  Clouds which followed the terrific wind unleashed their burden and a gray curtain of rain swept down from the heavens. “Get your slickers,” Doctor Stevens called to the girls and Helen raced across the street for her coat and a storm hat. “Better put on those heavy, high-topped boots you use for hiking,” Tom advised Helen when they had reached the shelter of their own home. “You’ll probably be gone the rest of the afternoon and you’ll need the boots.” Helen nodded her agreement and rummaged through the down stairs closet for the sturdy boots. She dragged them out and untangled the laces. Then she kicked off her oxfords and started to slide her feet into the boots. Her mother stopped her. “Put on these woolen stockings,” she said. “Those light silk ones will wear through in an hour and your heels will be chafed raw.” With heavy stockings and boots on, Helen slipped into the slicker which Tom held for her. She put on her old felt hat just as Doctor Stevens’ car honked. “Bye, Mother,” she cried. “Don’t worry. I’ll be all right with the doctor and Margaret.” “Get all the news,” cautioned Tom as Helen ran through the storm and climbed into the doctor’s sedan. Margaret Stevens was also wearing heavy shoes and a slicker while the doctor had put on knee length rubber boots and a heavy ulster. “We’ll get plenty of rain before we’re back,” he told the girls, “and we’ll have to walk where the roads are impassable.” They stopped down town and Doctor Stevens ran into his office to see if any calls had been left for him. When he returned his face was grave. “What’s the matter?” asked Margaret. “I called the telephone office,” replied her father, “and they said all the phone wires west of the lake were down but that reports were a number of farm houses had been destroyed by the tornado.” “Then you think someone may have been hurt?” asked Helen. “I’m afraid so,” admitted Doctor Stevens as he shifted gears and the sedan leaped ahead through the storm. “We’ll have to trust to luck that we’ll reach farms where the worst damage occurred.” The wind was still of nearly gale force and the blasts of rain which swept the graveled highway rocked the sedan. There was little conversation as they left Rolfe and headed into the hill country which marked the western valley of Lake Dubar. The road wound through the hills and Doctor Stevens, unable to see more than fifty feet ahead, drove cautiously. “Keep a close watch on each side,” he told the girls, “and when you see any signs of unusual damage let me know.” They were nearly three miles from Rolfe when Margaret told her father to stop. “There’s a lane to our right that is blocked with fallen tree trunks,” she said. Doctor Stevens peered through the rain. A mail box leered up at them from a twisted post. “This is Herb Lauer’s place,” he said. “I’ll get out and go up the lane.” The doctor picked up his medical case and left the motor running so the heat it generated would keep ignition wires dry. One window was left open to guard against the car filling with gas and the girls followed him into the storm. They picked their way slowly over the fallen trees which choked the lane. When they finally reached the farmyard a desolate scene greeted them. The tornado, like a playful giant, had picked up the one story frame house and dashed it against the barn. Both buildings had splintered in a thousand pieces and only a huddled mass of wreckage remained. Miraculously, the corn crib had been left almost unharmed and inside the crib they could see someone moving. Doctor Stevens shouted and a few seconds later there came an answering cry. The girls followed him to the crib and found the family of Herb Lauer sheltered there. “Anyone hurt?” asked Doctor Stevens. “Herb’s injured his arm,” said Mrs. Lauer, who was holding their two young children close to her. “Think it’s broken, Doc,” said the farmer. “Broken is right,” said Doctor Stevens as he examined the injury. “I’ll fix up a temporary splint and in the morning you can come down and have it redressed.” The doctor worked quickly and when he was ready to put on the splint had Margaret and Helen help him. In twenty minutes the arm had been dressed and put in a sling. “We’ll send help out as soon as we can,” said Doctor Stevens as they turned to go. Helen had used the time to good advantage, making a survey of the damage done to the farm buildings and learning that they were fully protected by insurance. Mrs. Lauer, between attempts to quiet the crying of the children, had given Helen an eye-witness account of the storm and how they had taken refuge in the corn crib just before the house was swirled from its foundations. Back in the car, the trio continued their relief trip. The rain abated and a little after four o’clock the sun broke through the clouds. Ditches along the road ran bankful with water and streams they crossed tore at the embankments which confined them. “The worst is over,” said Doctor Stevens, “and we can be mighty thankful no one has been killed.” Fifteen minutes later they reached another farm which had felt the effects of the storm. The house had been unroofed but the family had taken refuge in the storm cellar. No one had been injured, except for a few bruises and minor scratches. At dusk they were fifteen miles west of Rolfe and had failed to find anyone with serious injury. “We’ve about reached the limit of the storm area,” said Doctor Stevens. “We’ll turn now and start back for Rolfe on the Windham road.” Their route back led them over a winding road and before they left the main graveled highway Doctor Stevens put chains on his car. They ploughed into the mud, which sloshed up on the sides of the machine and splattered against the windshield until they had to stop and clean the glass. Half way back to Rolfe they were stopped by a lantern waving in the road. Doctor Stevens leaned out the window. “What’s the matter?” he asked. A farmer stepped out of the night into the rays of the lights of the car. “We need help,” he cried. “The storm destroyed our house and one of my boys was pretty badly hurt. We’ve got to get him to a doctor.” “I’m Doctor Stevens of Rolfe,” said Margaret’s father as he picked up his case and opened the door. “We need you doctor,” said the farmer. Helen and Margaret followed them down the road and into a grassy lane. Lights were flickering ahead and when they reached a cattle shed they found a wood fire burning. Around the blaze were the members of the farmer’s family and at one side of the fire was the blanket-swathed form of a boy of ten or