May Iverson's Career

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  MAY IVERSON]

  MAY IVERSON'S CAREER

  BY ELIZABETH JORDAN

  AUTHOR OF "MAY IVERSON--HER BOOK" "MANY KINGDOMS" ETC.

  HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON

  TO F. H. B. WITH MEMORIES OF THE WISTFUL ADRIATIC

  CONTENTS

  CHAP. PAGE

  I. MY FIRST ASSIGNMENT 1

  II. THE CRY OF THE PACK 24

  III. THE GIRL IN GRAY 43

  IV. IN GAY BOHEMIA 68

  V. THE CASE OF HELEN BRANDOW 94

  VI. THE LAST OF THE MORANS 120

  VII. TO THE RESCUE OF MISS MORRIS 140

  VIII. MARIA ANNUNCIATA 162

  IX. THE REVOLT OF TILDY MEARS 184

  X. A MESSAGE FROM MOTHER ELISE 206

  XI. "T. B." CONDUCTS A REHEARSAL 228

  XII. THE RISE OF THE CURTAIN 256

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  MAY IVERSON _Frontispiece_

  "DON'T STAND THERE STARING. I KNOW I'M NOT A BEAUTY," AND SHE CACKLED LIKE AN ANGRY HEN. 12

  IT WAS YOUNG "SHEP," THE LAST OF THE MORANS 124

  "D'YE KNOW THE WOMAN?" HE SAID 176

  MAY IVERSON'S CAREER

  I

  MY FIRST ASSIGNMENT

  The Commencement exercises at St. Catharine's were over, and everybodyin the big assembly-hall was looking relieved and grateful. MabelMuriel Murphy had welcomed our parents and friends to the conventshades in an extemporaneous speech we had overheard her practising forweeks; and the proud face of Mabel Muriel's father, beaming on her asshe talked, illumined the front row like an electric globe. MaudieJoyce had read a beautiful essay, full of uplifting thoughts and rareflowers of rhetoric; Mabel Blossom had tried to deliver her addresswithout the manuscript, and had forgotten it at a vital point; AdelineThurston had recited an original poem; Kittie James had sung a solo;and Janet Trelawney had played the Sixth Hungarian Rhapsody on thepiano.

  Need I say who read the valedictory? It was I--May Iverson--winner ofthe Cross of Honor, winner of the Crown, leader of the conventorchestra, and president of the senior class. If there are those whothink I should not mention these honors I will merely ask who would doit if I did not--and pause for a reply. Besides, young as I am, I knowfull well that worldly ambitions and triumphs are as ashes on thelips; and already I was planning to cast mine aside. But at thisparticular minute the girls were crying on one another over ourimpending parting, and our parents were coming up to us and saying thesame things again and again, while Sister Edna was telling MabelMuriel Murphy, without being asked, that she was not ashamed of one ofus.

  I could see my father coming toward me through the crowd, stopping toshake hands with my classmates and tell them how wonderful they were;and I knew that when he reached me I must take him out into theconvent garden and break his big, devoted heart. At the thought of ita great lump came into my throat, and while I was trying to swallow itI felt his arm flung over my shoulder.

  He bent down and kissed me. "Well, my girl," he said, "I'm proud ofyou."

  That was all. I knew it was all he would ever say; but it meant morethan any one else could put into hours of talk. I did not try toanswer, but I kissed him hard, and, taking his arm, led himdown-stairs, through the long halls and out into the convent garden,lovely with the scent of roses and honeysuckle and mignonette. He hadnever seen the garden before. He wanted to stroll through it andglance into the conservatories, to look at the fountain and visit theGrotto of Lourdes and stand gazing up at the huge cross that risesfrom a bed of passion-flowers. But at last I took him into a littlearbor and made him sit down. I was almost glad my delicate mother hadnot been able to come to see me graduate. He would tell her what I hadto say better than I could.

  When I have anything before me that is very hard I always want to doit immediately and get it over. So now I stood with my back bracedagainst the side of the arbor, and, looking my dear father straight inthe eyes, I told him I had made up my mind to be a nun.

