Ayn Rand - The Early Ayn Rand

He stretched himself with a sigh of relaxation.

"Well, I'm going to bed. I've got to get up early tomorrow."

"Are you going out tomorrow?" Jinx asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"I've got a little errand for you. There are a few things that you'll have to buy for me tomorrow."

"A few things? What things?"

"Why, if you intend to keep me here for quite a while, you can't expect me to wear the same clothes all the time, can you? A woman needs a few little things, you know. Here's the list I've written for you."

He took the list. It occupied four pages. It included everything from dresses and slippers to underwear and nightgowns to nail polish and French perfume at forty dollars an ounce.

He blushed. He thought with a shudder of what would be left of his bank account, if anything. But he was too much of a gentleman to refuse.

"All right," he said humbly. "You'll get it tomorrow."

"Now, don't forget, I want the chiffon dress flame-red and the silk one electric-blue. And I want the panties real short, see, like the ones I have."

And she held out the dainty little cloud of lace that she had thrown into one of his desk drawers. She didn't blush; but he did.

"All right," he said, "I'll remember... Goodnight, Miss Winford."

"Goodnight — Mr. Damned Dan!"

"I can't figure it out!" Vic Perkins was saying acidly, on the next morning- "Spray me with insect powder if I can figure it out! For one thing, I don't see anything so brilliant in these stories of his. And for two things, all this news he's getting first, well, it's just a fool's luck. And why all this fuss the Editor's raising over that McGee bum what never got two words in print before is more than my intellect can digest!"

Vic Perkins was not quite satisfied with the turn of events. The Dawn's morning number had come out with blazing stories, each bearing a line in big black print: "by Laurence H. McGee." Practically the whole front page was by Laurence H. McGee. There was even a picture of him. And Victor Z. Perkins, the Dawn's star, had to be satisfied with two measly columns on the third page, where he expressed his opinions on the great crime, and they sounded like a mouse's squeal, compared to the roar of Laury's flaming stories.

It had been reported, to City Editor Jonathan Scraggs' extreme satisfaction, that the Dicksville Globe was seriously perturbed by his brilliant new reporter's activity. There could be no one to compete with Laurence H. McGee. He was getting all the news hours ahead of everybody else. He seemed to know just where to go to get it. He interviewed Miss Winford's parents, her servants, her friends. He wrote heartbreaking stories on the vanished girl. He wrote terrifying warnings to parents to watch their children. He seemed to burst with inspiration, and Dicksville's citizens were beginning to gulp eagerly every issue of the Dawn for its gripping, thrilling articles.

"My congratulations, Mr. McGee," said the Managing Editor himself, when Mr. Scraggs announced Laury's raise in salary. "I have a presentiment of a brilliant future for you!"

"Great, Laury, kid, great!" Mr. Scraggs chuckled rapturously. "You have a positive genius for that kind of stuff Oh boy, ain't we cleaning up, though! Extras go like pancakes!"

Laury sat in Mr. Scraggs' comfortable armchair, his feet on the editorial desk, and looked bored. Some of the Dawn staffs elite had found a few minutes to gather around him and congratulate the new star. Laury was smoking one of Mr. Scraggs' cigars, and it made him sick, but he looked superior.

"Your stories are... are gorgeous! Just simply... simply wonderful!" muttered an enthusiastic and anemic little cub.

"How d'you do it?" asked Vic Perkins gruffly.

"It's all in the day's work," answered Laury modestly.

"Oh, Mr. McGee!" cackled Aurelia D. Buttersmith, the flower of the Dawn's womanhood, who wore glasses and had never been kissed. "I'm doing a story on Miss Winford's personality. Do you think it will be appropriate to call her 'a sweet little lily-of-the-valley that the slightest wind could break'? Will it suit her?"

"Perfectly, Miss Buttersmith," Laury answered. "Oh, perfectly!"

"That whole affair is a godsend!" Mr. Scraggs enthused. "By gum, I almost feel I could thank the guy who pulled it!"

Early that afternoon, Mr. Scraggs had another thrill that sent him jumping in his chair like a rubber ball. Laury rushed into the city room, his shirt collar flung open, his hair like a storm, his eyes like lightning.

"An extra!" he cried. "Quick! I've got the letters Winford received from the kidnapper!"

"O-oo-ooh!" was all Mr. Scraggs could answer.

It was lucky for Laury that no one noticed the fact that the Dicksville Dawn received the copy of the two letters half an hour before the postman delivered the originals to Mr. Winford...

While the fresh extras were flowing from the press, Laury went out again, "to look for news," he said. But this time, he went "to look for news" in Harkdonner's big department store.

Laury thought that if he deserved a punishment for his crime, he got it, and plenty, in the hours that he spent at Harkdonner's department store. He went from counter to counter, Jinx's list in hand, perspiration gluing his shirt to his back and his hair to his forehead, and his face red as a tomato. He thought he had acquired a habit of stuttering for life before he got through with the lingerie counter. He did not dare to look at the courteous saleslady, for fears she would be blushing, too.

"It's... it's for my wife... for my wife," he repeated helplessly, hoping desperately that no one would see him in the store.

And as it always happens in such cases, two stenographers from the Dawn passed by, saw him at the ladies' lingerie counter, waved to him, giggled, and winked significantly.

And he almost murdered the salesman who, with an understanding grin, offered him a weekend suitcase.

Finally, with four huge boxes, two in each hand, Laury emerged from the store, put the boxes in his faithful old sports car, and left the car in a garage where no one could see it until evening. Then he walked back to the Dawn building.

His good humor returned to him on the way. Damned Dan's name was all over Dicksville. It blazed on headlines of extras everywhere. It echoed in the terrified whispers of little groups of people gathered all along Main Street. It ran like the swift fire of a dynamite cord, spreading over the whole town to explode in a frenzy of general panic. Laury felt a personal pride.

Besides, he noticed that many passersby looked at him, pointed him out to each other, whispered, and turned around. "The one that writes those marvelous stories in the Dawn" he heard.

And two charming young ladies even had the courage to stop him.

"Oh, Mr. McGee!" sang one of them in a lovely voice from lovely lips. "Excuse our boldness, but we recognized you and couldn't help stopping you to ask about that terrible crime. Do you really think that man is as horrible as he seems?"

"Do you really think all of us girls are in danger?" breathed the other one, very becomingly frightened. "Your stories are so fascinating! I thought, 'Here's a man to protect us all!'"

And it was hard to decide whether their smiles sparkled with admiration for the stories or for the big gray eyes and tempting lips of the young man before them.

So Laury entered the Dawn offices, head high, whistling nonchalantly, with the proud air of a conqueror tired of victories.

"Hey, where on earth have you been?" shouted the copy boy, meeting him on the stairs. "The Editor's hollering for you!"

Laury strolled into the city room, a superior smile on his lips.