The two big busses chugged at the curb. Joan, in a sleeveless green linen frock, with her tightly rolled bathing suit dangling by a string from one finger, had been out a dozen times to have the driver of the first bus assure her that he was saving two seats next to himself for her and Chub. The busses were draped all around with huge placards announcing, “The Annual Outing of the Plainfield Evening Journal.”

The staff had raced all morning, and by noon, the forms were locked and the big presses roaring. The paper was “on the street” half an hour later, and by one o’clock the Journal family was ready to start.

But first, they must all line up in front of the Journal office, while Lefty, the staff photographer, snapped a picture. Miss Betty wailed that she was sure he had taken it while her mouth was open. Then, every one scrambled aboard. Chub captured the two seats reserved for him and Joan, and they were delighted to find that Cookie had squeezed himself next to them. Betty sat in the last seat of all, between Tim and Mack. Both of them were in their baseball suits, as were all the team.

The editor and his wife sat in the seat right behind Joan and Chub. Mr. Nixon had his year-old daughter on his knee. His wife (the office staff called her Mrs. Editor) often brought the baby down to the office and let her play on the files of out-of-town papers spread out on the long table where Tim did his pasting when he had an extra long story. Joan thought little Ruthie very sweet and waved to her now.

Lefty came with his camera over his shoulder and extra plates under his arm, for he planned to take more pictures later. Uncle John, who was as fat as Cookie, was there, too, with his family. That was Aunt Elsie and Cousin Eleanor. Aunt Elsie’s facial expression showed plainly that she was present only because Uncle John had insisted that her attendance would be good policy. Cousin Eleanor was about Tim’s age and ignored Joan almost completely, but played up to Tim. It was Aunt Elsie and Cousin Eleanor, Joan was sure, who made Mother hate having Joan hang around the Journal. They both felt above the newspaper and thought Mother should feel so, too.

The head pressman and his wife and their three little boys filled one entire seat. Joan saw Dummy coming, old and dignified. Would he enjoy a picnic? Papa Sadler, as the circulation man was called, and his scores of newsboys, went in the other bus.

At last the busses were filled, and after the usual query, “Is every one here?” they started. Chub and Joan, from their positions of advantage, watched the driver and the route through the city. Out to Yellow Springs Street and then straight toward Cliff Woods. It was about a half hour’s ride after they passed the city limits, marked by the charred ruins of what had been a match factory.

The flat dusty road stretched out ahead. They passed a swiftly moving traction car. Fields of yellow mustard plant reflected the sunshine. Blackberry bushes grew on the roadside and brushed their branches against the Journal busses. Joan sniffed deeply when they passed a grove of locust trees in bloom.

The sight of the old match factory had started the editor and Cookie reminiscing about that fire which had occurred several years ago.

“Is a fire the most exciting thing that a reporter can be sent to write up?” Joan forgot the scenery long enough to ask Cookie her question.

“Well, in a way, it is,” he admitted. “But reporting a fire is not always fun. There’re too often deaths and accidents to write up, too, with a fire story.”

“That’s so,” answered Joan, soberly.

“Fires are like bananas—they come in bunches,” said the old reporter.

Joan laughed. “Cookie, remember, just the other day, you promised to tell us some of your experiences on the New York newspaper. Can’t you do it, now?”

“Um—I guess so.” Cookie glanced out of the corner of his eye at the editor. But Mr. Nixon was totally absorbed in retying the strings on the baby’s frilly bonnet. He was clumsy about it, but he would not let his wife help him.

Chub and Joan leaned near Cookie. His spotted vest smelled of stale tobacco, but they did not mind.

“Well, anything to oblige and help a future newspaper reporter,” he chuckled. “This happened a good many years ago, when I was on the New York Banner. I started as a cub, you know, but inside of a year I was doing really decent stories. No more obits for me. Then, one day, the editor called me to the desk and said he was going to send me out on the Vanderflip wedding story. Well, can you imagine what that meant to me?”

“Was it a big wedding?” Joan did not know what answer Cookie expected.

“Was it? The wedding of Vanderflip’s only son to a girl as rich as she was pretty? Oh, rats, I’m forgetting that all this was over ten years ago. You couldn’t remember. But it was the biggest wedding St. Thomas’ had seen in many a day. I didn’t write up the ceremony—understand, the society editors did that. But I was to trail along when the wedding party left on the honeymoon, which was to be a hunting trip to Canada. I was to send back a story every day—a good long one, too, for New York would eat up all the details it could get.

“Well, I sleuthed those folks within an inch of their lives. It was all right till we got to the lodge. I found it one of those glorified camps, deep in the heart of the woods, on a private lake, and nowhere for me to park within hiking distance. What did I do but apply for the job of chore boy at that camp—and got it! I wasn’t much good as a chore boy, but fortunately, there wasn’t a lot to do—take care of the boats and canoes, and be generally useful. My job gave me plenty of opportunity for close-hand stories. But between the work and writing up the stuff on my portable typewriter up in my little shack way off in the woods by itself, I was pretty tired at night, and that’s how I happened to miss the fox hunt.”

