Helen in the Editor's Chair

“But you’re not objecting to the paved road, are you?” asked Helen.

“Course not,” he replied. “It’s progress and you can’t stop it.”

The Queen, ablaze with lights, churned steadily up the lake and the electrics along the beach at Sandy Point faded into a string of dots. Speed boats, showing their red and green riding lights, raced past in smothers of foam but the Queen rocked only slightly as they passed and continued steadily on her way.

The band on the after part of the top deck played slower, softer melodies and the whole scene was one of calm and quiet, a fitting end for a great celebration.

Of all the people on the Queen, only Captain Billy in the pilot house and the crew in the black depths of the engine room were alive to the dangers of the night. They knew how anything unusual and startling might cause a panic which would capsize the Queen or how careless navigation on the part of Captain Billy might shove the Queen onto one of the jagged ledges of rock which were hazards to navigation in certain parts of the lake. But the Queen passed safely through the rock-strewn sections of the lake and Captain Billy relaxed as the lights of Rolfe came into view.

The Queen was less than half a mile from her pier when the unexpected happened. A speed boat, without lights, loomed out of the night.

Screams echoed from the lower deck. Before Captain Billy could twirl his wheel and shift the blunt nose of the Queen, the speed boat knifed into the bow of the old steamer.

There was the crash of splintering wood, and muffled cries from the men and women in the smaller boat.

Captain Billy knew the danger even before the boats met. The crash of the collision was still in their ears when he called to Tom.

“Take the wheel,” he cried, “and keep the Queen headed for the beach. Don’t change the course.”

Then he leaned over the speaking tube to the engine room.

“Captain Billy speaking,” he shouted. “A speed boat just hit us. Full speed ahead until we ground on the sandy beach.”

They could feel the Queen trembling as the crowd on the lower deck rushed forward toward the scene of the accident.

“The fools, the fools,” muttered Captain Billy as he ran from the pilot house.

The leader of the band ran forward.

“Get back and play,” ordered the captain. “Play anything loud.”

A deck hand, racing up from below, met Captain Billy at the head of the stairs.

“They knocked a hole clear through us,” he gasped. “We’re taking water fast.”

“Shut up,” snapped the captain. “Stay here and don’t let anyone off the upper deck.”

The young people in the pilot house saw Captain Billy rush down the stairs and they looked at one another in open amazement.

“He’s every inch a skipper,” said Tom as he clung to the wheel of the Queen.

“I hope he pulls us through,” said Margaret, staring at the lights of Rolfe. A minute ago they had seemed so close; now they were so far away, the longest half mile any of them would ever know.

“He’ll get us there if it is humanly possible,” Helen said hopefully.

The crowd on the upper deck milled excitedly but the deck hand forced them back from the stairway and the steady playing of the band and continued forward movement of the Queen seemed to allay their worst fears.

Sparks rolled from the twin funnels as the engines labored to the utmost but Tom, his hands on the sensitive wheel, knew that the speed was decreasing. The Queen was harder to handle, the bow was settling lower in the water but less than a quarter of a mile remained. He reached up and pulled the whistle cord. Three short, sharp blasts shattered the night. Three more and then three more. It was the signal for help but he wondered how many would be in Rolfe to answer the call.

“How deep is the water from here in?” asked Helen.

“About twenty feet,” replied her brother. “Better slip on those life preservers and get ready to jump. We’re taking water fast.”

“There are several hundred in the lockers here,” said Helen. “I’m going to pass them out to the people on deck.”

“It will only alarm them,” said Tom.

“But they’ve got to have a chance if we go under,” replied Helen and with Margaret to help her, she hurled scores of life preservers out of the pilot house onto the deck.

The passengers had lost their first panic. They knew the Queen was making a valiant fight to reach shore but the tenseness, the grimness of the crew told them it was going to be close. In the emergency they used their heads and put on the life preservers as fast as Helen and Margaret could pull them from the lockers.

