The Journal started a contest to boost circulation. The boy readers were asked to write in on the subject of their favorite baseball player. The scheme worked, too, for the lists showed many new subscribers since the boys had been sending in their letters. Every day now, Tim was writing a story about how the letters were coming in and which player was leading in popularity for that day—a funny little column, so full of wit and real sport news that even Mr. Nixon noticed it.

“We’ll make a regular columnist out of you, Martin,” he teased. “That and sports seem to be your long suits. Guess you like ’em better than straight news stuff. But stick at the cub job. You have lots to learn.” He glanced at Tim’s copy in his hand. “Don’t say an accident took place; weddings take place, accidents occur. And remember Journal style—‘street’ gets lower case, ‘Avenue,’ upper case.”

Mr. Nixon couldn’t give a real compliment to save his soul, Joan thought, but Tim was grinning understandingly, and promised to remember about street and Avenue. That meant that Avenue was spelled with a capital, while street was not. Purely Journal style.

From the very first day of the contest they were swamped with letters. Miss Betty and Mack took turns reading them, but soon they were too busy to get them read every day, and the letters began to pile up.

“Shut your eyes and pick one for the prize,” suggested Mack. That was like him.

“That wouldn’t be fair,” objected Miss Betty.

She went to Editor Nixon about it. He glanced around the office, a worried pucker between his bushy brows. His eyes lighted upon Joan, who was spending most of her time in the Journal office these days, now that Tommy was safely off her hands. (She had to watch for new developments on the Dummy mystery.) Burke had hunted through the envelopes for hers one pay day! The editor was now so accustomed to seeing her around that now he practically gave her an assignment.

“Look here,” he waved his fat, blue pencil toward her. “Why can’t you and the office pest read over these baseball fan letters?” He meant Chub.

Wasn’t it lucky that English had always been Joan’s favorite and easiest subject at school? She could judge the letters with a critical eye. Chub wasn’t much use that way. He didn’t recognize bad grammar even when it stared him in the face. But he was a big help, for he knew the baseball stuff. “This one sounds good,” he’d say. “But it’s something he’s read somewhere. He hasn’t thought it up himself.”

The Journal was offering two prizes. The first was to be a check for twenty-five dollars. Uncle John had offered it himself. The second prize was two seats to the best baseball game of the season in Ohio, to be played that year in Cleveland. Not only that, but the lucky winner would be introduced to Babe Ruth and would be given a baseball autographed by the famous player. The second prize, so every one thought, was about as nice as the first prize, and was worth as much in actual money, for all expenses were to be paid for the trip, the car fare, tickets, and so on, having been donated. It was the kind of prize to fascinate a boy. And yet, twenty-five dollars was a lot of money.

When the contest ended, Joan and Chub had narrowed the letters down to two which were decidedly better than the rest. This afternoon’s paper was to announce the prize winners. Mr. Nixon had handed the two best letters back to Joan, with, “You might as well do it all. You decide which one’s best. They both look good to me.”

Joan sighed again as she stared at the two letters before her. “I wish one of the rules of the contest had been for the boys to use pen names,” she said to herself. “Then I wouldn’t know who was who.”

She was sitting at the long, crowded table that stretched across the middle of the editorial room; the desks were all around the windows and walls. She had cleared a space on the table; it was here, every day for the past weeks, she and Chub had read the letters written by the boy readers of the Journal.

Joan realized she would have to make up her mind, now, for Tim, who was writing up the announcement story, was looking over his typewriter at her for the names. The two letters seemed almost equally good, but one written by fifteen-year-old Eric Reynolds was slightly better than the other one, which was signed, “Jimmy Kennedy, age thirteen.” Joan knew of the Reynolds family—they lived in a big place, with a sunken garden and a tall, iron fence all around. Too bad a rich boy like Eric had submitted a letter. Well, she might give him the second prize—the trip to the game and the autographed ball. He didn’t need the money, and from Jimmy Kennedy’s address on South Washington Street, she knew that he lived in one of the soot-streaked, gray-painted houses, which had their back yards cut into triangles by the railroad running along there. Jimmy ought to have the money prize. Yet his letter wasn’t quite as good as Eric’s. But Eric was rich, and Jimmy was poor. Rich boy, poor boy! It reminded her of

“Mark ’em ‘first’ and ‘second,’” Tim shouted. “I’m going to run the whole letters, just as written.”

