“Are you going to print the whole paper?” Tavia asked, with amusing ignorance of the ways of the Great American Press.

“Why, no, dear, I could not print it.  Ralph must do that.”

“Oh, I know.  Just put things in it.”

“I may have to write some,” Dorothy replied, with an important air.  “The parade story was not written.  Father intended to do that.”

“Oh, goody!” went on the irrepressible Tavia.  “Say that the meanest girl in school, Miss Sarah Ford, was chosen, at the last moment, to lead the girls, owing to the sudden illness of Miss Dorothy Dale, the most popular girl in school, who took a headache from the sun, but later recovered in time to carry a Betsy Ross flag, along with her dear friend, Miss Octavia Travers, the flags being presented to the girls by Major Dale.  There now, how’s that?” and Tavia fairly beamed at the very idea of having her “story” printed.

“I declare, Tavia, you can string words together, as father would say.  But we cannot say anything against any one.  That would bring on lawsuits, you know.”

“Oh yes, I know.  It’s just as pa says:  some folks are too mean for anything but a good thrashing—­and that’s Sarah.  But I’ll do anything I can to help you, and I hope I won’t get the Bugle into any lawsuits.”

Dorothy thanked her, and remarked that it was not likely.

By this time they had reached the newspaper office.  Up two flights of stairs, over the post-office and drug store, the girls found the much-perplexed Ralph Willoby waiting anxiously for his employer.

Ralph was that kind of a young man whom people trust at once.  He was known all over Dalton as a most zealous worker in the “Liquor Crusade,” that was being very actively carried on in the town.  He had a firm face, and deep, clear eyes.  The major used to say his eyes could talk faster than his tongue—­and he knew how to converse well, too.

He had his sleeves rolled up, and was bending over a pile of “copy” when the girls entered the office.  He brushed his sleeves down and rose to hear their message.

“Father is ill,” began Dorothy weakly, for inside the office its difficulties seemed to crush her.

“And we’re going to get the paper out,” blurted Tavia, trying to grasp the wonders of a real newspaper office in a single sweeping glance.

“Can’t he come down?” and the young man’s voice betrayed his anxiety.

“I’m afraid not,” went on Dorothy.  “He said we were to do the best we could.  I was to help—­”

“And I guess I’m to sell the papers.  Hurry up and print some.  Is this the printing press?” Tavia rattled on.

“But the parade,” demurred Ralph, “it is not even written.  I can manage the press well enough, but our reporter Mr. Thomas, has not come in this morning.  I suppose yesterday was too much for him.”

“I think I could write up the parade,” ventured Dorothy.  “I have often helped father read proof, you know.”