The lights of Rolfe were agonizingly close. Less than six hundred feet separated them from the safety of the sandy shore. On the upper deck the passengers were quiet, ready for the crisis.

Tom leaned close to the speaking tube. The chief engineer was talking.

“What’s he saying?” Helen demanded.

“Water’s in the engine room,” replied her brother. “The fires under the boiler will be out in another minute or two. Then blewy!”

“Isn’t there enough steam to make shore?” asked Margaret desperately, for after her experience on the lake earlier in the summer she had a very real fear of Dubar at night.

“All we can do is hope,” replied Tom. “They’ll keep the engines turning over as long as there is any steam left.”

The warning from the whistle was bringing people from town and they were gathering under the electrics along the beach. Helen wondered if they knew that death was riding on the bow of the Queen, that tragedy was waiting to swoop down on the old boat and its load of excursionists.

The Queen staggered, wabbled dangerously, and the wheel jerked out of Tom’s hands. He grabbed the spokes and held the bow steady as the Queen stumbled ahead. They could see the faces of the people on the beach now, saw the look of horror that spread over them as they saw the stove-in bow of the Queen. There were only two hundred feet to go but they were still in deep water.

The voice from the speaking tube rolled into the pilot house.

“Steam’s gone!”

On the echo of the words the steady beat of the engines slowed and it was only by clinging to the wheel with all of his strength that Tom held the Queen in to shore.

The bow was almost even with the water now. They seemed to be plowing their way into the depths of the lake. Then the bow lifted and grated on the sand. The momentum carried the Queen forward, shivering and protesting at every foot it was driven into the beach.

There was a wild scramble on the main deck, cries of relief and happiness as passengers by the score jumped into the knee deep water and ran for shore. The men, women and children on the upper deck hurried down the stairs while through it all the band kept up its steady blare, the crash of brass on brass and the constant thump, thump of the bass drum.

The danger past, Tom stepped back from the wheel. His arms felt as though they had been almost pulled from their sockets, so great had been the strain of holding the Queen on its course.

Helen and Margaret stripped off their life preservers and went down to the main deck with Tom. There they found Captain Billy and the crew of the Queen gathered at the bow of the boat. A great hole had been torn in the old steamer’s hull by the speed boat and Tom marveled that they had been able to make shore.

“Why didn’t we sink out in the lake?” he asked Captain Billy.

“Guess we might have,” smiled the captain, “but we managed to hold the speed boat in the hole it had made until we were most to shore. Otherwise we’d have filled and gone down inside a couple of minutes after they hit us.”

A decidedly sheepish young man broke through the group and faced Captain Billy.

“I’m the owner of the boat that hit you,” he explained. “We were going to see how close we could come and one of the girls in the boat tickled me and I swung the wheel the wrong way.”

“You almost swung about four hundred people into the lake,” Captain Billy reminded him tartly.

“I’m terribly sorry,” replied the owner of the speed boat, “and I’m decidedly grateful to you for fishing us out of it after we hit you. I’m Maxfield Hooker of Cranston and I’ll be glad to pay for all of the damage to your boat.”

“We’ll talk about that later,” said Captain Billy. “I’ve got to see that those excursionists all make their trains.”

“Did you get that?” said Tom as he nudged Helen. “Maxfield Hooker of Cranston, son of the multi-millionaire soap manufacturer. Captain Billy can have a new Queen if he wants one.”

“My guess is that he won’t want one,” said Helen. “After all, the Queen has had a long and useful career and she certainly proved herself in the emergency tonight.”

Captain Billy made sure that all of the excursionists were safely off the boat and that done, he came back to where Tom, Helen and Margaret were standing.

“I’ve a great deal to be thankful for,” he told them. “It was only through the nerve and calmness of the crew and such as you three that the Queen pulled through. Tom, I’m eternally grateful to you for sticking in the pilot house and to you girls for having the presence of mind to pass out the life preservers.”

Before they could reply Captain Billy turned and hastened up to the pilot house. Tom started to follow but Helen stopped him.

“Don’t go,” she said. “He wants to say good-bye to the Queen.”