  At first he looked as if he thought I must be joking. Then, all in aminute, he seemed to change from a gallant middle-aged officer into acrushed, disappointed old man. He bowed his head, his shoulders saggeddown, and, turning his eyes as if to keep me from seeing what was inthem, he stared out over the convent garden.

  "Why, May!" he said; and then again, very quietly, "Why, May!"

  I told him all that was in my mind, and he listened without a word. Atthe end he said he had thought I wanted to be a newspaper woman. Iadmitted that I had felt that desire a year ago--when I was onlyseventeen and my mind was immature. He sat up in his seat then andlooked more comfortable--and younger.

  "I'll put my answer in a nutshell," he said. "You're too young stillto know your mind about anything. Give your family and the world achance. I don't want you to be a nun. I don't want you to be anewspaper woman, either. But I'll compromise. Be a newspaper woman forthree years."

  I began to speak, but he stopped me. "It's an interesting life," hewent on. "You'll like it. But if you come to us the day you aretwenty-one and tell us you still want to be a nun I promise that yourmother and I will consent. Give us a chance, May." And he added,gently, "_Play fair_."

  Those two words hurt; but they conquered me. I agreed to do as heasked, and then we sat together, hand in hand, talking over plans,till the corners of the garden began to look mysterious in thetwilight. Before we went back to the assembly-room it was understoodthat I was to go to New York in a week and begin my new career. Papahad friends there who would look after me. I was sure they would neverhave a chance; but I did not mention that to my dear father then,while he was still feeling the shock of decision.

  When I was saying good-by to Sister Irmingarde six days later I askedher to give me some advice about my newspaper work. "Write of thingsas they are," she said, without hesitation, "and write of them assimply as you can."

  I was a little disappointed. I had expected somethinginspiring--something in the nature of a trumpet-call. I suppose shesaw my face fall, for she smiled her beautiful smile.

  "And when you write the sad stories you're so fond of, dear May," shesaid, "remember to let your readers shed their own tears."

  I thought a great deal about those enigmatic words on my journey toNew York, but after I reached it I forgot them. It was just as well,for no one associated with my work there had time to shed tears.

  My editor was Mr. Nestor Hurd, of the _Searchlight_. He had promisedto give me a trial because Kittie James's brother-in-law, GeorgeMorgan, who was his most intimate friend, said he must; but I don'tthink he really wanted to. When I reported to him he looked as if hehad not eaten or slept for weeks, and as if seeing me was the oneextra trouble he simply could not endure. There was a bottle oftablets on his desk, and every time he noticed it he stopped toswallow a tablet. He must have taken six while he was talking to me.He was a big man, with a round, smooth face, and dimples in his cheeksand chin. He talked out of one side of his mouth in a kind of lowsnarl, without looking
at any one while he spoke.

  "Oh," was his greeting to me, "you're the convent girl? Ready forwork? All right. I'll try you on this."

  He turned to the other person in the office--a thin young man at adesk near him. Neither of them had risen when I entered.

  "Here, Morris," he said. "Put Miss Iverson down for the Ferncliffstory."

  The young man called Morris dropped a big pencil and looked very muchsurprised.

  "But--" he said. "Why, say, she'll have to stay out in that housealone--all night."

  Mr. Hurd said shortly that I couldn't be in a safer place. "Are youafraid of ghosts?" he asked, without looking at me. I said I was not,and waited for him to explain the joke; but he didn't.

  "Here's the story," he said. "Listen, and get it straight. Ferncliffis a big country house out on Long Island, about three miles fromSound View. It's said to be haunted. Its nearest neighbor is a quarterof a mile away. It was empty for three years until this spring. Lastmonth Mrs. Wallace Vanderveer, a New York society woman, took a year'slease of it and moved in with a lot of servants. Last week she movedout. Servants wouldn't stay. Said they heard noises and saw ghosts.She heard noises, too. Now the owner of Ferncliff, a Miss Watts, issuing Mrs. Vanderveer for a year's rent. Nice little story in it. Seeit?"

