  Helen went down stairs and Janet hastened to the bathroom where she made a hasty toilet. Back in her room she fairly jumped into her clothes, gave her hair one final and hurried caress with the brush, and then went down stairs. Mrs. Thorne, who had breakfasted earlier with Janet’s father and mother, had gone home, so Helen and Janet sat down to the breakfast Mrs. Hardy had prepared. There was grapefruit to start with, then oatmeal with dates in it, hot, well-buttered toast, strips of crisp bacon and large glasses of milk. “Feel all right this morning, Janet?” her mother asked, looking a little anxiously at her vibrant and energetic daughter. “Fine, mother. I slept very soundly. Last night seems almost like a nightmare.” “It was a nightmare,” said her mother, sitting down and picking up a piece of toast to munch while the girls ate their breakfast. “I’ve never seen your father so worried. He was almost frantic until Hugh Grogan suggested they try to get through with one of his big tractors. They held a council of war right here in the front room and I’ve never seen as many nervous and excited men in my life. Talk about women getting upset, why they were worse than we ever think of being.” She smiled a little. She could now, but last night it had all been a very grim and very near tragedy. “You’ll have to write an excuse for me,” said Janet between munches on a crisp slice of bacon. “Not this time. I phoned the superintendent and he said that everyone in honors English was excused from school today.” “Wonder if we’ll have the tryouts for the class play this afternoon?” said Helen, who until that moment had been devoting her full energies to the large bowl of oatmeal. “There’s one way of finding out,” replied Janet. “I’ll phone the principal’s office and see if it has been taken off the bulletin board.” Janet went to the phone in the hall and called the schoolhouse. When she returned her face was aglow. “No school, no tryouts—what a day and what to do?” “You’re sure about the tryouts?” Helen was insistent, for winning the leading part meant so much to her. “Sure as sure can be. They’ve been postponed until Saturday morning at 9:30 o’clock when they will be held in the assembly.” “Then that will give me plenty of time to study my part thoroughly,” said Helen. “But you know it now. Why you had it memorized, every word and phrase, yesterday afternoon,” protested Janet. “I know I did yesterday, but last night scared it completely out of me. I can’t even remember the opening lines.” “Maybe it’s a good thing. We’ll both start over and this afternoon we can rehearse upstairs in my room.” “Grand. I’ve got to go home and help mother for a while, but I’ll be back by 2:30 o’clock and we’ll start in.” Breakfast over, Janet went to the door with Helen. The day was bright and almost unbelievably clear. The temperature was rising rapidly, the wind had gone down, and their experience of the night before seemed very far away. Rivulets of water were starting to run down the streets and before nightfall the gutters would be full of the melting snow and slush. Janet found a multitude of little things to do around home to help her mother and the first interruption came with the ringing of the telephone. Her mother answered, but then summoned Janet. “It’s the Times,” said Mrs. Hardy. Janet took the instrument and recognized the voice of the city editor of the local paper. “I need a good first person story of what took place inside the bus, Janet,” said Pete Benda. “Can you come down to the office and write a yarn? You’ve had enough experience with your high school page to do the trick and do it well.” “But it all seems so far away and kind of vague now,” protested Janet. “Listen, Janet, I’ve got to have that story.” Pete was cajoling now. “Haven’t we done a lot of favors for your high school page?” “Yes, but—.” “Then come down and write the story. I’ll save a good spot on page one for it.” Janet hung up the telephone, feeling a little weak and limp. Pete Benda was insistent and she would have to go through with it. “The Times wants me to come down and write a first person story of what happened last night,” she explained to her mother. “I didn’t want to, but Pete Benda, the city editor, just insisted. He’s been so good about helping us out on the school page when we’ve been in jams that I couldn’t say no.” “Of course not, and you’ll do a good piece of writing. No don’t worry about it. Run along. I’ll have a little lunch ready when you get back.” Janet put on her coat, but paused at the door and called to her mother. “If Helen comes before I get back, tell her I’ll be along soon.” Janet enjoyed the walk to the Times office for the air was invigorating. The Times was housed in a narrow two-story building with its press in the basement. The news department was on the second floor with the city editor’s desk in front of a large window where he could look the full length of the main business street of Clarion. Pete Benda, thin and too white-faced for his own good health, saw Janet come in. “Here’s a desk and typewriter you can use,” he said. “I’m counting on having that story in less than an hour. You’ll have to come through, young lady.” Janet flushed at Pete’s appellation, for the city editor of the Times was only a little older than she. Oh well, perhaps Pete was twenty-two, but she could remember when he had been in high school, playing football, and one of the best ends in the state. Janet rolled some copy paper into the typewriter and looked rather blankly at the sheet. It was hard now to concentrate on the events which had been so tragically real the night before. If she could only get the first sentence to click the rest would come easily. She tried one phrase. That wouldn’t do; not enough action in it. Ripping the sheet of paper from the typewriter, she inserted another and tried again. This was better. Perhaps it would do; at least she had started, and the words came now in a smooth flow for Janet could type rapidly, thanks to a commercial course in her junior year. Pete Benda, on his way to the composing room, looked over her shoulder and read the first paragraph but Janet, now engrossed in the story, hardly noticed him. Pursing his lips in a low whistle, a trick that he did when pleased, Pete went on about his work. Janet finished one page and then another. Even a third materialized under the steady tapping of her fingers on the keyboard. Then she was through. Three pages of copy, three pages of short, sharp sentences, of adjectives that caught and held the imagination, that gave a picture of the cold and the apprehension of those in the bus, of the relief, almost hysterical, when rescue came. Janet didn’t read it over. It was the best she could do. If Pete wanted to change it that was all right with her. She put the three sheets of copy paper together and placed them on his desk. Then she slipped into her coat and went down stairs. She had finished the story well within the limit set by the city editor and she turned toward home and the rehearsal she and Helen had planned for the afternoon. |
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