“Why not?”
” ‘Why not?’ Well, I’ll concede that the streets haven’t been cleaned in that time, but this paper wouldn’t last. Sun and rain and so forth.”
“Kitten is very careful of her toys. She probably put it under cover during bad weather.”
“For the love of Mike, Pappy, you don’t really believe- But you do. Frankly, I don’t care where she got it; the official theory is going to be that this particular piece of paper has been kicking around our dirty streets, unnoticed and uncollected, for the past fifty years. Boy, am I going to have fun!” He rolled the fragment carefully and started to put it in his pocket.
“Say, don’t do that!” his host protested.
“Why not? I’m going to take it down and get a pic of it.”
“You mustn’t! It belongs to Kitten-I just borrowed it.”
“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?”