“I missed it because I overslept. When I came down to the main lodge, I discovered that the wedding couple and their party had departed at dawn. The caretaker there was a jolly fellow who liked to talk. Believe me, I started him on the subject of fox hunts. I had to get some sort of story to my chief. The old fellow told me all he knew, which, aided by my healthy imagination, made a grand story. I described the woods in the early morning, the dogs sniffing, the barking, and finally, the triumphant end.”

“You faked it?” Even Chub was scandalized.

Cookie nodded. “Had to. Well, I approached my chief’s desk with shaking knees, when I got back, expecting to be told I was fired. Instead he said, ‘Cookie, old kid, I believe you’ll make an extra space rate man, some day. You covered the Vanderflips pretty well, for the most part. But that fox hunt story—that was the cream of the whole collection!’”

“Didn’t you ever tell him?” Joan wanted to know.

“No. I was tempted to, often,” acknowledged the old reporter. “He was a good sort. Most editors are. At that, I hadn’t done anything so terrible. A great many editors would rather have a plausible and entertaining fake than a dull, colorless fact. He hates to be taken in, himself. He wants to be in on the joke, too. But it’s best to be honest always,” he warned.

“We’re almost there!” piped the shrill tones of the head pressman’s oldest son, as the bus swooped through a rustic gate and down into a shady, cool, cavernous valley. On one side huge gray cliffs, ragged and old, now rose to greet them. One looked like the Old Man of the Mountain. The busses stopped at the side of the quaint old pavilion, where supper would be served in event of rain, and every one was out in two seconds.

“First thing on the program,” announced Cookie, “is—

He was a self-appointed lemonade maker and was famous for the concoction. The makings for the drink had been brought along. The rest of the supper was coming out by the caterer’s delivery auto later on. Bossy, Joan, and Chub cut lemons while Cookie pressed them with a wooden squeezer into a large galvanized tub, kept from year to year for this special purpose. A big cake of ice, shed of its coat of burlap, and rinsed off in the near-by spring, was slipped into the sweetened juice. Then buckets of spring water, more stirring, until Cookie pronounced it “Just as good as last year’s.” Dozens of shiny tin cups were let loose and tumbled upon the soft grass, and every one was invited to “Step right up and help yourself!”

The head pressman’s three little boys took this literally. Finally Cookie had to hint, “It’ll be here all afternoon, folks. But we must save some for the Star team.”

All during the lemonade making every one had been glancing back toward the rustic gate, watching for the coming of the Star team. Just as Joan was starting on her third cup of lemonade, a delivery truck with a red star on each side, drove up and the Star team, in their baseball suits of gray with blue letters, with a few of the staff as rooters, hopped out. The staff of the Star, since it was a morning newspaper, did not need to take much time away from the office for the game. They always worked at night to get their paper out, anyway. Joan had often gone to the Star office with Chub when he delivered advertising cuts, which the two newspapers sometimes shared, and she knew most of the staff by sight. Tebbets, the city editor, was a big bully of a man. Joan did not like him at all. His voice was so loud that the echo of it rumbled back from the cliffs. He was so different from Mr. Nixon. Of course, Editor Nixon often got provoked and then he’d roar like a mad bull, but most of the time he was good-natured and treated the Journal family fair and square. Joan might think him hard and stern, but he was as meek as a lamb, compared to Mr. Tebbets.

“Well, Journalites,” Tebbets was bellowing now, “are you ready to get trimmed by the best little team in the Ohio Valley?”

Of course, some one else might have said those very words and they would not have been mean. But not the way Mr. Tebbets said them.

His eyes lighted upon Mack. “So you’re on the team?” he asked.

Joan guessed he was trying to be funny, for any one could tell Mack was on the team when he had on the baseball suit.

“Well—I’m the Journal sport editor,” Mack said, as if in answer to Tebbets.

The Star editor snickered as though that were very funny. Little Ruthie toddled toward him, waving her plump hands. She had a gold ring on one of her fat fingers, tied to her wrist with a ribbon. But Mr. Tebbets did not even glance at her standing there. She looked so cute, too. She had her bonnet off now, and her dark hair was mussed. She was frowning because the sun was in her eyes. She looked like a miniature of the editor.

Altogether it was not a promising beginning. The Star team looked so much stronger than the Journal men. Mack was of slight build and though Tim was tall, he seemed awfully young next to all those strapping Star players. Joan was silent as they all trooped along the footpath and up a little slope to the sunny field where the game was to be held. Rude bleachers had been erected by placing boards across wooden boxes. The Journal folks, except some of the women who declared it was too hot up there, and the children too young to be interested in baseball, lined up on one side. The Star rooters took the other. Chub and Bossy sat on the bench for substitutes. Joan hung about.

