  Monday morning dawned clear and bright. There were no traces in the sky of the storm which on the previous day had devastated so many farms west of Rolfe. The air was warm with a fragrance and sweetness that only a small town knows in springtime. Helen exchanged greetings with half a dozen people as she hurried down the street to start her first day at the office as editor of the Herald. Grant Hughes, the postmaster, was busy sweeping out his office but he stopped his work and called to Helen as she turned down the alley-way which led to the Herald office. “Starting in bright and early, aren’t you?” “Have to,” smiled Helen, “for Tom and I have only half days in which to put out the paper and do the job work.” “I know, I know,” mused the old postmaster, “but you’re chips off the old block. You’ll make good.” “Thanks, Mr. Hughes,” said Helen. “Your believing in us is going to help.” She hastened on the few steps to the office and opened the doors and windows for the rooms were close and stuffy after being closed overnight. The young editor of the Herald paused to look around the composing room. Tom had certainly done a good job cleaning up the day before. The four steel forms which would hold the type for the week’s edition were in place, ready for the news she would write and the ads which it would be Tom’s work to solicit. The Linotype seemed to be watching her in a very superior but friendly manner and even the old press was polished and cleaned as never before. Helen returned to the editorial office, rolled a sheet of copypaper into her typewriter, and sat down to write the story of the storm. She might have to change certain parts of the story about the condition of the injured later in the week but she could get the main part of it written while it was still fresh in her memory. Hugh Blair had always made a point of writing his news stories in simple English and he had drilled Helen and Tom in his belief that the simpler a story is written the more widely it will be read. He had no time for the multitudes of adjectives which many country editors insist upon using, although he felt that strong, colorful words had their place in news stories. With her father’s beliefs on news writing almost second nature, Helen started her story. It was simple and dramatic, as dramatic as the sudden descent of the storm on the valley. Her fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard and the story seemed to write itself. She finished one page and rolled another into the machine, hardly pausing in her rapid typing. Page after page she wrote until she finally leaned back in her swivel chair, tired from the strain of her steady work. She picked up the half dozen pages of typed copy. This was her first big story and she wanted it to read well, to be something of which her father would be proud when he read the copy of the paper they would send him. She went over the story carefully, changing a word here, another there. Occasionally she operated on some of her sentences, paring down the longer ones and speeding up the tempo of the story. It was nine-thirty before she was satisfied that she had done the best she could and she stuck the story on the copy spindle, ready for Tom when he wanted to translate it into type on the Linotype. Helen slid another sheet of copypaper into her typewriter and headed it “PERSONALS.” Farther down the page she wrote four items about out-of-town people who were visiting in Rolfe. She had just finished her personals when she heard the whistle of the morning train. The nine forty-five in the morning and the seven-fifteen in the evening were the only trains through Rolfe on the branch line of the A. and T. railroad. The nine forty-five was the upbound train to Cranston, the state capital. It reached Cranston about one o’clock, turned around there and started back a little after three, passing through Rolfe on its down trip early in the evening, its over-night terminal being Gladbrook, the county seat. Helen picked up a pencil and pad of paper, snapped the lock on the front door and ran for the depot two blocks away. The daily trains were always good for a few personals. She meant to leave the office earlier but had lost track of the time, so intense had been her interest in writing her story of the storm. The nine forty-five was still half a mile below town and puffing up the grade to the station when Helen reached the platform. She spoke to the agent and the express man and hurried into the waiting room. Two women she recognized were picking up their suit cases when she entered. Helen explained her mission and they told her where they were going. She jotted down the notes quickly for the train was rumbling into town. The local ground to a stop and Helen went to the platform to see if anyone had arrived from the county seat. One passenger