things--mine is, I know--and it doesn't take much to throw their
machinery out of gear. Once I knew a reporter who was worried and
over-worked. He came to the office one morning and said he was George
Washington, the Commander of the Continental Army. In all other ways he
was sane enough, and we humored him and called him 'General.' At the end
of three months the idea quit him as suddenly as it had come on, and he
was not only normal but greatly restored in strength of intellect
through the experience. Perhaps some of the overworked brain cells had
taken a rest and renewed their energy. It would not surprise me if some
day Thursday Smith suddenly remembered who he was."

[Footnote: This anecdote is true.--_Author._]

"In the meantime," said Uncle John, "I'm going to make an effort to
discover his identity."

"In what way, Uncle?" asked Patsy.

"I'll set Fogerty, who is a clever detective, at work. No man can
disappear from his customary haunts without leaving some sort of a
record behind him, and Fogerty may be able to uncover the mystery in a
short time."

"Then we'll lose our pressman," declared Beth; "for I'm positive that
Thursday Smith was a person of some importance in his past life."

CHAPTER XI

THE HONER'BLE OJOY BOGLIN

One morning while Patsy was alone in her office, busied over her work,
the door softly opened and a curious looking individual stood before
her.

He was thin in form, leathery skinned and somewhat past the middle age
of life. His clothing consisted of a rusty black Prince Albert coat,
rusty trousers to match, which were carefully creased, cowhide shoes
brilliant with stove polish, a tall silk hat of antiquated design, and a
frayed winged collar decorated with a black tie on which sparkled a
large diamond attached to a chain. He had chin whiskers of a sandy gray
color and small gray eyes that were both shrewd and suspicious in
expression.

He stood in the doorway a moment, attentively eyeing the girl, while
she in turn examined him with an amusement she could not quite suppress.
Then he said, speaking in a low, diffident voice:

"I'm lookin' for the editor."

"I am the editor," asserted Patsy.

"Really?"

"It is quite true."

He seemed disconcerted a moment, striving to regain his assurance. Then
he took out a well-worn pocketbook and from its depths abstracted a
soiled card which, leaning forward, he placed carefully upon the table
before Patsy. She glanced at it and read: "Hon. Ojoy Boglin, Hooker's
Falls, Chazy County."

"Oh," said she, rather surprised; "are you Mr. Boglin?"

"I am the Honer'ble Ojoy Boglin, miss," he replied, dwelling lovingly
upon the "Honer'ble."

"I have not had the honor of your acquaintance," said she, deciding she
did not like her visitor. "What is your business, please?"

The Hon. Ojoy coughed. Then he suddenly remembered he was in the
presence of a lady and took off his hat. Next he slid slowly into the
vacant chair at the end of the table.

"First," he began, "I want to compliment you on your new paper. It's a
good thing, and I like it. It's what's been needed in these 'ere parts a
long time, and it's talked about all over Chazy County."

"Thank you," said the editor briefly, for the praise was given in a
perfunctory way that irritated her.

"The only other papers in this senatorial deestric', which covers three
counties," continued the visitor, in impressive tones, "air weeklies,
run by political mud-slingers that's bought up by the Kleppish gang."

"What is the Kleppish gang?" she asked, wonderingly.

"The supporters o' that rascal, Colonel Kleppish, who has been
occupyin' my berth for goin' on eight years," he said with fierce
indignation.

"I fear I do not understand," remarked Patsy, really bewildered. "What
was your berth, which Colonel Kleppish has--has usurped?"

"See that 'Honer'ble' on the card?"

"I do."

"That means I were senator--state senator--which makes any common man
honer'ble, accordin' to law, which it's useless to dispute. I were
elected fer this deestric', which covers three counties," he said
proudly, "an' I served my country in that capacity."

"Oh, I see. But you're not state senator now?"

"No; Kleppish beat me for the nomination, after I'd served only one
term."

"Why?"

"Eh? Why did he git the nomination? 'Cause he bought up the
newspapers--the country weeklies--and set them to yellin' 'graft.' He
made 'em say I went into office poor, and in two years made a fortune."

"Did you?" asked the girl.

He shuffled in his seat.

"I ain't used to talkin' politics with a girl," he admitted; "but seein'
as you're the editor of this paper--a daily, by Jupe!--you've probably
got a head on you and understand that a man don't get into office for
his health. There's a lot of bother in servin' your country, and a man
oughter be well paid for it. I did jest like the others do--like
Kleppish is doin' right now--but the reg'lar voters don't understand
politics, and when the howl went up about graft, backed by Kleppish's
bought-up newspapers, they turned me down cold. I've been eight years
watchin' for a chance to get in again, an' now I've got it."

"This is very interesting, I'm sure," remarked Patsy; "but our paper
doesn't go much into local politics, Mr. Boglin, and I'm very busy
to-day."

"Honer'ble Ojoy Boglin," he said, correcting her; but he did not take
the hint to leave.

Patsy picked up her pencil as if to resume her work, while he eyed her
with a countenance baffled and uncertain. Presently he asked:

"Has Kleppish got this paper too?"

"No," she coldly replied.

"I thought I'd likely head him off, you being so new. See here,
Editor--"

"I am Miss Doyle, sir."

"Glad to know you, Miss Doyle. What I was about to remark is this: The
election for senator comes up agin in September and I want this paper to
pull for me. Bein' as it's a daily it's got more power than all of
Kleppish's weeklies put together, and if you work the campaign proper
I'll win the nomination hands down. This is a strong Republican
deestric', and to git nominated on the Republican ticket is the same as
an election. So what I want is the nomination. What do you say?"

Patsy glared at him and decided that as far as appearances went he was
not a fit candidate for any office, however humble. But she answered
diplomatically:

"I will inquire into the condition of politics in this district, Mr.
Boglin, and try to determine which candidate is the most deserving.
Having reached a decision, the _Millville Tribune_ will espouse the
cause of the best man--if it mentions local politics at all."

The Hon. Ojoy gave a dissatisfied grunt.

"That means, in plain words," he suggested, "that you'll give Kleppish a
chance to bid against me. But I need this paper, and I'm willin' to pay
a big price for it. Let Kleppish go, and we'll make our dicker right
now, on a lib'ral basis. It's the only way you can make your paper pay.
I've got money, Miss Doyle. I own six farms near Hooker's Falls, which
is in this county, and six hundred acres of good pine forest, and I'm
director in the Bank of Huntingdon, with plenty of money out on
interest. Also I own half the stock in the new paper mill at Royal--"

"You do?" she exclaimed. "I thought Mr. Skeelty--"

"Skeelty's the head man, of course," he said. "He came to me about the
mill proposition and I went in with him. I own all the forest around
Royal. Bein' manager, and knowin' the business, Skeelty stood out for
fifty-one shares of stock, which is the controllin' interest; but I own
all the rest, and the mill's makin' good money. People don't know I'm in
that deal, and of course this is all confidential and not to be talked
about."

"Very well, sir. But I fear you have mistaken the character of our
paper," said Patsy quietly. "We are quite independent, Mr. Boglin, and
intend to remain so--even if we can't make the paper pay. In other
words, the _Millville Daily Tribune_ can't be bought."

He stared in amazement; then scratched his ear with a puzzled air.

"Such talk as that means somethin'," he asserted, gropingly, "but what
it means, blamed if I know! Newspapers never turn money down unless
they're a'ready bought, or have got a grouch of their own.... Say!" he
suddenly cried, as an inspiration struck him, "you ain't got anything
agin the mill at Royal, or agin Skeelty, have you?"

"I have, sir!" declared Patsy, raising her head to frown discouragingly
upon the Honer'ble Ojoy. "Mr. Skeelty is acting in a very disagreeable
manner. He has not only boycotted our paper and refused to pay for the
subscriptions he engaged, but I understand he is encouraging his workmen
to annoy the Millville people, and especially this printing office."

"Well--durn--Skeelty!" ejaculated Mr. Boglin, greatly discomposed by
this statement. "But I'll fix all that, Miss Doyle," he added, eagerly.
"Skeelty's my partner and he's got to do what I say or I'll make trouble
for him. You dicker with me for the support of your paper and I'll
guarantee a hundred subscriptions from Royal and get you an apology from
Skeelty and a promise he'll behave an' keep his men to home. And all
that's outside the price I'll agree to pay."

Patsy's eyes were full of scorn.

"I won't dicker with you an instant," she firmly declared. "I don't know
Colonel Kleppish, or what his character is, but I'm very sure he's the
better man and that the people have made no mistake in electing him in
your place. No respectable candidate for office would attempt to buy the
support of a newspaper, and I advise you to change the wording on your
card. Instead of 'Honorable' it should read 'Dishonorable' Ojoy Boglin.
Good day, sir!"

Mr. Boglin's face turned white with rage. He half rose from his seat,
but sat down again with a vicious snarl.

"I've coaxed, so far, young woman," he said grimly, "but I guess it's
time I showed my hand. You'll either run this paper in my interest or
I'll push Skeelty on to make the town too hot to hold you. I've got
power in this county, even if I ain't senator, and you'll feel that
power if you dare oppose me. Take your choice, girl--either to make good
money out o' this campaign, or be run out of town, neck an' crop! It's
up to you to decide."

"In thirty seconds," said Patsy, her face as white as was Boglin's, "I
shall ring this bell to summon my men to throw you out."

The Honer'ble Ojoy slowly rose and put on his hat.

"Look out!" he said warningly.

"I will," snapped Patsy.

"This ain't the end of it, girl!"

"There are ten seconds left," she said.

He picked up his card, turned his back and walked out, leaving his
opponent trembling betwixt agitation and righteous indignation. A few
moments later Bob West came in and looked at the girl editor curiously.

"Ojoy Boglin has been here," he said.

"The Honer'ble Ojoy, if you please," answered Patsy, with a laugh that
bordered on hysteria.

The hardware man nodded, his eyes reading her face.

"You were quite right to turn him down," he asserted.

"It was the only thing to do," responded the girl, wondering how he
knew.

"But Boglin is a dangerous man," resumed West. "Look out for him. Miss
Doyle."

"Yes; he told me to do that, and I will," said she, more quietly. "He is
Skeelty's partner."

"And you're not afraid of him?"

"Why should I be, Mr. West?"

He smiled.

"I'm justice of the peace here. If there's a hint of trouble from Boglin
or Skeelty, come directly to me."

"Thank you, Mr. West. I will."

With this he nodded cheerfully and went away.

CHAPTER XII

MOLLY SIZER'S PARTY

The people of Chazy County were very proud of the _Millville Tribune_,
the only daily paper in that section of the state. It was really a very
good newspaper, if small in size, and related the news of the day as
promptly as the great New York journals did.

Arthur Weldon had not been very enthusiastic about the paper at any
time, although he humored the girls by attending in a good-natured way
to the advertising, hiring some of the country folk to get
subscriptions, and keeping the books. He was a young man of considerable
education who had inherited a large fortune, safely invested, and
therefore had no need, through financial necessity, to interest himself
in business of any sort. He allowed the girls to print his name as
editor in chief, but he did no editorial work at all, amusing himself
these delightful summer days by wandering in the woods, where he
collected botanical specimens, or sitting with Uncle John on the lawn,
where they read together or played chess. Both the men were glad the
girls were happy in their work and enthusiastic over the success of
their audacious venture. Beth was developing decided talent as a writer
of editorials and her articles were even more thoughtful and dignified
than were those of Patsy. The two girls found plenty to occupy them at
the office, while Louise did the reportorial work and flitted through
Millville and down to Huntingdon each day in search of small items of
local interest. She grew fond of this work, for it brought her close to
the people and enabled her to study their characters and peculiarities.
Her manner of approaching the simple country folk was so gracious and
winning that they freely gave her any information they possessed, and
chatted with her unreservedly.

Sometimes Louise would make her rounds alone, but often Arthur would
join her for an afternoon drive to Huntingdon, and it greatly amused
him to listen to his girl-wife's adroit manner of "pumping the natives."

About halfway to Huntingdon was the Sizer Farm, the largest and most
important in that vicinity. Old Zeke Sizer had a large family--five boys
and three girls--and they were noted as quite the most aggressive and
disturbing element in the neighborhood. Old Zeke was rude and coarse and
swore like a trooper, so his sons could not be expected to excel him in
refinement. Bill Sizer, the eldest, was a hard drinker, and people who
knew him asserted that he "never drew a sober breath." The other sons
were all quarrelsome in disposition and many a free fight was indulged
in among them whenever disputes arose. They were industrious farmers,
though, and the three girls and their mother worked from morning till
night, so the farm prospered and the Sizers were reputed to be
"well-off."

Molly, the eldest girl, had attracted Louise, who declared she was
pretty enough to arrest attention in any place. Indeed, this girl was a
"raving beauty" in her buxom, countrified way, and her good looks were
the pride of the Sizer family and the admiration of the neighbors. The
other two were bouncing, merry girls, rather coarse in manner, as might
be expected from their environment; but Molly, perhaps fully conscious
of her prettiness, assumed certain airs and graces and a regal
deportment that brought even her big, brutal brothers to her feet in
adoration.

The Sizers were among the first subscribers to the _Millville Tribune_
and whenever Louise stopped at the farmhouse for news the family would
crowd around her, ignoring all duties, and volunteer whatever
information they possessed. For when they read their own gossip in the
local column it gave them a sort of proprietary interest in the paper,
and Bill had once thrashed a young clerk at Huntingdon for questioning
the truth of an item the Sizers had contributed.

One day when Louise and Arthur stopped at the farm, Mollie ran out with
an eager face to say that Friday was her birthday and the Sizers were to
give a grand party to celebrate it.

"We want you to come over an' write it up, Mrs. Weldon," said the girl.
"They're comin' from twenty mile around, fer the dance, an' we've got
the orchestry from Malvern to play for us. Pop's goin' to spend a lot of
money on refreshments an' it'll be the biggest blow-out Chazy County
ever seen!"

