Lizzy put her column on Mr. Dickens’ desk. She hesitated, remembering that, just a couple of days ago, she had planned to talk to him about writing a feature story about Miss Jamison (aka Lorelei LaMotte) and her stay in Darling. That was out of the question now, of course—as was Verna’s notion of getting the two ladies to put on an act for the talent show. But depending on what happened tonight, there might be a different story to tell. Of course, it would take a while to get all the facts and write it up.
She cleared her throat. “What’s the deadline for news this week, Mr. Dickens?”
“Thursday morning,” Charlie said, without looking up. He was balding and fleshy, a large man pushing fifty, with sharp, hard eyes that seemed out of place in his round face. He ripped the paper out of his typewriter. “Here’s a very important piece of news, don’t you think? Think I’ll run it on Page One, right next to the story about construction beginning on Boulder Dam.” He read it out loud in a mocking, sarcastic voice. “On Wednesday morning Mrs. Campbell Young entertained very delightfully at her charming home on Rosemont Avenue. The affair was a morning bridge party given on the vine-covered porch. At noon a luncheon of garden salad, cold cucumber soup, and tiny ham sandwiches was served to the appreciative guests. Prizes were awarded to the winning players.”
“Well,” Lizzy began politely, “I’m sure that Mrs. Young’s friends—”
“Wait, there’s something else. This goes on Page Two.” He picked up another piece of paper, which Lizzy could see was an ad. “Ironing Board and Electric Iron, $3.95. A convenience no modern housewife can afford to be without.” He snorted. “And a rattan porch rocker for three dollars and fifty cents, so the housewife can take her leisure when she’s finished ironing. Both of these swell bargains are courtesy of Mann’s Mercantile. Ain’t that just the bee’s knees?”
Lizzy might have said that an electric iron was a great improvement over the heavy flatirons that had to be heated on the cook stove, which Charlie would know if he had to iron his own white shirts, especially in the summertime. But of course she didn’t. There wasn’t any point in saying anything at all, really. Charlie Dickens was given to fits of depression, often brought on by what he thought of as the inconsequentiality of the things he had to put into the newspaper. It sounded as if he was at one of his low points today.
He raised one finger. “But don’t give up yet, Liz. Here’s something else for your edification, from one of the feature services.” He read:
“Benito Mussolini of Italy professes principles of government which are bitterly hated by the American farmers, stout defenders of democracy—but just the same, he has solved the farm relief problem. While the American Congress has passed laws which are of doubtful help to the troubled tillers of the soil, and while Ramsay MacDonald’s government in Great Britain is still talking about helping the sadly crippled British farmer, Mussolini is doing something. He intends to make Italy almost, or entirely, self-supporting in the matter of food, so the country can spend more money on raw materials, increase the prosperity of its factories, and cut down the adverse balance of trade. Not incidentally, this will also increase the well-being of the Italian farmer.”