Unquestionably in exchange for it Paul was expected to use his influence to persuade the boys of 1920 to sell their paper; still, using one's influence did not necessarily mean that one must succeed. If he suggested the deal and it failed to go through, would he not have done all that was required of him? Mr. Carter had stipulated nothing more than that he use his influence. If the Echo owner had over-estimated the power of that influence, was not that his lookout? No doubt such an understanding was quite customary in business circles and was not so important a matter as he took it to be.

The more the lad thought the matter over the more plausible the retention of the money seemed. To use one's influence was surely a legitimate arrangement. It was done in politics every day of the week. Weren't individuals in high positions constantly accepting tips to put through business measures of one sort or another, regardless of whether they personally approved of them or not? To be sure, he had heard his father call such money bribe money, dirty money, and refer to the men who took it as being bought up.

Paul knew his father scorned such proceedings. That was the reason he had lost the campaign when running for mayor against Mr. Carter in 1915. It had been an underhanded fight and almost everyone in Burmingham, regardless of party, had thought so. Mr. Carter had won the election, it is true, but it had been at the expense of the respect of the entire community.

And now he, Paul Cameron, was deserting the principles for which his father stood and was accepting those of his opponent. Plainly speaking, that was what the thing amounted to. He was taking money for something he disapproved of doing; he was being a traitor to his class, to his friends, to the school. The boys on the staff of the paper respected and trusted him. They would never suspect him of treachery. Should he stand up and advocate the sale of the March Hare he knew his word would have weight. If, on the other hand, he manfully presented Mr. Carter's offer as it honestly should be presented, he was practically sure that the measure would be voted down.

Yet if he returned the money to Mr. Carter and refused to have anything further to do with the affair, he must forfeit his typewriter, the thing on which he had set his heart.

What an unlucky snarl it was! How unfortunate that the March Hare's bank account should have been muddled and its editor driven to repair an error that was not his! Had not this occurred, all would have gone smoothly and he could have thrust the odious money back in Mr. Carter's face and left his office a free man. He hated Mr. Carter, the March Hare, the school, and all the web of circumstances in which he was entangled! He wanted that typewriter. It seemed as if he must have it. In the meantime, the May issue of the school paper came out and preparations for the June number, the last that 1920 would publish, began. The swift passing of the days forced Paul's hand. Whichever way he was to act he must act soon now, and he found himself no nearer a decision than he had been two weeks ago. He still had Mr. Carter's money in his pocket, and he was still eyeing the Corona he longed for and which he could neither bring himself to purchase nor give up; he was, too, quite as unreconciled to doing his Alma Mater an injury as he had been before. Round and round in a circle he went, the same old arguments bringing him to the same old conclusions. There seemed to be no way out.

While he was still pondering what he would do, an interesting visitor arrived at the Cameron home. This was Mr. Percy Wright, a college classmate of Paul's father and the owner of one of the largest paper mills in the State. He was a man of magnetic personality and wide business experience and Paul instantly conceived that warm admiration for him which a younger boy will often feel for an older man.

A fund of amusing anecdotes rippled from Mr. Wright's tongue. It seemed as if there was no subject on which he could not converse. He had an entertaining story about almost every topic suggested and kept the entire Cameron family laughing heartily through each meal. Paul watched the stranger with fascinated eyes. How charming he was, how witty, how clever! And yet Mr. Wright was not always jesting. On the contrary, he could be very serious when his hobby of paper-making, with its many interdependent industries, was mentioned.

He was, for example, in close touch with the publication of periodicals, newspapers, and books, and he immediately hailed Paul as a colleague.

"So you are the editor-in-chief of a widely circulated monthly magazine, are you, my boy?" he remarked. "Well, you certainly have an enviable job. It is a pity you are not going to keep on with the work. Your father tells me he thinks you have made a great success of it."

Paul colored uncomfortably.

"Not that I would have you throw over your college career," added Mr. Wright quickly. "Not for a moment! But publishing work is so alluring! I have always wanted to own a newspaper and I have not yet given up hope of doing so before I die."