"I think I can write up the party without being present, Mollie,"
suggested Louise.

"No; you come over. I read once, in a novel, how an editor come to a
swell party an' writ about all the dresses an' things--said what
everybody wore, you know. I'm goin' to have a new dress, an' if
ever'thing's described right well we'll buy a lot of papers to send to
folks we know in Connecticut."

"Well," said Louise, with a sigh, "I'll try to drive over for a little
while. It is to be Saturday, you say?"

"Yes; the birthday's Friday and the dance Saturday night, rain or shine.
An' you might bring the chief editor, your husband, an' try a dance with
us. It wouldn't hurt our reputation any to have you folks mingle with us
on this festive occasion," she added airily.

They had a good laugh over this invitation when it was reported at Mr.
Merrick's dinner table, and Patsy insisted that Louise must write up
the party.

"It will be fun to give it a 'double head' and a big send-off," she
said. "Write it up as if it were a real society event, dear, and exhaust
your vocabulary on the gowns. You'll have to invent some Frenchy names
to describe those, I guess, for they'll be wonders; and we'll wind up
with a list of 'those present.'"

So on Saturday evening Arthur drove his wife over to the Sizer farm, and
long before they reached there they heard the scraping of fiddles,
mingled with shouts and boisterous laughter. It was a prohibition
district, to be sure, but old Sizer had imported from somewhere outside
the "dry zone" a quantity of liquors more remarkable for strength than
quality, and with these the guests had been plied from the moment of
their arrival. Most of them were wholly unused to such libations, so by
the time Arthur and Louise arrived, the big living room of the farmhouse
presented an appearance of wild revelry that was quite deplorable.

Molly welcomed them with wild enthusiasm and big Bill, her adoring
brother, demanded in a loud voice if Arthur did not consider her the
"Belle of Chazy County."

"They ain't a stunner in the state as kin hold a candle to our Molly,"
he added, and then with uncertain gait he left the "reporters" with the
promise to "bring 'em a drink."

"Come, Louise," said Arthur, quietly, "let's get out of here."

He drew her to the door and as a dance was just starting they managed to
escape without notice.

"What a disgraceful scene!" cried Louise, when they were on their way
home; "and to think of such a shocking carousal being held in good old
Chazy County, where morals are usually irreproachable! I shall not
mention the affair in the _Tribune_ at all."

But Patsy, who had a managing editor's respect for news of any sort,
combatted this determination and begged Louise to write up Molly Sizer's
party without referring to its deplorable features.

"It isn't policy to offend the Sizers," she said, "for although they
are coarse and common they have shown a friendly spirit toward the
paper. Moreover, the enmity of such people--which would surely result
from our ignoring the birthday party--would keep us in hot water."

So Louise, though reluctantly, wrote up the party and the manuscript was
sent over to Miss Briggs Sunday afternoon, so it would get a place in
Monday morning's _Tribune_.

Uncle John had the paper at breakfast on Monday, and he gave an amused
laugh as his eye caught the report of the Sizer party.

"This is a good one on you, Louise," he exclaimed. "You say that Miss
Molly, 'looking more lovely than ever in her handsome new gown, greeted
her guests with a roughish smile.'"

"A what?" demanded Louise, horrified.

"A 'roughish' smile."

"Oh; that's a mistake," she said, glancing at the item. "What I said was
a 'roguish' smile; but there's been a typographical error which Miss
Briggs must have overlooked in reading the proof."

"Nevertheless," remarked Arthur, "the statement isn't far wrong.
Everything was rough, including the smiles, as far as I noted that
remarkable gathering."

"But--see here!" cried Patsy; "that's a dreadful mistake. That spoils
all the nice things you said about the girl, Louise. I hope the Sizers
won't notice it."

But the Sizers did, and were frantic with rage over what they deemed was
a deliberate insult to Molly. Several young men who had come from
distances to attend the birthday party had stayed over Sunday at the
farmhouse, where the revelry still continued in a fitful way, due to
vain attempts to relieve racking headaches by further libations. Monday
morning found the dissipated crew still the guests of the Sizers, and
when big Bill slowly spelled out the assertion made by the _Tribune_
that his sister had "a roughish smile" loud cries of indignation arose.
Molly first cried and then had hysterics and screamed vigorously; Bill
swore vengeance on the _Millville Tribune_ and all connected with it,
while the guests gravely asserted it was "a low-down, measly trick"
which the Sizers ought to resent. They all began drinking again, to
calm their feelings, and after the midday dinner Bill Sizer grabbed a
huge cowhide whip and started to Millville to "lick the editor to a
standstill." A wagonload of his guests accompanied him, and Molly
pleaded with her brother not to hurt Mrs. Weldon.

"I won't; but I'll cowhide that fresh husband of hers," declared Bill.
"He's the editor--the paper says so--and he's the one I'm after!"

CHAPTER XIII

BOB WEST INTERFERES

It was unfortunate that at that time Thursday Smith had gone up the
electric line toward Royal, to inspect it. In the office were Patsy,
Hetty Hewitt--who was making a drawing--Arthur Weldon, engaged upon his
books, and finally, seated in an easy-chair from which he silently
watched them work, old Bob West, the hardware man. Louise and Beth had
driven over to the Junction to write up an accident, one of the trainmen
having caught his hand in a coupling, between two freight cars.

Bob West often dropped into the office, which was next door to his own
place of business, but he was a silent man and had little to say on
these visits. In his early days he had wandered pretty much over the
whole world, and he could relate some interesting personal adventures
if he chose. In this retired village West was the one inhabitant
distinguished above his fellows for his knowledge of the world. In his
rooms over the store, where few were ever invited, he had a fine library
of unusual books and a rare collection of curios gathered from foreign
lands. It was natural that such a man would be interested in so unique
an experiment as the _Millville Tribune_, and he watched its conduct
with curiosity but a constantly growing respect for the three girl
journalists. No one ever minded when he came into the office, nodded and
sat down. Sometimes he would converse with much freedom; at other times
the old gentleman remained an hour without offering a remark, and went
away with a brief parting nod.

It was West who first saw, through the window, the wagonload of men from
the Sizer farm come dashing up the street at a gallop. Instinctively,
perhaps, he knew trouble was brewing, but he never altered his
expression or his attitude, even when the wagon stopped at the printing
office and the passengers leaped out.

In marched Bill Sizer at the head of his following, cowhide in hand.
Patsy, her face flushing scarlet, stood up and faced the intruders.

"Stand back, girl!" cried Sizer in a fierce tone; "it's that coward
editor I'm after," pointing his whip with trembling hand at Arthur. "My
sister Molly may be rough, an' hev a rough smile, but I'll be dinged ef
I don't skin the man thet prints it in a paper!"

"Good fer you, Bill!" murmured his friends, approvingly.

Arthur leaned back and regarded his accuser in wonder. The big table,
littered with papers, was between them.

"Come out o' there, ye measly city chap, an' take yer medicine," roared
Bill, swinging his whip. "I'll larn ye to come inter a decent
neighborhood an' slander its women. Come outer there!"

West had sat quietly observing the scene. Now he inquired, in composed
tones:

"What's the trouble, Bill?"

"Trouble? Trouble, West? Why, this lyin' scroundrel said in his paper
thet our Molly had a rough smile. That's the trouble!"

"Did he really say that?" asked West.

"'Course he did. Printed it in the paper, for all to read. That's why
I've come to cowhide the critter within an inch o' his life!"

"Good fer you, Bill!" cried his friends, encouragingly.

"But--wait a moment!" commanded West, as the maddened, half drunken
young farmer was about to leap over the table to grasp his victim;
"you're not going at this thing right, Bill Sizer."

"Why ain't I, Bob West?"

"Because," answered West, in calm, even tones, "this insult is too great
to be avenged by a mere cowhiding. Nothing but blood will wipe away the
dreadful stain on your sister's character."

"Oh, Mr. West!" cried Patsy, horrified by such a statement.

"Eh? Blood?" said Bill, stupefied by the suggestion.

"Of course," returned West. "You mustn't thrash Mr. Weldon; you must
kill him."

A delighted chorus of approval came from Sizer's supporters.

"All right, then," said the bully, glaring around, "I--I'll kill the
scandler!"

"Hold on!" counselled West, seizing his arm. "This affair must be
conducted properly--otherwise the law might cause us trouble. No murder,
mind you. You must kill Weldon in a duel."

"A--a what? A duel!" gasped Sizer.

"To be sure. That's the way to be revenged. Hetty," he added, turning to
the artist, who alone of the observers had smiled instead of groaned at
the old gentleman's startling suggestion, "will you kindly run up to my
rooms and get a red leather case that lies under the shell cabinet?
Thank you, my dear."

Hetty was off like a flash. During her absence an intense silence
pervaded the office, broken only by an occasional hiccough from one of
Mr. Sizer's guests. Patsy was paralyzed with horror and had fallen back
into her chair to glare alternately at Bob West and the big bully who
threatened her cousin's husband. Arthur was pale and stern as he fixed a
reproachful gaze on the hardware merchant. From Miss Briggs' little
room could be heard the steady click-click of the telegraph instrument.

But the furious arrival of the Sizer party had aroused every inhabitant
of Millville and with one accord they dropped work and rushed to the
printing office. By this time the windows were dark with groups of eager
faces that peered wonderingly through the screens--the sashes being
up--and listened to the conversation within.

While Hetty was gone not a word was spoken, but the artist was absent
only a brief time. Presently she reentered and laid the red leather case
on the table before Bob West. The hardware man at once opened it,
displaying a pair of old-fashioned dueling pistols, with long barrels
and pearl handles. There was a small can of powder, some bullets and
wadding in the case, and as West took up one of the pistols and
proceeded to load it he said in an unconcerned voice:

"I once got these from an officer in Vienna, and they have been used in
more than a score of duels, I was told. One of the pistols--I can't
tell which it is--has killed a dozen men, so you are going to fight
with famous weapons."

Both Arthur and Bill Sizer, as well as the groups at the window, watched
the loading of the pistols with fascinated gaze.

"Bob's a queer ol' feller," whispered Peggy McNutt to the blacksmith,
who stood beside him. "This dool is just one o' his odd fancies. Much he
keers ef they kills each other er not!"

"Mr. West," cried Patsy, suddenly rousing from her apathy, "I'll not
allow this shameful thing! A duel is no better than murder, and I'm sure
there is a law against it."

"True," returned West, ramming the bullet into the second pistol; "it is
quite irregular and--er--illegal, I believe. Perhaps I shall go to jail
with whichever of the duelists survives; but you see it is a point of
honor with us all. Molly Sizer has seemingly been grossly maligned in
your paper, and the editor is responsible. Are you a good shot, Bill?"

"I--I guess so," stammered Sizer.

"That's good. Weldon, I hear, is an expert with the pistol."

Arthur did not contradict this statement, although he was positive he
could not hit a barn at twenty yards.

"Now, then, are we ready?" staid West, rising. "Come with me,
gentlemen."

"What ye goin' to do, Bob?" asked Sizer, anxiously.

"I'll explain," replied the hardware man, leading the way to the street.
Everyone followed him and the crowd at the windows joined the group
outside. "Of course you mustn't shoot in the main street, for you might
hit some one, or break windows; but back of this row of buildings is a
lane that is perfectly clear. You will stand back to back in the center
of the block and then, at my word, you will each march to the end of the
block and pass around the buildings to the lane. As soon as you come in
sight of one another you are privileged to fire, and I suppose Bill
Sizer will try to kill you, Mr. Weldon, on the spot, and therefore you
will try to kill him first."

"But--look a-here, Bob!" cried Sizer; "it ain't right fer him to take a
shot at me. You said fer me to kill him, but ye didn't say nuth'n about
_his_ shootin' at _me_."

"That's all right, Bill," returned West. "You're in the right, and the
right ought to win. But you must give the man a chance for his life, you
know."

"That weren't in the bargain."

"It is now, by the laws of dueling."

"He--he might shoot me," urged Bill.

"It isn't likely. Although he's a dead shot, you have right on your
side, and you must be sure to fire as soon as you get within good range.
It won't be considered murder; it will only be a duel, and the law will
deal lightly with you."

"That's right, Bill," asserted one of Sizer's friends. "Bob West's a
justice o' the peace himself, an' he orter know."

"I do know," declared West gravely.

He placed Arthur Weldon and Bill Sizer back to back in the middle of the
street and handed each a pistol.

"Now, then," said he, "you both understand the rules, which I have
explained, and the spectators will bear witness that, whatever happens,
this affair has been conducted in a regular manner, with no favor shown
to either. You are both brave men, and this duel will vindicate your
honor. If you are fortunate enough to survive, you will be heroes, and
all your differences will be wiped off the slate. But as one or both may
fall, we, the citizens of Millville, hereby bid you a solemn and sad
farewell."

Impressed by this speech, Sizer's friends began to shake hands with him.

"All ready!" called West. "One--two--three----go!"

At the word the two, back to back, started for the opposite ends of the
little street, and at once the crowd made a rush between the buildings
to gain the rear, where they might witness the shooting in the lane when
the duelists met. Arthur had been thinking seriously during these
proceedings and had made up his mind it was in no degree his duty to be
bored full of holes by a drunken countryman like Bill Sizer, just
because there had been a typographical error in the _Millville Tribune_.
So, when he got to the end of the street, instead of turning into the
lane he made for the farm, holding the long dueling pistol gingerly in
his hand and trotting at a good pace for home.

Footsteps followed him. In sudden panic he increased his run; but the
other was faster. A heavy hand grasped his shoulder and swung him
around, while old Bob West, panting for Breath, exclaimed:

"Stop, you fool--stop! The other one is running."

"The other one!" echoed Arthur, wonderingly.

"Of course. Bill Sizer was sure to run; he's a coward, as all bullies
are. Quick, Weldon, save the day and your reputation or I'll never stand
your friend again."