“Have we a bat boy?” asked the editor captain, glancing toward the newsboys on the sidelines.

But Joan was ahead of any of them. “Let me!” she begged.

She had played baseball at school and in the neighborhood, besides having attended several of the big games. She knew that the duty of the bat boy was merely to pick up the bat flung to the ground by the player and to get it out of the way. The first time she had ever been a bat boy was when she was only eight years old. She had been hit in the nose by a baseball that time.

“All right,” nodded the editor, and Joan took her place on the field, to the right of the home plate, to be ready.

The two teams, first the Star and then the Journal, had a bit of batting practice (to sharpen up their batting eye, Chub said) as well as fielding practice. A well-liked deputy sheriff was to act as umpire. Chub spoke of him as “Umps.”

Soon the game was called. The Journal team was in the field, and the first Star batter was ready to step up to the plate.

“Play ball!” shouted the umpire.

Joan shivered with excitement and was glad again that Tim had made the team. She glanced at him over there between second and third base, ready to live up to the name of his position, and “shortstop” the ball whenever possible. The Star made one score during the first inning.

“The Star team knows its baseball,” Chub admitted, grumpily, as the Journal team trooped in from the field.

Lefty was the first batter up. “Wait for a good one,” the crowd advised him, after two balls had been called. He was a good waiter and got a walk. Mack, the second batter, was nailed before he could reach second. A groan escaped the Journal rooters as the inning ended and their side had not scored.

Three more innings dragged by without a score for either team. Then, Captain Nixon got his men together and encouraged them with a few, quick words. Aroused to the fight, the Journal team battled on. Lefty was still pitching splendidly, while the Star pitcher seemed to be weakening under the strain. Even so, the Star team managed two runs. Two more scoreless innings followed.

During the first half of the ninth, the Star team fought harder than ever. But the Journal team was fighting, too. No score was made.

The Journal team was at bat again. The Star pitcher’s balls were going a bit wild. The first batter was struck by the ball and got a base. The second made a base on balls. Then Mack managed a bunt which let the runners on first and second each capture a base. All three bases were full when Lefty came to the bat.

Perhaps the Star team had forgotten that Lefty batted the balls left-handed. Anyway, he knocked it straight down the third baseline and fooled the Journal’s rivals, for their fielders were not on duty.

“Do a ‘Babe Ruth,’ Lefty!” yelled the newsboys as Lefty started toward first like a flash. There was no doubt but that all three men would come home safe, making the score four to three. The newsboys started running to the field. The Journal had won!

The side lines, under Miss Betty’s guidance, burst into the strains of “The Wearing of the Gray.” Every one was pounding Lefty on the back. Joan suddenly felt a warm glow in her heart, as though this victory meant that always would the Journal win over their rivals, in scoops and in the coming elections. She couldn’t help but feel her paper was always right!

Mr. Johnson, who had been standing on the side lines with the other owners of the paper, sought her out. He inquired solicitously after the mystery, and she had to admit they had no new clews. He had to hurry off to Cincinnati, he explained, and would not be able to stay for the supper, but he had enjoyed the game. Joan wondered whether he were proud now that Tim was on the staff, for Tim had been a splendid shortstop.

“Now for a swim!” That was every one’s thought after the game. In one corner of Cliff Woods was a lovely, round lake, with bathhouses and rafts. Here, the hot, dusty members of the Journal family enjoyed a splash.

As Joan emerged from the bathhouse, her wet suit a limp roll under her arm, her sunburned neck scratchy against her green linen dress, she found Chub waiting for her. Together, like two hungry bears, they approached the pavilion but were shooed away by a bevy of printers’ wives, the refreshment committee, who were surveying the long tables they had set up under the trees. The caterers’ wagons had come and gone. “Not quite ready yet,” the committee warned.

“Let’s go put that rock on the Picnic Pillar,” Chub suggested. “It might be too dark if we wait till after supper.”

They started up the path again, keeping to the right now, instead of turning left as they had when they went to the ball field. The Picnic Pillar was an old rock tower, where every picnic party added a rock to the monument.

Soon they were in a little dell, where the brook bubbled noisily over the rocks, and ferns and mint and watercress grew in abundance. They began climbing the cliffs. Chub’s sneakers gave him good footholds, and he helped to pull Joan up the steep, jutty side of the cliff, up to a flat space where there were more ferns and sweet, spicy-smelling plants. Near the edge of the ridge was the Picnic Pillar, high and towering. Chub found a round, smooth rock, after turning over several until he found one that just suited. He scrambled up on a convenient bowlder, and Joan steadied his ankles for him while he reached up and placed the big stone on the top of the pillar—the most recent addition to the stone erection which was a monument of hundreds of happy gatherings.

“Sh, Jo!” Chub had jumped to the ground and was silencing her as she was about to speak. “There’s that spooky Dummy down there, creeping along. I saw him from up there; he’s just below the ledge—and he’s with Tebbets!”