  I didn't, exactly. That is, I didn't see what he wanted me to do aboutit, and I said so.

  "I want you to take the next train for Sound View," he snarled,impatiently, and pulled the left side of his mouth down to his chin."When you get there, drive out and look at Ferncliff to see what it'slike in the daytime. Then go to the Sound View Hotel and have yourdinner. About ten o'clock go back to Ferncliff, and stay there allnight. Sit up. If you see any ghosts, write about 'em. If you don't,write about how it felt to stay there and wait for 'em. Come back totown to-morrow morning and turn in your story. If it's good we'll runit. If it isn't," he added, grimly, "we'll throw it out. See now?" Isaw now.

  "Here's the key of the house," he said. "We got it from the agent." Heturned and began to talk to Mr. Morris about something else--and Iknew that our interview was over.

  I went to Sound View on the first train, and drove straight from thestation to Ferncliff. It was almost five o'clock, and a big storm wascoming up. The rain was like a wet, gray veil, and the wind snarled inthe tops of the pine-trees in a way that made me think of Mr. Hurd. Ididn't like the look of the house. It was a huge, gloomy, vine-coveredplace, perched on a bluff overlooking the Sound, and set far back fromthe road. An avenue of pines led up to it, and a high box-hedge alongthe front cut off the grounds from the road and the near-by fields.When we drove away my cabman kept glancing back over his shoulder asif he expected to see the ghosts.

  I was glad to get into the hotel and have a few hours for thought. Iwas already perfectly sure that I was not going to like being anewspaper woman, and I made up my mind to write to papa the nextmorning and tell him so. I thought of the convent and of SisterIrmingarde, who was probably at vespers now in the chapel, and theidea of that assignment became more unpleasant every minute. Not thatI was afraid--I, an Iverson, and the daughter of a general in thearmy! But the thing seemed silly and unworthy of a convent girl, andlonesome work besides. As I thought of the convent it suddenly seemedso near that I could almost hear its vesper bell, and that comfortedme.

  I went back to Ferncliff at ten o'clock. By that time the storm wasreally wild. It might have been a night in November instead of inJuly. The house looked very bleak and lonely, and the way my driverlashed his horse and hurried away from the neighborhood did not makeit easier for me to unlock the front door and go in. But I forcedmyself to do it.

  I had filled a basket with candles and matches and some books and agood luncheon, which the landlady at the hotel had put up for me. Ihurriedly lighted two candles and locked the front door. Then I tookthe candles into the living-room at the left of the hall, and set themon a table. They made two little blurs of light in which thelinen-covered furniture assumed queer, ghostly shapes that seemed tomove as the flames flickered. I did not like the effect, so I lightedsome more candles.

  I was sure the first duty of a reporter was to search the house. So Itook a candle in each hand and went into every room, up stairs anddown, spending a great deal of time in each, for it was strangelycomforting to be busy. I heard all sorts of sounds--mice in the walls,old boards cracking under my feet, and a death-tick that began to geton my nerves, though I knew what it was. But there was nothing morethan might be heard in any other old house.

  When I returned to the living-room I looked at my luncheon-basket--notthat I was hungry, but I wanted something more to do, and eating wouldhave filled the time so pleasantly. But if I ate, there would benothing to look forward to but the ghost, so I decided to wait.Outside, the screeching wind seemed to be sweeping the rain before itin a rising fury. It was half past eleven. Twelve is the hour whenghosts are said to come, I remembered.

  I took up a book and began to read. I had almost forgotten mysurroundings when a noise sounded on the veranda, a noise that made mestop reading to listen. Something was out there--something that triedthe knob of the door and pushed against the panels; something thatscampered over to the window-blinds and pulled at them; something thatopened the shutters and tried to peer in.

  I laid down my book. The feet scampered back to the door. I stoppedbreathing. There followed a knocking at the door, the knocking of weakhands, which soon began to beat against the panels with closed fists;and next I heard a high, shrill voice. It seemed to be calling,uttering words, but above the shriek of the storm I could not makeout what they were.

