CHAPTER XIV
THE DANGER SIGNAL
By this time the _Tribune_ had become the pride of all Millville, yetthe villagers could not quite overcome their awe and wonder at it. Alsothe newspaper was the pride of the three girl journalists, who under thetutelage of Miss Briggs were learning to understand the complicatedsystem of a daily journal. Their amateurish efforts were graduallygiving way to more dignified and readable articles; Beth could write aneditorial that interested even Uncle John, her severest critic; Louiseshowed exceptional talent for picking up local happenings and makingnews notes of them, while Patsy grabbed everything that came to hernet--locals, editorials, telegraphic and telephone reports from allparts of the world--and skillfully sorted, edited and arranged them forthe various departments of the paper. It was mighty interesting to themall, and they were so eager each morning to get to work that they couldscarcely 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 goback 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 thetown. I shudder when I think what a countrified paper we turned out thatfirst issue."
"But we are fast becoming educated," declared Patsy. "I'm not ashamed ofthe _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 moreconcisely and more pleasantly from its four pages than when I wadethrough 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, thebookkeeper, "even since Thursday Smith enabled us to cut down expensesso greatly. The money that comes in never equals what we pay out. Howlong can you keep this up, girls?"
They made no reply, nor did Uncle John discuss the financial conditionof the newspaper. He was himself paying some heavy expenses that did notappear on the books, such as the Associated Press franchise, thetelegraph bills and the electric power; but he was quite delighted totake care of these items and regretted he had not assumed more of thepaper's obligations. He knew the expenses were eating big holes in theincomes of his three nieces, yet they never complained nor allowed theirenthusiasm to flag.
Mr. Merrick, who had tested these girls in more ways than one, waswatching them carefully, and fully approved their spirit and courageunder such trying conditions. Major Doyle, Patsy's father, when thefirst copy of the _Millville Tribune_ was laid on his desk in the city,was astounded at the audacity of this rash venture. When he couldcommand his temper to write calmly he sent a letter to Mr. Merrick whichread: "Taken altogether, John, you're the craziest bunch ofirresponsibles outside an asylum. No wonder you kept this folly a secretfrom me until you had accomplished your nefarious designs. The_Millville Daily Tribune_ is a corker and no mistake, for our Patsy's atthe head of your lunatic gang. I'll go farther, and say the paper's awonder. I believe it is the first daily newspaper published in a town ofsix inhabitants, that has ever carried the Associated Press dispatches,But, allow me to ask, why? The lonely inhabitants of the desert of ChazyCounty don't need a daily--or a weekly--or a monthly. A semi-annualwould about hit their gait, and be more than they deserve. So I'vedecided it's merely a silly way to spend money--and an easy way, too,I'll be bound. Oblige me by explaining this incomprehensibleeccentricity."
To this, a mild protest for the major, Uncle John replied: "Dear MajorDoyle: 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 paperreligiously every day, gloating over Patsy's name as managing editor andpreserving the files with great care. He really enjoyed, the _MillvilleTribune_, and as his summer vacation was shortly due he anticipated withpleasure 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 connectedwith the thing, her adoring parent was quite sure she was responsiblefor all the good there was in it.
The paper printed no mention of the famous duel. But Hetty made acartoon of it, showing the lane, with its fringe of spectators, ArthurWeldon standing manfully to await his antagonist and big Bill Sizer, inthe distance, sprinting across the fields in the direction of home. Thiscartoon was highly prized by those who had witnessed the adventure andPeggy McNutt pinned it on the wall of his real estate office beside theone 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 tohim demanding the return of the pistol, Bill dispatched with the weaponthe 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 baguv Beens. but I will skware this Thing sum da and yu and that edyter hedbetter Watch out. i don't stand fer no Throwdown like that Wm. Sizer."
However, the bully received scant sympathy, even from his most intimatefriends, and his prestige in the community was henceforth destroyed.Arthur did not crow, for his part. He told the girls frankly of hisattempt to run away and evade the meeting, which sensible intention wasonly frustrated by Bob West's interference, and they all agreed he wasthoroughly justified. The young man had proved to them his courage yearsbefore and none of the girls was disposed to accuse him of cowardice fornot 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 anature so startling that it drove the Sizer comedy from all minds. Thistime Thursday Smith was the hero.
Hetty Hewitt, it seems, was having a desperate struggle to quell thelongings of her heart for the allurements of the great city. She hadbeen for years a thorough Bohemienne, frequenting cafes, theatres anddance halls, smoking and drinking with men and women of her class and,by degrees, losing every womanly quality with which nature hadgenerously endowed her. But the girl was not really bad. She wasessentially nervous and craved excitement, so she had drifted into thissort of life because no counteracting influence of good had beeninjected into her pliable disposition. None, that is, until the friendlyeditor for whom she worked, anticipating her final downfall, had soughtto save her by sending her to a country newspaper. He talked to the girlartist very frankly before she left for Millville, and Hetty knew he wasright, and was truly grateful for the opportunity to redeem herself. Thesweet girl journalists with whom she was thrown in contact were sodifferent from any young women she had heretofore known, and proved sokindly sympathetic, that Hetty speedily became ashamed of her wastedlife and formed a brave resolution to merit the friendship so generouslyextended her.
But it was hard work at first. She could get through the days easilyenough by wandering in the woods and taking long walks along the ruggedcountry roads; but in the evenings came the insistent call of the cafes,the cheap orchestras, vaudeville, midnight suppers and the like. Shestrenuously fought this yearning and found it was growing less and lesspowerful to influence her. But her nights were yet restless and hernerves throbbing from the effects of past dissipations. Often she wouldfind herself unable to sleep and would go out into the moonlight whenall others were in bed, and "prowl around with the cats," as sheexpressed it, until the wee hours of morning. Often she told Patsy shewished there was more work she could do. The drawings required by thepaper never occupied her more than a couple of hours each day.Sometimes she made one of her cleverest cartoons in fifteen or twentyminutes.