descended, a tall, austere-looking man whose appearance was not in the least inviting but Helen wanted every news item she could get so she approached him, with some misgiving. “I’m the editor for the Rolfe Herald,” she explained, “and I’d like to have an item about your visit here.” “You’re what?” exclaimed the stranger. “I’m the editor of the local paper,” repeated Helen, “and I’d like a story about your visit in town.” “You’re pretty young for an editor,” persisted the stranger, with a smile that decidedly changed his appearance and made him look much less formidable. “I’m substituting for my father,” said Helen. “That quite explains things,” agreed the stranger. “I’m Charles King of Cranston, state superintendent of schools, and I’m making a few inspections around the state. If you’d like, I’ll see you again before I leave and tell you what I think of your school system here.” “I’m sure you’ll thoroughly approve,” said Helen. “Mr. Fowler, the superintendent, is very progressive and has fine discipline.” “I’ll tell him he has a good booster in the editor,” smiled Mr. King. “Now, if you’ll be good enough to direct me to the school I’ll see that you get a good story out of my visit here.” Helen supplied the necessary directions and the state superintendent left the depot. The nine forty-five, with its combination mail and baggage car and two day coaches, whistled out and Helen returned to the Herald office. She found a farmer from the east side of the valley waiting for her. “I’d like to get some sale bills printed,” he said, “and I’ll need about five hundred quarter page bills. How much will they cost?” Helen opened the booklet with job prices listed and gave the farmer a quotation on the job. “Sounds fair enough,” he said. “At least it’s a dollar less than last year.” “Paper doesn’t cost quite as much,” explained Helen, “and we’re passing the saving on to you. Be sure and tell your neighbors about our reasonable printing prices.” “I’ll do that,” promised the farmer. “I’ll bring in the copy Tuesday and get the bills Friday morning.” “My brother will have them ready for you,” said Helen, “but if you want to get the most out of your sale, why not run your bill as an ad in the Herald. On a combination like that we can give you a special price. You can have a quarter page ad in the paper plus 500 bills at only a little more than the cost of the ad in the paper. It’s the cost of setting up the ad that counts for once it is set up we can run off the bills at very little extra cost.” “How much circulation do you have?” “Eight hundred and seventy-five,” said Helen. “Three hundred papers go in town and the rest out on the country routes.” She consulted her price book and quoted the price for the combination ad and bills. “I’ll take it,” agreed the farmer, who appeared to be a keen business man. “Tell you what,” he went on. “If you’d work out some kind of a tieup with the farm bureau at Gladbrook and carry a page with special farm news you could get a lot of advertising from farmers. If you do, don’t use ‘canned’ news sent out by agricultural schools. Get the county agent to write a column a week and then get the rest of it from farmers around here. Have items about what they are doing, how many hogs they are feeding, how much they get for their cattle, when they market them and news of their club activities.” “Sounds like a fine idea,” said Helen, “but we’ll have to go a little slowly at first. My brother and I are trying to run the paper while Dad is away recovering his health and until we get everything going smoothly we can’t attempt very many new things.” “You keep it in mind,” said the farmer, “for I tell you, we people on the farms like to see news about ourselves in the paper and it would mean more business for you. Well, I’ve got to be going. I’ll bring my copy in tomorrow.” “We’ll be expecting it,” said Helen. “Thanks for the business.” She went around to the postoffice and returned with a handful of letters. Most of them were circulars but one of them was a card from her father. She read it with such eagerness that her hands trembled. It had been written while the train was speeding through southwestern Kansas and her father said that he was not as tired from the train trip as he had expected. By the time they received the card, he added, he would be at Rubio, Arizona, where he was to make his home until he was well enough to return to the more rigorous climate of the north. Helen telephoned her mother at once and read the message on the card. “I’m going to write to Dad and tell him all about the storm and how happy we are that everything is going well for him,” said Helen. “I’ll write this afternoon,” said her mother, “and we’ll put the letters in one envelope and get them off on the evening mail. Perhaps Tom will find time to add a note.” Helen sat down at