  Creeping along the floor to the window, I pulled back one of the heavycurtains and raised the green shade under it half an inch. For amoment I could see nothing but the twisting pines. But at last I wasable to distinguish something moving near the door--something nolarger than a child, but with white hair floating round its head. Itwas not a ghost. It was not an animal. It could not be a human being.I had no idea what it was. While I looked it turned and came towardthe window where I was crouching, as if it felt my eyes upon it. Andthis time I heard its words.

  "Let me in!" it shrieked. "Let me in! Let me in!" And in a kind offury it scampered back and dashed itself against the door.

  Then I was afraid--not merely nervous--afraid--with a degrading fearthat made my teeth chatter. If only I had known what it was; if only Icould think of something normal that was a cross between a littlechild and an old woman! I went to the door and noiselessly turned thekey. I meant to open it an inch and ask what was there. But almostbefore the door had moved on its hinges the thing outside saw it. Itgave a quick spring and a little screech and threw itself against thepanels. The next instant I went back and down, and the thing that hadbeen outside was inside.

  I got up slowly and looked at it. It seemed to be a witch--a littleold, humpbacked witch--not more than four feet high, with white hairthat hung in wet locks around a shriveled brown face, and black eyesgleaming at me in the dark hall like an angry cat's.

  "You little fool!" she hissed. "Why didn't you let me in? I'm soakedthrough. And why didn't that bell ring? What's been done to the wire?"

  I could not speak, and after looking at me a moment more the littleold creature locked the hall door and walked into the living-room,motioning to me to follow. She was panting with anger or exhaustion,or both. When we had entered the room she turned and grinned at melike a malicious monkey.

  "Scared you, didn't I?" she chuckled, in her high, cracked voice."Serves you right. Keeping me out on that veranda fifteen minutes!"

  She began to gather up the loose locks of her white hair and fastenthem at the back of her head. "Wind blew me to pieces," she muttered.

  She took off her long black coat, threw it over a chair, andstraightened the hat that hung over one ear. She _was_ a human being,after all; a terribly deformed human being, whose great, hunched backnow showed distinctly through her plain black dress. There was a bitof lace at her throat, and when she took off her
gloves handsome ringsglittered on her claw-like fingers.

  "Well, well," she said, irritably, "don't stand there staring. I knowI'm not a beauty," and she cackled like an angry hen.

  But it was reassuring, at least, to know she was human, and I feltmyself getting warm again. Then, as she seemed to expect me to saysomething, I explained that I had not intended to let anybody in,because I thought nobody had any right in the house.

  "Humph," she said. "I've got a better right here than you have, younglady. I am the owner of this house and everything in it--I am MissWatts. And I'll tell you one thing"--she suddenly began to trot aroundthe room--"I've stood this newspaper nonsense about ghosts just aslong as I'm going to. It's ruining the value of my property. I live inBrooklyn, but when my agent telephoned me to-night that a reporter wasout here working up another lying yarn I took the first train and camehere to protect my interests."

  She grumbled something about having sent her cab away at the gate andhaving mislaid her keys. I asked her if she meant to stay tillmorning, and she glared at me and snapped that she certainly did.Then, taking a candle, she wandered off by herself for a while, and Iheard her scampering around on the upper floors. When she came backshe seemed very much surprised to hear that I was not going to bed.

  "You're a fool," she said, rudely, "but I suppose you've got to dowhat the other fools tell you to."

  "DON'T STAND THERE STARING. I KNOW I'M NOT A BEAUTY," AND SHE CACKLED LIKE AN ANGRY HEN]

  After that I didn't feel much like sharing my supper with her, but Idid, and she seemed to enjoy it. Then she curled herself up on abig divan in the corner and grinned at me again. I liked her facebetter when she was angry.

  "I'm going to take a nap," she said. "Call me if any ghosts come."

  I opened my book again and read for half an hour. Then suddenly, fromsomewhere under the house, I heard a queer, muffled sound. "_Tap, tap,tap_," it went. And again, "_Tap, tap, tap_."