Arthur understood now. He turned and ran back faster than he had come,
swung into the lane where the crowd was cautiously peering from the
shelter of the buildings, and waving his pistol in a reckless way that
made Bob West shudder, he cried out:

"Where is he? Where's Sizer? Why don't he show up and be shot, like a
man?"

No Sizer appeared. He was even then headed cross-lots for home, leaving
his friends to bemoan his cowardice. As for Arthur, the crowd gave him a
cheer and condemned his opponent's conduct in no measured terms. They
were terribly disappointed by Big Bill's defection, for while not
especially bloodthirsty they hated to see the impending tragedy turn out
a farce.

In the printing office Patsy was laughing hysterically as her horror
dissolved and allowed her to discover the comic phase of the duel. She
literally fell on Arthur's neck as he entered, but the next moment
pushed him away to face the hardware merchant.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. West," said she with twinkling eyes. "I
suspected you of being a cold-blooded ruffian, when you proposed this
duel; but I now see that you understand human nature better than the
whole caboodle of us put together! Arthur, thank Mr. West for saving you
from a flogging."

"I do, indeed!" said Arthur fervently.

CHAPTER XIV

THE DANGER SIGNAL

By this time the _Tribune_ had become the pride of all Millville, yet
the villagers could not quite overcome their awe and wonder at it. Also
the newspaper was the pride of the three girl journalists, who under the
tutelage of Miss Briggs were learning to understand the complicated
system of a daily journal. Their amateurish efforts were gradually
giving way to more dignified and readable articles; Beth could write an
editorial that interested even Uncle John, her severest critic; Louise
showed exceptional talent for picking up local happenings and making
news notes of them, while Patsy grabbed everything that came to her
net--locals, editorials, telegraphic and telephone reports from all
parts of the world--and skillfully sorted, edited and arranged them for
the various departments of the paper. It was mighty interesting to them
all, and they were so eager each morning to get to work that they could
scarcely devote the proper time to old Nora's famous breakfasts.

"We made a mistake. Uncle," said Patsy to Mr. Merrick, "in starting the
_Tribune_ in the wrong place. In a few weeks we must leave it and go
back to the city, whereas, had we established our paper in New York--"

"Then it never would have been heard of," interrupted practical Beth.
"In New York, Patsy dear, we would become the laughing stock of the
town. I shudder when I think what a countrified paper we turned out that
first issue."

"But we are fast becoming educated," declared Patsy. "I'm not ashamed of
the _Tribune_ now, even in comparison with the best New York dailies."

Beth laughed, but Uncle John said judicially:

"For Millville, it's certainly a marvel. I get the world news more
concisely and more pleasantly from its four pages than when I wade
through twenty or thirty of the big pages of a metropolitan newspaper.
You are doing famously, my dears. I congratulate you."

"But we are running behind dreadfully," suggested Arthur, the
bookkeeper, "even since Thursday Smith enabled us to cut down expenses
so greatly. The money that comes in never equals what we pay out. How
long can you keep this up, girls?"

They made no reply, nor did Uncle John discuss the financial condition
of the newspaper. He was himself paying some heavy expenses that did not
appear on the books, such as the Associated Press franchise, the
telegraph bills and the electric power; but he was quite delighted to
take care of these items and regretted he had not assumed more of the
paper's obligations. He knew the expenses were eating big holes in the
incomes of his three nieces, yet they never complained nor allowed their
enthusiasm to flag.

Mr. Merrick, who had tested these girls in more ways than one, was
watching them carefully, and fully approved their spirit and courage
under such trying conditions. Major Doyle, Patsy's father, when the
first copy of the _Millville Tribune_ was laid on his desk in the city,
was astounded at the audacity of this rash venture. When he could
command his temper to write calmly he sent a letter to Mr. Merrick which
read: "Taken altogether, John, you're the craziest bunch of
irresponsibles outside an asylum. No wonder you kept this folly a secret
from me until you had accomplished your nefarious designs. The
_Millville Daily Tribune_ is a corker and no mistake, for our Patsy's at
the head of your lunatic gang. I'll go farther, and say the paper's a
wonder. I believe it is the first daily newspaper published in a town of
six inhabitants, that has ever carried the Associated Press dispatches,
But, allow me to ask, why? The lonely inhabitants of the desert of Chazy
County don't need a daily--or a weekly--or a monthly. A semi-annual
would about hit their gait, and be more than they deserve. So I've
decided it's merely a silly way to spend money--and an easy way, too,
I'll be bound. Oblige me by explaining this incomprehensible
eccentricity."

To this, a mild protest for the major, Uncle John replied: "Dear Major
Doyle: Yours received. Have you no business of your own to attend to?
Affectionately yours, John Merrick."

The major took the hint. He made no further complaint but read the paper
religiously every day, gloating over Patsy's name as managing editor and
preserving the files with great care. He really enjoyed, the _Millville
Tribune_, and as his summer vacation was shortly due he anticipated with
pleasure a visit to the farm and a peep at the workings of "our Patsy's"
famous newspaper. The other girls he ignored. If Patsy was connected
with the thing, her adoring parent was quite sure she was responsible
for all the good there was in it.

The paper printed no mention of the famous duel. But Hetty made a
cartoon of it, showing the lane, with its fringe of spectators, Arthur
Weldon standing manfully to await his antagonist and big Bill Sizer, in
the distance, sprinting across the fields in the direction of home. This
cartoon was highly prized by those who had witnessed the adventure and
Peggy McNutt pinned it on the wall of his real estate office beside the
one Hetty had made of himself. Bill Sizer promptly "stopped the paper,"
that being the only vengeance at hand, and when Bob West sent a boy to
him demanding the return of the pistol, Bill dispatched with the weapon
the following characteristic note, which he had penned with much labor:

"Bob west sir you Beet me out uv my Reeveng and Made me look like a bag
uv Beens. but I will skware this Thing sum da and yu and that edyter hed
better Watch out. i don't stand fer no Throwdown like that Wm. Sizer."

However, the bully received scant sympathy, even from his most intimate
friends, and his prestige in the community was henceforth destroyed.
Arthur did not crow, for his part. He told the girls frankly of his
attempt to run away and evade the meeting, which sensible intention was
only frustrated by Bob West's interference, and they all agreed he was
thoroughly justified. The young man had proved to them his courage years
before and none of the girls was disposed to accuse him of cowardice for
not wishing to shoot or be shot by such a person as Bill Sizer.

A few days following the duel another incident occurred which was of a
nature so startling that it drove the Sizer comedy from all minds. This
time Thursday Smith was the hero.

Hetty Hewitt, it seems, was having a desperate struggle to quell the
longings of her heart for the allurements of the great city. She had
been for years a thorough Bohemienne, frequenting cafes, theatres and
dance halls, smoking and drinking with men and women of her class and,
by degrees, losing every womanly quality with which nature had
generously endowed her. But the girl was not really bad. She was
essentially nervous and craved excitement, so she had drifted into this
sort of life because no counteracting influence of good had been
injected into her pliable disposition. None, that is, until the friendly
editor for whom she worked, anticipating her final downfall, had sought
to save her by sending her to a country newspaper. He talked to the girl
artist very frankly before she left for Millville, and Hetty knew he was
right, and was truly grateful for the opportunity to redeem herself. The
sweet girl journalists with whom she was thrown in contact were so
different from any young women she had heretofore known, and proved so
kindly sympathetic, that Hetty speedily became ashamed of her wasted
life and formed a brave resolution to merit the friendship so generously
extended her.

But it was hard work at first. She could get through the days easily
enough by wandering in the woods and taking long walks along the rugged
country roads; but in the evenings came the insistent call of the cafes,
the cheap orchestras, vaudeville, midnight suppers and the like. She
strenuously fought this yearning and found it was growing less and less
powerful to influence her. But her nights were yet restless and her
nerves throbbing from the effects of past dissipations. Often she would
find herself unable to sleep and would go out into the moonlight when
all others were in bed, and "prowl around with the cats," as she
expressed it, until the wee hours of morning. Often she told Patsy she
wished there was more work she could do. The drawings required by the
paper never occupied her more than a couple of hours each day.
Sometimes she made one of her cleverest cartoons in fifteen or twenty
minutes.

"Can't I do something else?" she begged. "Let me set type, or run the
ticker--I can receive telegrams fairly well--or even write a column of
local comment. I'm no journalist, so you'll not be envious."

But Patsy shook her head.

"Really, Hetty, there's nothing else you can do, and your pictures are
very important to us. Rest and enjoy yourself, and get strong and well.
You are improving wonderfully in health since you came here."

Often at midnight Hetty would wander into the pressroom and watch
Thursday Smith run off the edition on the wonderful press, which seemed
to possess an intelligence of its own, so perfectly did it perform its
functions. At such times she sat listlessly by and said little, for
Thursday was no voluble talker, especially when busied over his press.
But a certain spirit of comradeship grew up between these two, and it
was not unusual for the pressmen, after his work was finished and the
papers were neatly piled for distribution to the carriers at daybreak,
to walk with Hetty to the hotel before proceeding to his own lodgings in
the little wing of Nick Thorne's house, which stood quite at the end of
the street. To be sure, the hotel adjoined the printing office, with
only a vacant lot between, but Hetty seemed to appreciate this courtesy
and would exchange a brief good night with Smith before going to her own
room. Afterward she not infrequently stole out again, because sleep
would not come to her, and then the moon watched her wanderings until it
dipped behind the hills.

On the night we speak of, Hetty had parted from Thursday Smith at one
o'clock and crept into the hallway of the silent, barnlike hotel; but as
soon as the man turned away she issued forth again and walked up the
empty street like a shadow. Almost to Thompson's Crossing she strolled,
deep in thought, and then turned and retraced her steps. But when she
again reached the hotel she was wide-eyed as ever; so she passed the
building, thinking she would go on to Little Bill Creek and sit by the
old mill for a time.

The girl was just opposite the printing office when her attention was
attracted by a queer grating noise, as if one of the windows was being
pried up. She stopped short, a moment, and then crept closer to the
building. Two men were at a side window of the pressroom, which they had
just succeeded in opening. As Hetty gained her point of observation one
of the men slipped inside, but a moment later hastily reappeared and
joined his fellow. At once both turned and stole along the side of the
shed directly toward the place where the girl stood. Her first impulse
was to run, but recollecting that she wore a dark gown and stood in deep
shadow she merely flattened herself against the building and remained
motionless. The men were chuckling as they passed her, and she
recognized them as mill hands from Royal.

"Guess that'll do the job," said one, in a low tone.

"If it don't, nothin' will," was the reply.

They were gone, then, stealing across the road and beating a hasty
retreat under the shadows of the houses.

Hetty stood motionless a moment, wondering what to do. Then with sudden
resolve she ran to Thorne's house and rapped sharply at the window of
the wing where she knew Thursday Smith slept. She heard him leap from
bed and open the blind.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's me, Thursday--Hetty," she said. "Two men have just broken into the
pressroom, through a window. They were men from Royal, and they didn't
steal anything, but ran away in great haste. I--I'm afraid something is
wrong, Thursday!"

Even while she spoke he was rapidly dressing.

"Wait!" he called to her. In a few moments he opened the door and joined
her.

Without hesitation he began walking rapidly toward the office, and the
girl kept step with him. He asked no questions whatever, but us soon as
she had led him to the open window he leaped through it and switched on
an electric light. An instant later he cried aloud, in a voice of fear:

"Get out, Hetty! Run--for your life!"

"Run yourself, Thursday, if there's danger," she coolly returned.

But he shouted "Run--run--run!" in such thrilling, compelling tones
that the girl shrank away and dashed across the vacant lot to the hotel
before she turned again in time to see Smith leap from the window and
make a dash toward the rear. He was carrying something--something
extended at arms' length before him--and he crossed the lane and ran far
into the field before stooping to set down his burden.

Now he was racing back again, running as madly as if a troop of demons
was after him. A flash cleft the darkness; a deep detonation thundered
and echoed against the hills; the building against which Hetty leaned
shook as if an earthquake had seized it, and Thursday Smith was thrown
flat on his face and rolled almost to the terrified girl's feet, where
he lay motionless. Only the building saved her from pitching headlong
too, but as the reverberations died away, to be followed by frantic
screams from the rudely wakened population of Millville, Hetty sank upon
her knees and turned the man over, so that he lay face up.

He opened his eyes and put up one hand. Then he struggled to his feet,
trembling weakly, and his white face smiled into the girl's anxious one.

"That was a close call, dear," he whispered; "but your timely discovery
saved us from a terrible calamity. I--I don't believe there is much harm
done, as it is."

Hetty made no reply. She was thinking of the moments he had held that
deadly Thing in his hands, while he strove to save lives and property
from destruction.

The inevitable crowd was gathering now, demanding in terrified tones
what had happened. Men, women and children poured from the houses in
scant attire, all unnerved and fearful, crying for an explanation of the
explosion.

"Keep mum, Hetty," said Smith, warningly. "It will do no good to tell
them the truth."

She nodded, realizing it was best the villagers did not suspect that an
enemy of the newspaper had placed them all in dire peril.

"Dynamite?" she asked in a whisper.

"Yes; a bomb. But for heaven's sake don't mention it."

Suddenly a man with a lantern discovered a great pit in the field
behind the lane and the crowd quickly surrounded it. From their limited
knowledge of the facts the explosion seemed unaccountable, but there was
sufficient intelligence among them to determine that dynamite had caused
it and dug this gaping hole in the stony soil. Bob West glanced at the
printing office, which was directly in line with the explosion; then he
cast a shrewd look into the white face of Thursday Smith; but the old
hardware merchant merely muttered under his breath something about Ojoy
Boglin and shook his head determinedly when questioned by his fellow
villagers.

Interest presently centered in the damage that had been done. Many
window panes were shattered and the kitchen chimney of the hotel had
toppled over; but no person had been injured and the damage could easily
be repaired. While the excitement was at its height Thursday Smith
returned to his room and went to bed; but long after the villagers had
calmed down sufficiently to seek their homes Hetty Hewitt sat alone by
the great pit, staring reflectively into its ragged depths. Quaint and
curious were the thoughts that puzzled the solitary girl's weary brain,
but prominent and ever-recurring was the sentence that had trembled upon
Thursday Smith's lips: "It was a close call, _dear_!"

