CHAPTER XIII
ERIC
Eric Reynolds! The winner of the second prize was in trouble and wascalling on Joan to help him. Still, he did not know her name was Martinor that she was the girl who had interviewed him at his home a few daysago, when she had informed him that he was one of the winners.
What could the mysterious trouble be? Of course, she must go and helphim, if she could, even though he was a sissy. “I’ll come,” she said,and heard Eric’s “Thank you very much,” as he hung up.
She could at least find out what Eric or Abie had wanted with Tim. Nouse to bother any one in the office with this until she knew more.Probably Abie wanted to give Tim a scolding about something. Cubreporters were always being summoned for all sorts of things. Perhapssomething Tim had written for the paper had aroused Abie’s ire. Still,what had Eric to do with it? And what was a rich boy like Eric doing ina pawnshop?
Joan trotted along up Market Street and around the corner on Main. Itwas just a few blocks to Abie’s Pawnshop. Every one called him justAbie. The shop was in the cheap part of Main Street—the wrong side ofBuckeye, which divided the two districts. The shop was a tiny place,crowded with everything from furs to fruit dishes. Three gold balls, abit tarnished, hung in front, and inside at the right was a wire cage,where Abie, framed by a background of watches and clocks, usually heldforth. To-day, however, he was in the center of the shop. Eric Reynoldswas there, too, holding a black violin case under his arm.
“Hey, are you _Mr._ Martin?” Abie growled when he saw her.
Joan explained that Mr. Martin was her brother and that she had come inhis place, as he was busy on an assignment.
“Your brother—he signed this, hey?” Abie brandished a bit of paper underher nose. He was a small man, in shirt sleeves and a vest, with a heavygold chain across his plump stomach. The chain was wobbling, he was soangry. “This boy here—” he indicated Eric with a jerk of his pudgythumb—“he wants to buy violin off me and he gives me check fortwenty-five dollars—and it _ain’t signed_.”
Not signed! Why, she had watched Uncle John sign it. Anyway, how didEric happen to have the check? Had the awards really been mixed, afterall? Perhaps, even now, Jimmy was speeding toward Cleveland to the biggame. Or—perhaps Eric had stolen the check, for some reason. But surelyhe had plenty of money. He looked especially stylish in the sweater andhose-to-match set he was wearing to-day. But how did he get the check?
She remembered having seen Jimmy’s name on it. And now, Eric had it, andsomehow it was blank where Uncle John had signed his name.
It certainly was a _mystery_. The word reminded her of Dummy. Could hehave mixed the prizes, thinking that he would get the paper in bad withthe public? The mistake might, too, for, of course, a paper awardingprizes ought to award them correctly. Dummy could certainly think upstrange things to do—for she was sure he had had a hand in this.
“Is this Miss Martin?” Eric asked. Didn’t he recognize her in the oldmiddy? “You’re the girl who came to see me, aren’t you? Will you kindlytell this man that your brother did sign this check when he sent it toJimmy, and that it’s perfectly O.K.?”
“My brother is Mr. Martin,” Joan smiled. “But not the one you think.That’s my uncle. The girl called Tim to the phone, and he wasn’t there,and I got your message to come around. But—” she broke off herexplanation. “The check _was_ signed. I saw it. It was sent to Jimmy,though.” And she had been so anxious that no more mistakes should bemade.
“I can explain,” the boy began. “You see, I was disappointed when Ididn’t get first prize, because I wanted, not the honor, but the money.”He looked embarrassed but went on. “My music teacher told me there was areally good violin here at Abie’s shop. It was twenty-five dollars, andI have only a small allowance. My parents wouldn’t get it for me. Theydidn’t know I’d been taking secret lessons since Christmas. ProfessorHofman gives them to me, free. Mother wants me to be an athlete and shesuggested my trying in the contest, and I did in hopes of winning themoney.”
Abie was getting impatient during this recital. Evidently he had heardthe explanation before. He was waving his hands. “It ain’t signed,” hemuttered.
“Yes, but how did you get the check?” Joan asked Eric.
“Well, it’s funny,” he drawled. Did he talk slowly, naturally, or was hetrying to infuriate Abie? Eric was such an odd boy, you never could besure about him. “I didn’t want the tickets, but it seems that the otherboy did. I was certainly surprised to have a voice over the phone ask meif I wanted to sell the tickets and passes for twenty-five dollars. Itwas Jimmy. I told him I’d give them to him. But he insisted that we swapprizes. I did it, because I wanted the violin so much. It hardly seemedright, but Jimmy said my letter was better than his.”
“It was,” Joan admitted. “But I gave the money prize, to him, because hewas—poor.”
“I don’t care anything about baseball,” Eric stated. “I wouldn’t dareplay ball, for fear I’d break my finger and couldn’t play the violin.Professor Hofman says my fingers are—are precious.” He almost whisperedthe last word.