  At first it didn't interest me much. But after a minute I realizedthat it was different from anything I had heard that night. And soonanother noise mingled with it--a kind of buzz, like the whir of anelectric fan, only louder. I looked at Miss Watts. She was asleep.

  I picked up a candle and followed the noise--through the hall, downthe cellar steps, and along a bricked passage. There the soundstopped. I stood still and waited. While I was staring at the bricksin front of me I noticed one that seemed to have a light behind it. Ilowered my candle and examined it. Some plaster had been knocked out,and through a hole the size of a penny I saw another passage cuttingthrough the earth like a little catacomb, with a light at the far endof it. While I was staring, amazed, the tapping began again, muchnearer now; and I heard men's voices.

  There were men under that house, in a secret cellar!

  In half a minute I was standing beside Miss Watts, shaking her armand trying to wake her. Almost before I was able to make herunderstand what I had seen she was through the front door and half-waydown the avenue, dragging me with her.

  "Where are we going?" I gasped.

  "To the next house, idiot, to telephone to the police," she said. "Doyou think we could stay there and do it?"

  We left the avenue and came into the road, and as we ran on, stumblinginto mud-holes and whipped by wind and rain, she panted out that themen were probably escaped convicts from some prison or patients fromsome asylum. I ran faster after that, though I hadn't thought I could.I wondered if I were having a bad dream. Several times I pinchedmyself, but I didn't wake up. Instead, I kept on running and stumblingand gasping, until I felt sure I had been running and stumbling andgasping for years and must keep on doing it for eons more. But at lastwe came to a house set far back in big grounds, and we raced side byside up the driveway that led to the front door. Late as it was, therewere lights everywhere, and through the long windows opening on theveranda we could see people moving about.

  Miss Watts gave the bell a terrific pull; some one opened the door,and we stumbled in. After that everything was a mixture of questionsand answers and excitement and telephoning, followed by a long waitfor the police. A man led Miss Watts and me into a room where a firewas burning, and left us to get warm and dry. When we were alone Iasked Miss Watts if she thought they would keep us overnight. Shestared at me.

  "You won't have much time for sleep," she answered, almost kindly. "Itwill take you an hour or two to write your story."

  It was my turn to stare, and I did it. "My story?" I asked her."To-night? What do you mean?"

  She swung round in her chair and stared at me harder than ever. Thenshe cackled in her nastiest way. "And this is a New York reporter!"she said. "Why, you little dunce, you know you've _got_ a story, don'tyou?"

  "Yes," I answered, doubtfully. "But I'm to write it to-morrow, after Italk to Mr. Hurd."

  Miss Watts uttered a squawk and then a squeal. "I don't know what foolsent you here," she snapped, "or what infant-class you've escapedfrom. But one thing I do know: You came here to write a Sunday'thriller,' I suppose, which would have destroyed what little value myproperty has left. By bull-headed luck you've stumbled on the truth;and it's a good news story. It will please your editor, and it willsave my property. Now, here's my point." She pushed her horriblelittle face close to mine and kept it there while she finished. "Thatstory is coming out in the _Searchlight_ to-morrow morning. I'd do itif I could, but I'm not a writer. So you're going to write it andtelephone it in to the _Searchlight_ office within the next hour. HaveI made myself clear?"

  She had. I felt my face getting red and hot when I realized that I hada big story and had not known it. I wondered if I could ever live thatdown. I felt so humble that I was almost willing to let Miss Watts seeit.

  But before I could answer her there was the noise of many feet in thehall, with the voices of men. Then our door was flung open, and ayoung man came in, wearing a rain-coat, thick boots covered with mud,and a wide grin. He was saving time by shaking the rain off his softhat as he crossed the room to us. His eyes touched me, then passed onto Miss Watts as if I hadn't been there.

  "Miss Watts," he said, "the police are here, and I'm going back to thehouse with them to see the capture. I'm Gibson, of the _Searchlight_."