"My paper isn't anything wonderful," said Paul modestly.

"But it is a clean, good magazine of its sort. I have been looking over several copies of it since I have been here. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I call the March Hare a mighty fine little publication. It's a splendid starter and I'll be bound has given you some excellent experience. Every paper has to have a beginning. All our big newspapers began on a small scale. There is some difference between one of our modern Sunday issues and the Boston News-Letter of long ago."

"I don't think I know what the Boston News-Letter was," Paul said.

"You've never seen a copy of this early Massachusetts newspaper?"

"No, sir."

"Well, it was a small, four-page sheet, printed in old type, and filled to a great extent with announcements of merchandise that had been shipped from England to the colonies for sale: pipes of wine, bolts of homespun, pieces of silk, consignments of china. Such things came from overseas in those days, and the arrival of the vessels that brought them was eagerly awaited by prospective purchasers, for there were few luxuries in the New World. Along with these advertisements was printed the news of the day; and that all this matter could be contained in four small pages proves how uneventful was early Massachusetts history. Now and then some great event would command more space. I recall seeing one copy of the paper with a picture of the first steam locomotive—a crude, amusing picture it was, too. Later the Massachusetts Gazette appeared, and soon afterward there were other papers and other printers scattered throughout the respective States. Benjamin Franklin was in Boston, you remember, from 1723 until 1726, when he went to Philadelphia and did publishing work until 1756. A hand press identical in principle with the one he used is still preferred to this day in the large newspaper press rooms for striking off proof when the amount of it is too small to be put through a power press. The hand press is a simple and quick agent for getting a result. The ink roller is run over the type and hand pressure is applied. One could not of course print a large newspaper on such a limited scale; but for jobbing work Franklin's variety of press is still acceptable and unrivaled."

"It seems funny to think of a Boston paper ever being so small," mused the boy.

Mr. Wright smiled.

"And not only small but of infrequent issue," said the paper manufacturer. "In 1709 there was only one daily paper published in London; twelve appeared three times a week; and three twice a week."

"Great Scott!"

"Yes, it is amazing, isn't it? The Tatler began in 1709 and The Spectator not long afterward. You must recall that the entire newspaper industry as we know it has been developed within comparatively recent years. The great daily, with its Sunday edition of pictures, colored sheets, news of classified varieties, and advertising and sporting sections, is only possible by means of the modern press which has the capacity for turning out in a short time such an immense number of papers."

Paul listened, fascinated by the subject.

"Gradually," went on Mr. Wright, "new brains attacked the problems of the small press, improving and enlarging it until little by little a press was built up which is so intricate and so wonderful that it almost ceases to be a machine and becomes nearly human. Boston, you know, harbors the largest printing press in the world. It is made up of 383,000 parts; it carries eight huge rolls of paper weighing from thirteen hundred to fifteen hundred pounds, four of them at each end; and in addition it has two color presses attached on which the colored supplement is printed."

"How do they ever lift such heavy rolls of paper into place?" inquired Paul.

"A chain is put around them and they are hoisted up by machinery," answered Mr. Wright. "The employees are warned to stand from under, too, when they are lifted, for should one of those mighty rolls fall, the person beneath might be seriously injured or perhaps killed."

"How many papers can they turn out on a press of that size?" was Paul's next question.

"It is possible to turn out 726,000 eight-page papers an hour or the equivalent of that quantity; the number of papers depends on the size of them, you see."

"What do you suppose good Benjamin Franklin would say to that?" laughed Paul.

"I fancy he would remark a number of things," Mr. Wright returned. "In fact, a modern newspaper plant, with its myriad devices for meeting the business conditions of our time, would be quite an education to Franklin, as it is to the rest of us. Did you ever see a big newspaper printed from start to finish, Paul?"

"No, sir."

"Ah, that's a pity. As a publisher you should be better informed on your subject," observed the elder man half teasingly. "I am going to Boston on Saturday. If your father is willing would you like to go along with me and spend the week-end in town?"

The lad's eyes shone.

"Would I like it!" he managed to stammer.