CHAPTER XV

Success Attends

Later that night the Queen caught fire and burned to the water’s edge. Some said that Captain Billy, saddened by the tragedy which had almost befallen the majestic old craft, had set the fire himself but none ever knew definitely.

Helen telephoned the story of Captain Billy and the burning of the Queen to the Associated Press at Cranston and found the night editor there anxious for the story.

“Great human interest stuff,” he said as he hung up.

The Blairs and Stevens watched the burning of the Queen from the knoll on which the Blair home was situated and later they saw the shower of fireworks set off at Crescent Beach, far down the lake. It was well after midnight when they finally called it a day, one which would long be remembered by Tom and Helen Blair and Margaret Stevens.

The second day of the celebration, Sunday, they rested quietly at home and planned for the coming week.

With the Monday morning mail came the papers from Cranston, a letter from McClintock of the Associated Press and new thrills for Helen.

The Cranston papers blazoned her story of “Speed” Rand’s plans to circle the globe in a nonstop refueling flight on the front page and the big surprise was the first line which read: “By Helen Blair, Special Correspondent of the Associated Press, Copyright 1932 (All Rights Reserved).”

Helen gazed at the story in frank awe and amazement. She knew it was a highly important story, but to get a by-line with the Associated Press was an honor she scarcely had dared dream about.

The letter from McClintock commended her further for her work, promised that her monthly check would be a liberal one and added that when she finished high school he would be glad to consider her for a job with the Associated Press.

Helen sat down and wrote a long letter to her father, telling in detail the events of the Fourth and enclosing the Associated Press story and her letter from McClintock. That done, she turned to the task of writing her stories for the Weekly Herald. Tom was out soliciting ads, Margaret had gone down the lake to check up at both summer resorts about possible accidents and she had the office to herself that morning.

Which story should Helen write first, “Speed” Rand’s world flight, the celebration at Sandy Point or the story of Captain Billy and the Queen? She threaded a sheet of copy paper into her typewriter and sought inspiration in a blank gaze at the ceiling. Inspiration failed to come from that source and she scrawled aimlessly with pencil and paper, her mind mulling over the myriad facts of her stories. Then she started typing. Her first story concerned Captain Billy and the Queen, for Captain Billy and his ancient craft were known to every reader of the Herald. They were home news. “Speed” Rand and his plans concerned the outside world.

The events of the night of the Fourth were indelibly printed in Helen’s mind and the copy rolled from her typewriter, two, four, six, ten pages. She stopped long enough to delve into the files and find the story which the Herald had printed 23 years before when the Queen made her maiden trip on Lake Dubar. Two more pages of copy rolled from her machine.

Helen picked up the typed pages, 12 altogether. She hadn’t intended to make the story that long but it had written itself, it was one of those stories in which danger and heroism combine to make the human-interest that all newspaper readers enjoy.

With the story of Captain Billy and the Queen out of the way, Helen wrote a short lead about “Speed” Rand and then clipped the rest of the story for the Herald from the one she had telephoned the Associated Press. Even then it would run more than a column and with a long story on the general Fourth of July celebration she felt that the Herald would indeed give its subscribers their money’s worth of news that week.

There was a slight let-down in advertising the week following the Fourth but they crammed the six home-printed pages of the Herald full of news and went to press early Thursday, for it was election day and the fate of the paved road program was at stake. For the last month Helen had written editorials urging the improvement of the roads and they went directly from the office Thursday afternoon to the polling place to remain there until the last ballot had been counted. The vote was heavy and Rolfe favored the good roads 452 to 73.

Doctor Stevens, who announced the vote to the anxious crowd, added, “And I think we can thank Helen Blair, our young editor of the Herald, for showing us the value of better roads.”

There was hearty applause and calls for speech, but Helen refused to talk, hurrying away to telephone the Rolfe vote to the Associated Press. The morning papers announced that the program had carried in the state as a whole and that paving would start at once with Rolfe assured of being on the scenic highway not later than the next summer.

