For several minutes the young editor of the Herald sat motionless in front of her typewriter, struggling to find the right words. She knew her father would want only a few simple sentences about his enforced absence from his duties as publisher of the paper.
Then Helen got the idea she wanted and her fingers moved rapidly over the keys. The leading editorial was finished in a short time. It was only one paragraph and Helen took it out of the machine and read it carefully.
“Mr. Hugh Blair, editor and publisher of the Herald for the last twenty years, has been compelled, by ill health, to leave his work at Rolfe and go to a drier climate for at least six months. In the meantime, we ask your cooperation and help in our efforts to carry out Mr. Blair’s ideals in the publication of the Herald. Signed,
Mrs. Hugh Blair, Helen and Tom Blair.”
After reading the editorial carefully, Helen called to her brother.
“Come in and see what you think of my lead editorial,” she said.
Tom, his hands grimy with ink from the type he had been throwing into the cases, came into the editorial office.
He whistled in amazement at the change Helen had brought about. The papers were gone from the floor, which had been scrubbed clean, and the desk and counter were neat and orderly.
“Looks like a different office,” he said. “But wait until I have a chance to swing a broom and mop in the composing room. And I’m going to fix some of the makeup tables so they’ll be a little handier.”
Helen handed him the editorial and Tom read it thoughtfully.
“It’s mighty short,” he said, “but it tells the story.”
“Dad wouldn’t want a long sob story,” replied Helen. “Here’s the clipped editorials. You can put them on the hook on your Linotype and I’ll bring the others out as soon as I write them.”
Tom returned to the composing room with the handful of editorial copy Helen had given him and the editor of the Herald resumed her duties.
She wrote an editorial on the beauty of Rolfe in the spring and another one on the desirability for a paved road between Rolfe and Gladbrook, the county seat. In advocating the paved road, Helen pointed to the increased tourist traffic which would be drawn to Rolfe as soon as a paved road made Lake Dubar accessible to main highways.
It was nearly two o’clock when she finished her labor at the typewriter. She was tired and hungry. One thing sure, being editor of the Herald would be no easy task. Of that she was convinced.
“Let’s go home for dinner,” she called to Tom.
“Suits me,” replied her brother. “I’ve finished throwing in the last page. We’re all ready to start work on the next issue.”
They took off their aprons and while Helen washed her hands, Tom closed the windows and locked the back door. He took his turn at the sink and they locked the front door and started for home.
“What we need now is a good, big story for our first edition,” said Tom.
“We may have it before nightfall if those clouds get to rolling much more,” said Helen.
Tom scanned the sky. The sunshine of the May morning had vanished. Ominous banks of clouds were rolling over the hills which flanked the western valley of Lake Dubar and the lake itself was lashed by white caps, spurred by a gusty wind.
They went down main street, turned off on the side street and climbed the slope to their home.
Mrs. Blair was busy putting some heavy pots over flowers she wanted to protect from the wind.
“Dinner’s all ready,” she told them, “and I’ve asked Margaret Stevens over. She wants to talk with Helen about the sophomore class picnic tomorrow.”
“I won’t have time to go,” said Helen. “We’ll be awfully busy working on the next issue.”
“You’re on the class committee, aren’t you?” asked Tom.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re going to the picnic. We’ll have lots to do on the Herald but we won’t have to give up all of our other activities.”
“Tom is right,” said Mrs. Blair. “You must plan on going to the picnic.”
Margaret Stevens came across the street from her home. Margaret was a decided brunette, a striking contrast to Helen’s blondness.
“We’ll go in and eat,” said Mrs. Blair. “Then we’ll come out and watch the storm. There is going to be a lot of wind.”
Margaret was jolly and good company and Helen thought her mother wise to have a guest for dinner. It kept them from thinking too much about their father’s absence.
There was roast beef and hashed brown potatoes with thick gravy, lettuce salad, pickled beets, bread and butter, large glasses of rich milk and lemon pie.
“I’ve never tasted a better meal,” said Tom between mouthfuls.
“That’s because you’ve been so busy at the office,” smiled his mother.