"I've got to see some of the business houses we supply with paper," continued Mr. Wright, "and incidentally I am sure I could arrange a visit to a big newspaper office Saturday evening when they are getting out the Sunday papers and have all their presses in operation."

"That would be great!"

"I think you would enjoy the trip," asserted Mr. Wright. "The printing of a paper is a wonderful process to see. I have a great admiration and respect for a fine newspaper, anyway. When one considers how widely it is read and the influence it possesses for good or evil, one cannot but take off his hat to it. No agency in the community can more quickly stir up or allay strife. Public opinion to no small extent takes its cue from the papers. They are great educators, great molders of the minds of the rank and file. Let the papers whisper war or national calamity and the stock markets all over the world are affected. And that is but one of the vital influences the paper wields. The temper of the whole people is colored by what they read. Whenever the editorials of reputable papers work toward a specific goal, they usually achieve it. Have we not had a striking example of that during the present war? The insidious power of propaganda is incalculable. Fortunately our national papers are high-minded and patriotic and have directed their influence on the side of the good, quieting fear, promoting loyalty, encouraging honesty, and strengthening the nobler impulses that govern the popular mind. For people are to an extent like a flock of sheep; they give way to panic very quickly. What one thinks the next one is liable to believe. Much of this opinion is in the hands of the newspapers. At the same time, the minds of the greater thinkers of the country are often clarified by reading the opinions mirrored by the press. One cannot praise too highly the wisdom and discretion of our newspapers during the perilous days of war when a word from them might have been as a match to tinder, and when they held many important secrets in their keeping. The great dailies were loyal to the last degree and the confidence that was placed in them was never betrayed. It was unavoidable that they should possess knowledge that the rest of us did not; but they never divulged it when cautioned that to do so would be against the national welfare. The sailings of ships, the departure of troops, the names of the ports from which vessels left, the shipment of food and supplies—all tidings such as these the press withheld."

"It was bully of them!" Paul exclaimed with enthusiasm.

"Yes, they rendered a great service. And you must remember that it was especially difficult since there is always a keen rivalry between papers and a tremendous eagerness to be the first one with the news. Whenever a paper gets inside information of an interesting nature there is a great temptation to publish it. There have been few such offenses, however, during the present war, be it said to the newspaper men's credit. Hence it became possible for the President to grant regular interviews to the leading reporters of the country and speak to them with comparative frankness with regard to national policies without fear that what he said would be garbled and turned to mischievous ends."

"I don't believe I ever thought before of the responsibility the papers had," remarked Paul soberly.

"Their responsibility is immeasurable," replied Mr. Wright. "The opportunity a paper has for checking rash judgment and arousing the best that is in humanity is endless. That is why I should like to control a newspaper, that I might make it the mouthpiece of all that is highest and noblest. To my mind only persons of splendid ideals should be entrusted with the publishing of papers. If the editor is to form the opinion of the masses, he should be a man worthy of his mission."

Paul toyed with his cuff-link.

"So, son," concluded Mr. Wright, "you've got to be a very good person if you aim to be a newspaper man—at least, that's what I think. Any printed word is like seed; it is liable to take root you know not where. A paper voices the thought of those who produce it. Therefore it behooves its makers to consider well their thoughts."

The boy winced and a flush surged to his forehead. Certainly Mr. Wright would not approve of the fifty-dollar bill which at that instant lay concealed in his pocket. As he turned to leave the room, he was very conscious of the leather pocketbook that pressed against his heart. He wished he was clear of that money. But he had already kept it more than two weeks and it was of course too late to return it now.



CHAPTER XIV

PAUL MAKES A PILGRIMAGE TO THE CITY

The trip to Boston which Mr. Wright suggested materialized into quite as delightful an excursion as Paul had anticipated. In fact, it was an eventful journey, filled with every variety of wonderful experience.

The elder man and his young guest arrived in the city Friday night in plenty of time to enjoy what Paul called a great feed and afterward go to a moving-picture show. It was odd to the suburban boy to awake Saturday morning amid the rumble and roar from pavements and crowded streets. But there was no leisure to gaze from the window down upon the hurrying throng beneath, for Mr. Wright was off early to keep a business engagement and during his absence Paul was to go to the circus. Accordingly the lad hurried his dressing and was ready to join his host for breakfast promptly at eight.

