfit. Chub, appearing suddenly, slapped her on the back as she went out, with “Good luck!”