Helen in the Editor's Chair Part 4

Tom stopped his work in the composing room and came in to watch the scrubbing.

"First time that floor has been scrubbed in years," he said.

"I know it," said Helen as she swished her mop into the corners. "Dad was running the paper and Mother was too busy bringing us up to come down here and do it for him."

"He'll never recognize the old place when he comes back," said Tom.

"We'll brighten it up a little," agreed Helen, as Tom returned to his task of throwing in the type.

Helen had the editorial office thoroughly cleaned by one o'clock and sat down in her father's swivel chair to rest. Tom called in from the back room.

"You'd better plan your editorial work for the week," he said. "I want to run the Linotype every afternoon and you'll have to have copy for me."

"What do you want first?" said Helen.

"Better get the editorials ready today," he replied. "They don't have to be absolutely spot copy. Dad wrote the first column himself and then clipped a column or a column and a half from nearby papers."

"I'll get at it right away," said Helen. "The exchanges for last week are on the desk. After I've gone through them I'll write my own editorials."

"Better have one about Dad going away," said Tom and there was a queer catch in his voice.

Helen did not answer for her eyes filled with a strange mist and her throat suddenly felt dry and full.

Their father's departure for the southwest had left a great void in their home life but Helen knew they would have to make the best of it. She was determined that their efforts on the _Herald_ be successful.

Helen turned to the stack of exchanges which were on the desk and opened the editorial page of the first one. She was a rapid reader and she scanned paper after paper in quest of editorials which would interest readers of the _Herald_. When she found one she snipped it out with a handy pair of scissors and pasted it on a sheet of copy paper. Six or seven were needed for the _Herald's_ editorial page and it took her half an hour to get enough. With the clipped editorials pasted and new heads written on them, Helen turned to the typewriter to write the editorials for the column which her father was accustomed to fill with his own comments on current subjects.

Helen had stacked the copypaper in a neat pile on the desk and she took a sheet and rolled it into the typewriter. She had taken a commercial course the first semester and her mastery of the touch system of typing was to stand her in good stead for her work as editor of the _Herald_.

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 ap.r.o.ns 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 soph.o.m.ore cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s 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 b.u.t.ter, large gla.s.ses of rich milk and lemon pie.

"I've never tasted a better meal," said Tom between mouthfuls.