Joan happened to be in the Journal office that morning when Tim got the assignment.

“Martin, get a picture of this girl that’s going to marry Judge Hudson,” Editor Nixon said over his red date book. “We’ll use it to-morrow. Now, don’t fall down on this.”

Tim reddened a bit at this, but he said nothing. He had never been sent out after a bride’s picture before. But Joan guessed that Editor Nixon was giving him an opportunity to retrieve himself for the mistakes. Therefore, she knew immediately that he simply must get that picture.

Miss Betty had sent for Joan to help her check up some lists of wedding guests that morning. Her part was to verify the names and initials by looking them up in the city directory. The Journal was “death on accuracy,” as Tim often said.

“The Judge is marrying that Miss Edith King,” Miss Betty told her. “Tim’s a whiz if he gets that picture. The Kings pride themselves on their modesty, I guess. Anyway, I’ve been squelched by some of the best people, but never quite so thoroughly as when Mrs. King made up her daughter’s mind that they didn’t want her picture in the paper.”

Tim had heard part of Miss Betty’s conversation and came over. “I suppose I might ask the Judge for his girl’s picture.”

“I did,” replied the society editor, “with my most winning smile. Told him what a wonderful girl he was marrying and all that. She’s got him under her thumb. He admitted he had dozens of pictures of his fiancÉe, but he doesn’t dare let us have one. ‘She told me not to.’ When an engaged man says that, you might as well give up.”

Joan knew Judge Hudson, or “Judge Hal” as he was called. He was the youngest judge in the municipal court, and every one liked him.

Cookie looked up from his desk in the corner. He was always willing to help a new man. “Don’t give up before you try, Tim,” he warned now. “When the editor says get something, he doesn’t mean for you to come back empty-handed.”

“I told Lefty to snap her getting into her car some time, if he gets a chance,” stated Miss Betty.

“It’s up to me to round up the studios.” Tim reached for his hat.

It made no difference whether a person wanted his picture in the paper or not. If the Journal thought it should go in, in it went. The photographers in town helped out, too. They couldn’t offer a picture without the customer’s consent, of course, but they could and did permit the reporters to look over their records, and, when they found what they wanted, would make a proof of it for the paper—in return for many favors in the way of advertising “readers” or “puffs,” little squibs in the social column that looked like real bits of news. The paper guaranteed the photographers would be protected in event of trouble.

This part of the newspaper game had always worried Joan a bit, but Chub, the office boy, had told her, “Ugh, half the time when folks say no, they really mean yes, and are tickled pink when the picture comes out. Anyway, after the picture’s been published, they can’t do anything. Besides, what’d a newspaper be without pictures?”

Even Miss Betty stood up for the newspaper ethics.

“If people would only understand,” sighed Cookie, “that a reporter is a reasonable creature. It would not hurt that Miss King to give us just one picture, and then every one would be happy. Reporters will always play fair if treated right. People show their true character by the way they react to a newspaper inquiry,” he went on; “if they’re snobs, it comes out. A newspaper is a public institution and folks should help reporters instead of hindering them.”

“I’m glad he didn’t give me that assignment,” rejoiced the society editor, now. “I’ll be glad when June is over. I’ve described so many bridal costumes, I’ve used up all the adjectives in my Roget’s Thesaurus. If you ever get married, Jo, take pity on the poor society editor and don’t do it in June.”

At lunch time, Tim came home, frowning and silent. It was not until he started on his dessert, which was his favorite apple cake, that Joan dared ask him how things had gone that morning.

“Went to the three best studios,” he mumbled.

“And none of them had Miss King’s picture?” she asked, and then realized how silly that was, because if Tim had the photo, he wouldn’t be so grumpy-looking.

“I did find one place where she’d had a picture taken,” Tim said. “But it didn’t do me any good. I found her name on the list at Barton’s studio, for back a couple of years. But when Mr. Barton went to his files to look up the plate to make me a proof—he files ’em by years, see?—he found that that was the year his studio was damaged by fire, and all the plates ruined.”

“Oh, Tim!” Joan knew how tragic it was. “But can’t you find any one who has a picture of Miss King?”

“Fat chance she hasn’t posted all her friends not to give the Journal her picture since she’s so dead set against it.” Tim jabbed savagely at the second piece of cake.

When Tim had finished his lunch, Joan made up her mind to go over to the Journal office. Maybe Miss Betty would have some suggestion to offer in this dilemma. If only she could really help Tim!

Mother saw her hurrying through the dish-washing and knew why.

“Joan, I do wish you would be like other girls,” she complained, “and sit down once in a while with a bit of embroidery, instead of traipsing around after Tim.”

“Girls don’t do that any more, Mother, unless they’re going to take up embroidery as a career,” Joan laughed. “And I’m not. I’m going to be a reporter like Miss Betty and I have to learn all I can about the job, to be ready. There’s a girl in my class who’s going to be an architect. She’s taking lessons, already. Her father’s one, and he’s teaching her.”