“We were moving right along,” agreed Tom. “I got the forms all ready for the next issue and Helen has the editorials done.”
“Won’t you need a reporter?” asked Margaret.
“We may need one but Helen and Mother are going to try and do all the news writing,” said Tom.
“I mean a reporter who would work for nothing. I’d like to help for I’ve always wanted to write.”
“You could be a real help, Margaret,” said Helen, “and we’d enjoy having you help us. Keep your ears open for all of the personal items and tell Mother about any parties. She’s going to write the society news.”
“We’re getting quite a staff,” smiled Tom. “I’m open for applications of anyone who wants to work in the mechanical department.”
“That’s not as romantic as gathering and writing news,” said Margaret.
“But just as important,” insisted Tom.
The room darkened and a particularly heavy gust of wind shook the house. From the west came a low rumbling.
Tom dropped his knife and fork and went to the front porch.
“Come here, Helen!” he cried. “The storm’s breaking. You’re going to have your first big story right now!”
CHAPTER IV
Through the Storm
Tom’s cry brought the others from the dinner table to the screened-in porch which overlooked the lake. He was right. The storm was roaring down out of the hills in the west in all its fury.
The black clouds which had been rolling along the horizon when Tom and Helen had come home were massed in a solid, angry front. Driven by a whistling wind, they were sweeping down on the lake. An ominous fringe of yellow wind clouds dashed on ahead and as they reached the porch they saw the waters of Lake Dubar whiten before the fury of the wind.
“Looks like a twister,” shouted Tom.
His mother’s face whitened and she anxiously scanned the sky.
Doctor Stevens ran across from his home.
“Better close all your windows and secure the doors,” he warned. “We’re going to get a lot of wind before the rain comes.”
“Tom is afraid of a tornado,” said Mrs. Blair.
“The weather is about right,” admitted the doctor. “But we won’t worry until we see the clouds start to swirl. Then we’ll run for the storm cellar under my house.”
Helen and Margaret hurried to help Mrs. Blair close the upstairs windows while Tom went around to make sure that the screens were secure. He bolted all doors except the one to the porch and when he returned to join the others, the tempo of the wind was increasing rapidly.
The wind suddenly dropped to a whisper and Doctor Stevens watched the rolling clouds with renewed anxiety. The waters of the lake were calmer and the dust clouds which the wind had driven over the water cleared partially.
“Look!” cried Helen. “There’s a motorboat trying to reach one of the boathouses here!”
Through the haze of dust which still hung over the lake they could discern the outline of a boat, laboring to reach the safety of the Rolfe end of the lake.
“It’s Jim Preston,” said Doctor Stevens. “He goes down to the summer resorts at the far end of the lake every Sunday morning with the mail and papers.”
“His boat’s got a lot of water in it from the way it is riding,” added Tom. “If the storm hits him he’ll never make it.”
“Jim should have known better than to have taken a chance when he could see this mess of weather brewing,” snorted the doctor.
“His wife’s sick,” put in Mrs. Blair, “and Jim’s probably taken an extra risk to get home as soon as possible.”
“I know,” said Doctor Stevens.
“He’s bailing by hand,” cried Tom. “That means something has gone wrong with the water pump on the engine.”
“Can you see what boat he has?” asked Doctor Stevens.
“It looks like the Flyer,” said Helen, who knew the lines of every motorboat on the lake.
“That’s the poorest wet weather boat Jim has,” said Doctor Stevens. “Every white cap slops over the side. She’s fast but a death trap in a storm. Either the Liberty or the Argosy would eat up weather like this.”
“Jim’s been overhauling the engines in his other boats,” said Tom, “and the Flyer is the only thing he has been using this spring.”
“Instead of standing here talking, let’s get down to the shore,” said Helen. “Maybe we can get someone to go out and help him.”
Without waiting for the others to reply, Helen started running toward the lake. She heard a cry behind her and turned to see Tom pointing toward the hills in the west.
The wind was whistling again and when she turned to look in the direction her brother pointed, she stopped suddenly. The black storm clouds were massing for the main attack and they were rolling together.
