Helen in the Editor's Chair Part 12

The young editor of the _Herald_ walked down the street alone, for most of the students had left the building while she had been talking with Margaret.

When she reached the _Herald_ office she heard the steady hum of the electric motor of the Linotype and the clack of its long arm as Tom sent the lines of matrices into the mould to come out in the form of s.h.i.+ny, hot lead slugs--new type for their first edition of the _Herald_.

Tom rose from his chair before the Linotype keyboard and came into the editorial office.

"That's a fine story on the storm," he told Helen. "It's so interesting I can't make any time getting it into type; keep stopping to read your descriptions again."

"I've got another good story," Helen replied, and she told her brother all about the visit of the state superintendent of schools and of his praise for the local school.

"What a front page we'll have to send to Dad," chuckled Tom. "And to match your good news stories, I made the rounds of the stores the first thing this afternoon and got the ads lined up. I couldn't get the copy for all of them but I know just how much s.p.a.ce each store will take.

We'll have a 'pay dirt' issue this week with a little more than 250 inches of ads and at 25 cents a column inch that means better than $60 worth of business. Not bad for a starter, eh?"

"Won't that crowd the inside pages?"

"A little," Tom conceded, "but we've got to make every cent we can. I've been doing a little figuring on our expenses and how much business we ought to have. We think of the _Herald_ as an eight page paper. That's true, but four of the pages are printed at Cranston by the Globe Printing Company with our serial story, pictures of news of the world, fas.h.i.+on and menu suggestions and world news in general on them. We seldom if ever put ads on our front page and that leaves only three pages for which we can sell ads and on which we must earn enough to pay expenses, keep the family going and build up a surplus to take care of Dad when he needs more money. Those three six column pages have 360 column inches, 120 to each page, and at our rate of 25 cents an inch for advertising we've got to sell a lot to make the grade."

"I hadn't figured it out like that," Helen admitted, "but of course you're right. Can't we expand the paper some way to get more business?

Only this morning the farmer that came in to see about the sale bills said he wished we would run a farm page and the school superintendent would like to have a school page next fall."

"The farm page," Tom said, "would undoubtedly bring us more business and the first time I have a half day to spare I'll take the old car and go down to Gladbrook and see the county agent.

"Maybe I can get some job work from the offices at the courthouse," he added hopefully.

The telephone rang and Helen answered the call. It was from a woman who had out-of-town guests and the young editor jotted the names down on a pad of paper. That done she turned to her typewriter and wrote the item, for with her half days to work she had to write her stories as soon as she had them.

Margaret bounced in with a handful of notes.

"I've got half a dozen school stories," she exclaimed. "Almost every teacher had something for me and they're anxious to see their school news in the paper."

"I thought they would be," Helen smiled. "Can you run a typewriter?"

"I'm a total stranger," Margaret confessed. "I'll do a lot better if I scribble my stories in longhand, if Tom thinks he can read my scrawls."

"I'll try," came the reply from the composing room, "but I absolutely refuse to stand on my head to do it."

"They're not that bad," laughed Margaret, "and I'll try to do especially well for you."

Helen provided her first a.s.sistant with copypaper and Margaret sat down at the desk to write her stories. The editor of the _Herald_ then devoted her attention to writing up the notes she had taken in her talk with the state superintendent of schools. It was a story that she found slow to write for she wanted no mistakes in it.

The afternoon was melting in a soft May twilight when Tom snapped the switch on the Linotype and came into the editorial office.

"Almost six o'clock," he said, "and time for us to head for home and supper."

Margaret, who had been at the desk writing for more than an hour, straightened her cramped back.

"Ouch!" she exclaimed. "I never thought reporting could be such work and yet so much fun. I'm getting the biggest thrill out of my stories."

"That's about all the pay you will get," grinned Tom.

They closed the office and started home together. They had hardly gone a block when Helen stopped suddenly.

"Give me the office key, Tom," she said. "I started a letter to Dad this morning and it got sidetracked when someone came in. I'm going back and get it. I can finish it at home and mail it on the seven-fifteen when I come down to meet the train."

"I'll get it for you," said Tom and started on the run for the office. He got her half-finished letter, and rejoined Helen and Margaret, who had walked slowly.

"I'll add a few lines to your letter," Tom said. "Dad will be glad to know we've lined up a lot of ads for our first issue."

Doctor Stevens came out of his office and joined them in their walk home.

"How are all the storm victims?" asked Helen.

"Getting along fine," said the doctor. "I can't understand why there weren't more serious injuries. The storm was terrific."

"Perhaps it is because most of them heard it coming and sought shelter in the strongest buildings or took refuge in cellars," suggested Tom.

"I suppose that's the explanation."

"I'll finish my school stories tomorrow afternoon," promised Margaret as she turned toward her home.

The twilight hour was the one that Helen liked best of all the busy hours of her day. From the porch she could look down at the long, deep-blue stretch of water that was Lake Dubar while a liquid-gold sun settled into the western hills. Purple shadows in the little valleys bordering the lake, lights gleaming from farm house windows on far away hills, the mellow chime of a freight train whistling for a crossing and over all a pervading calmness that overcame any feeling of fatigue and brought only a feeling of rest and quiet to Helen. It was hard to believe that a little more than 24 hours before this peaceful scene had been threatened with total destruction by the fury of the elements.

Helen's mother called and the _Herald_ editor went into the dining room.

Tom, his hands scrubbed clean of printer's ink, was at the table when Helen took her place.

Mrs. Blair bowed her head in silent prayer and Tom and Helen did likewise.

"Didn't I see you working in the garden this morning when I went down the lake with Jim Preston?" Helen asked her mother.

"Probably. I'm planning a larger garden than ever. We can cut down on our grocery bills if we raise more things at home."

"Don't try to do too much," Tom warned, "for we're depending on you as the boss of this outfit now. I'll help you with the garden every chance I get."

"I know you will," his mother replied, "but I thoroughly enjoy working outdoors. If you'll take care of the potato patch, I'll be able to do the rest and still find time to write a few social items for the paper."

"Did you get any today?" Helen asked.

"Nearly half a dozen. The Methodist Ladies Aid is planning a spring festival, an afternoon of quilting and a chicken dinner in the evening with everyone invited."

"And what a feed they put out," added Tom. "I'll have to see their officers and get an ad for the paper."

Supper over and the dishes washed, dried and put away, Helen turned her attention to finis.h.i.+ng the letter to her father. Tom also sat down to write a note and when they had finished Mrs. Blair put their letters in the envelope with her own, sealed it and gave it to Helen.

Margaret Stevens stuck her head in the door.

"Going up to school for the soph.o.m.ore-junior debate?" she asked.

"I've got to meet the seven-fifteen first," Helen replied. "I'll meet you at school about seven-thirty."

"Wait a minute, Marg," said Tom. "I guess I'll go along and see just how badly the soph.o.m.ores are beaten. Of course you know you kids haven't got a chance."