  Miss Watts actually smiled at him. Then she held out her skinny littleclaw of a hand. "A real reporter!" she said. "Thank Heaven! You knowwhat it means to me to have this thing put straight. But how do youhappen to be here?"

  "Hurd sent me to look after Miss Iverson," he explained, glancing atme again. "He couldn't put her in a haunted house without a watch-dog,but, to do her justice, she didn't know she had one. I was in asummer-house on the grounds. I saw you leave and followed you here.Then I went up the road to meet the police."

  He grinned at me, and I smiled a very little smile in return. I wasn'tgoing to give him a whole smile until I found out how he was going toact about my story. Miss Watts started for the door.

  "Come on," she said, with her hand on the knob.

  The real reporter's eyes grew big. "Are _you_ going along?" he gasped.

  "Certainly I'm going along," snapped Miss Watts. "I'm going to seethis thing through. And I'll tell you one thing right now, young man,"she ended, "if you don't put the _facts_ into your story I'm going tosue your newspaper for twenty-five thousand dollars."

  He did not answer. His attention seemed to be diverted to me. I wasstanding beside Miss Watts, buttoning my rain-coat and pulling my hatover my eyes again, preparatory to going out.

  "Say, kid," said the real reporter, "you go back and sit down. You'renot in this, you know. We'll come and get you and take you to thehotel after it's all over."

  I gave him a cold and dignified glance. Then I buttoned the lastbutton of my coat and went out into the hall. It was full of men. Thereal reporter hurried after me. He seemed to expect me to saysomething. So finally I did.

  "Mr. Hurd told me to write this story," I explained, in level tones,"and I'm going to try to write it. And I can't write it unless I seeeverything that h
appens."

  I looked at him and Miss Watts out of the corner of my eye as I spoke,and I distinctly saw them give each other a significant glance. MissWatts shrugged her shoulders as if she didn't care what I did; but thereal reporter looked worried.

  "Oh, well, all right," he said, at last. "I suppose it isn't fair notto let you in on your own assignment. There's one good thing--youcan't get any wetter and muddier than you are." That thought seemed tocomfort him.

  We had a hard time going back, but it was easier because there weremore of us to suffer. Besides, the real reporter helped Miss Watts andme a little when we stumbled or when the wind blew us against a treeor a fence. When we got near the house everybody moved very quietly,keeping close to the high hedge. We all went around to the backentrance. There the chief constable began to give his men orders, andthe real reporter led Miss Watts and me into a grape-arbor, aboutfifty feet from the house.

  "This is where we've got to stay," he whispered, pulling us inside andclosing the door. "We can see them come out, and get the other detailsfrom Conroy, who's in charge."

  The police were creeping closer to the house. Three of them tookplaces outside while the rest went forward. First there was a longsilence; then a sudden rush and crash--shouts and words that we didn'tcatch. Gleams of light flashed up for a minute--then disappeared. Themen stationed outside the house ran toward the cellar. There was theflashing of more light, and at last the police came out with theirprisoners--and the whole thing was over. There had not been apistol-shot.

  I was as warm as toast in my wet clothes, but my teeth were chatteringwith excitement, and I knew Miss Watts was excited, too, by the gripof her hand on my shoulder. The men came toward us through the rain ontheir way to the gate, and Mr. Conroy's voice sounded as if he hadbeen running a race. But he hadn't. He had been right there.

  "Well, Miss Watts, we've got 'em," he crowed. "A nice little gang ofamachur counterfeiters. They've been visitin' you for 'most a year,snug and cozy; but I guess this is the end of your troubles."

  Miss Watts walked out into the rain and, taking a policeman's electricbull's-eye, looked at the prisoners one by one. I followed her andlooked, too, while the real reporter talked to Mr. Conroy. There werethree counterfeiters, and they were all handcuffed and looked young.It could not have been very hard for six policemen to take them. Oneof them had blood on his face, and another was covered with mud, as ifhe had been rolled in it. Miss Watts asked the bloody one, who wasalso the biggest one, if his gang had really worked in a secret cellarat Ferncliff for a year. He said it had been there about ten months.

