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.