A league baseball game followed after lunch and with a morning and an afternoon so crammed with pleasure Paul would have felt amply repaid for the trip had no evening's entertainment followed. The evening, however, turned out to be the best part of the day; at least, when Paul tumbled into bed that night, wearied out by his many good times, he asserted that the crowning event of his holiday had given him more interesting things to think about.

It was not until nine o'clock Saturday evening that they could go to the newspaper office.

"Before that hour," explained Mr. Wright, "there will be very little for us to see. The compositors, of course, will previously have been busy setting type; but you can get an idea how that is done in a very short time. What I want you to see are the giant presses when they are running to their full capacity. To get out the Sunday edition of the paper the entire plant is in operation."

Therefore the two travelers loitered long at dinner and at nine o'clock presented themselves at the magic spot where they were to meet one of Mr. Wright's friends who was to show them through the various departments of the press plant.

When they reached this Eldorado, however, Paul was disappointed.

The manager's office seemed very quiet. A dim light burned and a few men moved in and out of the adjacent rooms. Now and then a telephone jangled, or a reporter, perched on the arm of a chair or on the corner of a desk, took out a yellow sheet of paper and ran his eye over its contents. But there was none of the bustle and rush that the lad had pictured. But before Paul had had time to become really downhearted, the door of an inner office opened and a man came forward to meet them.

"Ah, Wright, I'm glad to see you!" he called, extending his hand.

"I'm glad to see you too, Hawley. I expect we're making you a deal of trouble and that you wish us at the bottom of the Dead Sea."

"Not a bit of it!"

"That's mighty nice of you," laughed Mr. Wright. "I give you my word, I appreciate it. This is my young friend Paul Cameron, the editor-in-chief of the Burmingham March Hare."

If Mr. Hawley were ignorant of the March Hare's existence or speculated at all as to what that unique publication might be, he at least gave no sign; instead he took Paul's hand, remarking gravely:

"I am glad to know you, Cameron," upon the receipt of which courtesy Cameron rose fully two inches in his boots and declared with equal fervor:

"I am glad to meet you too, Mr. Hawley."

To have seen them one would have thought they had been boon companions at press club dinners or associates in newspaper work all their days. "I'm going to take you upstairs first," Mr. Hawley said briskly. "We may as well begin at the beginning and show you how type is set. I don't know whether you have ever seen any type-making and typesetting machines or not."

"I haven't seen anything," Paul confessed frankly.

The newspaper man looked both amused and pleased.

"I'm rather glad of that," he remarked, "for it is much more interesting to explain a process to a person to whom it is entirely new. Formerly the method of setting type for the press was a tedious undertaking and one very hard on the eyes; but now this work is all done, or is largely done, by linotype machines that place in correct order the desired letters, grouping them into words and carefully spacing and punctuating them. The linotype operator has before him a keyboard and as he presses the keys in succession, the letter or character necessary drops into its proper place in the line that is being made up. These letters are then cast as they stand in a solid, one-line piece. With the lines thus made up, the compositors are relieved of a great proportion of their labor. Later I will show you how this is done.

"In the composing room there is also the monotype, another ingenious invention, which produces single letters and prepares them for casting. With two such machines you might suppose that the compositor would have little to do. Nevertheless, in spite of each of these labor-saving devices, there are always odd jobs to be done that cannot be performed by either of these agencies; there are short articles, the making up and designing of pages, advertisements, and a score of things outside the scope of either linotype or monotype."

Paul listened attentively.

"After the words have been formed and the lines cast by the linotype, the separate lines are arranged by the compositors inside a frame the exact size of the page of the paper to be printed. This frame or form as we call it, is divided into columns and after all the lines of type, the cuts, and advertisements to be used are arranged inside it, so that there is no waste space, a cast is made of the entire form and its contents. This cast is then fitted upon the rollers of the press, inked, and successive impressions made from it. This, in simple language, is what we are going to see and constitutes the printing of a paper."

