he press in five
minutes."

With mallet and shooting-stick he tightened the quoins, then lifted the
heavy iron frames filled with type and slid them onto the bed of the
press. They gave him all the light the flickering candles afforded as he
adjusted the machinery, and all were bending over the press when a low,
distant growl was heard, rising slowly to a frenzied shout. A revolver
popped--another--followed by wild cries from the street.

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 handle