News from their father in Arizona continued cheering and as their own bank account increased steadily and circulation mounted, Tom and Helen felt that they were making a success of their management of the Herald.

The remainder of July passed rapidly and the hot blasts of August winds seared the valley of Lake Dubar. The only refreshing thing was the night breeze from the lake which cooled the heat-baked town and afforded some relief. Then came the cooler days of September and the return to school.

Superintendent Fowler arrived a week before the opening of the fall term and Tom and Helen arranged to attend part time, yet carry full work. Helen also worked out plans for a school page, news of every grade to be written by some student especially designated as a reporter for the “School Herald.”

Tom and Helen had so systematized their work that the task of getting out the paper was reduced to a minimum. With Margaret willing to help whenever needed, they felt sure they could continue the successful operation of the Herald.

Every spare hour Helen devoted to building up the circulation list and by early October they had added 400 new subscribers, which gave the Herald a total of 1,272 in the county and every one paid up.

“Gosh, I never thought we could get that many,” said Tom as he checked over the circulation records. “Now I’m sure we’ll be named one of the official county papers. What a surprise that will be for Dad.”

“I thought you said we’d have a lot of trouble with Burr Atwell, editor of the Advocate at Auburn,” chided Helen as she recalled her brother’s dire statements of what the fiery editor of the Auburn paper would do when he found the Herald was trying to take the county printing away from him.

“We’ve just been lucky so far,” replied Tom. “Atwell will wake up one of these days and then we’ll have plenty of trouble. He won’t fight fair.”

“Let’s not borrow trouble until it arrives,” Helen smiled.

Organization of the high school classes and election of officers followed the opening of school and Helen found herself president of the juniors while Tom was named secretary and treasurer of the seniors.

“I’m mighty proud of both of you,” said Mrs. Blair when they told her the news that night at dinner. “It is no more than you deserve but I hope it won’t be too much of a burden added to your work on the paper.”

“It won’t take much time,” Tom assured her, “and since Marg Stevens is vice president of the juniors Helen can turn a lot of the work over to her.”

They were still at the dinner table when a heavy knock at the front door startled them. Tom answered the summons and they heard him talking with someone with an exceedingly harsh voice. When Tom returned he was accompanied by a stranger.

“Mother,” he said, “this is Mr. Atwell, editor of the Auburn Advocate.”

Mrs. Blair acknowledged the introduction and Tom introduced the visiting editor to Helen. Mr. Atwell sat down heavily in a chair Tom offered.

“I suppose you know why I’m here?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not,” replied Mrs. Blair.

“It’s about the Herald and the circulation tactics of these young whipper-snappers of yours. I hear they’re trying to take the county printing away from me and become one of the official papers of the county.”

“Who informed you of that?” asked Helen, who had taken an instant dislike to the pudgy visitor whose flabby cheeks were covered with a heavy stubble of whiskers.

“Folks have been talking,” he replied.

“When you want information like that you’d better come to those concerned,” retorted the energetic young editor of the Herald.

“That’s just what I’m a-doing,” he replied. “Are you?”

“Are we what?” interposed Tom.

“Are you trying to be a county paper?” snorted Atwell.

“Yes,” replied Helen, “we are. This section of the county doesn’t have an official weekly and the people here want one.”

“You’re trying to rob me of my bread and butter for your own selfish ends,” stormed the visitor.

“We’re not trying to rob anybody,” replied Tom. “Get this straight. We’ve as much if not more right to be a county weekly than you have. All we have to say is be sure your records are correct when the supervisors meet in December. Now get out of here!”

Atwell rose slowly, his heavy features suffused with anger and his hands shaking.

“I serve notice on you,” he stormed, “that you’ll never win out.” He stomped from the room, slamming the front door as he went.

Mrs. Blair looked at Tom and Helen.

“Don’t you think you were a little short with him?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” admitted Helen, “but he can’t tell us what to do.”

“In that,” smiled her mother, “you take after your father.”