Tim was scowling and talking to Miss Betty when Joan reached the Journal office. “The chief’s on his ear about that King girl’s picture,” he said. “I’ve been to every studio in town, and I can’t get it. And I’m afraid the Star will come out with it.”

“Gosh!” ejaculated Miss Betty. “Municipal court judges would stay bachelors, if they knew how much trouble their modest, retiring brides-to-be made us.”

“Isn’t there any way to get it?” Joan appealed to Miss Betty.

“I don’t know,” the society editor answered, as her fingers pounded out write-ups of social functions. “I don’t believe Tim can get that picture anyway, short of going over to the King home and snatching it off the mantel.”

“Oh, is there one on their mantel?”

Miss Betty laughed at her eagerness. “There is. I saw it with my own two eyes when I went there to cover the announcement tea last week. The tea table was right in front of the fireplace, so that’s where I parked, having had no lunch that day, and the caterer behind the table mistaking me for one of Plainfield’s sub-debs. That’s how I happened to notice the picture. I was tempted to grab it then.”

Miss Betty was joking, most likely, but Joan noticed that Chub was listening, intently, too.

“I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask the Judge again,” said Tim.

“Let me ask him,” begged Joan. “I’ll coax so hard.”

“Well, no harm for the kid to try, I guess.”

Joan started off to Plainfield’s weather-beaten city hall, and found Judge Hal in his office, with his hat on and a briefcase under his arm. He was fumbling on his desk, among the papers.

“I’m from the Journal,” she explained.

The judge looked at her. “New office girl?”

“Well, sort of....” she answered. After all, wasn’t she?

“Here, then,” he thrust some papers into her hand. “I’m glad you came. You look more reliable than that red-headed imp. Here’s the stuff the Journal wanted about that case.”

Joan took them. “But I wanted to ask you about Miss King’s picture? Couldn’t you let me have one? It’d be such a favor, and would help my brother so much. He’s the cub reporter.”

The judge stared. “Miss King’s picture?” he repeated, and he seemed cross. “Well, I should say not. You’re the second one that’s asked for that to-day. Some young upstart from the Star was bothering me about it, too. Miss King’s shy and retiring,” he interrupted, “and doesn’t like publicity.”

“But she ought to like it,” Joan told him almost tearfully. “If she’s going to marry a young judge. You’ll need lots of publicity and the support of the paper. Every time her picture’s in the paper, it’ll help you.”

“No, no!” The judge was waving his hat and briefcase at her. “I’m in a frightful hurry, dashing to make a train. Why should they want that picture so much? Why all the interest in us?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Joan snapped, and wondered what in the world made her speak so rudely. Probably it was the sting of disappointment. Then, too, there was the added anxiety of the knowledge that the Star was after the picture, too. Oh, the Journal mustn’t be beaten! “I don’t know why Plainfield is so interested. For all I care you can marry as many girls as you please. But the people are interested, and my paper gives ’em what they want. And they want that picture.”

Joan was flinging her remarks after the judge, as she followed him across the room, for he was hurrying off, now.

Joan reached the corridor just in time to see the elevator flattening out its iron gates with judge and briefcase inside. He was gone!

Well, she’d take the papers he had given her back to the Journal office, and then she’d think up some way to get the picture of Miss King. Instead of being stumped by the judge’s curt refusal, she was now all the more determined to get it.

She left the papers with Chub, and since the staff seemed busy, she went on home and started weeding the zinnia bed. She could think better if she were doing something. She rather liked weeding the garden, especially the flowers on the Journal side of the house, for then she could watch all the excitement that went on over there and not miss anything. The zinnias, being on that side, always received extra attention. It was shady there now, too. She had to help Tim. He mustn’t fail—not after that other mistake he had really made. Oh, it seemed as though he were hoodooed. But this trouble could not be blamed upon any one. Not even the mysterious Dummy could have caused this.

Was Tim going to be a good reporter, after all? Daddy had had strong ideas on what kind of a person was cut out for a reporter. Tim seemed to like sports. Perhaps he should have tried to be a coach or something, instead of a reporter.

Tim simply had to get that picture somehow. If only Editor Nixon hadn’t said, “Don’t fall down on this,” it wouldn’t be so bad. He must think that Tim was not doing his best, after all. That’s why he had given him the hard assignment. If she could get that picture, then Tim would have to admit she was a real help. Besides, the editor expected the reporters to let nothing short of accident or death keep them from fulfilling an assignment.

Just then, the Doughnut Woman came around the house toward the kitchen door. “Is your ma to home, Joan?”

The Doughnut Woman came to the house every Wednesday. She had been coming for years. Her basket was faintly stained with grease and smelled sweetly of warm, powdered sugar. Mother always bought a dozen doughnuts every Wednesday, because Tim liked them and because she felt sorry for the Doughnut Woman. She had pathetic brown eyes and wore the most outlandish clothes. To-day, hot as it was, she was wearing a green plaid silk blouse and a black skirt. A wide sailor hat and flat-heeled shoes completed her costume.

“Mother’s taking a little nap,” Joan told her. “But she left the doughnut money. I’ll get it.”

