CHAPTER V
THE TEST
The paper that Judy held in her hand was a jumble of morbid poetrywritten in what could have been a beautiful hand. Actually, it was analmost unreadable scrawl. In some places the rhymes were in perfectsequence, but in others the poet had wandered away from what must havebeen the theme to play with words that apparently amused her. FinallyJudy made out this much:
When Love turns thief, grief, sheaf, oh, disbelief ’Tis memories that sting, ring, cling like anything. When Joy departs, starts, smarts, makes broken hearts ... Too close I kept you, Joy. Should I have shared my toy? Tossed you to human tomcats to destroy? They say you’re dead. They lie! You cannot die! You drifted off in air To share Your hair Your fair white skin, The very dress you wear. IT’S MINE! YOU’RE MINE! I’ll find you if I choke In smoke ... My Joy my toy my Joy my toy my Joy JOY _JOY_ My head’s on fire! ’Tis memories that burn. Better to crumble in a tower of flame Than sit with ghosts awaiting your return.
How could anyone crumble in a tower of flame, Judy wondered. Oh, well,she supposed it was just a lot of melancholy words jumbled together togive the reader the creeps. Certainly she was not going to give EmilyGrimshaw the satisfaction of knowing that it had impressed her.
“With the poet’s permission,” she looked up and said, “I would take outa few lines and then type the poem on a clean sheet of paper.”
“I have the poet’s permission,” Emily Grimshaw replied shortly. And,after a pause, “What lines would you take out?”
“Half of some of them and all of this one.” Judy pointed. “The words‘Joy’ and ‘toy’ are repeated too many times.”
“That’s the first thing one notices,” the old lady replied, evidentlypleased with Judy’s suggestion. “How do you like that poetry?”
“I _don’t_ like it,” the girl replied frankly. “It sounds as if thewriter had a distorted idea of life. It depresses a person just to readit.”
“There are people who like to be depressed.”
“I suppose so,” Judy answered wearily. She could see that theconversation was getting them nowhere, and Irene must be dreadfullytired of waiting. Besides, she did not care to stand and argue with asqueer a person as Emily Grimshaw seemed to be. Why, she was morepeculiar, even, than the matron at camp or the queer old lady who ranthe dog and cat hospital.
“Would you like me to sit down and type the poem for you now?” Judysuggested. “Then you could see exactly what I mean.”
The old lady consented with a wave of her hand, and Judy set to work.The task was not an easy one, and when she had finished cutting out allthe queer-sounding lines the poem was about half its original length.Hardly knowing whether to expect praise or criticism, she handed therevised poem to Emily Grimshaw and waited while she read:
When Love turns thief ’tis memories that sting; When Joy departs ’tis memories that burn. Better to crumble in a tower of flame Than sit with ghosts awaiting your return.
“These are the four best lines,” Judy pointed out when she had finishedreading. “I took out parts of the first three lines and switched thelast three over toward the beginning. It’s more coherent that way ifanyone should ever try to figure it out. But the middle stanza musteither stay as it is or be taken out entirely. Which do you think, MissGrimshaw?”
“I’d take it out,” she declared. “There’s too much truth in it.”
Too much truth? A person who could not die! Who drifted off in air!Judy would have said exactly the opposite. It was too impossible.
“Didn’t the poet explain what she meant when the manuscript wasdelivered?” she asked.
“Explain it! Humph! Jasper Crosby expects me to explain it. He’s thepoet’s brother,” the agent pointed out. “He brings me the stuff in justsuch a jumble as this.”
The pile before her on the desk eloquently illustrated the word“jumble.” Old envelopes, bills, sales sheets, anything that happened tobe about, had been used for the poet’s snatches of verse.
“It must take a lot of time to rearrange them,” Judy ventured.
“Time! That’s just it. Time and patience, too. But Jasper Crosby caresas much about the value of my time as a newborn baby. He never talksexcept in terms of dollars and cents. ‘What can you make out of this?’‘How much do we get out of that?’ And expects me to rewrite half of it!It’s trying my patience to the limit, I can tell you. If I weren’t sofond of the poet I would have given it up years ago. Her verses used tobe of quite a different type. You know _Golden Girl_?”
“You mean the popular song? Of course I do.”
“Well, she wrote that twenty years ago. It’s just recently been set tomusic.”
Judy was becoming interested. As well as holding a promise of many newand charming acquaintances for herself and the other two girls the workwas sure to be fascinating. Emily Grimshaw seemed pleased with thechanges she had made in the poem, but it was best not to hurry herdecision. Judy could see that she needed an assistant, but to make theagent see it also would require tact and patience.
In the course of another half hour Emily Grimshaw had made up her mind.Judy was to report at her office the following day. No mention had beenmade of Irene as Judy knew her chances of holding the position wereslim enough without asking an additional favor. But she felt sure thather new employer would not object to the presence of both girls in theoffice after she had grown accustomed to the idea of being helped.
“And if she does object,” Irene said cheerfully, “I’ll apply for aposition with Dale Meredith’s publisher.”
Eager to tell Pauline of their adventure, they walked toward the subwayentrance and arrived just as the school girls were coming home.
“We found out who that man we met on the bus is,” Judy announced themoment she saw Pauline. “He’s an author and has written stacks andstacks of books. We bought one to read in our spare time.”
“Really?”
“It’s the honest truth,” Irene declared. “I read ten chapters todaywhile I was waiting for Judy. And what do you think? She has accepted aposition in Emily Grimshaw’s office.”
Pauline stared. “The woman who sent that telegram? Who on earth is sheand where did you find out?”
“In the classified telephone directory,” Judy confessed. “She’s DaleMeredith’s literary agent, though why he should pick such a crotchetyold woman to sell his stories is beyond me. I thought, at first, shewas going to bite my head off. But she found out she couldn’t frightenme so she decided to hire me. When she calms down a bit she’ll probablylet Irene help her, too.”
“Imagine!” Irene exclaimed, still bubbling with enthusiasm, “our ownspending money and an opportunity to meet the most interestingpeople——”
“You mean Dale Meredith?”
Did Judy imagine it or was there the smallest trace of bitterness inPauline’s voice?
“Well, perhaps I do,” Irene replied.
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The Yellow Phantom Page 6