Joan patted Em before she decided. Em loved this table, too. Now, she was curled upon a heap of papers from small surrounding towns that Miss Betty clipped for social items, and was batting her topaz eyes, almost asleep. Then, Joan bent over with the stub of blue pencil Mr. Nixon had given her, and with quick decision, she wrote a Roman I on Jimmy’s letter and a II on Eric’s.

There, she had done it! Mr. Nixon was standing by Tim’s typewriter, waiting for the copy. It was the last bit, for the composing men were ready to lock up the forms. “End that sentence,” he commanded Tim. “We’re waiting on that story.” He vanished through the swinging door.

Joan continued to sit at the table. Things were always so hurried until press time, and then the rush was over. She and Chub often worked puzzles and tried writing headlines and doing all sorts of things at this time of the day. Chub always had a new enthusiasm, and Joan found most of them interesting. Somehow, the things boys did were always more fun than what girls did. For awhile, Chub had been studying a book, How to Be a Detective, and was always trying to make a mystery out of everything. Dummy, of course, was a real mystery. No one could deny that. Now, Chub had sent away for a book of magic.

To-day he came up to the long table, with an ink bottle in his hand. He put it on the table and uncorked it. “It’s magic ink,” he informed her. “I made it. The book showed how—out of different chemicals. It writes just like any ink, but only lasts a day or so, and then it becomes invisible. To get it back, you have to hold it over heat.”

He was about to demonstrate its powers when Em, suddenly awake, stood up and patted her front paws at the bottle, sniffing and scratching.

“What ails her?” asked the office boy.

Joan wrinkled up her nose. “It’s that ink. It has a funny smell—she hates some smells like gunpowder, but this is sort of like sassafras. She likes it. She thinks it’s catnip, I guess.”

Em had succeeded in wetting one paw. Then she rolled over and over upon the floor, rubbing her nose with her paws, her eyes beaming, purring loudly all the while.

Mr. Nixon came out front again, and Chub, afraid of being pressed into service, made an exit. Mr. Nixon called Miss Betty to his desk. Joan saw her shake her head. Then he motioned to Joan, and she went over. “Wonder if you could do something for me? I want a story about these two boys who won the prizes. Miss Betty’s tied up with a church wedding, and Tim’s busy, too. Think you could do it? Get their pictures, and find out something about ’em. Your brother can write it up. You’ve got the addresses. Get Burke to give you some petty cash for street car fares.”

“Oh, I’ll walk,” Joan told him. It was like asking for money to have Burke dole out nickels and dimes when she wasn’t really on the pay roll. Just being sent out like this was pay enough for her. She had some change in her pocket, anyway. She dived into a phone booth to inform Mother importantly that Mr. Nixon was sending her out. Mother would hate to hear about the assignment, but Joan was thrilled. Of course, it wasn’t a real assignment, for Tim would write it up, but she was really helping him, now.

It was too far to walk. She boarded a red and yellow street car at the corner, and went north on Market Street, past Mrs. McNulty’s. Joan wished she had on the new flowered organdie Mother had made for her. Still, the pleated tan silk skirt with sweater to match, a gay triangle scarf around her shoulders and a jaunty bÉret on her head looked very nice, indeed. This costume seemed more grown up than most of her clothes. What if she had on the old plaid skirt and a middy! She got off right in front of the Reynolds residence. Going places was always fun till she got there. Then she was often seized by an attack of bashfulness. Now, she walked up the bluestone path to the house and rang the bell before she got panicky. The door was opened by a colored man in a white coat. “Master Eric’s up in his room,” he said in reply to her question. “Mrs. Reynolds is giving a party on the west porch. I’ll call Master Eric.” He showed her into a living room as large as the editorial room at the Journal. Joan’s dusty oxfords sank into the velvet of the Chinese blue rug on the floor. There was a grand piano and on its polished surface was Eric’s picture—an almost life-size of his head only. Joan heard the voices of the guests on the porch, the clink of china, and she smelled the food. A uniformed maid, bearing a tray of dishes, entered from the sun porch.