"Can't I do something else?" she begged. "Let me set type, or run theticker--I can receive telegrams fairly well--or even write a column oflocal 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
arevery 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 watchThursday Smith run off the edition on the wonderful press, which seemedto possess an intelligence of its own, so perfectly did it perform itsfunctions. At such times she sat listlessly by and said little, forThursday was no voluble talker, especially when busied over his press.But a certain spirit of comradeship grew up between these two, and itwas not unusual for the pressmen, after his work was finished and thepapers were neatly piled for distribution to the carriers at daybreak,to walk with Hetty to the hotel before proceeding to his own lodgings inthe little wing of Nick Thorne's house, which stood quite at the end ofthe street. To be sure, the hotel adjoined the printing office, withonly a vacant lot between, but Hetty seemed to appreciate this courtesyand would exchange a brief good night with Smith before going to her ownroom. Afterward she not infrequently stole out again, because sleepwould not come to her, and then the moon watched her wanderings until itdipped behind the hills.
On the night we speak of, Hetty had parted from Thursday Smith at oneo'clock and crept into the hallway of the silent, barnlike hotel; but assoon as the man turned away she issued forth again and walked up theempty street like a shadow. Almost to Thompson's Crossing she strolled,deep in thought, and then turned and retraced her steps. But when sheagain reached the hotel she was wide-eyed as ever; so she passed thebuilding, thinking she would go on to Little Bill Creek and sit by theold mill for a time.
The girl was just opposite the printing office when her attention wasattracted by a queer grating noise, as if one of the windows was beingpried up. She stopped short, a moment, and then crept closer to thebuilding. Two men were at a side window of the pressroom, which they hadjust succeeded in opening. As Hetty gained her point of observation oneof the men slipped inside, but a moment later hastily reappeared andjoined his fellow. At once both turned and stole along the side of theshed directly toward the place where the girl stood. Her first impulsewas to run, but recollecting that she wore a dark gown and stood in deepshadow she merely flattened herself against the building and remainedmotionless. The men were chuckling as they passed her, and sherecognized 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 hastyretreat under the shadows of the houses.
Hetty stood motionless a moment, wondering what to do. Then with suddenresolve she ran to Thorne's house and rapped sharply at the window ofthe wing where she knew Thursday Smith slept. She heard him leap frombed and open the blind.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It's me, Thursday--Hetty," she said. "Two men have just broken into thepressroom, through a window. They were men from Royal, and they didn'tsteal anything, but ran away in great haste. I--I'm afraid something iswrong, Thursday!"
Even while she spoke he was rapidly dressing.
"Wait!" he called to her. In a few moments he opened the door and joinedher.
Without hesitation he began walking rapidly toward the office, and thegirl kept step with him. He asked no questions whatever, but us soon asshe had led him to the open window he leaped through it and switched onan 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 tonesthat the girl shrank away and dashed across the vacant lot to the hotelbefore she turned again in time to see Smith leap from the window andmake a dash toward the rear. He was carrying something--somethingextended at arms' length before him--and he crossed the lane and ran farinto the field before stooping to set down his burden.
Now he was racing back again, running as madly as if a troop of demonswas after him. A flash cleft the darkness; a deep detonation thunderedand echoed against the hills; the building against which Hetty leanedshook as if an earthquake had seized it, and Thursday Smith was thrownflat on his face and rolled almost to the terrified girl's feet, wherehe lay motionless. Only the building saved her from pitching headlongtoo, but as the reverberations died away, to be followed by franticscreams from the rudely wakened population of Millville, Hetty sank uponher 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 discoverysaved us from a terrible calamity. I--I don't believe there is much harmdone, as it is."
Hetty made no reply. She was thinking of the moments he had held thatdeadly Thing in his hands, while he strove to save lives and propertyfrom destruction.
The inevitable crowd was gathering now, demanding in terrified toneswhat had happened. Men, women and children poured from the houses inscant attire, all unnerved and fearful, crying for an explanation of theexplosion.
"Keep mum, Hetty," said Smith, warningly. "It will do no good to tellthem the truth."
She nodded, realizing it was best the villagers did not suspect that anenemy 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 fieldbehind the lane and the crowd quickly surrounded it. From their limitedknowledge of the facts the explosion seemed unaccountable, but there wassufficient intelligence among them to determine that dynamite had causedit and dug this gaping hole in the stony soil. Bob West glanced at theprinting office, which was directly in line with the explosion; then hecast a shrewd look into the white face of Thursday Smith; but the oldhardware merchant merely muttered under his breath something about OjoyBoglin and shook his head determinedly when questioned by his fellowvillagers.
Interest presently centered in the damage that had been done. Manywindow panes were shattered and the kitchen chimney of the hotel hadtoppled over; but no person had been injured and the damage could easilybe repaired. While the excitement was at its height Thursday Smithreturned to his room and went to bed; but long after the villagers hadcalmed down sufficiently to seek their homes Hetty Hewitt sat alone bythe great pit, staring reflectively into its ragged depths. Quaint andcurious were the thoughts that puzzled the solitary girl's weary brain,but prominent and ever-recurring was the sentence that had trembled uponThursday Smith's lips: "It was a close call, _dear_!"
The "close call" didn't worry Hetty a particle; it was the last word ofthe sentence that amazed her. That, and a new and wonderful respect forthe manliness of Thursday Smith, filled her heart to overflowing.