In the seconds that Helen watched, she saw them swirl toward a common center, heard the deafening rise of the wind and trembled as the clouds, now formed in a great funnel, started toward the lake.
“Come back, Helen, come back!” Tom shouted.
Forcing herself to overcome the storm terror which now gripped her, Helen looked out over the boiling waters of the lake.
The wind was whipping into a new frenzy and she could just barely see the Flyer above the white-capped waves. Jim Preston was making a brave effort to reach shore and Helen knew that the little group at her own home were probably the only ones in Rolfe who knew of the boatman’s danger. Seconds counted and ignoring the warning cries from her brother, she hurried on toward the lake.
The noise of the oncoming tornado beat on her ears, but she dared not look toward the west. If she did she knew she would turn and race for the shelter and security of Doctor Stevens’ storm cellar.
The Flyer was rolling dangerously as Jim Preston made for the shore and Helen doubted if the boatman would ever make it.
On and on the sleek craft pushed its way, the waves breaking over its slender, speedy nose and cascading back into the open cockpit in which Jim Preston was bailing furiously. The Flyer was nosing deeper into the waves as it shipped more water. When the ignition wires got wet the motor would stop and Preston’s last chance would be gone.
Helen felt someone grab her arms. It was Tom.
“Come back!” he cried. “The tornado will be on us in another five minutes!”
“We’ve got to help Mr. Preston,” shouted Helen, and she refused to move.
“All right, then I stay too,” yelled Tom, who kept anxious eyes on the approaching tornado.
The Flyer was less than a hundred yards from shore but was settling deeper and deeper into the water.
“It’s almost shallow enough for him to wade ashore,” cried Helen.
“Wind would sweep him off his feet,” replied Tom.
The speedboat was making slow progress, barely staggering along in its battle against the wind and waves.
“He’s going to make it!” shouted Helen.
“I hope so,” said Tom, but his words were lost in the wind.
Fifty yards more and the Flyer would nose into the sandy beach which marked the Rolfe end of the lake.
“Come on, Flyer, come on!” cried Helen.
“The engine’s dying,” said Tom. “Look, the nose is going under that big wave.”
With the motor dead, the Flyer lost way and buried its nose under a giant white-cap.
“He’s jumping out of the boat,” added Helen. “It’s shallow enough so he can wade in if he can keep his feet.”
Ignoring the increasing danger of the tornado, they ran across the sandy beach.
“Join hands,” cried Helen. “We can wade out and pull him the last few feet.”
Realizing that his sister would go on alone if he did not help her, Tom locked his hands in hers and they plunged into the shallow water.
Jim Preston, on the verge of exhaustion, staggered through the waves.
The Flyer, caught between two large rollers, filled with water and disappeared less than ten seconds after it had been abandoned.
The boatman floundered toward them and Tom and Helen found themselves hard-pressed to keep their own feet, for a strong undertow threatened to upset them and sweep them out into the lake.
Preston lunged toward them and they caught him as he fell.
Tom turned momentarily to watch the approach of the tornado.
“Hurry!” he cried. “We’ll be able to reach Doctor Stevens’ storm cellar if we run.”
“I can’t run,” gasped Preston. “You youngsters get me to shore. Then save yourselves.”
“We’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Helen.
With their encouragement, Preston made a new effort and they made their escape from the dangerous waters of the lake.
Alone, Helen or Tom could have raced up the hill to Doctor Stevens in less than a minute but with an almost helpless man to drag between them, they made slow progress.
“We’ve got to hurry,” warned Tom as the noise of the storm told of its rapid approach.
“Go on, go on! Leave me here!” urged Preston.
But Helen and Tom were deaf to his pleas and they forced him to use the last of his strength in a desperate race up the hill ahead of the tornado.
Doctor Stevens met them half way up the hill and almost carried Preston the rest of the way.
“Across the street and into my storm cellar,” he told them.
“Is the tornado going to hit the town?” asked Helen as they hurried across the street.
“Can’t tell yet,” replied Doctor Stevens.
“There’s a common belief that the hills and lake protect us so a tornado will never strike here,” said Tom.
