Bob West often dropped into the office, which was next door to his own place of business, but he was a silent man and had little to say on these visits.  In his early days he had wandered pretty much over the whole world, and he could relate some interesting personal adventures if he chose.  In this retired village West was the one inhabitant distinguished above his fellows for his knowledge of the world.  In his rooms over the store, where few were ever invited, he had a fine library of unusual books and a rare collection of curios gathered from foreign lands.  It was natural that such a man would be interested in so unique an experiment as the Millville Tribune, and he watched its conduct with curiosity but a constantly growing respect for the three girl journalists.  No one ever minded when he came into the office, nodded and sat down.  Sometimes he would converse with much freedom; at other times the old gentleman remained an hour without offering a remark, and went away with a brief parting nod.

It was West who first saw, through the window, the wagonload of men from the Sizer farm come dashing up the street at a gallop.  Instinctively, perhaps, he knew trouble was brewing, but he never altered his expression or his attitude, even when the wagon stopped at the printing office and the passengers leaped out.

In marched Bill Sizer at the head of his following, cowhide in hand.  Patsy, her face flushing scarlet, stood up and faced the intruders.

“Stand back, girl!” cried Sizer in a fierce tone; “it’s that coward editor I’m after,” pointing his whip with trembling hand at Arthur.  “My sister Molly may be rough, an’ hev a rough smile, but I’ll be dinged ef I don’t skin the man thet prints it in a paper!”

“Good fer you, Bill!” murmured his friends, approvingly.

Arthur leaned back and regarded his accuser in wonder.  The big table, littered with papers, was between them.

“Come out o’ there, ye measly city chap, an’ take yer medicine,” roared Bill, swinging his whip.  “I’ll larn ye to come inter a decent neighborhood an’ slander its women.  Come outer there!”

West had sat quietly observing the scene.  Now he inquired, in composed tones: 

“What’s the trouble, Bill?”

“Trouble?  Trouble, West?  Why, this lyin’ scroundrel said in his paper thet our Molly had a rough smile.  That’s the trouble!”

“Did he really say that?” asked West.

“’Course he did.  Printed it in the paper, for all to read.  That’s why I’ve come to cowhide the critter within an inch o’ his life!”

“Good fer you, Bill!” cried his friends, encouragingly.

“But—­wait a moment!” commanded West, as the maddened, half drunken young farmer was about to leap over the table to grasp his victim; “you’re not going at this thing right, Bill Sizer.”

“Why ain’t I, Bob West?”

“Because,” answered West, in calm, even tones, “this insult is too great to be avenged by a mere cowhiding.  Nothing but blood will wipe away the dreadful stain on your sister’s character.”