cissors?"

"We needn't bother to write new editorials," said Mary. "Here are all
these papers full of them."

"Of course," said Jack. "But we must pick out good ones."

Their tastes differed somewhat, and Mary condemned a number of articles
that seemed to Jack excellent. However, she selected a story and some
poems and a bright letter from Europe, and Jack found an account of an
exciting horse-race, a horrible railway accident, a base-ball match, a
fight with Indians, an explosion of dynamite, and several long strips
of jokes and conundrums.

"These are splendid editorials!" said Mary, looking up from her
reading. "We can cut them down to fit the _Eagle_, and nobody will
suspect that Mr. Murdoch has been away."

"Oh, they'll do," said Jack. "They're all lively. Mr. Murdoch is sure
to be satisfied. I don't think he can write better editorials himself."

The young editors were much excited over their work, and soon became so
absorbed in their duties that it was ten o'clock before they knew it.

"Now, Molly," said Jack, "we'll go to the house and tell him it's all
right. We'll set the _Eagle_ a-going in the morning. I knew we could
edit it."

Mary had very little to say; her fingers ached from plying the
scissors, her eyes burned from reading so much and so fast, and her
head was in a whirl.

At the house they met Mrs. Murdoch.

"Oh, my dear children!" exclaimed she to Mary, "Mr. Murdoch is
delirious. The doctor's been here, and says he won't be able to think
of work--not for days and days. Can you,--_can_ you run the _Eagle_?
You won't let it stop."

"No, indeed!" said Mary. "There's plenty of 'copy' ready, and Jack can
run the engine."

"I'm so glad," said Mrs. Murdoch. "I'd never dare to clip anything. I
might make serious mistakes. He's so careful not to attack anything
nor to offend anybody. All sorts of people take the _Eagle_, and Mr.
Murdoch says he has to steer clear of almost everything."

"We won't write anything," said Jack; "we'll just select the best there
is and put it right in. Those city editors on the big papers know what
to write."

The editor's wife was convinced; and, after Mary had gone to her room,
Jack returned to a room prepared for him in the _Eagle_ office.

"I sha'n't wear my Sunday clothes to-morrow," said Jack; "I'll put on a
hickory shirt and old trousers; then I'll be ready to work."

The last thing he remembered saying to himself was:

"Well, I'm nine