The "close call" didn't worry Hetty a particle; it was the last word of
the sentence that amazed her. That, and a new and wonderful respect for
the manliness of Thursday Smith, filled her heart to overflowing.

CHAPTER XV

A CLEVER IDEA

Neither Thursday nor Hetty allowed a word to escape concerning the
placing of the bomb in the _Tribune_ office, but the explosion was
public knowledge and many were bothering their heads to explain its
meaning.

John Merrick, when he heard the news, looked very grave and glanced
uneasily into the unconscious faces of his three beloved nieces. A man
of much worldly experience, in spite of his simple, ingenuous nature,
the little man began carefully piecing together parts of the puzzle.
Thursday Smith's defense of the girl journalists, whereby he had
severely pounded some of the workmen who had insulted them, had caused
the man to be denounced by the colony at Royal. Mr. Skeelty, the
manager, had demanded that Smith be discharged by Mr. Mirrick, and
being refused, had threatened to shut off the power from the newspaper
plant. Skeelty dared not carry out this threat, for fear of a lawsuit,
but his men, who had urged the matter of Smith's discharge upon their
manager, were of the class that seeks revenge at any cost. At this
juncture Ojoy Boglin, Skeelty's partner and the owner of all the pine
forest around Royal, had become the enemy of the newspaper and was aware
of the feeling among the workmen. A word from Boglin, backed by
Skeelty's tacit consent, would induce the men to go to any length in
injuring the _Millville Tribune_ and all concerned in its welfare.

Considering these facts, Mr. Merrick shrewdly suspected that the
dynamite explosion had been the work of the mill hands, yet why it was
harmlessly exploded in a field was a factor that puzzled him
exceedingly. He concluded, from what information he possessed, that they
had merely intended this as a warning, which if disregarded might be
followed by a more serious catastrophe.

The idea that such a danger threatened his nieces made the old
gentleman distinctly nervous.

There were ways to evade further molestation from the lawless element at
the mill. The Hon. Ojoy could be conciliated; Thursday Smith discharged;
or the girls could abandon their journalistic enterprise altogether.
Such alternatives were mortifying to consider, but his girls must be
protected from harm at any cost.

While he was still considering the problem, the girls and Arthur having
driven to the office, as usual, Joe Wegg rode over from Thompson's
Crossing on his sorrel mare for a chat with his old friend and
benefactor. It was this same young man--still a boy in years--who had
once owned the Wegg Farm and disposed of it to Mr. Merrick.

Joe was something of a mechanical genius and, when his father died,
longed to make his way in the great world. But after many vicissitudes
and failures he returned to Chazy County to marry Ethel Thompson, his
boyhood sweetheart, and to find that one of his father's apparently
foolish investments had made him rich.

Ethel was the great-granddaughter of the pioneer settler of Chazy
County--Little Bill Thompson--from whom the Little Bill Creek and Little
Bill Mountain had been named. It was he who first established the mill
at Millville; so, in marrying a descendant of Little Bill Thompson, Joe
Wegg had become quite the most important resident of Chazy County, and
the young man was popular and well liked by all who knew him.

After the first interchange of greetings Joe questioned Mr. Merrick
about the explosion of the night before, and Uncle John frankly stated
his suspicions.

"I'm sorry," said Joe, "they ever started that mill at Royal Falls. Most
of the workmen are foreigners, and all of them rude and reckless. They
have caused our quiet, law-abiding people no end of trouble and anxiety
already. It is becoming a habit with them to haunt Millville on Saturday
nights, when they are partly intoxicated, and they've even invaded some
of the farmhouses and frightened the women and children. I've talked to
Bob West about it and he has promised to swear in Lon Taft and Seth
Davis as special constables, to preserve order; but he admits we are
quite helpless to oppose such a gang of rowdies. I've also been to see
Mr. Skeelty, to ask him to keep his men at home, but he answered gruffly
that he had no authority over his employees except during working hours,
and not much authority even then."

"Skeelty doesn't seem the right man to handle those fellows," observed
Mr. Merrick thoughtfully; "but as he owns the controlling interest in
his company, and Boglin is fully as unreasonable, we cannot possibly
oust him from control. If the men determined to blow up all Millville
with dynamite I'm sure Skeelty would not lift a finger to prevent it."

"No; he's deathly afraid of them, and that's a fact," said Joe.

They sat in silence a while.

"Your report of Skeelty's threat to cut off your electric power," said
young Wegg, "reminds me of a plan I've had in mind for some time. I find
I've too much time on my hands, Mr. Merrick, and I cannot be thoroughly
happy unless I'm occupied. Ethel's farms are let on shares and I'm a
drone in the world's busy hive. But we're anchored here at Millville, so
I've been wondering what I could do to improve the place and keep myself
busy. It has seemed to me that the same rush of water in Little Bill
Creek that runs the dynamos at Royal is in evidence--to a lesser
extent--at the old milldam. What would you think of my putting in an
electric plant at the mill, and lighting both Millville and Huntingdon,
as well as all the farmhouses?"

"Not a bad idea, Joe," said Uncle John approvingly.

"Electric lights have a civilizing influence," continued the young man.
"I'm quite sure all the farmers between here and Huntingdon would use
them, at a reasonable price. I can also run a line to Hooker's Falls,
and one to Chazy Junction. Plenty of poles can be cut from our pine
forests and the wires will be the chief expense. I may not make money,
at first, but I'll play pretty nearly even and have something to do."

"Do you think you could furnish enough power for our printing office?"
asked Mr. Merrick.

"Yes; and a dozen factories, besides. I've an idea the thing may bring
factories to Millville."

"Then get at it, Joe, and build it quick. I've a notion we shall have an
open rupture with Skeelty before long."

Joe Wegg smiled.

"You're going to accuse me, sir, of asking advice after I've made up my
mind," said he; "but the fact is, I have bought the mill of Silas
Caldwell already. He's been wanting to dispose of the property for some
time."

"Good!" exclaimed Uncle John.

"Also I--I've ordered a dynamo and machinery. It all ought to be here in
a few days."

"Better yet!" cried Mr. Merrick. "You've relieved my mind of a great
weight, Joe."

"Now about Thursday Smith," said the young man. "Don't you think it
would be policy for you to let him go, Mr. Merrick?"

"No."

"He's a clever fellow. I can use him at my lighting plant."

"Thank you, Joe; but that wouldn't help any. As long as he's in
Millville he will be an object of vengeance to those anarchistic mill
hands. The only way to satisfy them in to drive Smith out of town,
and--I'll be hanged if I'll do it! He hasn't done anything wrong, and
I'm interested in the fellow's curious history. I've put his case in the
hands of a famous New York detective--Fogerty--with instructions to
discover who he is, and I can't let a lot of rowdies force me to abandon
the man for no reasonable cause."

"Don't blame you, sir," said Joe. "If it wasn't this Thursday Smith,
some other would incur the hatred of the Royal workmen, and as they're
disposed to terrorize us we may as well fight it out on this line as any
other. The whole county will stand by you, sir."

"The only thing I dread is possible danger to my girls."

"Keep 'em away from the office evenings," advised Joe. "During the day
they are perfectly safe. If anything happens, it will be at night, and
while the newspaper office may some time go flying skyward the girls
will run no personal danger whatever."

"Maybe so, Joe. How queer it is that such a condition should exist in
Millville--a little forgotten spot in the very heart of civilization and
the last place where one might expect excitement of this sort. But I
won't be cowed; I won't be driven or bullied by a pack of foreign
hounds, I assure you! If Skeelty can't discipline his men, I will."

In furtherance of which assertion, Mr. Merrick went to town and wired a
message to the great Fogerty.

CHAPTER XVI

LOCAL CONTRIBUTION

We hear considerable of the "conventional people" of this world, but
seldom meet with them; for, as soon as we begin to know a person, we
discover peculiarities that quite remove him from the ranks of the
conventional--if such ranks exist at all. The remark of the old Scotch
divine to his good wife: "Everybody's queer but thee and me, Nancy, and
sometimes I think _thee_ a little queer," sums up human nature
admirably. We seldom recognize our own queerness, but are prone to mark
the erratic temperaments of others, and this is rather more comfortable
than to be annoyed by a consciousness of our personal deficits.

The inhabitants of a country town are so limited in their experiences
that we generally find their personal characteristics very amusing. No
amount of scholastic learning could have rendered the Millville people
sophisticated, for contact with the world and humanity is the only true
educator; but, as a matter of fact, there was little scholastic learning
among them, with one or two exceptions, and the villagers as a rule were
of limited intelligence. Every one was really a "character," and Uncle
John's nieces, who all possessed a keen sense of humor, enjoyed the
oddities of the Millvillites immensely.

A humorous situation occurred through a seemingly innocent editorial of
Beth on authorship. In the course of her remarks she said: "A prominent
author is stated to have accumulated a large fortune by writing short
stories for the newspapers and magazines. He is said to receive ten
cents a word, and this unusual price is warranted by the eager demand
for his stories, of which the reading public is very fond. However, the
unknown author does not fare so badly. The sum of from thirty to fifty
dollars usually remitted for a short story pays the beginner a better
recompense, for the actual time he is engaged upon the work, than any
other occupation he might undertake."

This was seriously considered the morning it appeared in the _Tribune_
by Peggy McNutt and Skim Clark, as they sat in the sunshine on the
former's little front porch. Peggy had read it aloud in his laborious,
halting way, and Skim listened with growing amazement.

"Thirty dollars!" he cried; "thirty to fifty fer a short story! Great
Snakes, Peggy, I'm goin' into it."

"Heh? Goin' into what?" asked Peggy, raising his eyes from the paper.

"I kin write a story," declared Skim confidently.

"Ye kin, Skim?"

"It's a cinch, Peggy. Mother keeps all the magazines an' paper novils,
an' we allus reads 'em afore we sells 'em. I've read the gol-durndest
lot o' truck ye ever heard of, so I'm posted on stories in gen'ral. I'll
write one an' sell it to the _Millville Tribune_. Do ye s'pose they'll
give me the thirty, er the fifty, Peggy?"

"Anywheres between, they says. But one feller gits ten cents a word.
Whew!"

"I know; but he's a big one, which I ain't--just now. I'll take even the
thirty, if I hev to."

"I would, Skim," advised Peggy, nodding approval. "But make 'em put yer
photygraf in the paper, besides. Say, it'll be a big thing fer Millville
to turn out a author. I didn't think it were in you, Skim."

"Why, it hadn't struck me afore," replied the youth, modestly. "I've ben
hankerin' to make money, without knowin' how to do it. I tell ye, Peggy,
it pays to read the newspapers. This one's give me a hint how to carve
out a future career, an' I'll write a story as'll make them girl edyturs
set up an' take notice."

"Make it someth'n' 'bout Injuns," suggested Peggy. "I ain't read a Injun
story fer years."

"No; they're out o' fashion," observed Skim loftily. "What folks want
now is a detective story. Feller sees a hole in a fence an' says, 'Ha!
there's ben a murder!' Somebody asks what makes him think so, an' the
detective feller says, takin' out a magnifie-in' glass, 'Thet hole's a
bullet-hole, an' the traces o' blood aroun' the edges shows the bullet
went through a human body afore it went through the fence.' 'Then,' says
some one, 'where's the body?' 'That,' says the detective, 'is what we
mus' diskiver.' So the story goes on to show how the body were
diskivered an' who did the murderin'."

"By Jupe, thet's great!" cried Peggy admiringly. "Skim, ye're a wonder!"

"Ma allus said I were good fer somethin', but she couldn't tell what."

"It's story-writin'," declared Peggy "Say, Skim, I put ye onter this
deal; don't I git a rake-off on thet fifty dollars?"

"Not a cent!" said Skim indignantly. "Ye didn't tell me to write a
story; I said myself as I could do it. An' I know where to use the
money, Peggy, ev'ry dollar of it, whether it's thirty er fifty."

Peggy sighed.

"I writ a pome once," he said. "Wonder ef they'd pay fer a pome?"

"What were it like?" asked Skim curiously.

"It went someth'n' this way," said Peggy:

        "I sigh
        Ter fly
        Up high
        In the sky.
        But my
        Wings is shy,
        So I mus' cry
        Good-bye
        Ter fly-
            in'."

"Shoo!" said Skim disdainfully. "Thet ain't no real pome, Peggy."

"It makes rhymes, don't it? All but the las' line."

"Mebbe it does," replied Skim, with assumption of superior wisdom; "but
it don't mean nuth'n'."

"It would ef I got paid fer it," observed Peggy.

Skim went home to his mother's tiny "Emporium," took some note paper out
of stock, opened a new bottle of ink and sat down at the sitting room
table to write his story. The Widow Clark looked in and asked what he
meant by "squanderin' profits that way."

"Shet up, mar. Gi' me elbow room," said her dutiful son. "I'm writin' a
fifty dollar story fer the _Tribune_."

"Fifty dollars!"

"Thirty, anyhow; mebbe fifty," replied Skim. "What's a good name fer a
detective, mar?"

The widow sat down and wiped her damp hands on her apron, looking upon
her hopeful with an expression of mingled awe and pride.

"Kin ye do it, Skim?" she asked softly.

"I s'pose I kin turn out one a day, by hard work," he said confidently.
"At thirty a day, the lowes' price, thet's a hunderd 'n' eighty a week,
seven hunderd 'n' twenty a month, or over eight thousan' dollars a year.
I got it all figgered out. It's lucky fer me the nabobs is rich, or they
couldn't stan' the strain. Now, mar, ef ye want to see yer son a nabob
hisself, some day, jes' think up a good name fer a detective."

"Sherholmes Locke," she said after some reflection.

"No; this 'ere story's got ter be original. I thought o' callin' him
Suspectin' Algernon. Detectives is allus suspectin' something."

