A policeman’s life is not a happy one—”
chanted a voice from the door, and, glancing up, Dorothy saw one of the reporters watching her. “Cheer up, Miss Deane,” he said, advancing farther into the room. “You haven’t been standing on the ‘sacred soil’ of Virginia for hours in a biting east wind, watching a front door for news. I’m frozen inside and out,” blowing on his hands as he spoke. “But, oh, it’s a big story—”
At the mention of Virginia, Dorothy had glanced at him eagerly, but the question burning her lips was checked by the telephone’s loud call.
“Do answer it for me,” she begged, sitting down at her typewriter. “Say I’m busy,” in frenzied desperation; “say I’m dead!” And paying no further attention to her companion she commenced her story about the charity ball. Tom Seaton’s voice interrupted her.
“The lady wants to know if she can give a dance on January 20th without butting in on a dozen parties that night,” he explained, hugging the receiver against his chest.
Dorothy hunted up the date in her assignment book, and slammed it shut with vigor.
“Tell her there are only seven dinners scheduled so far for that night,” she directed, and in the moment’s respite she copied off the names of the charity ball patronesses. She had completed her task when Seaton replaced the telephone, and straddled the only other chair in the room.
Usually Dorothy did not encourage loiterers, and had sometimes given offense by her abrupt refusal to stand around and gossip; but she was never too busy to listen to a hard-luck story, and her ready sympathy for human frailty had gained her a warm place in the regard of her happy-go-lucky co-workers on the paper.
“Have you been out to the Porter homestead?” she inquired, handing her mass of corrected copy to a begrimed messenger from the composing-room who appeared at that instant.
“I have; and I can’t speak highly of the hospitable instincts of the owners of Dewdrop Inn,” answered Seaton. “This little ‘dewdrop’ was positively congealed while waiting for the inquest to adjourn.”