the desk, found several sheets of office stationery and a pen, and started her letter to her father. She was half way through when Jim Preston entered. “Good morning, Miss Blair,” he said. “I’ve got the Liberty ready to go if you’d like to run down the lake and see how much damage the twister caused at the summer resorts.” “Thanks,” replied Helen, “I’ll be with you right away.” She put her letter aside and closed the office. Five minutes later they were at the main pier on the lakeshore. The Liberty, a sturdy, 28-foot cruiser, was moored to the pier. The light oak hood covering the engine shone brightly in the morning sun and Helen could see that Jim Preston had waxed it recently. The hood extended for about fourteen feet back from the bow of the boat, completely enclosing the 60 horsepower engine which drove the craft. The steering wheel and ignition switches were mounted on a dash and behind this were four benches with leather covered cork cushions which could be used as life preservers. The boatman stepped into the Liberty and pressed the starter. There was the whirr of gears and the muffled explosions from the underwater exhaust as the engine started. The Liberty quivered at its moorings, anxious to be away and cutting through the tiny whitecaps which danced in the sunshine. Helen bent down and loosened the half hitches on the ropes which held the boat. Jim Preston steadied it while she stepped in and took her place on the front seat beside him. The boatman shoved the clutch ahead, the tone of the motor deepened and they moved slowly away from the pier. With quickening pace, they sped out into the lake, slapping through the white caps faster and faster until tiny flashes of spray stung Helen’s face. “How long will it take us to reach Crescent Beach?” asked Helen for she knew the boatman made his first stop at the new resort at the far end of the lake. “It’s nine miles,” replied Jim Preston. “If I open her up we’ll be down there in fifteen or sixteen minutes. Want to make time?” “Not particularly,” replied Helen, “but I enjoy a fast ride.” “Here goes,” smiled Preston and he shoved the throttle forward. The powerful motor responded to the increased fuel and the Liberty shook herself and leaped ahead, cutting a v-shaped swath down the center of the lake. Solid sheets of spray flew out on each side of the boat and Preston put up spray boards to keep them from being drenched. Helen turned around and looked back at Rolfe, nestling serenely along the north end of the lake. It was a quiet, restful scene, the white houses showing through the verdant green of the new leaves. She could see her own home and thought she glimpsed her mother working in the garden at the rear. Then the picture faded as they sped down the lake and Helen gave herself up to complete enjoyment of the boat trip. There were few signs along the shore of the storm. After veering away from Rolfe it had evidently gone directly down the lake until it reached the summer resorts. In less than ten minutes Rolfe had disappeared and the far end of the lake was in view. Preston slowed the Liberty somewhat and swung across the lake to the left toward Crescent Beach, the new resort which several wealthy men from the state capital were promoting. They slid around a rocky promontory and into view of the resort. Boathouses dipped crazily into the water and the large bath-house, the most modern on the lake, had been crushed while the toboggan slide had been flipped upside down by the capricious wind. The big pier had collapsed and Preston nosed the Liberty carefully in-shore until the bow grated on the fresh, clean sand of the beach. Kirk Foster, the young manager of the resort, was directing a crew of men who were cleaning up the debris. The boatman introduced Helen to the manager and he willingly gave her all the details about the damage. The large, new hotel had escaped unharmed and the private cottages, some of which were nicer than the homes in Rolfe, had suffered only minor damage. “The damage to the bathhouse, about $35,000, was the heaviest,” said the manager, “but don’t forget to say in your story that we’ll have things fixed up in about two weeks, and everything is insured.” “I won’t,” promised Helen, “and when you have any news be sure and let me know.” “We cater to a pretty ritzy crowd,” replied the manager, “and we ought to have some famous people here during the summer. I’ll tip you off whenever I think there is a likely story.” Jim Preston left the mail for the resort and they returned to the Liberty, backed out carefully, and headed across the lake for Sandy Point, a resort which had been on the lake for more years than Helen could remember. Sandy Point was popular with the townspeople and farmers and was known for its wonderful bathing beach. Lake Dubar was shallow there and it was safe for