When she came back, there was Chub parked on the kitchen steps. “I saw the doughnuts and came on over,” he explained. “Thought I heard you call me.”

Joan laughed. He hadn’t thought so at all, but he was welcome. Mother never cared if she gave Chub a doughnut or so. It always amused Mother that Chub admired Tim so much.

“Now don’t you two go eat ’em all up before your brother comes home.” The Doughnut Woman handed Joan one of the paper bags from her basket. “You know he does dote on my doughnuts. Well, I use the best of everything in them. You could feed my doughnuts to a baby. They wouldn’t hurt it.”

“They sure are good.” Chub bit into one Joan offered him and made a sugar mustache upon his lips. He was eyeing the Doughnut Woman over the sugar morsel.

“Tell your ma I hope she gets a good rest. I’m glad she don’t have to peddle doughnuts the way I do, when the days is so hot,” said the Doughnut Woman as she took her leave.

The two watched her around the house. “Isn’t she a scream?” asked Joan. “She looks like some of the pictures in the files of the Journal fifteen years ago. Mother has a blouse like that in the attic, only it’s even worse looking because it’s red.”

“Has she?” Chub asked. “Do you suppose you could find it for me—an outfit like that? I’d like to have it ready, in case I needed it some time. In case I wanted to fool people again the way I did last April Fool’s Day, remember?”

Joan did. She and Amy had been invited to a party given by one of their classmates. Chub had offered to escort them there and had arranged to meet them on a certain corner. When Joan and Amy reached the place, there was no one there under the dim street light but a dumpy colored woman, with a basket on her arm, bent over what appeared to be a thick stick. There the two girls had waited, with increasing annoyance, for Chub who had not appeared at the end of twenty minutes. In no uncertain words they said exactly what they thought of a boy who would treat two girls like that. Finally, almost with tears of vexation in their eyes, they decided to hail the next street car and go to the party alone and unescorted.

Hardly had they mounted the car steps than the colored woman came hobbling after them, screaming, “Hey, wait for me!” She picked up her skirts, displaying two legs in knickers and boyish hose and shoes, and ran to the car. In the glare of the lighted street car, they saw a rim of red hair peeping under the bandanna when the woman approached. It was Chub, ready with nickels to pay their fares. The stick he had been leaning on was nothing but a ball bat. He had been particularly elated at having fooled Amy.

“But, Chub,” Joan objected now, “it’s suffocating in the attic.”

“Oh, come on, be a sport,” he pleaded; “I want to assemble my ensemble for Hallowe’en.”

“Well, all right,” she gave in. The attic was so hot she stayed there only long enough to yank the red silk blouse and other things out of the trunks. She found an old tweed skirt of mother’s and a panama hat that Tim had discarded. The skirt was too small in the waist for Chub, but they made it fit with a big safety pin. It reached to his ankles. The panama hat brim came down over his eyes. His own dusty brown oxfords gave just the right effect. As a final touch, Joan, really interested now, added a pair of shell-rimmed glasses that Tim had once worn to a movie party when he had assumed the role of Harold Lloyd.

“It’s perfect, Chub,” she giggled. “Wait till I get Mother’s covered basket, and you’ll look exactly like the Doughnut Woman.”

She found the basket in the pantry, and Chub put the rest of the doughnuts in the bag to give it a bit of reality.

“Guess I’ll go over to the office and give the folks a laugh,” he decided. “You stay here or they’ll guess who I am.”

Joan turned again to her weeding and her thoughts. How could she get that picture for Tim? Betty’s joking remark about snatching the picture off the mantel came to her now, as she pulled viciously at the weeds.

Remembering Cookie’s story—how he had been forced to play the part of chore boy to get that story of the wedding in the East—she wondered whether she might not go to the King home on some pretense and get the picture, returning it after it had been in the paper. If this were a movie, now, she’d dress up as a dainty little maid with cap and apron and get a job in the King household and then disappear with the picture. But she had to do something quick!

The idea of a disguise seemed so safe. But maids in caps and aprons did not walk the streets in Plainfield. Anyway, she wouldn’t really have the nerve to go herself, though, and there was no one she could send on such an errand. Chub would be willing enough, but he would only bungle things.

She looked up and saw Chub still standing at the sidewalk in front of her home. He hadn’t gone to the Journal office, but was just standing there. Now, he was starting, slowly because of the long skirt, but he was going north instead of over to the Journal. Where could he be going in that garb?

Suddenly she realized that his mind had been working along the same lines as her own. She was sure just where Chub was going and why—he was going after that picture. It was just like him, and he, too, wanted to help Tim.

Oh, she shouldn’t let him. Why, that was a terrible thing, even for a mischievous office boy to do.

“Chub,” she called, “you better come back here.”

But the strangely attired figure hurried on. “Well, let him go,” thought Joan. “Maybe he won’t get the picture after all, but if he does it’ll be wonderful.” She hopped up, deciding, “I’ll just trail along after him.” Why, this was even more thrilling than the mystery about Dummy.