"Algernon's high-toned," mused the widow. "Let it go at that, Skim."

All that day and far into the evening he sat at his task, pausing now
and then for inspiration, but most of the time diligently pushing his
pen over the strongly lined note paper and hopelessly straying from the
lines. Meantime, Mrs. Clark walked around on tiptoe, so as not to
disturb him, and was reluctant even to call him to his meals in the
kitchen. When Skim went to bed his story had got into an aggravating
muddle, but during the next forenoon he managed to bring it to a
triumphant ending.

"When I git used to the thing, mar," he said, "I kin do one a day, easy.
I had to be pertickler over this one, it bein' the first."

The widow read the story carefully, guessing at the words that were
hopelessly indistinct.

"My! but it's a thriller, Skim," she said with maternal enthusiasm; "but
ye don't say why he killed the girl."

"That don't matter, so long's he did it."

"The spellin' don't allus seem quite right," she added doubtfully.

"I guess the spellin's as good as the readin'll be," he retorted, with
evident irritation. "I bet I spell as well as any o' the folks thet
takes the paper."

"And some words I can't make out."

"Oh, the edytur'll fix that. Say, air ye tryin' to queer my story, mar?
Do ye set up to know more'n I do about story writin'?"

"No," she said; "I ain't talented, Skim, an' you be."

"What I orter hev," he continued, reflectively, "is a typewriter. When I
git two er three hunderd ahead perhaps I'll buy one--secondhand."

"Kin ye buy one thet'll spell, Skim?" she asked, as she made a neat roll
of the manuscript and tied a pink hair ribbon around it.

Skim put on a collar and necktie and took his story across to the
newspaper office.

"I got a conter-bution fer the paper," he said to Patsy, who asked him
his business.

"What, something original, Skim?" she asked in surprise.

"Ye've hit it right, Miss Doyle; it's a story."

"Oh!"

"A detective story."

"Dear me! Then you'll have to see Mrs. Weldon, who is our literary
editor."

Louise, who was sitting close by, looked up and held out her hand for
the beribboned roll.

"I don't jes' know," remarked Skim, as he handed it across the table,
"whether it's a thirty dollar deal, er a fifty."

Having forgotten Beth's editorial, Louise did not understand this
remark, but she calmly unrolled Skim's manuscript and glanced at the
scrawled heading with an amused smile.

"'Suspecting Algernon,'" she read aloud.

"'It were a dark and teedjus night in the erly springtime while the snow
were falling soft over the moon litt lanskape.' Why, Skim, how came you
to write this?"

"It were the money," he said boldly. "I kin do one a day like this, at
thirty dollers apiece, an' never feel the wear an' tear."

Patsy giggled, but Louise stared with a wondering, puzzled expression at
the crabbed writing, the misspelled words and dreadful grammar. Indeed,
she was a little embarrassed how to handle so delicate a situation.

"I'm afraid we cannot use your story, Mr. Clark," she said gently, and
remembering the formula that usually accompanied her own rejected
manuscripts she added: "This does not necessarily imply a lack of merit
in your contribution, but is due to the fact that it is at present
unavailable for our use."

Skim stared at her in utter dismay.

"Ye mean ye won't take it?" he asked with trembling lips.

"We have so much material on hand, just now, that we cannot possibly
purchase more," she said firmly, but feeling intensely sorry for the
boy. "It may be a good story--"

"It's the bes' story I ever heard of!" declared Skim.

"But we have no place for it in the _Millville Tribune,_" she added,
handing him back the roll.

Skim was terribly disappointed. Never, for a single moment, had he
expected "sech a throwdown as this."

"Seems to me like a bunco game," he muttered savagely. "First ye say in
yer blamed ol' paper a story's wuth thirty to fifty dollars, an' then
when I bring ye a story ye won't pay a red cent fer it!"

"Stories," suggested Louise, "are of various qualities, depending on the
experience and talent of the author. An excellent story is often refused
because the periodical to which it is offered is overstocked with
similar material. Such conditions are often trying, Skim; I've had a
good many manuscripts rejected myself."

But the boy would not be conciliated.

"I'll send it to Munsey's, thet's what I'll do; an' then you'll be durn
sorry," he said, almost ready to cry.

"Do," urged Louise sweetly. "And if they print it, Mr. Clark, I'll agree
to purchase your next story for fifty dollars."

"All right; the fifty's mine. I got witnesses, mind ye!" and he flounced
out of the room like an angry schoolboy.

"Oh, Louise," exclaimed Patsy, reproachfully, "why didn't you let me
see the thing? It would have been better than a circus."

"Poor boy!" said the literary editor, with a sigh. "I didn't want to
humiliate him more than I could help. I wonder if he really will have
the audacity to send it to Munsey's?"

And now the door opened to admit Peggy McNutt, who had been watching his
chance to stump across to the printing office as soon as Skim left
there. For Peggy had reasoned, not unjustly, that if Skim Clark could
make a fortune as an author he, Marshall McMahon McNutt, had a show to
corral a few dollars in literature himself. After lying awake half the
night thinking it over, he arose this morning with the firm intention of
competing with Skim for the village laurels. He well knew he could not
write a shuddery detective story, such as Skim had outlined, but that
early poem of his, which the boy had seemed to regard so disdainfully,
was considered by Peggy a rather clever production. He repeated it over
and over to himself, dwelling joyously on its perfect rhyme, until he
was convinced it was a good poem and that Skim had enviously slandered
it. So he wrote it out in big letters on a sheet of foolscap and
determined to offer it to "them newspaper gals."

"I got a pome, Miss Patsy," he said, with unusual diffidence, for he was
by no means sure the "gals" would not agree with Skim's criticism.

"What! Another contributor?" she exclaimed playfully. "Has the whole
town suddenly turned literary, Peggy?"

"No; jest me 'n' Skim. Skim says my pome's no good; but I sort o' like
it, myself."

"Let me see it," said Patsy, ignoring this time the literary editor, who
was glad to be relieved of the responsibility of disappointing another
budding author.

Peggy handed over the foolscap, and Patsy eagerly read the "pome."

"Listen, Louise! Listen, Beth!" she called, delightedly. "Here is
certainly a real 'pome,' and on aviation--the latest fad:

               "'SKY HIGH
        BY MARSHALL MCMAHON MCNUTT
               of Millville
  dealer in Real Estate Spring Chickens &c.

               1.
        I sigh
        Too fly
        Up high
        In the sky.

               2.
        But my
        Wings air shy
        And so I cry
        A sad goodby
        Too fly-
            Ing.'"

A chorus of hilarious laughter followed the reading, and then Patsy
wiped her eyes and exclaimed:

"Peggy, you are not only a poet but a humorist. This is one of the best
short poems I ever read."

"It's short 'cause I run out o' rhymes," admitted Peggy.

"But it's a gem, what there is of it."

"Don't, dear," remonstrated Louise; "don't poke fun at the poor man."

"Poke fun? Why, I'm going to print that poem in the _Tribune_, as sure
as my name's Patricia Doyle! It's too good for oblivion."

"I dunno," remarked Peggy, uncertainly, "whether it's wuth fifty
dollars, er about--"

"About forty-nine less," said Patsy. "A poem of that length brings about
fifty cents in open market, but I'll be liberal. You shall have a whole
dollar--and there it is, solid cash."

"Thank ye," returned Peggy, pocketing the silver. "It ain't what I
expected, but--"

"But what, sir?"

"But it's like findin' it, for I didn't expect nuth'n'. I wish I could
do more of 'em at the same price; but I did thet pome when I were young
an' hed more ambition. I couldn't think of another like it to save my
neck."

"I am glad of that, Peggy. One of this kind is all a paper dare print.
We mustn't get too popular, you know."

"I s'pose you'll print my name as the one what did it?" he inquired
anxiously.

"I shall print it just as it's written, advertisement and all."

She did, and Peggy bought two extra copies, at a cent apiece. He framed
all three and hung one in his office, one in the sitting room and a
third in his bedroom, where he could see it the first thing when he
wakened each morning. His fellow villagers were very proud of him, in
spite of the "knocking" of the Clarks. Skim was deeply mortified that
Peggy's "bum pome" had been accepted and his own masterly composition
"turned down cold." The widow backed her son and told all the neighbors
that "Peggy never hed the brains to write thet pome, an' the chances air
he stole it from the 'Malvern Weekly Journal.' Them gal edyturs wouldn't
know," she added scornfully; "they's as ignerunt as Peggy is, mostly."

A few days later McNutt entered the printing office with an air of great
importance.

"Goodness me! I hope you haven't done it again, Peggy," cried Patsy, in
alarm.

"No; I got fame enough. What I want is to hev the wordin' on my business
cards changed," said he. "What'll it cost?"

"What change do you wish made?" asked Patsy, examining the sample card.

"Instead of 'Marshall McMahon McNutt, dealer in Real Estate an' Spring
Chickens,' I want to make it read: 'dealer in Real Estate, Spring
Chickens an' Poetry.' What'll it cost. Miss Patsy?"

"Nothing," she said, her eyes dancing; "We'll do that job free of
charge, Peggy!"

CHAPTER XVII

THE PENALTIES OF JOURNALISM

Two strange men appeared in Millville--keen, intelligent looking
fellows--and applied to Joe Wegg for jobs. Having received a hint from
Mr. Merrick, Joe promptly employed the strangers to prepare the old mill
for the reception of the machinery for the lighting plant, and both of
them engaged board at the hold.

"Thursday," said Hetty, as she watched the pressman that night, "there's
a New York detective here--two of them, I think."

"How do you know?"

"I recognized one of them, who used to prowl around the city looking for
suspicious characters. They say they've come to work on the new electric
plant, but I don't believe it."

Thursday worked a while in silence.

"Mr. Merrick must have sent for them," he suggested.

"Yes. I think he suspects about the bomb."

"He ought to discharge me," said Thursday.

"No; he's man enough to stand by his guns. I like Mr. Merrick. He didn't
become a millionaire without having cleverness to back him and I imagine
he is clever enough to thwart Skeelty and all his gang."

"Perhaps I ought to go of my own accord," said Thursday.

"Don't do that. When you've found a friend like Mr. Merrick, stick to
him. I imagine those detectives are here to protect you, as well as the
printing plant. It won't be so easy to set a bomb the next time."

Smith looked at her with a smile. There was a glint of admiration in his
eyes.

"You're not a bad sleuth yourself, Hetty," he remarked. "No detective
could have acted more wisely and promptly than you did that night."

"It was an accidental discovery, Thursday. Sometimes I sleep."

That was a good deal of conversation for these two to indulge in. Hetty
was talkative enough, at times, and so was Thursday Smith, when the
humor seized him; but when they were together they said very little. The
artist would stroll into the pressroom after the compositors had
finished their tasks and watch the man make up the forms, lock them,
place them on the press and run off the edition. Then he would glance
over the paper while Thursday washed up and put on his coat, after which
he accompanied her to the door of her hotel and with a simple "good
night" proceeded up the street to his own lodging.

There are surprises in the newspaper business, as our girl journalists
were fast discovering. It was a real calamity when Miss Briggs, who had
been primarily responsible for getting the _Millville Daily Tribune_
into proper working order, suddenly resigned her position. They had
depended a great deal on Miss Briggs, so when the telegraph editor
informed them she was going back to New York, they were positively
bewildered by her loss. Questions elicited the fact that the woman was
nervous over the recent explosion and looked for further trouble from
the mill hands. She also suspected the two recent arrivals to be
detectives, and the town was so small and so absolutely without police
protection that she would not risk her personal safety by remaining
longer in it.

"Perhaps I'm homesick," she added. "It's dreadfully lonely here when I'm
not at work, and for that reason I've tried to keep busy most of the
time. Really, I'm astonished to think I've stood this isolation so long;
but now that my mind is made up, I'm going, and it is useless to ask me
to remain."

They offered her higher wages, and Mr. Merrick himself had a long talk
with her, but all arguments were unavailing.

"What shall we do, Thursday?" asked Patsy in despair. "None of us
understands telegraphy."

"Hetty Hewitt does," he suggested.

"Hetty! I'm afraid if I asked her to assume this work she also would
leave us."

"No; she'll stay," he said positively.

"But she can't edit the telegraph news. Suppose she took the messages,
who would get the night news in shape for the compositors? My uncle
would not like to have me remain here until midnight, but even if he
would permit it I have not yet mastered the art of condensing the
dispatches and selecting just such items as are suitable for the
_Tribune_."

"I'll do that, Miss Doyle," promised Smith.

"I've been paying especial attention to the work of Miss Briggs, for I
had an idea she was getting uneasy. And I can take all the day messages,
too. If Hetty will look after the wires evenings I can do the rest of
the telegraph editor's work, and my own, too."

"Good gracious, Thursday!" exclaimed Patsy; "you'll be running the whole
paper, presently."

"No; I can't do the typesetting. But if the Dwyer girls stick to their
job--and they seem quite contented here--I'll answer for the rest of the
outfit."

"I'm glad the Dwyer girls seem contented," she answered; "but I'm
afraid to depend upon anyone now--except you."

He liked that compliment, but said nothing further. After consulting
with Louise and Beth, Patsy broached the subject to Hetty, and the
artist jumped at the opportunity to do something to occupy her leisure
time. The work brought her in contact with Thursday Smith more than
ever, and when Miss Briggs departed bag and baggage for New York, the
paper suffered little through her defection.

"Newspaper folk," remarked Major Doyle, who was now at the farm enjoying
his vacation and worshipping at the shrine of the managing editor in the
person of his versatile daughter, "are the most unreliable of any class
in the world. So I've often been told, and I believe it. They come and
go, by fits and starts, and it's a wonder the erratic rascals never put
a paper out of business. But they don't. You never heard of a newspaper
that failed to appear just because the mechanical force deserted and
left it in the lurch. By hook or crook the paper must be printed--and
it always is. So don't worry, mavourneen; when your sallow-faced artist
and your hobo jack-of-all-trades desert you, there'll still be a way to
keep the _Millville Tribune_ going, and therefore the world will
continue to whirl on its axis."

