“Isn’t he coming back?” inquired Beth.

“Here’s a letter he left,” said Miss Briggs.

They read it together.  It was very brief; “Climate don’t suit me.  No excitement.  I’ve quit.  McGaffey.”

“I suppose,” said Patsy, with indignation, “he intended to go, all the while, and only waited for his Saturday pay.”

Miss Briggs nodded.  She was at the telegraph instrument.

“What shall we do?” asked Louise.  “Can anyone else work the press?”

“I’ll find out,” said Patsy, marching into the workroom.

Neither Fitz nor Larry would undertake to run the press.  They said the machine was so complicated it required an expert, and unless an experienced pressman could be secured the paper must suspend publication.

Here was an unexpected dilemma; one that for a time dazed them.

“These things always happen in the newspaper business,” remarked Miss Briggs, when appealed to.  “Can’t you telegraph to New York for another pressman?”

“Yes; but he can’t get here in time,” said Patsy.  “There’s no Monday train to Chazy Junction, at all, and it would be Wednesday morning before a man could possibly arrive.  To shut down the paper would ruin it, for everyone would think we had failed in our attempt and it might take us weeks to regain public confidence.”

“I know,” said Miss Briggs, composedly.  “A paper never stops.  Somehow or other it always keeps going—­even if the world turns somersaults and stands on its head.  You’ll find a way, I’m sure.”

But the bewildered girls had no such confidence.  They drove back to the farm to consult with Uncle John and Arthur.

“Let’s take a look at that press, my dears,” said Mr. Merrick.  “I’m something of a mechanic myself, or was in my young days, and I may be able to work this thing until we can get a new pressman.”

“I’ll help you,” said Arthur.  “Anyone who can run an automobile ought to be able to manage a printing press.”

So they went to the office, took off their coats and examined the press; but the big machine defied their combined intelligence.  Uncle John turned on the power.  The cylinder groaned, swung half around, and then the huge wooden “nippers” came down upon the table with a force that shattered them to kindlings.  At the crash Mr. Merrick involuntarily shut down the machine, and then they all stood around and looked gloomily at the smash-up and wondered if the damage was irreparable.

“Couldn’t we print the paper on the job press?” asked the little millionaire, turning to Fitzgerald.

“In sections, sir,” replied Fitz, grinning.  “Half a page at a time is all we can manage, but we might be able to match margins so the thing could be read.”

“We’ll try it,” said Uncle John.  “Do your best, my man, and if you can help us out of this bog you shall be amply rewarded.”

Fitz looked grave.

“Never knew of such a thing being done, sir,” he remarked; “but that’s no reason it’s impossible.”