“We’ll soon know about that,” said the doctor grimly.
They got the exhausted boatman to the entrance of the cellar, where Mrs. Blair was anxiously awaiting their return.
“Are you all right, Helen?” she asked.
“A little wet on my lower extremities,” replied the young editor of the Herald. “I simply had to go, mother.”
“Of course you did,” said Mrs. Blair. “It was dangerous but I’m proud of you Helen.”
Mrs. Stevens brought out blankets and wrapped them around Jim Preston’s shoulders while Margaret took candles down into the storm cellar.
The noise of the storm had increased to such an intensity that conversation was almost impossible.
Doctor Stevens maintained his watchful vigil, noting every movement of the tornado.
The sky was so dark that the daylight had faded into dusk although it was only a few minutes after three. The whole western sky was filled with coal-black clouds and out of the center of this ominous mass rushed the lashing tongue which was destroying everything it touched.
On and on came the storm, advancing with a deadly relentlessness. A farm house a little more than a mile away on one of the hills overlooking the lake exploded as though a charge of dynamite had been set off beneath it.
“It’s terrible, terrible,” sobbed Margaret Stevens, who had come out of the cellar to watch the storm.
“We’re going to get hit,” Tom warned them.
“I’ve got to get home,” said Jim Preston, struggling out of the blankets which Mrs. Stevens had wrapped around him. “My wife’s all alone.”
“Stay here, Jim,” commanded Doctor Stevens. “You couldn’t get more than three or four blocks before the storm strikes and your place is clear across town. Everybody into the cellar,” he commanded.
Mrs. Stevens and Helen’s mother went first to light the candles. They were followed by Margaret and Helen, then Tom and Jim Preston and finally the doctor, who remained in the doorway on guard.
“What will this do to the Herald?” Helen whispered to Tom.
Her brother nudged her hard.
“Don’t let Mother hear you,” he replied. “There is nothing we can do now except hope. The Herald building may not be destroyed.”
Helen dropped to the floor and her head bowed in prayer. Their father’s illness had been a blow and to have the Herald plant destroyed by a tornado would be almost more than they could bear.
The noise of the tornado was terrific and they felt the earth trembling at the fury of the storm gods.
Helen had seen pictures of towns razed by tornadoes but she had never dreamed that she would be in one herself.
Suddenly the roar of the storm lessened and Doctor Stevens cautiously opened the door of the storm cellar.
“We’re safe!” he cried.
They trooped out of the cellar. The tornado had swung away from Rolfe without striking the town itself and was lashing its way down the center of Lake Dubar.
“It will wear itself out before it reaches the end of the lake,” predicted Jim Preston.
“I don’t believe any houses in town were damaged,” said Doctor Stevens. “A hen house and garage or two may have been unroofed but that will be about all.”
“How about the farmers back in the hills?” asked Helen.
“They must have fared pretty badly if they were in the center of the storm,” said the doctor. “I’m going to get my car and start out that way. Someone may need medical attention.”
“Can I go with you?” asked Helen. “I want to get all the facts about the storm for my story for the Herald.”
“Glad to have you,” said the doctor.
“Count me in,” said Margaret Stevens. “I’ve joined Helen’s staff as her first reporter,” she told her father.
“If you want to go down the lake in the morning and see what happened at the far end I’ll be glad to take you,” suggested Jim Preston. “I’m mighty grateful for what you and Tom did for me and I’ll have the Liberty ready to go by morning.”
“What about the Flyer?” asked Tom.
“I’ll have to fish her out of the lake sometime next week,” grinned the boatman. “I’m lucky even to be here, but I am, thanks to you.”
Doctor Stevens backed his sedan out of the garage and Helen started toward the car.
“You can’t go looking like that,” protested her mother. “Your shoes and hose are wet and dirty and your dress looks something like a mop.”
“Can’t help the looks, mother,” smiled Helen. “I’ll have to go as I am. This is my first big news and the story comes first.”
CHAPTER V
Reporting Plus
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.
CHAPTER VI
A New Week Dawns
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.