“’Twill be a horror of a make-up,” added Larry, who did not relish his part in the experiment.

Uncle John put on his coat and went into the front office, followed by Arthur and the girls in dismal procession.

“A man to see the manager,” announced Miss Briggs, nodding toward a quiet figure seated on the “waiting bench.”

The man stood up and bowed.  It was the young bookkeeper from the paper mill, who had so bravely defended the girls on Saturday night.  Uncle John regarded him with a frown.

“I suppose Skeelty has sent you to apologize,” he said.

“No, sir; Skeelty is not in an apologetic mood,” replied the man, smiling.  “He has fired me.”

“What for?”

“Interfering with his workmen.  The boys didn’t like what I did the other night and threatened to strike unless I was put in the discard.”

“And now? asked Uncle John, looking curiously at the man.

“I’m out of work and would like a job, sir.”

“What can you do?”

“Anything.”

“That means nothing at all.”

“I beg your pardon.  Let me say that I’m not afraid to tackle anything.”

“Can you run a power printing press?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever had any experience?”

The young man hesitated.

“I’m not sure,” he replied slowly; “but I think I have.”

This statement would not have been encouraging under ordinary circumstances, but in this emergency Uncle John accepted it.

“What is your name?” he asked.

Another moment’s hesitation.

“Call me Smith, please.”

“First name?”

The man smiled.

“Thursday,” he said.

All his hearers seemed astonished at this peculiar name, but Mr. Merrick said abruptly:  “Follow me, Thursday Smith.”

The man obeyed, and the girls and Arthur trotted after them back to the pressroom.

“Our pressman has deserted us without warning,” explained Mr. Merrick.  “None of our other employees is able to run the thing.  If you can master it so as to run off the paper tonight, the job is yours.”

Thursday Smith took off his jacket—­a cheap khaki affair—­and rolled up his sleeves.  Then he carefully looked over the press and found the damaged nippers.  Without a word he picked up a wrench, released the stub ends of the broken fingers, gathered the pieces in his hand and asked:  “Where is there a carpenter shop?”

“Can you operate this press?” asked Mr. Merrick.

“Yes, sir.”

“The carpenter shop is a little shanty back of the hotel.  You’ll find Lon Taft there.”

Smith walked away, and Mr. Merrick drew a long breath of relief.

“That’s good luck,” he said.  “You may quit worrying, now, my dears.”

“Are you sure he’s a good pressman, Uncle?”

“No; but he is sure.  I’ve an idea he wouldn’t attempt the thing, otherwise.”