Paul nodded.

"Of course," continued Mr. Hawley, "we shall see much more than that. We shall, for example, see how cuts and advertisements are made; photographs copied and the plates prepared for transfer to the paper; color sheets in process of making; in fact, all the varied departments of staff work. But what I have told you are the underlying principles of the project. I want you to understand them at the outset so that you will not become confused."

"I think I have it pretty straight," smiled Paul.

"Very well, then; we'll get to work."

"Not that I thoroughly understand how all this is done," added the boy quickly. "But I have the main idea and when I see the thing in operation I shall comprehend it more clearly, I am sure. You see, I don't really know much of anything about printing a paper. All I am actually sure of is that often the making up of a page is a big puzzle. I've had enough experience to find that out."

"That is sometimes a puzzle for us, too," smiled Mr. Hawley. "Fitting stuff into the available space is not always easy. Usually, however, we know just how many words can be allowed a given article and can make up our forms by estimating the mathematical measurement such copy will require. When the type is set in the forms, so accurately cut are the edges, and so closely do the lines fit together, the whole thing can be picked up and held upside down and not a piece of its mosaic fall out. That is no small stunt to accomplish. It means that every edge and corner of the metal type is absolutely true and exact. If it were not, the form would not lock up, or fit together. The letters, too, are all on the same level and the lines parallel. Geometrically, it is a perfect surface."

"Some picture puzzle!" Mr. Wright observed merrily.

"One better than a jigsaw puzzle," said Mr. Hawley. "Our pieces are smaller."

The three visitors stepped from the elevator and paused at the door of a crowded room, where many men were at work.

"These are the composing rooms," explained Mr. Hawley. "Here the copy sent us by reporters and editors is set up for the press. Along the walls you will see tiers of drawers in which type of various kinds and sizes is kept. The style or design of letter is called the 'face', and there are a great many sorts of faces, as you will notice by the labels on the drawers. There is Cheltenham, Ionic, Gothic—a multitude of others. There are, in addition, almost as many sizes of letters as there are faces, the letters running from large to a very small, or agate size which is used for footnotes."

He opened a drawer and Paul glanced inside it.

"But the letters do not seem to be arranged with any system at all," exclaimed the boy in surprise. "I don't see how the men can ever find what they want. I should think—"

He broke off, embarrassed.

"You should think what?" asked Mr. Hawley good-humoredly.

"Why, it just seems to me that if the letters were arranged in alphabetical order it would be a great deal easier to get them when one was in a hurry."

"It would seem so on the face of it," agreed Mr. Hawley, pleased by the lad's intelligence. "Printers, however, never arrange type that way. Instead, they put in the spot nearest at hand the letters they will use oftenest. It saves time. The men soon become accustomed to the position of these and can put their hands on them quickly and without the least trouble. The largest compartments in the drawers are given over to the letters most commonly in use, such as vowels and frequently recurring consonants. The letter Z you will notice has only a small space allowed it; X, too, is not much in demand."

"I see."

"Take one of these letters out and examine it."

Paul did so.

It was a thin bar of what appeared to be lead and was an inch long. On the end of it a single letter was cast.

"Besides these cases of letters, we have drawers of marks and signs arranged according to the same system, those most often in use being at the front of the drawer."

"It must have taken forever to hunt up the right letters and spell out the words before linotypes were invented," mused Paul.

"Yes, any amount of time was wasted that way," said Mr. Hawley. "The strain on the eyes was, too, something appalling. It is quite another matter to sit at a keyboard and with the pressure of a key assemble the proper matrices, as the type molds are called, and arrange in desired order correctly spaced and punctuated lines of type. Come over here and see how the work is done."

Crossing the floor, they stood before a machine where an operator was busy fingering a keyboard as if it were a typewriter. As he touched each key, it released a letter, and at the back of the machine Paul could see the silvery gleam as the miniature bar of metal dropped down and slipped into its place in the lengthening series of words. As soon as the row increased to line length, it moved along and a new line of words was assembled. The process was fascinating and the boy watched it spellbound.

