The tourist business for them had dwindled to nothing; nobody was going out of the way to look for a tourist home, or a chicken dinner either. About ten meals on a Sunday to people who had been there before, was the best they could do. It wasn't enough to pay the interest on the mortgage, let alone pay off the principal.
It was enough to make anybody sick, Paul kept thinking, as he sat at his desk. Especially when he now had charge of the radio station and was getting twenty-eight dollars a week—enough, as he'd pointed out time and again, for two people to get married on. But Susie still insisted that they'd have to wait until the mortgage was paid. Which, to Paul, seemed like forever.
“Well,” he said out loud and then started another record.
If there were only some way of getting people to go out that way, getting them to stop at the farm again. Paul had racked his brain without result. There didn't seem any way at all.
Suddenly an unusual noise broke the studio quiet. Paul turned and saw his boss, Mr. Reynolds himself, waving his arms at him from outside the glass door, and holding up a slip of paper. It must be pretty important, Paul thought, to get Mr. Reynolds so aroused. He went over and got the message. He read it, and he too began to feel the excitement.
He stopped the music abruptly, spoke into the microphone.
Here's a special news flash. The County Trust Company has just been held up by two masked men. Mr. Rollins, the cashier, was slugged over the head with the butt of a revolver when he tried to put up a fight. The teller, the only other person in the bank, was forced to hand over more than five thousand dollars in currency. The two men escaped in a black sedan.
Look for further details in this afternoon's edition of the Daily News.
He put the music back on.