"I don't believe Thursday will ever desert, and Hetty likes us too well
to leave us in the lurch; but suppose those typesetters take a notion to
flit?"

"Then," said matter-of-fact Beth, "we'll fill the paper with ready-made
plate stuff and telegraph for more compositors."

"That's it," agreed the major, "Those people are always to be had. But
don't worry till the time comes. As me grandfather, the commodore, once
said: 'Never cross a bridge till ye come to it.'"

"It wasn't your grandfather who originated that remark," said Uncle
John.

"It was, sir! I defy you to prove otherwise."

"I'm not certain you ever had a grandfather; and he wasn't a commodore,
anyhow."

"Sir!" cried the major, glaring at his brother-in-law, "I have his
commission, somewhere--laid away."

"Never mind," said Patsy, cheerfully, for these fierce arguments between
her father and uncle--who were devotedly attached to one another--never
disturbed her in the least, "the _Tribune's_ running smoothly just now,
and the work is keeping us delightfully busy. I think that never in my
life have I enjoyed myself more than since I became a journalist."

"Is the thing paying dividends?" inquired the major.

Arthur laughed.

"I've just been figuring up the last month's expenditures and receipts,"
said he. "The first month didn't count, for we were getting started."

"And what's the result?" asked the Major.

"Every paper we send out--for one cent--costs us eighty-eight cents to
manufacture."

There was a painful silence for a time, broken by the major's suggestive
cough.

"I hope," said the old soldier, solemnly, "that the paper's circulation
is very small."

"The smallest of any daily paper in all the civilized word, sir,"
declared the bookkeeper.

"Of course," remarked Louise, with dignity; "that is what distinguishes
it. We did not undertake this publication to make money, and it does not
cost us more than we are willing to pay for the exceptional experiences
we are gaining."

The major raised his eyebrows; Arthur whistled softly; Uncle John
smiled; but with one accord they dropped the disagreeable subject.

CHAPTER XVIII

OPEN WARFARE

Joe Wegg's machinery and dynamos arrived promptly and the electric plant
was speedily installed at the old mill. So energetically had the young
man supervised his work that poles and wires were all in place as far up
the road as Thompson's Crossing and a branch line run to the Wegg Farm,
by the time the first test was made.

All Millville celebrated that first night when its streets shone
resplendent under the glare of electric lights. There was a public
bonfire near the mill, speeches were made, and afterward Mr. Merrick
served a free supper to the villagers, in the hall over Sam Cotting's
General Store, where the girls assisted in waiting upon the guests, and
everybody was happy and as hilarious as the fumes of good coffee could
make them.

More speeches were made in the hall, and one of these was by Peggy
McNutt, who had painted his wooden foot blue with red stripes in honor
of the occasion. He said, according to the report afterward printed in
the Tribune:

"Feller Citizens! This 'ere town's bloomin' like a new mown rose. I'll
bet anybody anything there ain't another town in Ameriky what's gone
ahead like we hev in the past few months that's jest past. (Applause.)
If I do say it myself, we're the mos'--eh--the mos'--eh--progressioning
community in--in--this community. Our community hes put out a daily
paper what's a credit to--to--our community, especially the poetry;
we've got a paper mill at Royal what makes paper fer New Yoruk; an' now,
to cap the climate, our community hes lighted our community with
'lectric lights fit fer Lundon, New Yoruk, Canada or--or--or--our
community. (Laughter and cries of "Cut out the community, Peggy!") No!
Never, feller citizens, will I cut out a community what's done so much
fer our--our community. If I do say it myself, the eyes of the com--of
the world is upon us, an' I'm proud of the things that's ben did by our
feller citizens, with my full approval, in this 'ere--this
'ere--er--community!" (Cheers and a sandwich, which last offering was
received by Mr. McNutt in his back hair as he turned to descend from the
rostrum.)

Joe Wegg is reported to have said: "Neighbors, this electric plant is no
plaything. It is going to give you all better light, at no more cost to
you than kerosene. But it will do more than that: it will run machinery
of all kinds better than steam will. You've seen electricity running the
newspaper press, and the same current has operated the big paper mills
at Royal. Here in this audience is a gentleman from Connecticut who has
accepted my invitation to look over our village with a view to building
a factory here, using the power I shall hereafter be able to furnish. I
am in correspondence with two other manufacturers, whom I hope to induce
to locate in Millville. (Enthusiastic cheers.) Job Fisher, who used to
live at Malvern, is planning to start a lumber mill, to cut the pine
just north of here; so you see we are about to arouse from our long
sleep and have a great future before us if we keep wide awake. Another
item of news merits your attention. Bartlett has sold sixty acres of his
farm to Dr. Adam Matthews, for many years a prominent physician of
Boston, who is going to build a good house on the land and become a
citizen of Millville. We've always had to go to Huntingdon for a doctor,
but now Dr. Matthews has promised to look after the health of the
Millville people, although he has retired from city practice. More
people will come here from time to time, attracted by our enterprise and
the rugged beauty of our county; real estate will become more valuable,
trade will prosper and every one of the old inhabitants will find
opportunities to make money." (Great applause.)

A general discussion followed concerning the "doin's of Joe Wegg" and
the prophecies he had made. Opinion seemed divided as to whether the
promised "boom" was desirable for Millville or not. Some of the good
villagers were averse to personal activity and feared the new order of
things might disturb their comfort; in others a mild ambition had been
awakened. But while they feasted at Mr. Merrick's expense and gravely
canvassed the situation, the newly installed electric lights suddenly
failed. Darkness fell upon the assemblage and there was an awed hush
until Sam Cotting lighted the old reliable kerosene lamps.

Joe Wegg was as much astonished as anyone.

"There has been an accident to the machinery," he said to Mr. Merrick.
"I'll run over to the mill and see what has happened."

"I will go with you," said Arthur Weldon, and Major Doyle also decided
to accompany the young man.

Uncle John and his three nieces remained in the hall, and Mr. Merrick
took occasion to make a little speech in which he explained that a hitch
in the working of the electric plant was liable to happen at first, but
after a few days the dynamos could be fully depended upon.

He had scarcely finished this explanation when Arthur came running back
into the hall in much excitement. He approached Mr. Merrick and said in
a low voice:

"The machinery is all right, sir. Some one has cut the wires."

"Cut the wires!"

"Yes. Joe thinks it's the work of the mill hands. The wires are cut in
all directions, and several of the men from Royal have been seen
loitering around by Cox and Booth, the detectives."

The girls overheard this assertion, and Patsy exclaimed:

"I'm going to the office, to make sure our power hasn't been tampered
with."

The meeting broke up at once and the villagers trooped out to
investigate. Mr. Merrick and Arthur walked with the girls to the
printing office, where they found Thursday Smith and Hetty working by
the light of tallow candles.

"The power is off," said Smith quietly.

"Then the wire from Royal has also been cut," said Patsy. "What shall we
do? His paper must come out to-morrow morning, in spite of anything and
everything!"

"Do you know who cut the wires?" inquired Thursday.

"We think the mill hands must have done it."

"Not with Skeelty's consent, I'll be bound," said Mr. Merrick. "The
manager is too fearful of a damage suit to play any tricks."

"A cut wire may be repaired," suggested the pressman, and even as he
spoke Joe Wegg came in, accompanied by the two detectives and the major.

"Cox has interviewed one of the workmen from Royal," said Joe, "and the
fellow says there's a strike at the mill and everything is closed down.
Skeelty is barricaded in his office building, wild with fear, for the
men have captured the company's store and helped themselves to the stock
of liquors. The man Cox spoke with, who seems to be a well disposed
fellow, predicts all kinds of trouble, and perhaps rioting, before this
thing is ended."

They listened to this report in amazement.

"I conjecture," said the major, "that the rascally manager has given his
men too much leeway. He's encouraged them in mischief until they've
taken the bit between their teeth and turned against even their master.
I have no personal acquaintance with the villain, but I imagine it
serves him right."

"But, dear me!" cried Patsy, wringing her hands; "what'll become of the
paper? It's nearly ten o'clock now."

Thursday turned to Joe Wegg.

"Can't we connect our supply wire with your new plant, so as to use your
power?" he asked.

"Easily. An hour's work will serve to make the connection. But unless we
watch the wire every minute those fellows will cut it again. The town's
full of the rascals, and they're not exactly sober, either."

"Watch the wire; that's the idea," said Uncle John. "It's only a short
distance to the mill, and I'm sure the villagers will volunteer for this
duty."

"Of course," said Joe. "Major Doyle, will you mount guard over my men at
the dynamos, to see they're not interfered with, while I look after the
wire?"

"Sure enough; it'll remind me of the old war times," said the major
readily.

"Where is Arthur?" asked Louise.

"We left him at the mill."

They left the office at once, Joe to get his line-men at work, and the
major to join Weldon in guarding the dynamos. One of the detectives went
with Mr. Wegg, but the other, whose name was Booth, remained to guard
the printing office. Mr. Merrick now proposed that he take the girls
home. Patsy and Beth refused to leave until the emergency was past, when
the major and Arthur could drive them to the farm, but Louise was tired
and went with Uncle John in his buggy, the surrey being left for the
rest of the party to use. Arthur ran over for a moment to say everything
was quiet at the mill and he did not think there would be any further
trouble, and the report considerably reassured them.

CHAPTER XIX

A MERE MATTER OF REVENGE

Hetty and Thursday continued to work on the paper.

"We'll have everything ready by the time the line is connected," said
the artist. "Then it will be but a few moments' work to run off the
edition."

Patsy and Beth held candles for them, for the electric lights had been
cut off with the power; so, seeing them all busily engaged, Arthur
Weldon decided to return to the mill to join the Major. Booth sat in the
front office, near the door, and in the darkness Arthur nearly stumbled
over him.

"Going away, sir?" asked the man.

"Yes; I'll see if I can be of any assistance at the mill."

"Be careful. Those workmen have been drifting into town in squads, the
last few minutes, and most of them are reckless with drink."

"I'll watch out," said Arthur.

In the middle of the road a group of mill hands conversed excitedly in
some foreign tongue; but they paid no attention to Weldon as he passed
them. Others joined them, presently, and one began a harangue in a loud
voice, to which they listened eagerly. Then Bob West slipped across from
the hardware store and ran against the detective in the doorway of the
printing office.

"Who's this?" he demanded, holding the man in a firm grip.

"Booth, sir."

"Good. I could not recognize you in this darkness. Are you armed?"

"Yes."

"Then you and I will defend this door. Who is inside?"

"The pressman--Thursday Smith--and three of the girls."

"The compositors?"

"No; they've gone to the hotel. Miss Doyle, Miss DeGraf, and--Hetty
Hewitt."

West went into the hack room, which was faintly illumined by candles
stuck here and there. The girls and Smith were all bending over the
imposing stone, where the forms of the paper were being made up.

"Here," said West, taking a revolver from his pocket and laying it on
the table; "I'm afraid there may be an attack on this office in a few
minutes, for I understand the language of those strikers and have been
listening to them. If any of the mill hands attempt to break into this
room don't be afraid to shoot."

"Why should the men wish to attack us, sir?" asked Patsy wonderingly.

"There are several reasons. They're after Smith, for one thing. They've
an old grudge against him to settle. Aside from the mere matter of
revenge I overheard one of them telling his friends to smash the press
and keep the paper from coming out, and Mr. Boglin would pay them well
for the job."

Smith carelessly thrust the revolver into his hip pocket.

"The paper will come out if Mr. Wegg gives us the power," he said.

"Can you let me have a revolver, Mr. West?" asked Hetty.

"Could you use it?"

"I think so."

He looked at her a moment and then took a second revolver from his
pocket.

"I've robbed my hardware stock," he said with a smile. "But I advise you
girls to keep your hands off the thing unless a crisis arises. I don't
imagine the gang will get past me and Booth at the entrance, but if any
stragglers come your way Smith has authority to drive them back. I'm
justice of the peace, and I hereby appoint you all special officers of
the law."

He said this lightly, fearing to alarm the girls unnecessarily, and then
passed through the doorway and joined Booth at the front.

The telephone rang and Patsy answered it.

"How soon will the forms be ready?" asked Arthur's voice.

"In ten minutes--perhaps five," she answered.

"We'll have the power on in ten minutes more. Tell Smith not to lose an
instant's time in running off the edition, for we don't know how long we
can keep the line open. The strikers are threatening us, even now."

"All right," called Patsy; "just give us the power for a few minutes,
and we'll be through for to-night."

She went back to Thursday and reported.

"There may be a few typographical errors, and I'm afraid it's a bad
make-up," he remarked; "but I'll have the thing on the press in five
minutes."

With mallet and shooting-stick he tightened the quoins, then lifted the
heavy iron frames filled with type and slid them onto the bed of the
press. They gave him all the light the flickering candles afforded as he
adjusted the machinery, and all were bending over the press when a low,
distant growl was heard, rising slowly to a frenzied shout. A revolver
popped--another--followed by wild cries from the street.

The girls grew a little pale, but Thursday Smith put his hand on the
lever of the press and said:

"All right. The moment they give us the current we're ready to run."

Patsy straightened up with a sigh of relief, then gave a low cry as the
screens of the two windows of the pressroom were smashed in and through
the openings men began to tumble into the room. At once Hetty confronted
them with leveled revolver and the sight caused them to hesitate.

"Out o' the way, you women!" called a burly fellow who wore a green
sweater and an oilskin hat; "we don't want to hurt you if we can help.
There's the one we're after!" He pointed a finger at Thursday Smith.

"You can't have him," retorted Beth, half shielded behind the militant
Hetty. "This is private property, and you're trespassing. Unless you go
away at once you will suffer the consequences."

This defense seemed to surprise them, for they fell back a little toward
the windows. At that moment, with a low rumble, the press started,
moving slowly at first but gradually acquiring speed. The sight aroused
the resentment of the invaders.