eleven. “One of the timbers from the house struck him while he was running for the storm cave,” explained the farmer. “He just crumpled up and hasn’t spoken to us since. It’s as though he was asleep.” Doctor Stevens examined the boy. “He got a pretty nasty rap on the head,” he said. “What he needs is a good bed, some warm clothes and hot food. We’ll put him in my car and take him back to Rolfe. He’ll be all right in two or three days.” The doctor looked about him. “This is the Rigg Jensen place, isn’t it?” he asked. “I’m Rigg Jensen,” said the farmer. “You fixed me up about ten years ago when my shotgun went off and took off one of my little toes.” “I remember that,” said Doctor Stevens. “Now, if you’ll help me carry the lad, we’ll get him down to the car.” “Hadn’t I better go?” asked Mrs. Jensen. “Eddie may be scared if he wakes up and sees only strangers.” “Good idea,” said Doctor Stevens, as they picked up the boy and started for the car. Helen went ahead, carrying the lantern and lighting the way for the men. They made the boy comfortable in the back seat and his mother got in beside him. “Better come along,” Doctor Stevens told the father. “Not tonight,” was the reply. “Mother is with Eddie and I know he’ll be all right now. I’ve got to take the lantern and see what happened to the livestock and what we’ve got left.” There was no complaint in his voice, only a matter-of-factness which indicated that the storm could not have been prevented and now that it was all over he was going to make the best of it. Half an hour later they reached the gravel highway and sped into Rolfe. Doctor Stevens drove directly to his office and several men on the street helped him carry Eddie Jensen inside. “You’d better run along home,” he told the girls, “and get something to eat.” When Helen reached home, Tom was waiting on the porch. “Get a story?” he asked. The young editor of the Herald nodded. “Anyone hurt?” Tom insisted. “No one seriously injured,” replied Helen, “but a lot of farm buildings were destroyed.” “I’ve been checking up on the damage down the lake,” said Tom, “that new summer resort on the east shore got the worst of it. The phone office finally got through and they estimate the damage at the resort at about $50,000.” “Doctor Stevens believes the damage along the west half of the valley will amount to almost a $100,000,” said Helen. “That’s a real story,” enthused Tom. “It’s big enough to telephone to the state bureau of the Associated Press at Cranston. They’ll be glad to pay us for sending it to them.” “You telephone,” said Helen. “I’d be scared to death and wouldn’t be able to give them all the facts.” “You’re the editor,” replied Tom. “It’s your story and you ought to do the phoning. Jot down some notes while I get a connection to Cranston.” Tom went into the house to put in the long distance call just as Helen’s mother hurried across from the Stevens home. “Are you all right, dear?” her mother asked. “Not even wet,” replied Helen. “The coat and boots protected me even in the heaviest rain. Tom’s just gone inside to call the Associated Press at Cranston and I’m going to tell them about the storm.” “Hurry up there,” came Tom’s voice from inside the house. “The Cranston operator has just answered.” “And I haven’t had time to think what I’ll say,” added Helen, half to herself. Without stopping to take off her cumbersome raincoat, she hurried to the telephone stand in the dining room and Tom turned the instrument over to her. “All ready,” he said. Helen picked up the telephone and heard a voice at the other end of the wire saying, “This is the state bureau of the Associated Press at Cranston. Who’s calling?” Mustering up her courage, Helen replied, “this is Helen Blair, editor of the Rolfe Herald. We’ve had a tornado near here this afternoon and I thought you’d want the facts.” “Glad to have them,” came the peppy voice back over the wire. “Let’s go.” Helen forgot her early misgivings and briefly and concisely told her story about the storm, giving estimates of damage and the names of the injured. In three minutes she was through. “Fine story,” said the Associated Press man at Cranston. “We’ll mail you a check the first of the month. And say, you’d better write to us. We can use a live, wide-awake correspondent in your town.” “Thanks, I will,” replied Helen as she hung up the receiver. “What did he say?” asked Tom. “He told me to write them; that they could use a correspondent at Rolfe.” “That’s great,” exclaimed Tom. “One more way in which we can increase our income and it means that some day you may be able to get a job with the Associated Press.” “That will have to come later,” said Helen’s mother, “when school days are over.” “Sure, I know,” said Tom, “but creating a good impression won’t hurt anything.” Mrs. Blair had a hot supper waiting, hamburger cakes, baking powder biscuits with honey, and tea, and they all sat down to the table for a belated evening meal. Helen related the events of her trip with Doctor Stevens and Tom grew enthusiastic again over the story. “It’s the biggest news the Herald has had in years. If we were putting out a daily we’d be working on an extra now. Maybe the Herald will be a daily some day.” “Rolfe will have to grow a lot,” smiled his mother. “I guess you’re right,” agreed Tom. Tom and Helen helped their mother clear away the supper dishes and after that Helen went into the front room and cleared the Sunday papers off the library table. She found some copypaper and a pencil in the drawer and sat down to work on her story of the storm. The excitement of the storm and the ensuing events had carried her along, oblivious of the fatigue which had increased with the passing hours. But when she picked up her pencil and tried to write, her eyes dimmed and her head nodded. She snuggled her head in her arms to rest for just a minute, she told herself. The next thing she knew Tom was shaking her shoulders. “Ten o’clock,” he said, “and time for all editors to be in bed.” Helen tried to rub the sleep from her eyes and Tom laughed uproariously at her efforts. “It’s no use,” he said. “You’re all tired out. You can write your story in the morning. To bed you go.” “Have I been asleep all evening?” Helen asked her mother. “Yes, dear,” was the reply, “and I think Tom’s right. Run along to bed and you’ll feel more like working on your story in the morning.” Goodnights were said and Helen, only half awake, went to her room, thus ending the most exciting day in her young life. |
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