The Early Ayn Rand

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.

"You nearsighted, blind boob!" Mr. Scraggs greeted him. "You brainless, straw-stuffed sap!"

"W-why, Mr. Scraggs!" Laury suffocated.

"Why the hell," Mr. Scraggs roared, "why the hell when you brought us Miss Winford's letter did you leave out the best part of it?"

"What?"

"Why did you omit the second postscript?"

"The second postscript?!"

"Look here!" And Mr. Scraggs threw to him an extra of the Dicksville Globe that had just come out, an hour after the Dawn, with the two sensational letters that Mr. Winford had received. Laury found Jinx's letter and read:

Dear Father,

If there is in your heart a single drop of pity for your unfortunate daughter, you will come to my rescue at once! I can't tell you all the suffering I am going through. Please, oh! please save me! If you could only see what your poor daughter is doing now your heart would break. I can't write very well because my eyes are dimmed with tears. I implore you to spare no effort to save me.

Your desperate daughter, Juliana Xenia Winford.

P.S. I'm miserable, miserable!!

P.S.II Like fun I am!

"When interviewed on the subject," the Globe added, "Mrs. Winford remarked: 'Unfortunately, only the second postscript sounds like my daughter's style of self-expression!'"