He wasn’t a sissy, only a genius. What if her decision had kept him fromfulfilling his ambition? She could sympathize with him, for didn’t shewant to be a newspaper reporter, while Mother thought it unladylike? Shehad put a stumblingblock in his way when she had decided the prizes,thinking he did not need money.
“So I took the check,” Eric continued, “since Jimmy said he didn’t needit and would much rather have the tickets. We met at the bank, and theman there explained how Jimmy was to write payable to me on it. And Iwrote ‘Payable to Abie Goldstein’ on it and brought it here. We didn’tshow the check to any one there; just asked. I didn’t notice it then,and when I got here, there was no signature. Jimmy hadn’t mentionedanything about it.”
“He’s been coming in here, looking at that violin, two, t’ree timesevery week for long time,” nodded Abie. “To-day, he say he take it. Ithink it lot money for him to have, but he look rich, and I give it him.Then he give me check not signed. I not so dumb as I look, maybe! I tellhim I put him in jail for that! I call Mr. Martin at the _Journal_, likehe say—and you come.”
He seemed to consider her a poor substitute. She remembered now thatAbie had shouted something about putting some one in jail when she hadtalked to him over the telephone. She did not doubt but that the iratelittle man would do something awful to Eric if he could not prove hisinnocence. To think how she had misjudged Eric. She must help him now,for in a way, it was through her that he was in this mix-up. It wascertainly a mystery, though. How could a check be signed one day andunsigned the next? Even Dummy could hardly do such a thing.
It was clear that she must do two things. She must get hold of Jimmy,somehow, to prove that Eric’s story was true, and then get Uncle John tountangle the knotty problem of the signature. She went back of thecounter to Abie’s phone. It was on the wall. She had to tilt themouthpiece down and then stand on tiptoe. Joan doubted whether Jimmy hada telephone and when Information Operator assured her he did not, sheasked for the nearest one. Miss Betty often did that. The telephone nextdoor proved to be that of a Mrs. Kelly who was willing to send one ofher children over to deliver a message to Jimmy Kennedy. “Tell him tocome to the _Journal_ office as quickly as possible,” Joan told her.“It’s important.”
“Sure and he’ll be there quick as you like,” came Mrs. Kelly’s answer.“He’ll likely use his bike and he’s fast as the wind on that.”
Then, the three of them started over to the _Journal_ office. Before heleft, Abie called his assistant to “mind the shop.” Joan and Eric ledthe way, and Abie followed, his hands wildly waving. Eric seemed alittle sober now at the outcome of the exchange of prizes. He saidnothing but still hugged the violin.
Uncle John was busy and while they were waiting Jimmy appeared. Tim wasback now, the paper was out, and Joan explained things to him. When theywent into Uncle John’s office, Tim went in, too. They seemed to fill thelittle r
oom, the sanctum sanctorum. Em was there, curled up on thewindow sill, her tail hanging straight down. Silhouetted against thelight, she looked like a spook. Joan picked her up and held her. UncleJohn got up from his swivel chair that creaked gratefully when hehoisted his stout self from it and greeted them with raised eyebrows.Joan started to explain the situation, but Abie, flashing the check,broke in with his mumblings.
Uncle John took the check. “Well, what’s it all about? This is the checkI sent to the Kennedy boy.”
“Yes, but I wanted the tickets to the game—they’re hard to get—and thetrip to Cleveland and the autographed ball,” Jimmy said. “And when Ididn’t win ’em, and read in the _Journal_ that a kid named Eric Reynoldsdid, I went to the drug store and telephoned him.”
“And we traded prizes,” put in Eric. “But the check wasn’t signed.”
“Well, this is a mystery,” Uncle John examined the check. “I’m positiveI signed it. This is the same check, I’m sure.”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Jimmy twisted at his blouse pocket and produced anenvelope. “Here’s what the letter and the check came in, addressed tome. The letter’s at home, but I brought the check along in this to keepit clean for Eric.”
“Yes, it’s the same check,” Uncle John said, holding it out.
The bit of paper brushed against Em’s long white whiskers as Uncle Johnplaced it on his desk. The cat squirmed in Joan’s arms. She wrinkled upher black face and began to sneeze and hiss, wrenching herself away, asif to spring toward the check.
“Why—” Joan put Em down and the cat immediately rolled over and over onthe floor, casting sidewise glances at them from her big yellow eyes.Then Joan picked up the check, held it to her own nose and sniffed.“Why, it does! It smells like sassafras!”
“Well, and what has that to do with it?” snapped the pawnshop owner.“Maybe the boys was drinking sassafras sodys at the drug store andspilled some on it. What does that prove, if you’re so smart?”
But Joan would not give up. “Did you?” she turned to the boys.
They both shook their heads. “I don’t like sassafras,” Eric said.
Joan opened the office door and called Chub. He came right in, for hehad been standing outside, listening and watching their shadows on thefrosted door window. “Chub,” she demanded, “where did you hide thatmagic ink?”
