"Huh? Are you nuts?"
"She’ll be upset if she doesn’t get it back. Please, Pete—she’ll let you look at it any time you want to."
The old man was so earnest that Perkins was stopped. "Suppose we never see it again? My story hangs on it."
"It’s no good to you—she has to keep it, to make your story stand up. Don’t worry—I’ll tell her that she mustn’t lose it under any circumstances."
"Well—okay." They stepped outside and Pappy talked earnestly to Kitten, then gave her the 1898 fragment. She promptly tucked it into the top column. Perkins said good-bye to Pappy, and started to leave the lot. He paused and turned around, looking a little befuddled. "Say, Pappy—"
"Yes, Pete?"
"You don’t really think that whirlwind is alive, do you?"
"Why not?"
" ‘Why not?’ Why not, the man says?"
"Well," said Pappy reasonably, "how do you know you are alive?"
"But ... why, because I—well, now if you put it—" He stopped. "I don’t know. You got me, pal."
Pappy smiled. "You see?"
"Uh, I guess so. G’night, Pappy. G’night, Kitten." He tipped his hat to the whirlwind. The column bowed.
The managing editor sent for Perkins.
"Look, Pete," he said, chucking a sheaf of gray copy paper at him, "whimsy is all right, but I’d like to see some copy that wasn’t dashed off in a gin mill."
Perkins looked over the pages shoved at him. "OUR FAIR CITY by Peter Perkins. Whistle Up The Wind. Walking our streets always is a piquant, even adventurous, experience. We pick our way through the assorted trash, bits of old garbage, cigarette butts, and other less appetizing items that stud our sidewalks while our faces are assaulted by more buoyant souvenirs, the confetti of last Hallowe’en, shreds of dead leaves, and other items too weather-beaten to be identified. However, I had always assumed that a constant turnover in the riches of our streets caused them to renew themselves at least every seven years—" The column then told of the whirlwind that contained the fifty-year-old newspaper and challenged any other city in the country to match it.
" ’Smatter with it?" demanded Perkins.
"Beating the drum about the filth in the streets is fine, Pete, but give it a factual approach."
Perkins leaned over the desk. "Boss, this is factual."
"Huh? Don’t be silly, Pete."
"Silly, he says. Look—" Perkins gave him a circumstantial account of Kitten and the 1898 newspaper.
"Pete, you must have been drinking."
"Only Java and tomato juice. Cross my heart and hope to die."
"How about yesterday? I’ll bet the whirlwind came right up to the bar with you."
"I was cold, stone—" Perkins stopped himself and stood on his dignity. "That’s my story. Print it, or fire me."
"Don’t be like that, Pete. I don’t want your job; I just want a column with some meat. Dig up some facts on man-hours and costs for street cleaning, compared with other cities."
"Who’d read that junk? Come down the street with me. I’ll show you the facts. Wait a moment—I’ll pick up a photographer."
A few minutes later Perkins was introducing the managing editor and Clarence V. Weems to Pappy. Clarence unlimbered his camera. "Take a pic of him?"
"Not yet, Clarence. Pappy, can you get Kitten to give us back the museum piece?"
"Why, sure." The old man looked up and whistled. "Oh, Kitten! Come to Pappy." Above their heads a tiny gust took shape, picked up bits of paper and stray leaves, and settled on the lot. Perkins peered into it.
"She hasn’t got it," he said in aggrieved tones.
"She’ll get it." Pappy stepped forward until the whirlwind enfolded him. They could see his lips move, but the words did not reach them.
"Now?" said Clarence.
"Not yet." The whirlwind bounded up and leapt over an adjoining building. The managing editor pened his mouth, closed it again.
Kitten was soon back. She had dropped everything else and had just one piece of paper—the paper. "Now!" said Perkins. "Can you get a shot of that paper, Clarence—while it’s in the air?"
"Natch," said Clarence, and raised his Speed Graphic. "Back a little, and hold it," he ordered, speaking to the whirlwind.
