CHAPTER XIII

JIMMY BLAINE GETS A SCOOP

There were two morning newspapers in Wakely; one pink and one yellow. On week mornings half of the town read the pink journal and the other half the yellow one. On Sunday mornings the whole town read both. Jimmy Blaine worked for the yellow one.

It was Jimmy Blaine’s regular business to go out on any consignment the powers that be might send him. It was his irregular business to make news if there was no news, thereby adding to his fame and bulging out his weekly pay envelope. While the Major was telling his tale Mrs. Trescott was the only one to notice how shiny Jimmy’s eyes were and how quick and almost feverish was his breathing. Before the last course was served Jimmy jumped from his seat.

“’S’cuse me, but I must be a-hustling. No, Miss Celeste, no _souffle aux pruneaux_ for me this evening,” in answer to the hostess’s proffer of prune whip. “S’long everybody! See you in the morning.” Jimmy was gone.

Several chuckles bubbled up from the depths of Mrs. Trescott’s satin bodice. That evening, when Mrs. Trescott made her usual weekly pilgrimage to the kitchen to speak to Aunt Maria and slip her the customary Saturday night tip she gave her an extra five cents, commissioning her to purchase the Sunday morning yellow journal for her.

“Moughty ’stravagant Mis’ Trescott when they’s allus pufectly good Sunday papers a goin’ ter waste ’roun’ here. All you is got ter do is jes’ wait a while. Major Simpson has one, an’ Miss Celeste has one an’ Mr. Jimmy Blaine is mo’n apt ter have two or three. I allus say ’taint no trouble ter start Monday mornin’ fiah at this here Mason Bluemange. If you want ter save yo’ nickel I’ll see that you gits the very fust paper that anybody gits through with.”

“That’s very kind, Maria, but I want one all to myself to-morrow morning, and want it before anybody has pawed over it and mixed it up. I have an idea there will be something of especial interest to me.”

Mrs. Trescott was right. Jimmy Blaine had not foregone the pleasures of prune whip for nothing. He had rushed pell mell to the office and frantically pounded out on an extra typewriter the whole story of Major Simpson and the shoplifter. He had named no names, thereby carefully sidestepping any chance for a libel suit, but he had so accurately described Burnett & Burnett’s that the whole of Wakely could but guess the department store mentioned in the story. The stage setting was realistic, the local color perfect, but the young journalist had let his fancy run riot where description of characters were concerned.

Mrs. Trescott received her private Sunday morning newspaper, literally damp from the press. Aunt Maria was what she called “an early stirrer”, and the first newsboy that shouted his wares in the neighborhood of Maison Blanche was nabbed and made to deliver by the intrepid old cook, who patiently climbed the two flights of steps to Mrs. Trescott’s third-floor-back hall bedroom and poked the paper in her door.

“Here you am, Mis Trescott, an’ a cup er cawfy ter tide you over come brekfus time. You mus’ be ’spectin’ of some funeral notice ter make you so besirous of a private paper.”

Aunt Maria well knew that Mrs. Trescott had to watch her pennies very closely and the extravagance of five cents spent for first peep at a newspaper could mean little short of a death and a funeral.

“Perhaps!” chuckled the lady, “but I’ll come read the news to you after while, Maria. I am more than obliged to you for your kindness. No doubt the coffee will help me bear up,” and then the old lady gave another deep soul-satisfying gurgle as she unfolded the damp newspaper and ran her eyes eagerly over the news columns.

There it was, just as she knew it would be, but better, so much better!

“Oh, the rascal, the young rascal! He has made a romance of that old fool Major’s finding the widow from his own part of the country and her helping him to track the criminal. He even has in the doughnuts and coffee and the pink parasol.”

It might be said that Mrs. Trescott stopped chuckling and chortled. What difference did it make if one was poor and old and condemned to spend one’s days in a third-floor-back hall bedroom if one had a sense of humor equal to Mrs. Trescott’s. Her humor was the type that needed no second person with whom to enjoy the ridiculousnesses of life. Her solemn countenance gave no inkling to the outside world of the riot of fun going on within. The gurgling laughter that sought an outlet was to the uninitiated no more mirthful than the bubble of air arising from an old submerged mud turtle, appearing on the surface of the water and breaking.

“I’d like to hear what the Burnetts have to say this morning,” she gasped. “Oh, that will be unprintable I am sure, but our Jimmy Blaine could make copy of it nevertheless. And the little shoplifter--no doubt she is happy at being put in the paper as beautiful beyond compare, with a dark mysterious past that tugs against her better nature--but the better nature prevails and she returns the stolen goods. I wonder Jimmy did not announce an engagement between her and Mr. Theodore Burnett. I think I’ll suggest it to him. A suggestion is all that is necessary to our Jimmy. Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy!”