"Stop that press!" yelled their spokesman excitedly. "Stop it, Smith, or
we'll put both you and the machine out of business."

Thursday paid no attention to anything but his press. The huge cylinder
of white paper was unrolling, passing under the platen and emerging at
the other end as neatly folded copies of the Millville Daily Tribune.

With a roar of rage the big fellow leaped forward, but at the action a
shot rang out and he fell headlong almost at the foot of the press.

Beth and Patsy turned their heads an instant to glance at Hetty. The
artist's face was white and set; her eyes sparkled brilliantly; she held
the still smoking weapon in readiness for another shot.

But the men were awed by the fall of their leader. They watched Beth
leap to the platform beside Thursday Smith and draw his revolver from
his pocket, where he had placed it. Hetty's courage had inspired her,
and Beth had handled pistols before. The men read the determined eyes
fixed upon them; they noted Smith's indifference to their threats. The
defenders of the press and pressman were only girls, but they were girls
evidently not afraid to shoot.

No advance was made and the tableau was dramatic. Smith watched his
press with undivided attention and it clattered away at full speed until
the frail building shook with its powerful, steady motion. Then suddenly
it began to slow down. The power was off, and the machine came to an
abrupt stop.

Thursday stepped from the platform and looked at the index of the
counter.

"Four hundred and sixty-three. Twenty-two short, Miss Doyle," he
announced.

"That'll do, Thursday."

He came to her side, then, facing the sullen, glowering group of mill
hands.

"Boys," said he, "it won't do you any good to interfere with us
to-night. The paper for to-morrow morning is already printed, and Ojoy
Boglin isn't a big enough man to stop it, now or ever. Better go back
to Royal and settle your troubles with Skeelty, for if you stay here the
citizens of Millville are in the mood to shoot you down like dogs."

They stood undecided a moment, but the argument had evidently struck
home.

"What's the matter with Harris?" asked one, pointing to the motionless
form of the man in the green sweater. "Is he dead?"

"I suppose so," answered Thursday coolly; but he stooped to examine
Hetty's victim, rolling him over so that his face was upward. "No; he
isn't hurt much, I'm sorry to say. The bullet glanced off his forehead
and stunned him, that's all. Take the brute, if you want him, and go."

They obeyed in silence. Several stepped forward and raised the
unconscious Harris, bearing him to the window, where they passed him to
those without. Then they also retreated through the windows and the room
was cleared.

Only then did Hetty and Beth venture to lower their weapons.

"Oh, dear!" cried Patsy, in a low, agitated voice; "I'm so glad you
didn't kill him, Hetty."

"I'm not," returned the artist doggedly. "He deserved death, at the
least, and by killing him I'd have cheated the gallows."

Then she glanced around at the horrified faces of her friends and burst
into tears.

CHAPTER XX

DEFENDING THE PRESS

In the front room Bob West and the detective were having a busy time. At
the first rush they each fired a shot over the heads of the mob, merely
to let them know the place was guarded. In the darkness it was
impossible for the strikers to tell how many armed men confronted them,
so they fell back a little, but formed a cordon around the entire
building. From the printing office to the old mill was a distance of
only a few hundred feet, and every able-bodied inhabitant of Millville
except Peggy McNutt and Sara Cotting--who had discreetly disappeared at
the first sign of danger--was assisting Joe Wegg to protect the electric
cable he was trying to connect. The men from Royal were scattered all
along the line, peering through the dim light to discover a vulnerable
point of attack but deterred from interfering by the determination of
the stalwart defenders. Mobs are invariably cowardly, and this one,
composed of the lowest strata of mixed American and foreign laborers,
was no exception to the general rule. However, when word was finally
passed along from the mill that the dynamo was running and supplying
power to the printing press, a howl of rage went up and a sudden rush
was made for the line, the attack concentrating at one point.

The defenders promptly grouped themselves in front of the threatened
pole and Seth Davis, the blacksmith, wielding a heavy sledge hammer, did
valiant service, clearing a space around him with little difficulty. Joe
Wegg, Arthur Weldon, Cox the detective, Lon Taft, Nick Thome and even
little Skim Clark were all in the melee, fighting desperately for time
to enable Thursday Smith to work his press, using whatever cudgels they
had been able to pick up to keep the assailants from the pole. Slowly,
however, they were forced back by superior numbers until finally one of
the mill hands clambered up the pole and cut the wire.

"Never mind," said Arthur to Joe, as they retreated fighting toward the
printing office; "I think they've had time to run off the edition,
provided Smith was ready with the forms."

The mob was by this time in an ugly mood and the nearer Joe and Arthur
edged toward the printing office the more numerous their enemies became.
The Millville people were getting rather the worst of the scrimmage when
out rushed Thursday Smith, swinging a stout iron bar he had taken from
the press, and with this terrible weapon he struck out so vigorously
that the diversion in their favor enabled the retreating villagers to
gain the office, where Booth and Bob West fired several shots that
effectually checked the mob.

"Stand back, ye villains!" cried a loud voice, as Major Doyle marched
calmly down the road from the mill; "how dare ye interfere with a
gentleman?"

One of the leaders confronted him menacingly. The major slapped his face
with the flat of his hand and then kicked the fellow in the shins.

"Didn't I say to get out o' my way?" he roared, and to the surprise of
everyone--even the major, perhaps--they fell hack and allowed him to
walk leisurely into the printing office.

Having succeeded in their primary attempt to cut the wire, and finding
the determined band of defenders more dangerous than they had thought,
the workmen retreated in the direction of Royal, where there was more to
be gained by rioting than in Millville.

When at last the town was clear of them, Arthur, who was considerably
battered and bruised but pleased with the triumphant ending of the
adventure, drove the girls and the major to the farm. They urged Hetty
to accompany them, but she declared she was not a bit nervous and
preferred to sleep at the hotel.

"I think the trouble is over for to-night," said West, and all agreed
with him. Cox and Booth decided to sleep in the printing office, and
after the girls had driven away with their escorts and the villagers had
dispersed to their homes, Thursday put on his coat and walked to the
hotel with Hetty.

"All that row was about me," he remarked disconsolately.

"But they didn't get you," said Hetty, triumph in her voice.

"No."

He did not mention her bravery, or the loyal support of Beth and Patsy,
but after a moment he added: "I'm not worth defending."

"How do you know?" asked Hetty. "It occurs to me, Mr. Smith, that you
are as much a stranger to yourself as to us."

"That is true."

"And in emergencies you are not averse to defending others. Of course
Miss DeGraf and her cousin wanted the paper printed, at all hazards. I
don't blame them for that; but I--"

She hesitated.

"You simply stood by a comrade. Thank you, Hetty."

"Good night, Thursday."

"Will you be able to sleep to-night?"

"I'm going straight to bed. The rumpus has quieted my nerves."

"Good night, then."

In the early morning Mr. Merrick was awakened by a red glare that
flooded his bedroom. Going to the window he found the sky at the north
full of flame. He threw on his bathrobe and went to the door of Arthur
Weldon's room, arousing the young man with a rap on the panels.

"The settlement at Royal is burning," he reported.

Arthur came out, very weary and drowsy, for he had not been asleep long
and the strenuous work of the night had tired him.

"Let it burn," he said, glancing through a window at the lurid light of
the conflagration. "We couldn't be of any use going over there and,
after all, it isn't our affair to relieve Skeelty."

Then he told Uncle John of the riot in the village, for the old
gentleman had been sound asleep when the party returned to the farm.

"The blaze is the work of those crazy strikers, I suppose," said Mr.
Merrick. "It looks from here as if they had set fire to their own
homes, as well as to the paper mills and office and store buildings. It
will be fortunate if the forest does not also burn."

"Don't worry, sir," advised Arthur. "We'll discover the extent of the
fire by daylight. For my part, I'm going back to bed, and it will be
well for you to follow my example."

"Another item for the paper," whispered a soft voice, and there was
Patsy beside them at the window.

Mr. Merrick sighed.

"I had no idea so much excitement could possibly happen at Millville,"
said he. "If this keeps on we'll have to go back to New York for quiet.
But let us get to bed, my dear, for to-morrow is likely to be a busy day
for us all."

CHAPTER XXI

THE COMING OF FOGERTY

The homeless mill hands flocked to Chazy Junction next day, from whence
a freight train distributed them over other parts of the country. The
clearing at Royal Falls was now a heap of charred embers, for every one
of the cheap, rough-board buildings had been consumed by the fire.

Skeelty had watched the destruction of his plant with feelings of
mingled glee and disgust. He was insured against loss, and his rash
workmen, who had turned upon him so unexpectedly, had accidentally
settled the strike and their own future by starting the fire during
their drunken orgies. There being no longer a mill to employ them they
went elsewhere for work, rather glad of the change and regretting
nothing. As for the manager, he stood to lose temporary profits but was
not wholly displeased by the catastrophe. Transportation of his
manufactured products had been so irregular and undefendable that even
while he watched the blaze he determined to rebuild his plant nearer the
main line of a railway, for many such locations could be found where the
pine was as plentiful as here.

At dawn he entered the hotel at Millville with his arms full of books
and papers which he had succeeded in saving from the fire, and securing
a room went directly to bed. It was afternoon when he awoke and after
obtaining a meal he strolled out into the village and entered the
newspaper office.

"Here's an item for your paper," he said to Patsy, who was busy at her
desk. "The mills at Royal will never be rebuilt, and Millville has lost
the only chance it ever had of becoming a manufacturing center. The
whole settlement, which belonged to Boglin and myself, went up in smoke,
and I'm willing to let it go at that. I shall collect the insurance,
make myself good, and if anything's left over, that fool Boglin is
welcome to it. I admit I made a mistake in ever allowing him to induce
me to build at Royal. Boglin owned the land and I used his money, so I
gave up to him; but I'm through with the _honer'ble_ ass now. Put it all
in the paper; it'll make him feel good. You might add that I'm taking
the evening train for New York, shaking the dust of your miserable
village from my feet for good and all."

"Thank you, sir," said Patsy, brightly; "the Millville people will
appreciate their good luck, I'm sure."

Skeelty hung around the town for awhile, sneering at the new electric
light plant and insolently railing at any of the natives who would
converse with him. Then he hired Nick Thorne to drive him over to Chazy
Junction, and that was the last Millville ever saw of him.

During this day Joe Wegg's men succeeded in repairing all the wires
which had been tampered with and in making a proper and permanent
connection of the cable to the printing office. That evening the village
was again brilliantly lighted and thereafter the big dynamos whirled
peacefully and without interruption.

The girls had a busy day, as Uncle John had predicted, for all the
exciting incidents of the evening and night before had to be written up
and the next day's paper teemed with "news" of a character to interest
all its readers. Beth's editorial declared the neighborhood well rid of
the paper mill, which had been of little advantage but had caused no end
of annoyance because of the rough and mischievous character of the
workmen employed. In this statement nearly everyone agreed with her.

Several had been wounded in the riot of the eventful evening, but none
seriously injured. The workmen took away their damaged comrades and Lon
Taft drove over to Huntingdon and had his head sewed up by the doctor.
Other villagers suffered mere bruises, but all who engaged in the fight
posed as heroes and even Peggy McNutt, who figured as "not present,"
told marvelous tales of how he had worsted seven mill hands in a
stand-up fight, using only his invincible fists.

The following forenoon the liveryman at the Junction brought to
Millville a passenger who had arrived by the morning train--a quiet,
boyish-looking man with a shock of brick-red hair and a thin, freckled
face. He was driven directly to the Merrick farm, where Uncle John
received him cordially, but with surprise, and at once favored the new
arrival with a long interview in his private room.

The girls, who had not yet gone to the office, awaited somewhat
impatiently the result of this conference, for they already knew the
red-headed youth to be the great Fogerty--admitted by even his would-be
rivals, the king of New York detectives. Also they knew that Uncle John
had employed him some time ago to ferret out the mystery of the identity
of Thursday Smith, and the fact of Fogerty's presence indicated he had
something to report.

However, when Mr. Merrick came out of the private room his usually
cheery countenance wore a troubled expression. Fogerty was invariably
placid and inscrutable, so no explanation could be gleaned from his
demeanor.

"Ready for town, my dears?" asked Uncle John.

"Yes; the surrey is waiting," answered Louise.

"Then go along, and Fogerty and I will join you at the office presently.
I want to confer with the major and Arthur before--before taking any
steps to--"

"What's the news, Uncle?" demanded Patsy, impatiently.

"You shall know in good time."

"Who is Thursday Smith?"

"By and by, dear. Don't bother me now. But that reminds me; you are to
say nothing to--to--Thursday about Mr. Fogerty's arrival. Treat
him--Thursday, you know--just as you have always done, for the present,
at least. Whatever we determine on in regard to this man, during our
conference, we must not forget that he has acted most gallantly since he
came to Millville. We really owe him a debt of gratitude."

With this somewhat incomprehensible statement the girls were forced to
content themselves. Feeling quite helpless, they drove to the office
and left the men to settle the fate of Thursday Smith.

The "pressman" was now the man-of-all-work about the modest but trim
little publishing plant. He attended to whatever job printing came in,
made the etchings from Hetty's drawings, cast the stereotypes, made up
the forms and operated the press. But aside from this mechanical work
Smith took the telegraphic news received by Hetty, edited and condensed
it and wrote the black-letter headings over the various items. All this,
with a general supervision over the girl compositors, kept the man busy
from daybreak to midnight.

In spite of this, the Tribune was essentially a "girls' paper," since
Thursday Smith was the only man employed on it--not counting the "dummy"
editor, Arthur Weldon, who did nothing but keep the books, and found
this not an arduous task. Hetty, at Miss Briggs' desk, attended the
telegraph instrument and long-distance telephone, receiving news over
both wires, and still found time to draw her daily cartoons and
additional humorous sketches which she "worked in" whenever the mood
seized her. The typesetting was done by the Dwyer sisters--a colorless
pair but quite reliable--while the reportorial and editorial work was
divided between Louise, Beth and Patsy, none of whom shirked a single
duty. Indeed, they had come to love this work dearly and were
enthusiastic over the _Tribune_, which they fondly believed was being
watched with envious admiration by all the journalistic world.

