The girls grew a little pale, but Thursday Smith put his hand on the lever of the press and said: 

“All right.  The moment they give us the current we’re ready to run.”

Patsy straightened up with a sigh of relief, then gave a low cry as the screens of the two windows of the pressroom were smashed in and through the openings men began to tumble into the room.  At once Hetty confronted them with leveled revolver and the sight caused them to hesitate.

“Out o’ the way, you women!” called a burly fellow who wore a green sweater and an oilskin hat; “we don’t want to hurt you if we can help.  There’s the one we’re after!” He pointed a finger at Thursday Smith.

“You can’t have him,” retorted Beth, half shielded behind the militant Hetty.  “This is private property, and you’re trespassing.  Unless you go away at once you will suffer the consequences.”

This defense seemed to surprise them, for they fell back a little toward the windows.  At that moment, with a low rumble, the press started, moving slowly at first but gradually acquiring speed.  The sight aroused the resentment of the invaders.

“Stop that press!” yelled their spokesman excitedly.  “Stop it, Smith, or we’ll put both you and the machine out of business.”

Thursday paid no attention to anything but his press.  The huge cylinder of white paper was unrolling, passing under the platen and emerging at the other end as neatly folded copies of the Millville Daily Tribune.

With a roar of rage the big fellow leaped forward, but at the action a shot rang out and he fell headlong almost at the foot of the press.

Beth and Patsy turned their heads an instant to glance at Hetty.  The artist’s face was white and set; her eyes sparkled brilliantly; she held the still smoking weapon in readiness for another shot.

But the men were awed by the fall of their leader.  They watched Beth leap to the platform beside Thursday Smith and draw his revolver from his pocket, where he had placed it.  Hetty’s courage had inspired her, and Beth had handled pistols before.  The men read the determined eyes fixed upon them; they noted Smith’s indifference to their threats.  The defenders of the press and pressman were only girls, but they were girls evidently not afraid to shoot.

No advance was made and the tableau was dramatic.  Smith watched his press with undivided attention and it clattered away at full speed until the frail building shook with its powerful, steady motion.  Then suddenly it began to slow down.  The power was off, and the machine came to an abrupt stop.

Thursday stepped from the platform and looked at the index of the counter.

“Four hundred and sixty-three.  Twenty-two short, Miss Doyle,” he announced.

“That’ll do, Thursday.”

He came to her side, then, facing the sullen, glowering group of mill hands.

“Boys,” said he, “it won’t do you any good to interfere with us to-night.  The paper for to-morrow morning is already printed, and Ojoy Boglin isn’t a big enough man to stop it, now or ever.  Better go back to Royal and settle your troubles with Skeelty, for if you stay here the citizens of Millville are in the mood to shoot you down like dogs.”