"That's corking!" he at last burst out.

"It is a marvelous invention, certainly," responded Mr. Hawley, delighted by the enthusiasm of the March Hare's editor.

"What metal is used for casting type?" inquired Paul suddenly. "It looks like lead."

"It is not pure lead," Mr. Hawley answered. "That metal has been found to be much too soft; it soon wears down and loses its outline and its sharp edges. So an alloy of antimony is mixed with the lead and a composition is made that is harder and more durable."

"It must be quite a stunt to get the mixture just right," remarked Paul.

Again the newspaper man smiled with pleasure. It was a satisfaction to have so intelligent an audience.

"You have put your finger on a very important feature of the newspaper business," he rejoined. "The man who prepares the metal solution and keeps it at just the proper degree of temperature for casting is the person to whom the printer owes no small measure of his success. When we go downstairs, we shall see how the forms that are set here are cast in two large metal sections that fit on the two halves of the cylindrical rollers of the press. A mold of the form is first made from a peculiar kind of cardboard, a sort of papier-mache, and by forcing hot metal into this mold a cast, or stereotype, of the page is taken. It is from this metal stereotype that the paper is printed. After the two sections are fastened securely upon the cylinders and inked by machinery, the great webs of paper at either end of the press unroll, and as they move over the rapidly turning wheels, your daily newspaper is printed for you."

"Are we going to see it done?" asked Paul eagerly.

"We certainly are," said Mr. Hawley, leading the way toward the elevator.

"Of course the compositors have to be very sure before the forms go to the stereotype casting room that there are no mistakes in them, I suppose," Paul ventured thoughtfully.

"Yes. There is no correcting the stereotype after it is once made," replied Mr. Hawley. "Everything is corrected and any exchange of letters made before it is cast. Men who handle type constantly become very expert in detecting errors, many compositors being able to read type upside down, or in reversed order, as easily as you can read a straightforward line of printed matter."

Mr. Hawley paused.

"In addition to this department," he presently continued, "is the room where the plates for the color section of the paper are prepared. After the drawing for the pictures is made, it is outlined on a block of metal and afterward cut out, so that the design remains in relief; then the impression is taken with colored inks, a separate printing being made for each color in turn, except where the colors are permitted to fuse before they dry in order to produce a secondary tone. You doubtless have seen the lithograph process and know how the first printing colors all the parts of the picture that are red, for example; the next impression prints the blue parts; and the third those that are green."

"Yes, I've seen posters printed."

"Then you know how the work is done."

"And it is for printing this colored supplement that the color-decks at each end of the big press are used?"

"Precisely. We often run these colored sections of the Sunday edition off some weeks in advance, as they are independent parts of the paper and need not necessarily be turned out at the last moment as the news sections must."

"I see."

"We also have our designing rooms for the drawing of fashion pictures, and the illustrations to accompany advertisements. All that is a department in itself, and a most interesting branch of the work. These cuts are prepared on sheets of metal and are cast and printed as the rest of the paper is; they are set into the forms and stereotyped by the same method as the printed matter. When we want reproductions from photographs we have a photo-engraving department where by means of a very powerful electric light we can reproduce pictures of all sorts; pen-drawings, facsimiles of old prints, photographs, and every variety of picture imaginable. These are developed on a sheet of metal instead of on a glass plate and then reproduced."

"That is the way you get the fine picture sheets that you enjoy so much, Paul," put in Mr. Wright.

"The photo-engraving took the place of the woodcut," Mr. Hawley explained. "The process has been constantly improved until now we are able to get wonderfully artistic results."

"I had no idea there were so many different departments required to get out a paper," remarked Paul slowly. "It is an awful piece of work, isn't it?"

Their guide laughed.

"It is quite a project," he answered. "Of course, much of it becomes routine, and we think nothing about it. But I am sure that few persons who read the papers realize the great amount of time and thought that goes into turning out a good, up-to-date, artistically illustrated newspaper. The mere mechanical toil required is enormous; and in addition to this labor there is all the bustle, rush, and rivalry attending the securing of the latest news. The editorial office has its set of problems, as you know, if you yourself get out a paper."