Eric came down the stairs. He was a tall boy, with dark hair, slightly wavy, that he tossed back from his forehead with a quick movement of his head. He had dark eyes, and a nice smile, but he was rather pale. He was shyly surprised when she informed him that he had won the second prize, though he did not seem so pleased about it as she had expected. Was he disappointed that he had not won first? He should have, but he did not need the money. She knew he’d enjoy the big game, for he must like baseball to have written such a splendid letter.

Eric’s mother, a tall woman with glasses on a gold chain—came in, too. “I’m serving luncheon to my guests.” Her voice was cold and ungracious. “But I suppose I can arrange to have Eloise serve you and your friend, also, Eric.”

“Oh, no, thank you,” declined Joan. “I had my lunch long ago, and I have another call to make. But I would like a picture of Eric.”

The boy seemed relieved that she was not going to stay. Mrs. Reynolds hurried off. The maid came into the room again, with steam coming from the tray.

“Won’t you have a cup of tea, Miss?” she asked Joan, holding out a cup, and as Joan shook her head, she offered it to Eric.

“None for me, either.” He put out his hand to wave the cup away, and the girl jerked the cup back, causing a few drops to fall on his hand.

Eric’s face got whiter than ever. He cradled his fingers in his other hand. “My fingers!” he spoke as if in agony.

“Why, it couldn’t have hurt much,” Joan remarked.

“No, it didn’t,” he admitted, “but it might have.”

Afraid of getting hurt! What a sissy! And Joan had rather liked him until then. She asked him a few questions for the paper, and left, with the big photograph tucked under her arm.

The street car back to town carried her past the Journal office. A few blocks more and she was at Washington Street. Joan knew her Plainfield. She realized that the first thing a reporter must do is to learn the city. She studied maps and knew the names of all the streets and even some of the alleys. She wanted to learn as much as she could, so that she could soon be a real reporter.

Jimmy’s house was just like a dozen others on the street. The front of it looked shut up, but when Joan knocked it was immediately answered by a boy, who looked young for thirteen. “Are you Jimmy Kennedy?” she asked. “I came to tell you that you won the first prize—”

“I ain’t Jimmy. I’m Johnny,” the boy interrupted. He turned and shouted into the house at the top of his voice. “Hey! Everybody! Jimmy’s won the first prize.”

Instantly, it seemed to Joan, boys of all ages appeared. There were only five altogether, however, she found out when they quieted down and she could count them. Jimmy was the oldest. Johnny, who had shouted the news, was next. Then, there were Joe and Jeff, and little Jerry, the four-year-old baby of the family. The boys’ mother appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. “For shame, you boys, not to ask the newspaper lady in.” (She thinks I’m grown up! thought Joan.) “Come in, my dear, and we’ll have some lemonade all around to celebrate. Sure, it’s grand news that Jimmy will be getting a prize. That Jimmy, he’s that crazy about baseball! He’s been wild to go to that game and get that signed baseball.”

The mother seemed to have the prizes mixed, but Joan said nothing. How glad the mother’d be to have him win the money. They all sat around the oilcloth-covered table. Young Jerry squirmed into Joan’s lap. She managed to drink her lemonade and eat the sugary cookies without spilling any on his dark Dutch-cut hair or sailor suit. He had great, blue eyes like all his brothers, and looked like “Sonny Boy” of movie fame. Jimmy had more freckles than any of the others. He seemed bashful, though jolly, but somehow not so elated over the prize as she had thought he would be. But boys were funny that way. They never showed how they really felt. Perhaps, after all, he was just embarrassed and a bit bewildered to have won twenty-five dollars. She glanced around the cluttered, shabby kitchen and was satisfied that she had decided right about the prizes. They could buy something nice with the money, or put it away for Jimmy’s education.