They refused to let the warning from the editor of the Auburn paper dim their hopes or retard their efforts. Circulation mounted steadily until by mid-November it had reached an even 1,400.

Tom continued his weekly trips to Gladbrook to get the county farm news and to solicit advertising. From one of these trips he returned jubilant.

“I’ve been talking with the supervisors,” he said, “and they’re all in favor of naming the Herald the third official paper instead of the Advocate. One of them suggested that we get an auditor from Cranston to go over our circulation list and officially audit it and then have him with us when we appear before the board.”

“But wouldn’t that cost a lot of money?”

“Probably $50 but having an audited list will practically insure us of getting the county work. Also, I’m going to take our subscription records and list over to the bank and keep them there until we need them every Thursday.”

“Why, what’s the matter, Tom?”

“I heard some talk in the courthouse that Atwell had been boasting he’d get even with us and I’m not going to take any chances with the records.”

With characteristic determination Tom made the transfer that afternoon and it was only mid-evening of the same day when the fire siren sounded its alarm.

All of the Blairs hurried outside where, from the front porch of their home, they could look down main street.

“The truck is stopping in front of the Herald office!” gasped Helen.

Without a word Tom plunged down the hill, running full speed for the office. Helen and her mother followed as quickly as possible.

Main street rapidly filled with excited townspeople and they caught the odor of burning wood as they neared the Herald building. Margaret Stevens ran up to them.

“It doesn’t look bad,” she tried to reassure them, “and the firemen have it under control.”

Helen was so weak from the shock of the fire that she clung to Margaret and her mother for support. Her head reeled as picture thoughts raced through her mind. The threats of Burr Atwell, all of their months of hard work, the expense of the fire, their father’s need for money, Tom’s precautions in moving the circulation list.

Then it was over. The firemen dragged their line of hose from the chemical tank back to the street and they crowded into the smoke-filled rooms. The fire had started near the back door but thanks to the night watchman had been detected before it had gained headway. The week’s supply of print paper was ruined and the two rooms blackened by smoke and splattered with the chemical used to check the flames, but the press and Linotype were undamaged.

Tom wanted to stay and clean up the office but Mrs. Blair insisted that they all return home, herself instructing the night watchman to hire several town laborers to work the rest of the night cleaning up the office.

“That fire was deliberately set,” raged Tom as they walked home. “The fire chief saved the greasy rags he found in the corner of the composing room where it started. Ten more minutes without discovery and we wouldn’t have had a newspaper.”

“Who could have done such a thing?” protested his mother.

“Burr Atwell,” declared Tom. “The editorial office had been ransacked for the circulation records. It’s a good thing I moved them this afternoon.”

“Can we prove Atwell had a hand in this?”

“I don’t suppose so,” admitted Tom, “but we’ll run a story in this week’s issue that will scare him. We’ll say the fire chief is investigating and may ask for state secret service men to help him run down the fire bug who started it. That ought to give Atwell a queer feeling.”

They telephoned for another supply of print paper for the week’s issue and the next morning were back at the office. The men who had worked through the night had done a good job of cleaning and there was little evidence of fire other than the charred casings of the back door and smudgy condition of the walls and ceiling.

Thanksgiving was brightened by word from their father that he would be able to return home in the spring but despite that it was a sad day in the Blair home for there was none to fill his chair at the head of the table.

“Christmas,” thought Helen, “is going to be terribly lonesome for mother with Dad so far away,” and the more she thought about it the more determined she became. Without saying anything to Tom or her mother, she made several guarded inquiries at the station and elicited the desired information.

The days before the annual meeting of the supervisors passed rapidly. The ground whitened under the first snow of the year and the auditor for whom Tom had arranged in Cranston arrived to audit their circulation list officially. For a week before his arrival Tom and Helen concentrated every effort on their circulation with the result that when the audit was completed the Herald could boast of 1,411 paid up subscriptions.

“You’ve done a remarkably fine piece of work,” Curtis Adams, the auditor, told Helen, “and I’m sure you young folks deserve the county work.”