"I've been so absorbed in the machinery that I forgot the editorial end of it for a moment," Paul said.

"Don't forget it, for it is the backbone of the business," replied Mr. Hawley. "All that part of our work is conducted as systematically as the rest. Each editorial writer and reporter is detailed to his particular work and must have his copy in promptly; he must know his facts and write them up with accuracy, charm, and spirit, the articles must also have the punch that will carry them and make people interested in reading them. A writer who can't turn out this sort of stuff has no place in the newspaper world. Every article that comes in is either used, returned, or filed away and catalogued for future reference; we call the room where the envelopes containing such matter are stacked the graveyard. Every newspaper has its graveyard. Into it goes stuff that has perhaps been paid for and never printed; clippings that can be used for reference; every sort of material. We can put our hand on any article filed, at a moment's notice. Come in and see for yourself the great tiers of shelves with the contents of each shelf classified and marked."

Paul followed him.

There indeed was the room, its shelves reaching to its ceiling and as neatly and completely arranged as they would be in a library. Sections were given over to business interests; to well-known men and women; to accidents; to shipping; to material of every description.

The visitors could not, however, delay to investigate this department, fascinating as it was. They were hurried on to another floor and were shown where all the accounts of advertisers were computed by means of an automatic device that registered the space taken by a specific firm and the price of such space. There was also a circulation department where lists of subscribers and records of their subscriptions were filed and billed.

Such ingenious contrivances were new to the village boy and his eyes widened. "I think we ought to pay more for our papers," he gasped. "I had no idea that publishing a newspaper meant so much work. I don't think we pay half enough money for all this trouble."

Mr. Hawley smiled.

"Sometimes I don't think we do either," he said.

"This is such a tremendous plant!" the boy went on breathlessly.

"Our paper is more of an undertaking, then, than your March Hare."

"Well, rather!" chuckled Paul. "I thought we had quite a proposition until I saw all this. Now the mere writing of copy seems like nothing at all. What a job it is to print the stuff after you get it!"

"They say there is no better way to become cheered up than to take a peep at some other fellow's tribulations," Mr. Hawley declared. "Now suppose you go down to the press room and see some of ours at first hand."

He led the way to an elevator that dropped them quickly to the basement of the building.

"Do they always put the presses downstairs?" asked Paul.

"Practically always, yes," replied Mr. Hawley. "It is necessary to do so because of the immense weight of the presses. The problems of the vibration of machinery and the support of its weight always govern all factory construction and the building of plants of a similar nature. Most newspaper presses are therefore placed on solid ground, or as near it as possible, in order to minimize the difficulties arising from these two conditions. Some years ago, however, the Boston Post ventured an innovation by arranging its presses one over the other, three in a tier; and as the experiment has proved a success, many other large newspapers in various parts of the country have followed their example."

"If floor space can be economized it must be a great saving to newspaper plants whose buildings are in the heart of a city; real estate is no small item of expense," observed Mr. Wright.

"Precisely," agreed Mr. Hawley. "Yet high as were rentals and taxes, no one had had the courage to try a press constructed on another plan. It meant, of course, a new set of difficulties to solve. I happen to know, for instance, that when the floor for the sub-basement of the Post was constructed, the beams were set close enough together to support a weight of four hundred pounds to each square foot of space. This was not entirely necessary but it was done as a precaution against accident. Sometimes the mammoth rolls of paper fed into the presses fall when being hoisted into place and drop with a crash. If the floor were not strong the whole fifteen hundred pounds might go through and carry everything with it. The builders wished to be prepared for an emergency of this sort."

"They were wise."

"They could take no chances," said Mr. Hawley gravely. "The cellars, you see, run five stories below ground. They had to dig down, down, down to get the room they needed. The disadvantage of this is that all materials and all the printed papers as well have to be hoisted to and from the ground floor, and air and water must be pumped from the street level. Nevertheless, that this can be done has been proved. The questions of heating and ventilation are the most serious ones, for in the press rooms the thermometer cannot be permitted to vary more than a few degrees, either in winter or summer; any marked difference in temperature instantly affects the flow of the ink, causing no end of trouble. For that reason we have fans and all sorts of mechanical contrivances to keep the rooms at the desired heat."

