ut 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,