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The Scarecrow Mystery (Ted Wilford #8)

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 1960, renewed 1988 by Norvin Pallas.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC.

      wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

      To

       Les, Dan, and Greg.

      1. New Year’s Plans

      “GET YOUR INVITATION YET TO THE NEW Year’s Eve shindig?”

      This question was asked by Nelson Morgan, who was lying on the bed leafing through the pages of a sports magazine.

      It was addressed to his close friend, Ted Wilford, who was sitting in front of the desk, pasting items from the Forestdale semiweekly newspaper, the Town Crier, in a little scrapbook. Ted had once been a “stringer” for the paper, and it had been necessary for him to keep track of all his published writings because he was paid by the printed inch. Now that he was paid a salary when he worked on the paper during his college vacations, he didn’t have to keep track of all items, but he liked to do it just the same. These clippings reminded him of many little incidents and adventures he might otherwise have forgotten. Besides, he liked to imagine that he could detect some improvement in his work.

      “Got it,” he answered briefly.

      “I’m going with Sue Anderson,” Nelson went on. “I wonder how she happened to ask me? I’ve never been out with her before.”

      “Maybe that’s the reason,” Ted retorted sarcastically.

      Nelson ignored this remark. “And of course you’re going with Margaret Lake.”

      “What do you mean, ‘of course’?” Ted came back.

      “Because nobody’d dare to break up that twosome. Anyway, a treasure hunt ought to be fun.”

      “A scavenger hunt,” Ted corrected him.

      “What’s the difference?”

      “For a treasure hunt you get clues to follow, until you finally reach the treasure. In a scavenger hunt you get a list of things to bring back.”

      “Sounds like almost the same thing to me. You coming along in my car?”

      “No, Mr. Lake says I can borrow his.”

      “Lucky dog! I’ve never been able to figure out why everybody trusts you so much. All I can say is that you’ve never yet got me into any little trouble.”

      Ted turned back to his string book, frowning over a minor problem. “I wonder whether I wrote this story or not?”

      “Don’t you know?” asked Nelson, puzzled.

      “Not exactly. As I remember, somebody phoned in the story, and I wrote it down almost the way I got it. Does that make it my story or not?”

      “Sure, it does. You’re the one who put it down on paper.”

      “I put this other one down on paper, too. But we were short of space, and Mr. Dobson blue-penciled most of it and rewrote the lead. When you work on a newspaper, you don’t exactly write a story. It becomes more of a partnership.”

      “Then who cares whether you wrote it or not?” Nelson demanded.

      “Nobody else, I guess, and maybe a year from now I won’t care, either.”

      He decided not to include these clippings in his book, closed it up, and put away the scissors and paste. Nelson tossed aside the sports magazine, sat up on the edge of Ted’s bed, and stretched.

      “Sure is dull this time of year—I mean in sports. I wish I were about three inches taller so I could try out for the basketball team.”

      “You’re playing intramural basketball. That’s fun, isn’t it?”

      “Oh, I suppose it’s fun, all right, but you’ll never get your name in the paper that way. We’re lucky if the college paper prints the score.”

      “Well, what’s so wonderful about getting your name in the paper? I know a lot of people who have, and wished they hadn’t.”

      “Look who’s talking! Mr. Dobson’s fair-haired boy, who can get his name printed twice a week, if he wants to.”

      “What do you mean? Just because I write a few little things for the paper, do you think Mr. Dobson gives me a by-line any time I ask for it? Things aren’t that easy.”

      “Well, maybe you don’t every week, but you’ve had your share.”

      “You must mean on the high-school paper. You know how many by-lines I’ve had on the Town Crier? Count ’em up on the fingers on your hand, and when you get to none—stop!”

      “That right?” said Nelson lamely. “I thought I remembered seeing a few of them.”

      “Sure, you did, and so did I—the way a thirsty man on a desert sees a lake in the distance. By-lines don’t come often with Mr. Dobson, and that big story is still in the faraway future.”

      “Well, then, getting one is a good thing to put on your list of New Year’s resolutions.”

      “Is it? That big story depends a lot on luck, and I don’t see how you can say, ‘I’m resolved to be lucky this year.’ I’d like to see your list, though. I’ll bet it’s something.”

      “Oh, I didn’t make up any list—not really. I know something I’d like to do, though. I want to win some kind of competition with my camera. There are lots of different contests, and I’m going to see if I can’t come up with something.”

      “Landscapes?”

      “No, I don’t think so. There I’m up against fellows with a lot better equipment and a lot more experience than I’ve got. I’m thinking of the candid field. If you’re there at the right time, you can always beat out the fellow who isn’t there, no matter what kind of camera he’s got.”

      “That takes a lot of luck, too,” Ted pointed out.

      “Well, maybe. I don’t suppose a person could live without luck. But you have to be awake when your opportunity comes along. Let’s see. This is Wednesday night. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Four days more before I have to start being wide-awake, according to my resolution.”

      “You aren’t going to be very wide-awake on Monday if we’re out till two-thirty.”

      “No—well, then, Monday to rest up, and Tuesday we’ll start back for college, bright and early.”

      “Anyway, early,” Ted agreed.

      They were interrupted by the ring of the telephone downstairs, and Ted listened to see if it was for him. In a few moments his mother called upstairs.

      “Ted, it’s Mr. Dobson.”

      “Coming.” He started to leave the room. “Want to wait, Nel?”

      “Oh, don’t mind me. I haven’t looked through your photography books for a long time, and I might pick up some pointers. Don’t hurry.”

      “Mr. Dobson’s never long-winded. I’ll be right back.”

      Picking up the phone, Ted wondered what his editor might want. He hoped he hadn’t pulled some boner. Although Mr. Dobson was a very considerate man, he never put up with slipshod work.

      “Hello, Mr. Dobson.”

      “Hello, Ted. Something has come along that I didn’t know about earlier. I’ve just learned that Mr. Prentice—you know, Albert Prentice, head of the transit union—will be in Stanton tomorrow. Of course he’ll be here in Forestdale for the court hearing on Friday morning, but that makes it too late for our Friday issue. I thought if we could get an interview with him tomorrow morning, it might give us something to peg a story on.”

      “You mean a telephone interview?”

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