_Chapter VIII_ POSTPONED TRYOUTS
Helen went down stairs and Janet hastened to the bathroom where she madea hasty toilet. Back in her room she fairly jumped into her clothes, gaveher hair one final and hurried caress with the brush, and then went downstairs.
Mrs. Thorne, who had breakfasted earlier with Janet's father and mother,had gone home, so Helen and Janet sat down to the breakfast Mrs. Hardyhad prepared.
There was grapefruit to start with, then oatmeal with dates in it, hot,well-buttered toast, strips of crisp bacon and large glasses of milk.
"Feel all right this morning, Janet?" her mother asked, looking a littleanxiously at her vibrant and energetic daughter.
"Fine, mother. I slept very soundly. Last night seems almost like anightmare."
"It was a nightmare," said her mother, sitting down and picking up apiece of toast to munch while the girls ate their breakfast. "I've neverseen your father so worried. He was almost frantic until Hugh Grogansuggested they try to get through with one of his big tractors. They helda council of war right here in the front room and I've never seen as manynervous and excited men in my life. Talk about women getting upset, whythey were worse than we ever think of being." She smiled a little. Shecould now, but last night it had all been a very grim and very neartragedy.
"You'll have to write an excuse for me," said Janet between munches on acrisp slice of bacon.
"Not this time. I phoned the superintendent and he said that everyone inhonors English was excused from school today."
"Wonder if we'll have the tryouts for the class play this afternoon?"said Helen, who until that moment had been devoting her full energies tothe large bowl of oatmeal.
"There's one way of finding out," replied Janet. "I'll phone theprincipal's office and see if it has been taken off the bulletin board."
Janet went to the phone in the hall and called the schoolhouse. When shereturned her face was aglow.
"No school, no tryouts--what a day and what to do?"
"You're sure about the tryouts?" Helen was insistent, for winning theleading part meant so much to her.
"Sure as sure can be. They've been postponed until Saturday morning at9:30 o'clock when they will be held in the assembly."
"Then that will give me plenty of time to study my part thoroughly," saidHelen.
"But you know it now. Why you had it memorized, every word and phrase,yesterday afternoon," protested Janet.
"I know I did yesterday, but last night scared it completely out of me. Ican't even remember the opening lines."
"Maybe it's a good thing. We'll both start over and this afternoon we canrehearse upstairs in my room."
"Grand. I've got to go home and help mother for a while, but I'll be backby 2:30 o'clock and we'll start in."
Breakfast over, Janet went to the door with Helen. The day was bright andalmost unbelievably clear. The temperature was rising rapidly, the windhad gone down, and their experience of the night before seemed very faraway. Rivulets of water were starting to run down the streets and beforenightfall the gutters would be full of the melting snow and slush.
Janet found a multitude of little things to do around home to help hermother and the first interruption came with the ringing of the telephone.Her mother answered, but then summoned Janet.
"It's the Times," said Mrs. Hardy.
Janet took the instrument and recognized the voice of the city editor ofthe local paper.
"I need a good first person story of what took place inside the bus,Janet," said Pete Benda. "Can you come down to the office and write ayarn? You've had enough experience with your high school page to do thetrick and do it well."
"But it all seems so far away and kind of vague now," protested Janet.
"Listen, Janet, I've got to have that story." Pete was cajoling now."Haven't we done a lot of favors for your high school page?"
"Yes, but--."
"Then come down and write the story. I'll save a good spot on page onefor it."
Janet hung up the telephone, feeling a little weak and limp. Pete Bendawas insistent and she would have to go through with it.
"The Times wants me to come down and write a first person story of whathappened last night," she explained to her mother. "I didn't want to, butPete Benda, the city editor, just insisted. He's been so good abouthelping us out on the school page when we've been in jams that I couldn'tsay no."
"Of course not, and you'll do a good piece of writing. No don't worryabout it. Run along. I'll have a little lunch ready when you get back."
Janet put on her coat, but paused at the door and called to her mother."If Helen comes before I get back, tell her I'll be along soon."
Janet enjoyed the walk to the Times office for the air was invigorating.
The Times was housed in a narrow two-story building with its press in thebasement. The news department was on the second floor with the cityeditor's desk in front of a large window where he could look the fulllength of the main business street of Clarion.
Pete Benda, thin and too white-faced for his own good health, saw Janetcome in.
"Here's a desk and typewriter you can use," he said. "I'm counting onhaving that story in less than an hour. You'll have to come through,young lady."
Janet flushed at Pete's appellation, for the city editor of the Times wasonly a little older than she. Oh well, perhaps Pete was twenty-two, butshe could remember when he had been in high school, playing football, andone of the best ends in the state.
Janet rolled some copy paper into the typewriter and looked ratherblankly at the sheet. It was hard now to concentrate on the events whichhad been so tragically real the night before. If she could only get thefirst sentence to click the rest would come easily. She tried one phrase.That wouldn't do; not enough action in it. Ripping the sheet of paperfrom the typewriter, she inserted another and tried again. This wasbetter. Perhaps it would do; at least she had started, and the words camenow in a smooth flow for Janet could type rapidly, thanks to a commercialcourse in her junior year.
Pete Benda, on his way to the composing room, looked over her shoulderand read the first paragraph but Janet, now engrossed in the story,hardly noticed him. Pursing his lips in a low whistle, a trick that hedid when pleased, Pete went on about his work.
Janet finished one page and then another. Even a third materialized underthe steady tapping of her fingers on the keyboard. Then she was through.Three pages of copy, three pages of short, sharp sentences, of adjectivesthat caught and held the imagination, that gave a picture of the cold andthe apprehension of those in the bus, of the relief, almost hysterical,when rescue came.
Janet didn't read it over. It was the best she could do. If Pete wantedto change it that was all right with her. She put the three sheets ofcopy paper together and placed them on his desk. Then she slipped intoher coat and went down stairs. She had finished the story well within thelimit set by the city editor and she turned toward home and the rehearsalshe and Helen had planned for the afternoon.