  "Then you were there all winter?" Miss Watts asked him. "And you wereso safe and comfortable that when the tenants moved in and you foundthey were all women, except a stupid butler, you decided to scare themaway and stay right along?"

  The man muttered something that seemed to mean that she was right. Thereal reporter interrupted, looking busy and worried again. "MissWatts," he said, quickly, "can't we go right into your house and sendthis story to the _Searchlight_ over your telephone? It's a quarter toone, and there isn't a minute to lose. The _Searchlight_ goes to pressin an hour. I've got all the facts," he added, in a peaceful tone.

  Miss Watts said we could, and led the way into the house, while thecounterfeiters and the police tramped off through the mud and rain.When we got inside, Miss Watts took us to the library and lit theelectric lights, while the real reporter bustled about, looking busierthan any one I ever saw before. I watched him for a minute. Then Itold Miss Watts I wanted to go into a quiet room and write my story.She and the real reporter looked at each other again. I was gettingtired of their looks. The real reporter spoke to me very kindly, likea Sunday-school superintendent addressing his class.

  "Now, see here, Miss Iverson," he said; "you've had a big, newexperience and lots of excitement. You discovered the counterfeiters.You'll get full credit for it. Let it go at that, and I'll write thestory. It's got to be a real story, not a kindergarten special."

  If he hadn't said that about the kindergarten special I might have lethim write the story, for I was cold and tired and scared. But at thosefatal words I felt myself stiffen all over.

  "It's my story," I said, with icy determination. "And I'm going towrite it."

  The real reporter looked annoyed. "But _can_ you?" he protested. "Wehaven't time for experiments."

  "Of course I can," I said. And I'm afraid I spoke crossly, for I wasgetting annoyed. "I'll write it exactly the way Sister Irmingarde toldme to."

  I sat down at the table as I spoke. I heard a bump and something thatsounded like a groan. The real reporter had fallen into a chair. "GoodLord!" he said; and then for a long time he didn't say anything.Finally he began to fuss with his paper, as if he meant to write thestory anyway. I wrote three pages and forgot about him. At last hemuttered, "Here, let me see those," and his voice sounded like adove's when it mourns under the eaves. I pushed the sheets toward himwith my left hand and went on writing. Suddenly I heard a gasp and achuckle. In another second the real reporter was standing beside me,grinning his widest grin.

  "Why, say, you little May Iverson kid," he almost shouted, "this storyis going to be good!"

  I could hear Miss Watts straighten up in the chair from which she waswatching us. She snatched at my pages, and he let her have them. Iwanted to draw myself up to my full height and look at him coldly, butI didn't--there wasn't time. Besides, far down inside of me I wasdelighted by his praise.

  "Of course it's going to be good," was all I said. "Sister Irmingardetold me to write about things as they are, and very simply."

  He had my pages back in his hands now and was running over themquickly, putting in a few words here and there with a pencil. I couldsee he was not changing much. Then he started on a jump for the nextroom, where the telephone was, but stopped at the door. There was aqueer look in his eyes.

  "Sister Irmingarde's a daisy!" he muttered.

  Then I heard him calling New York. "Gimme the _Searchlight_," hecalled. "Gimme the city desk. Hurry up! Say, Jack, this is Gibson, atSound View. We've got a crackerjack of a story out here. No--theIverson kid is doing it. It's all right, too. Get Hammond busy thereand let him take it on the typewriter as fast as I read it. Ready?Here goes."

  He began to read my first page.

  Miss Watts got up and shut the door, and I bowed my thanks to her. Thestorm was worse than ever, but I hardly heard it. For a second hiswords had made me think of Sister Irmingarde. I felt sorry for her.She would never have a chance like this--to write a real news storyfor a great newspaper. The convent seemed like a place I had heard of,long ago.

  Then I settled down to work, and for the next hour there was no soundin the room but the whisper of my busy pen and the respectfulfootsteps of Miss Watts as she reverently carried my story, page bypage, to the chastened "real reporter."