almost anyone to enjoy the bathing at Sandy Point. The old resort was not nearly as pretentious as Crescent Beach for its bathhouses, cottages and hotel were weather beaten and vine-covered. Art Provost, the manager, was waiting for the morning mail when the Liberty churned up to the pier. “Storm missed you,” said the boatman. “And right glad I am that it did,” replied Provost. “I thought we were goners when I saw it coming down the lake but it swung over east and took its spite out on Crescent Beach. Been over there yet?” “Stopped on the way down,” replied Jim Preston. “They suffered a good bit of damage but will have it cleaned up in a couple or three days.” “Glad to hear that,” said Provost, “that young manager, Foster, is a fine fellow.” Helen inquired for news about the resort and was told that it would be another week, about the first of June, before the season would be under way. They left Sandy Point and headed up the lake, this time at a leisurely twenty miles an hour. Helen enjoyed every minute of the trip, drinking in the quiet beauty of the lake, its peaceful hills and the charm of the farms with their cattle browsing contentedly in the pastures. It was noon when they docked at Rolfe and Helen, after thanking the boatman, went home instead of returning to the office. Tom had come from school and lunch was on the table. Helen told her brother of the sale of the quarter page ad for the paper and the 500 bills. “That’s fine,” said Tom, “but you must have looked on the wrong page in the cost book.” “Didn’t I ask enough?” “You were short about fifty cents,” grinned Tom, “but we’ll make a profit on the job, especially since you got him to run it as an ad in the paper.” “What are you going to do this afternoon?” Mrs. Blair asked Tom. “I’ll make the rounds of the stores and see what business I can line up for the paper,” said the business manager of the Herald. “Then there are a couple of jobs of letterheads I’ll have to get out of the way and by the time I get them printed the metal in the Linotype will be hot and I can set up Helen’s editorials and whatever other copy she got ready this morning.” “The storm story runs six pages,” said Helen, “and when I add a few paragraphs about the summer resorts, it will take another page. Is it too long?” “Not if it is well written.” “You’ll have to judge that for yourself.” “I walked home with Marg Stevens,” said Tom, “and she said to tell you the sophomore picnic planned for this afternoon has been postponed until Friday. A lot of the boys from the country have to go home early and help clean up the storm damage.” “Suits me just as well,” said Helen, “for we’ll have the paper off the press Thursday and I’ll be ready for a picnic Friday.” Tom went to the office after lunch and Helen walked to school with Margaret. Just before the assembly was called to order, one of the teachers came down to Helen’s desk and told her she was wanted in the superintendent’s office. When Helen reached the office she found Superintendent Fowler and Mr. King, the state superintendent of schools, waiting for her. The state superintendent greeted her cordially and told Superintendent Fowler how Helen had met him at the train. “I promised to give her a story about my visit,” he explained, “and I thought this would be a good time.” Superintendent Fowler nodded his agreement and the state school leader continued. “I hope you’ll consider it good news,” he told Helen, “when I say that the Rolfe school has been judged the finest in the state for towns under one thousand inhabitants.” “It certainly is news,” said Helen. “Mr. Fowler has worked hard in the two years he has been here and the Herald will be glad to have this story.” “I thought you would,” said Mr. King, and he told Helen in detail of the improvement which had been made in the local school in the last two years and how much attention it was attracting throughout the state. “You really ought to have a school page in the local paper,” he told Helen in concluding. “Perhaps we will next fall,” replied the young editor of the Herald. “By that time Tom and I should be veterans in the newspaper game and able to add another page of news to the Herald.” “We’ll talk it over next August when I come back to get things in shape for the opening of the fall term,” said Superintendent Fowler. “I’m heartily in favor of one if Tom and Helen can spare the time and the space it will require.” Helen returned to the assembly with the handful of notes she had jotted down while Mr. King talked. Her American History class had gone to its classroom and she picked up her textbook and walked down the assembly, inquiring eyes following her, wondering why she had been called into the superintendent’s office. They’d have to read the Herald to find out that story. |
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