This belief was not wholly due to egotism. Their "exchanges," both city
and country, had shown considerable interest in the "Millville
Experiment," as they called it, and only a few days before the leading
journal of a good-sized city had commented at length on the "girls'
newspaper" and, after indulging in some humorous remarks, concluded
quite seriously with the statement that "its evident sincerity, clean
contents and typographical neatness render the _Millville Daily Tribune_
worthy a better setting than the somnolent country village whose census
is too low to be officially recorded."

"But that's all right," said Patsy, smiling at the praise; "we'd never
have dared to start a newspaper anywhere else, because a journal that
will do for Millville might not make a hit if it bumped against
experienced competition."

"We were woefully ignorant when we began, a few weeks ago," commented
Beth, glancing with pride at her latest editorial, which she thought had
caught the oracular tone of the big city newspapers.

"And we're not expert journalists, even yet," added Louise, with a sigh.
"We've improved, to be sure; but I imagine there is still lots of room
for improvement."

"One trouble," said Patsy, "is that every inhabitant of Millville wants
to see his or her name in print every day, whether he or she has done
anything worthy of publication or not. If the name isn't printed, we've
made an enemy; and, if it is, the paper is sure to suffer more or less
ridicule."

"That is quite true, my dear," responded Louise, the reporter. "I've
said everything, about every one of them, that has ever happened, or
threatened to happen, since we started the paper, and it is driving me
crazy to discover anything more about these stupid natives that will do
to print."

Hetty had overheard this conversation and now looked up with a smile.

"Has your 'local happenings' column been prepared for to-morrow, Mrs.
Weldon?" she inquired.

"No; I'm about to start out to unearth some items," replied Louise,
wearily.

"Let me do it for you. I've an hour or so to spare and I won't need to
leave my desk," suggested the artist.

"It is my duty, you know, Hetty, and I've no right to evade it."

"Evade it for to-day. Go home and rest. I'll do your column for
to-morrow, and after the vacation you can tackle the thrilling
situations with better courage."

"Thank you, Hetty. But I won't go home. I'll wait here to see Fogerty."

"Fogerty!" exclaimed the artist, with a start of surprise. "Do you mean
the detective?"

"Yes," said Louise, regretting she had inadvertently mentioned the
name.

"But what is there now to detect?" asked Hetty suspiciously. "Our
troubles seem ended with the burning of the mill and the flitting of
Skeelty and his workmen."

Louise hardly knew how to reply; but Patsy, who trusted the queer girl
artist, said quite frankly:

"There remains the mystery of Thursday Smith to fathom, you know."

Hetty flushed and an indignant look swept over her face.

"What right has anyone to solve that mystery?" she asked defiantly.
"Isn't that Thursday Smith's own business?"

"Perhaps," returned Patsy, somewhat amused; "but Smith hasn't been able
to discover who he is--or was, rather--and seems really anxious to
know."

Hetty bent over her desk for a time. Then she looked up and her thin
features were white and drawn with anxiety.

"When you discover who Thursday Smith is," said she, "the Millville
Tribune will lose its right bower."

"Why?"

"Before his accident, or whatever it was that made him lose his memory,
he was an unusual man, a man of exceptional ability. You know that."

"We are all inclined to admit it," answered Patsy. "But what then?"

"Men of ability," declared Hetty slowly, "are of two classes: the very
successful, who attain high and honorable positions, or the clever
scoundrels who fasten themselves like leeches on humanity and bleed
their victims with heartless unconcern. What will you gain if you unmask
the past of Thursday Smith? You uncover a rogue or a man of affairs, and
in either case you will lose your pressman. Better leave the curtain
drawn, Miss Doyle, and accept Thursday Smith as he is."

There was so much good sense in this reasoning that all three girls were
impressed and began to regret that Uncle John had called Fogerty to
untangle the skein. But it was now too late for such repentance and,
after all, they were curious to discover who their remarkable employee
really was.

Even while the awkward silence that had fallen upon the group of girls
continued, the door opened to admit Uncle John, Fogerty, Major Doyle and
Arthur Weldon. Except for the detective they were stern-faced and
uncompromising.

CHAPTER XXII

UNMASKED

Quintus Fogerty was as unlike the typical detective as one could
imagine. Small in size, slight and boyish, his years could not readily
be determined by the ordinary observer. His face was deeply furrowed and
lined, yet a few paces away it seemed the face of a boy of eighteen. His
cold gray eyes were persistently staring but conveyed no inkling of his
thoughts. His brick-red hair was as unkempt as if it had never known a
comb, yet the attire of the great detective was as fastidiously neat as
if he had dressed for an important social function. Taken altogether
there was something mistrustful and uncanny about Fogerty's looks, and
his habit of eternally puffing cigarettes rendered his companionship
unpleasant. Yet of the man's professional ability there was no doubt;
Mr. Merrick and Arthur Weldon had had occasion to employ him before,
with results that justified their faith in him.

The detective greeted the young ladies with polite bows, supplemented by
an aimless compliment on the neatness of their office.

"Never would have recognized it as a newspaper sanctum," said he in his
thin, piping voice. "No litter, no stale pipes lying about, no cursing
and quarreling, no excitement whatever. The editorial room is the index
to the workshop; I'll see if the mechanical department is kept as
neatly."

He opened the door to the back room, passed through and closed it softly
behind him. Mr. Merrick made a dive for the door and followed Fogerty.

"What's the verdict, Arthur?" asked Louise curiously.

"Why, I--I believe the verdict isn't rendered yet," he hastily replied,
and followed Mr. Merrick into the pressroom.

"Now, then," cried Patsy, grabbing the major firmly, "you'll not stir a
step, sir, until you tell us the news!"

"What news, Patricia?" Inquired the old gentleman blandly.

"Who was Thursday Smith?"

"The identical individual he is now," said the Major.

"Don't prevaricate, sir! Who was he? What did he do? What is his right
name?"

"Is it because you are especially interested in this man, my dear, or
are ye simply consumed with feminine curiosity?"

"Be good, Daddy! Tell us all about it," said Patsy coaxingly.

"The man Thursday, then, was likely enough the brother of Robinson
Crusoe's man Friday."

"Major, you're trifling!"

"Or mayhap an ex-president of the United States, or forby the senator
from Oklahoma. Belike he was once minister to Borneo, an' came home in a
hurry an' forgot who he was. But John Merrick will be wanting me."

He escaped and opened the door. Then, with his hand on the knob, he
turned and added:

"Why don't ye come in, me journalistic investigators, and see the fun
for yerselves? I suspect there's an item in store for ye."

Then he went in, and they took the hint and entered the pressroom in a
fluttering group. Fogerty stood with his hands in his pockets intently
watching the Dwyer girls set type, while at his elbow Mr. Merrick was
explaining in a casual voice how many "m's" were required to make a
newspaper column. In another part of the long room Arthur Weldon was
leaning over a table containing the half-empty forms, as if critically
examining them. Smith, arrayed in overalls and jumper, was cleaning and
oiling the big press.

"A daily newspaper," said the major, loudly, as he held up a warning
finger to the bevy of nieces, behind whom Hetty's pale face appeared,
"means a daily grind for all concerned in it. There's no vacation for
the paper, no hyphens, no skipping a day or two if it has a bad cold;
it's the tyrant that leads its slaves by the nose, metaphorically, and
has no conscience. Just as regularly as the world rolls 'round the press
rolls out the newspaper, and human life or death makes little
difference to either of the revolutionists."

While he spoke the Major led the way across the room to the stereotyping
plant, which brought his party to a position near the press. Smith
glanced at them and went on with his work. It was not unusual to have
the pressroom thus invaded.

Presently Fogerty strolled over, smoking his eternal cigarette, and
stood watching the pressman, as if interested in the oiling of the
complicated machine. Smith, feeling himself under observation, glanced
up again in an unconcerned way, and as he faced the detective Fogerty
gave a cleverly assumed start and exclaimed:

"Good God!"

Instantly Thursday Smith straightened up and looked at the man
questioningly. Fogerty stretched out his hand and said, as if in wonder:

"Why, Melville, old man, what are you doing here? We wondered what had
become of you, all these months. Shake hands, my boy! I'm glad I've
found you."

Smith leaned against the press and stared at him with dilated eyes.
Everyone in the room was regarding the scene with intense but repressed
excitement.

"What's wrong, Harold?" continued Fogerty, as if hurt by the other's
hesitation to acknowledge their acquaintance. "You haven't forgotten me,
have you? I'm McCormick, you know, and you and I have had many a good
time together in the past."

Smith passed his hand across his forehead with a dazed gesture.

"What name did you call me, sir?" he asked.

"Melville; Harold Melville, of East Sixty-sixth street. I'm sure I'm
right. There can't be two like you in the world, you know."

Thursday Smith stepped down from the platform and with a staggering gait
walked to a stool, on which he weakly sank. He wiped the beads of
perspiration from his forehead and looked at Fogerty with a half
frightened air.

"And you--are--McCormick?" he faltered.

"Of course."

Smith stared a moment and then shook his head.

"It's no use," he said despairingly; "I can't recall a single memory of
either Harold Melville or--or his friend McCormick. Pardon me, sir; I
must confess my mind is absolutely blank concerning all my life previous
to the last two years. Until this moment I--I could not recall my own
name."

"H'm," muttered Fogerty; "you recall it now, don't you?"

"No. You tell me my name is Melville, and you seem to recognize me as a
man whom you once knew. I accept your statement in good faith, but I
cannot corroborate it from my own knowledge."

"That's queer," retorted Fogerty, his cold eyes fixed upon the man's
face.

"Let me explain, please," said Smith, and related his curious experience
in practically the same words he had employed when confiding it to Mr.
Merrick. "I had hoped," he concluded, "that if ever I met one who knew
me formerly, or heard my right name mentioned, my memory would come
back to me; but in this I am sorely disappointed. Did you know me well,
sir?"

"Pretty well," answered the detective, after a slight hesitation.

"Then tell me something about myself. Tell me who I was."

"Here--in public?" asked Fogerty, with a suggestive glance at the
spectators, who had involuntarily crowded nearer.

Smith flushed, but gazed firmly into the faces surrounding him.

"Why not?" he returned. "These young ladies and Mr. Merrick accepted me
without knowledge of my antecedents. They are entitled to as full an
explanation as--as I am."

"You place me, Melville, in a rather embarrassing position," declared
Fogerty. "This is a queer case--the queerest in all my experience.
Better let me post you in a private interview."

Smith trembled a bit, from nervousness; but he persisted in his demand.

"These people are entitled to the truth," said he. "Tell us frankly all
you know about me, and do not mince words--whatever the truth may be."

"Oh, it's not so bad," announced the detective, with a shrug; "or at
least it wouldn't be in New York, among your old aristocratic haunts.
But here, in a quiet country town, among these generous and
simple-hearted folks who have befriended you, the thing is rather
difficult to say."

"Say it!" commanded Smith.

"I will. Many New Yorkers remember the firm of Melville & Ford, the
cleverest pair of confidence men who ever undertook to fleece the
wealthy lambs of the metropolis."

"Confidence men!" gasped Smith, in a voice of horror.

"Yes, putting it mildly. You were both jolly good fellows and made a
host of friends. You were well-groomed, rode in automobiles, frequented
good clubs and had a stunning establishment on Sixty-sixth street where
you entertained lavishly. You could afford to, for there was where you
fleeced your victims. But it wasn't so very bad, as I said. You chose
the wealthy sons of the super-rich, who were glad to know such popular
men-about-town as Harold Melville and Edgar Ford. When one set of
innocents had been so thoroughly trimmed that they compared notes and
began to avoid you, you had only to pick up another bunch of lambs, for
New York contains many distinct flocks of the species. As they could
afford to lose, none of them ever complained to the police, although the
Central Office had an eye on you and knew your methods perfectly.

"Finally you made a mistake--or rather Ford did, for he was not as
clever as you were. He brought an imitation millionaire to your house; a
fellow who was putting up a brazen front on the smallest sort of a roll.
You won his money and he denounced you, getting away with a pack of
marked cards for evidence. At this you both took fright and decided on a
hasty retreat. Gathering together your plunder--which was a royal sum,
I'm convinced--you and Ford jumped into a motor car and--vanished from
New York.

"The balance of your history I base on premise. Ford has been located in
Chicago, where, with an ample supply of money, he is repeating his New
York operations; but Harold Melville has never been heard of until this
day. I think the true explanation is easily arrived at. Goaded by
cupidity--and perhaps envy of your superior talents--Ford took advantage
of the situation and, finding the automobile speeding along a deserted
road, knocked you on the head, tumbled you out of the car, and made off
with your combined winnings. The blow had the effect--not so uncommon as
you think--of destroying your recollection of your past life, and you
have for two years been wandering in total ignorance of what caused your
affliction."

During this recital Smith sat with his eyes eagerly fixed upon the
speaker's face, dwelling upon every word. At the conclusion of the story
he dropped his face in his hands a moment, visibly shuddering. Then
again he looked up, and after reading the circle of pitying faces
confronting him he bravely met Mr. Merrick's eyes.

"Sir," he said in a voice that faltered in spite of his efforts to
render it firm, "you now know who I am. When I first came to you I was a
mere irresponsible hobo, a wandering tramp who had adopted the name of
Thursday Smith because he was ignorant of his own, but who had no cause
to be ashamed of his manhood. To-day I am discovered in my true guise.
As Harold Melville, the disreputable trickster, I am not fit to remain
in your employ--to associate with honest men and women. You will forgive
my imposition, I think, because you know how thoroughly ignorant I was
of the truth; but I will impose upon you no longer. I am sorry, sir, for
I have been happy here; but I will go, thanking you for the kindly