When Joan asked for a picture, Mrs. Kennedy set her glass down on the table. “I declare, I don’t believe we’ve got a recent picture of Jimmy,” she announced, sadly. “The latest one was taken when he was about ten, Johnny’s age, in his surplice for the choir.” It showed a boy who looked very much as Jimmy did now, except that he wore a Buster Brown collar.

“Don’t give it to her, Mom!” protested Jimmy. “Everybody’ll think I’m a baby. Do they have to have a picture?”

“The editor wants one,” Joan assured him. “There’s no time to get the staff photographer to take one.” She did not say that the Journal would probably not bother sending Lefty out to take a picture. He had more important ones to take. Besides, it was always cheaper to borrow a picture. “But I’m sure Lefty—that’s the photographer—can fix this up,” she went on. “He can change the collar to the kind you’re wearing now.”

“Can he, honest?” Joe was all eyes. “By magic?”

Mrs. Kennedy took the picture out of the frame for Joan, and she left to get back to the office. When the picture came out the next afternoon, Jimmy Kennedy was wearing a grown-up collar and a four-in-hand tie, instead of a Windsor. Joan had known Lefty could do anything. The big picture of Eric and the smaller one of Jimmy were the same size in the paper reproduction, and Jimmy’s looked just as nice as Eric’s, which had been taken by the town’s best photographer.

Tim wrote up a dandy story, too, from the data Joan could give him. “Gee, you saw enough to write a novel about it!” he said, as she reeled off the number of lamps, candlesticks, and clocks that graced the Reynolds home. “I’m glad it’s a boy story this time,” he smiled. “I sure got tired of writing up babies!”

The Journal sent the check to Jimmy and the game tickets to Eric. Joan was in Uncle John’s office when he signed the check, for it was not an ordinary check like the ones Burke made out for stamps and clean towels. It was a special check and had to be signed by Uncle John himself, with his odd, illegible scrawl, John W. Martin. He always made an old-fashioned M. He had to hunt around for fresh ink, as the inkwell on his desk was full of dry, black chunks. He found a bottle behind the books on the desk and used that.

Both boys promptly wrote in with brief, polite notes of thanks. Joan read them over when they were published in the Journal, each one a bare stick (two inches of print). They seemed too short and too polite. What was the trouble? They were not at all the frankly delighted, boyish notes that you would have expected Eric and Jimmy to write.

Two days later, Gertie appeared in the little hallway between that office and the editorial one. “A Jewish gentleman, very much out of temper, is demanding to speak to Mr. Martin,” she announced. Then she saw that Tim’s desk was vacant. “Isn’t the cub here?”

Joan looked up from the damp proof sheets of the society layout for Sunday. She was helping Miss Betty and was pasting the typed captions under the proper picture. She shook her head at Gertie, as she carefully pressed down on a strip of copy paper, bearing the title, “To be Married This Week.”

Gertie left, but reappeared in a flash. “Say, this gink won’t take no for an answer. Madder’n a hornet. Says he wants to talk to some one who knows something about those prizes the boys won.”

Joan forgot the brides and jumped up, grabbing a pad and pencil. She started to the nearest phone booth, knowing that Gertie would switch the call back to her. She clamped the head phones over her ears, and had her hands free to make notes. A tumult of quick Jewish phrases sounded in her ears. “Hey, you Mr. Martin, what you think this boy try pull trick like this?”

“Who is it, please?”

“I tell you two, t’ree times. It’s Abie. You know me. I got Abie’s Pawnshop on Main Street, near Spring.” His voice drifted away, as though he were talking to some one else. “Well, all right, you talk, then, and tell Mr. Martin come quick, or I have you put in jail.”

Another voice, surprisingly familiar, inquired whether she were Mr. Martin.

“No, this is Miss Martin,” Joan felt important, but puzzled over that voice. “Can I help you?”

“This is Eric Reynolds,” came the answer. “Will you please have some one from your office come over here and help me out. I’m in trouble.”