In the mean time Jimmy was sleeping the sleep of a cub reporter happy over a scoop and the fact that he had cleared a neat little sum on the extra columns of space he had filled so successfully. Kit Williams, his friend and room mate, had seized on the early edition Jimmie had brought home with him and his mirth was loud and lusty over what Jimmy had done to the Major.

“Gee. Ain’t he the kid?” he cried. “I could kiss him where he sleeps if he wasn’t so unshaved.”

“You try it,” muttered Jimmy sleepily, having come to life just enough to hear Kit’s ravings. “You try it and you’ll never shave again.” He then turned over and pulled the covers over his tousled head, hoping to be lost to the world until dinner time, breakfast offering no inducements to one who had been up all night making news for the greedy public.

Miss Willie Watts was greatly excited over the article. It seemed to her very astonishing that the “paper” should know so much about something that had only just happened. At first she did not connect Jimmy Blaine with the story but when she did all she could say was:

“But how did he know so much about the appearance of the poor wicked shoplifter when Major Simpson did not tell him any more than he did me? And how did he know the widow was handsome and dashing, the one who made the doughnuts and coffee? Major Simpson never said so in so many words. Ah me! All widows are handsome and dashing, it seems. I wonder if this won’t make the poor Major sick. I hope he won’t die--” and then she began dreaming of his tombstone and how it would look:

“Major Sylvester Simpson, beloved husband of Wilhelmina--” etc.

Mrs. Celeste White read the story and thought Jimmy was pretty clever but wished he had mentioned that the doughty hero lived at Maison Blanche.

“A very good chance for some free advertising and I might just as well have had it,” she grumbled. “Young people seem never to think of such things.”

The Major read the whole paper before he came to the part of the magazine section which carried his story. It was his custom to have breakfast in his room on Sunday morning so that he might take his ease before making the elaborate toilet he felt to be necessary for one whose duty and pleasure it was to pass the plate in church.

“What’s this? What’s this?” he cried, glaring excitedly at Jimmy’s lurid headlines. “Story of Seductive Shoplifter--dashing widow--doughnuts and coffee--pink parasol--reunited after years of sad separation--Ahem--handsome detective--Tracked to her lair shop girl returns purloined articles! All will be forgiven and beautiful maiden will continue her labor at large department store so popular in the city of Wakely. Of course her identity will remain a secret--no person but the wily detective and the generous employer being aware of her identity.” The poor man groaned aloud and let his second cup of coffee get chilled.

“Who, who can have done this? Ah--that wretched Jimmy Blaine! I forgot he was connected with the press. This vile sheet has always disgusted me. I never intend to read it again,” and then the old gentleman settled himself to con every word of Jimmy’s scoop. He found it rather pleasant to be written up as handsome and gallant, and the romance between himself and the Mrs. Leslie hinted at in the article was on the whole quite gratifying.

“But the Burnetts! What will they think?” While no names were mentioned there could be little doubt of the identity of the persons in the story.

“Let them think what they choose,” was Major Simpson’s final decision. “It is not for me, Sylvester Simpson, to account to the young Burnetts for my method of tracking criminals.” And then he proceeded to justify himself for having talked too freely before a cub reporter and even persuaded himself that the publicity given the shoplifting episode was a stroke of finesse that only a master mind, such as his, would have been capable of originating.

“I can manage Charles,” he said to himself, “but I am not so sure of Theodore. He is an opinionated youngster.”

In the mean time the “opinionated youngster” was doubled up with laughter over the magazine section of the Sunday paper.

“Just when we thought we could put our hands on the criminals! Oh, Major Simpson, Major Simpson, what a legacy our father and grandfather left us in your portly person! And what will the little O’Gorman say to this?”

What the little O’Gorman thought we may never know, but what she said was:

“Oh, me, oh, my! As my father used to say; ‘The best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft aglee.’”

She then betook herself to the quiet and peace of her own little bedroom, there to work out a plan and incidentally to read a few pages in her book of books, hoping her clever father might have left some words of wisdom bearing more directly on misplaced publicity than on the schemes of mice and men.

Mrs. Leslie’s indignation knew no bounds when she read what the newspaper said about her.

“Dashing widow indeed! I never dashed in my life.”

“And certainly you never widded,” said Mary, trying not to laugh. “But, dearest, you should be proud that your coffee and doughnuts got into print, although anonymously. After all, nobody will know whose they were unless you tell them.”

“You may be sure I’ll not do that. But one thing I am going to tell if I have to do it with my dying breath: I shall tell Sylvester Simpson that he is a pompous old idiot.”