“You’ll get the other one tomorrow—if I win. That way I can feel fairly confident that your cross will be placed in the right box.”
Alexander grabbed the ticket and said, “I’ll be back tomorrow for the other one.”
When Alexander closed the door behind him, Keith remained at his desk and began typing furiously. He knocked out a couple of hundred words on the little Remington his father had given him for Christmas. After he had completed his copy he checked the text, made a few emendations, and then headed for the school’s printing press to prepare a limited edition.
Fifty minutes later he re-emerged, clutching a dummy front page hot off the press. He checked his watch. Cyril Tomkins was one of those boys who could always be relied on to be in his study between the hours of five and six, going over his prep. Today was to prove no exception. Keith strolled down the corridor and knocked quietly on his door.
“Come in,” responded Tomkins.
The studious pupil looked up from his desk as Keith entered the room. He was unable to hide his surprise: Townsend had never visited him in the past. Before he could ask what he wanted, Keith volunteered, “I thought you might like to see the first edition of the school magazine under my editorship.”
Tomkins pursed his podgy lips: “I think you’ll find,” he said, “to adopt one of your more overused expressions, that when it comes to the vote tomorrow, I shall win in a canter.”
“Not if you’ve already scratched, you won’t,” said Keith.
“And why should I do that?” asked Tomkins, taking off his spectacles and cleaning them with the end of his tie. “You certainly can’t bribe me, the way you’ve been trying to do with the rest of the sixth.”
“True,” said Keith. “But I still have a feeling you’ll want to
withdraw from the contest once you’ve read this.” He passed over the front page.
Tomkins replaced his glasses, but did not get beyond the headline and the first few words of the opening paragraph before he was sick all over his prep.
Keith had to admit that this was a far better response than he had hoped for. He felt his father would have agreed that he had grabbed the reader’s attention with the headline.
“Sixth Former Caught in Bogs with New Boy. Trousers Down Allegation Denied.”
Keith retrieved the front page and began tearing it up while a white-faced Tomkins tried to regain his composure. “Of course,” he said, as he dropped the little pieces into the wastepaper basket at Tomkins’s side, “I’d be happy for you to hold the position of deputy editor, as long as you withdraw your name before the voting takes place tomorrow.”
“The Case for Socialism” turned out to be the banner headline in the first edition of the St. Andy under its new editor.
“The quality of the paper and printing are of a far higher standard than I can ever recall,” remarked the headmaster at the staff meeting the following morning. “However, that is more than can be said for the contents. I suppose we must be thankful that we only have to suffer two editions a term.” The rest of the staff nodded their agreement.
Mr. Clarke then reported that Cyril Tomkins had resigned from his position as deputy editor only hours after the first edition of the magazine had been published. “Pity he didn’t get the job in the first place,” the headmaster commented. “By the way, did anyone ever find out why he withdrew from the contest at the last minute?”
Keith laughed when this piece of information was relayed to him the following afternoon by someone who had overheard it repeated at the breakfast table.
“But will he try to do anything about it?” Keith asked as she zipped up her skirt.
“My father didn’t say anything else on the subject, except that he was only thankful you hadn’t called for Australia to become a republic.”
“Now there’s an idea,” said Keith.
“Can you make the same time next Saturday?” Penny asked, as she pulled her polo-neck sweater over her head.
“I’ll try,” said Keith. “But it can’t be in the gym next week because it’s already booked for a house boxing match—unless of course you want us to do it in the middle of the ring, surrounded by cheering spectators.”
“I think it might be wise to leave others to end up lying flat on their backs,” said Penny. “What other suggestions do you have?”
“I can give you a choice,” said Keith. “The indoor rifle range or the cricket pavilion.”
“The cricket pavilion,” said Penny without hesitation.
“What’s wrong with the rifle range?” asked Keith.
“It’s always so cold and dark down there.”
“Is that right?” said Keith. He paused. “Then it will have to be the cricket pavilion.”