er work ever since she was
eighteen. Bright and cheerful, of even temper and shrewd comprehension,
Miss Briggs listened to the eager explanations of the three girls who
had undertaken this queer venture, and assured them she would assist in
making a newspaper that would be a credit to them all. She understood
clearly the conditions; that inexperience was backed by ample capital
and unpractical ideas by unlimited enthusiasm.

"This job may not last long," she told herself, "but while it does it
will be mighty amusing. I shall enjoy these weeks in a quiet country
town after the bustle of the big city."

So here were seven regular employees of the _Millville Daily Tribune_
already secured and the eighth was shortly to appear. Preparations were
well under way for a first edition on the Fourth of July and the office
was beginning to hum with work, when one afternoon a girl strolled in
and asked in a tired voice for the managing editor.

She was admitted to Patsy's private room, where Beth and Louise were
also sitting, and they looked upon their visitor in undisguised
astonishment.

She was young: perhaps not over twenty years of age. Her face bore marks
of considerable dissipation and there was a broad scar underneath her
right eye. Her hair was thin, straggling and tow-colored; her eyes
large, deep-set and of a faded blue. The girl's dress was as queer and
untidy as her personal appearance, for she wore a brown tailored coat, a
short skirt and long, buttoned leggings. A round cap of the same
material as her dress was set jauntily on the back of her head, and over
her shoulder was slung a fiat satchel of worn leather. There was little
that was feminine and less that was attractive about the young woman,
and Patsy eyed her with distinct disfavor.

"Tommy sent me here," said the newcomer, sinking wearily into a chair.
"I'm hired for a month, on good behavior, with a chance to stay on if I
conduct myself in a ladylike manner. I've been working on the _Herald_,
you know; but there was no end of a row last week, and they fired me
bodily. Any booze for sale in this town?"

"It is a temperance community," answered Patsy, stiffly.

"Hooray for me. There's a chance I'll keep sober. In that case you've
acquired the best sketch artist in America."

"Oh! Are you the artist, then?" asked Patsy, with doubtful intonation.

"I don't like the word. I'm not a real artist--just a cartoonist and
newspaper hack. Say, it's funny to see