Chub blushed until his face was almost as red as his hair. “I—I supposeI shouldn’t of, but I hid it behind those books on the General Mag.’sdesk.”
The general manager was Uncle John, of course. “I did use the ink behindthe books,” he stated. “I thought it was a misplaced supply bottle, andwell, I must have signed the check with the vanishing ink? Here, give itto me, and I’ll sign it again—” he started to dip his pen into thefilled inkwell.
“No, Uncle John, please! Let us prove it!” Joan begged. “Chub, do yourstuff. Let’s see you magic the signature back again.”
Tim produced the match Chub asked for, and he cupped his hands while theyounger boy held the tiny flame near the check. Breathlessly, the otherswatched. Abie’s brown eyes were bulging. He did not know what to expect.Eric and Jimmy were frankly interested. Uncle John was amused. Joan andChub were the only ones watching with real assurance.
The match went out in spite of Tim’s shielding hands. Three timesmatches were lighted and three times they went out. Chub began to getred in the face and beads of perspiration stood out on his cheeks. EvenJoan got a little worried. Maybe Chub’s magic wasn’t any good. Then theycouldn’t prove that this check had been signed and that Eric was allright. She had to prove it!
“We have to have a steady, even heat,” Chub decided. “I did it over thekitchen stove at home. But there’re no gas jets here.”
“I know! The flames that dry the print!” Joan started out to thecomposing room, and the rest trailed along, quite a little procession,it was, with Joan and Chub leading.
The big room was fairly silent now, for the paper had just been run offthe giant presses. But the rows of tiny blue flames along the top ofeach roller, which dried each page as it was flipped over, had not yetbeen turned out. Joan had always thought the flames very pretty—thatlittle bit of bright color in this dim, cement-floored room, which waslike a vast cave somehow, and usually thunderous with the roar of thepresses.
Chub, as master of ceremonies, held the piece of paper up in front ofthe flames, moving it gently back and forth, so that it would not bescorched or burned.
The others pressed close about the office boy. Soon, there appeared uponthe check down in the right-hand corner, the scrawled signature, “JohnW. Martin,” old-fashioned _M_ and all.
“It’s certainly magic!” cried Joan.
“Yes, but don’t leave that ink around again,” Uncle John warned Chub.
“Very fine trick,” said Abie, while the others murmured their surprise.
“Now, let’s see, is this exchange the boys are making O.K.?” Uncle Johnasked, when they were all back in his little office again, and he hadthe check with its restored signature in his hand.
“Jimmy, don’t you know twenty-five dollars is a lot of money?”
“Well, I suppose it is,” admitted Jimmy. “But you see, I just enteredthe contest ’cause I wanted the ball and the trip to the game. Momthought I won that, and I didn’t tell her any different, because wetraded. It’d cost me twenty-five dollars to go to the game, and BabeRuth wouldn’t sign a baseball for me, without I had that prizeannouncement letter telling him to. Anyway, I didn’t think my letterwould win first, but I hoped it would win second.”
“Eric’s was the better one, really,” Joan remarked.
“Every one seems agreed.” Uncle John passed the check over to Abie. “Iguess the violin is the boy’s.”
“Won’t you play something?” Joan begged Eric. “Do let him, Uncle John.The paper’s out, and no one’s busy.”
At Uncle John’s nod, Eric took the violin from its case and tucked itunder his chin. A dark lock of his hair tumbled upon his forehead andmade his thin face look even whiter than usual. “A regular violin face,”Joan thought to herself. “I wonder I didn’t think of it before. And Ithought he’d be a speedy ball player, because he was thin. Fine reporterI’d be!”
Eric played. A dreamy but spirited thing that made you think of lads andlassies doing an old-time dance on a green countryside. Joan couldpicture the colors of their costumes as the couples whisked about,hopping, and smiling to each other. Every one in the little office stoodperfectly still while Eric played.
When he finished, the bow drooped limp and lifeless in his hand. UncleJohn strode toward the door. “Very nice, indeed,” he said, and his voicewas gruff. “But this is hardly a concert hall.”
Abie was clapping his hairy hands. “Wonderful! Wonderful! Five dollarsand even more you would pay to hear such playing like that!”
“The kid’s clever, no joke,” Tim remarked as he went out. “And theirswapping the prizes will make a peach of a follow-up story.”
Eric held out his hand to Joan, right there in front of Jimmy and Chub.“Thank you very much,” he said in his grown-up way, “for helping usout—for solving the mystery.”
Joan laughed. “Don’t thank me. Thank Em. She did it.”
They all looked over to the corner where Em was unconcernedly lickingher black paw.
“It’s the second time she proved herself a heroine,” Joan thought toherself. She had led Joan to the charity play story—and now this. Dummyhad hid the story, she was sure, and had been only pretending in hisargument with Mack. You couldn’t tell about the proofreader. Yet, herewas another mistake that had happened and Dummy had not been to blame.