Kitten hesitated and seemed about to skitter away. "Bring it around slow and easy, Kitten," Pappy supplemented, "and turn it over—no, no! Not that way—the other edge up." The paper flattened out and sailed slowly past them, the headline showing.
"Did you get it?" Perkins demanded.
"Natch," said Clarence. "Is that all?" he asked the editor.
"Natc—I mean, ‘that’s all.’ "
"Okay," said Clarence, picked up his case, and left. The editor sighed. "Gentlemen," he said, "let’s have a drink."
Four drinks later Perkins and his boss were still arguing. Pappy had left. "Be reasonable, Boss," Pete was saying, "you can’t print an item about a live whirlwind. They’d laugh you out of town."
Managing Editor Gaines straightened himself.
"It’s the policy of the Forum to print all the news, and print it straight. This is news—we print it." He relaxed. "Hey! Waiter! More of the same—and not so much soda."
"But it’s scientifically impossible."
"You saw it, didn’t you?"
"Yes, but—"
Gaines stopped him. "We’ll ask the Smithsonian Institution to investigate it."
"They’ll laugh at you," Perkins insisted. "Ever hear of mass hypnotism?"
"Huh? No, that’s no explanation—Clarence saw it, too."
"What does that prove?"
"Obvious—to be hypnotized you have to have a mind. Ipso facto."
"You mean ipse dixit."
"Quit hiccuping. Perkins, you shouldn’t drink in the daytime. Now start over and say it slowly."
"How do you know Clarence doesn’t have a mind?"
"Prove it."
"Well, he’s alive—he must have some sort of a mind, then."
"That’s just what I was saying, the whirlwind is alive; therefore it has a mind. Perkins, if those long-beards from the Smithsonian are going to persist in their unscientific attitude, I for one will not stand for it. The Forum will not stand for it. You will not stand for it."
"Won’t I?"
"Not for one minute. I want you to know the Forum is behind you, Pete. You go back to the parking lot and get an interview with that whirlwind."
"But I’ve got one. You wouldn’t let me print it."
"Who wouldn’t let you print it? I’ll fire him! Come on, Pete. We’re going to blow this town sky high. Stop the run. Hold the front page. Get busy!" He put on Pete’s hat and strode rapidly into the men’s room.
Pete settled himself at his desk with a container of coffee, a can of tomato juice, and the Midnight Final (late afternoon) edition. Under a 4-col. cut of Kitten’s toy was his column, boxed and moved to the front page. 18-point boldface ordered SEE EDITORIAL PAGE 12. On page 12 another black line enjoined him to SEE "OUR FAIR CITY" PAGE ONE. He ignored this and read: MR. AYOR—RESIGN!!!!
Pete read it and chuckled. "An ill wind—" "—symbolic of the spiritual filth lurking in the dark corners of the city hall." "—will grow to cyclonic proportions and sweep a corrupt and shameless administration from office." The editorial pointed out that the contract for street cleaning and trash removal was held by the Mayor’s brother-in-law, and then suggested that the whirlwind could give better service cheaper.
"Pete—is that you?" Pappy’s voice demanded. "They got me down at the station house."
"What for?"
"They claim Kitten is a public nuisance."
"I’ll be right over." He stopped by the Art Department, snagged Clarence, and left. Pappy was seated in the station lieutenant’s office, looking stubborn. Perkins shoved his way in. "What’s he here for?" he demanded, jerking a thumb at Pappy.
The lieutenant looked sour. "What are you butting in for, Perkins? You’re not his lawyer."
"Not yet, Clarence. For news, Dumbrosky—I work for a newspaper, remember? I repeat— what’s he in for?"
"Obstructing an officer in the performance of his duty."
"That right, Pappy?"
The old man looked disgusted. "This character—" He indicated one of the policemen "—comes up to my lot and tries to snatch the Manila-Bay paper away from Kitten. I tell her to keep it up out of his way. Then he waves his stick at me and orders me to take it away from her. I tell him what he can do with his stick." He shrugged. "So here we are."