lse 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."

"'Twil