"I should think you had conquered almost every imaginable difficulty," Mr. Wright remarked.

"Pretty nearly," returned Mr. Hawley good-naturedly.

They had now reached the lowest floor and the press rooms were a whir of noise and clatter. As the three entered, the hum of the machinery rendered further speech impossible.

Paul gazed up at the presses that towered high above his head.

There was the mighty machine and there were the hurrying workers, walking about it; some stood on the cement floor, and others moved here and there along the small swinging platforms that circled the upper part of the leviathan. In mid-air, held by mighty chains, hung the rolls of blank paper that were soon to be transformed into newspapers. As the vast spools of unprinted material were reeled off, the ribbons of whiteness passed like a spider's web in and out the turning wheels, and as they moved over the inked cylinders that printed them on both sides, the happenings of the world were recorded with lightning speed. In the meantime into the racks below were constantly dropping papers neatly folded,—papers that were finished and had each section arranged in its proper place; and to Paul's amazement an automatic machine counted these as they came from the press.

Whenever a certain number of papers were counted out a man came forward, hoisted the lot to his shoulder and disappeared into the elevator with it; or handed it to some one whose it duty it was to load it on to a truck, carry it upstairs, and put it into one of the myriad wagons that waited at the curb for its load. As fast as these wagons were filled they dashed off, bearing the Sunday editions to railway stations for shipping, or to distributing centers throughout the city; others had wrappers put on them and were dispatched to the mailing department to be addressed and forwarded to patrons who lived out of town.

"Some business, eh, Paul?" said Mr. Wright.

"You bet it is!"

"About one third of all the wood-pulp paper produced in America goes into newspapers and periodicals," Mr. Hawley managed to shout above the uproar of the whirling wheels. "That is where so many of our spruce, poplar, and hemlock trees go. Telephone books, telephone blanks, transfers for electric cars, city directories, play bills, consume a lot of paper; then in addition to the papers printed in English there are in America papers printed in fifty different foreign languages."

"I don't wonder there was a shortage of paper during the war," stammered Paul.

"It hit us pretty close," Mr. Hawley owned. "Our Sunday editions had to be curtailed a good deal, and many of the monthly publications were put out of business entirely by the high cost of paper. The monthly magazine is, you know, a great seller in rural communities. A newspaper is usually a local affair; but the monthly circulates all over the country and is not by any means confined to the district in which it is published."

"It makes a nice lot of work for the Post Office Department," put in Mr. Wright jestingly.

"Yes, it does," agreed Mr. Hawley.

"I suppose book publishing and music publishing take more paper," mused Paul.

"Yes. The printing of music is an expensive and fussy piece of work, too. It must be accurately done, and done by men who are experienced in that special kind of work. One misprint will cause a discord and throw the music out of sale. Of course if a song turns out to be popular, a small fortune is often reaped from it; but if it is not, the cost of getting it out is so great that little is netted by the publishers."

They moved on into another room where it was more quiet, leaving the hum of the presses behind them.

"This," explained Mr. Hawley, "is the stereotype-casting room of which I told you. It is here that the papier-mache forms made from the forms you saw in linotype are brought and cast in solid pieces for the presses. Let us watch the process. You can see how they fasten the paper impression around this mold so that the cast of it can be taken. The hot metal is run in, and pressed into every depression of the cardboard. The thickness of these semi-cylindrical casts is carefully specified and over there is a machine that pares off or smooths away all superfluous material so that they come out exactly the proper thickness; otherwise they would not fit the rollers of the press."

Paul watched. Sure enough! After being cast, the sections of stereotype were put into the machine indicated and moved quickly along, being planed off as they went; when they emerged the wrong side of them was smooth and even.

"This kettle or tank of hot metal," went on Mr. Hawley, pointing to a vat of seething composition, "has to be kept, as I explained to you, at a specified degree of heat if we are to get successful stereotypes of our forms. Therefore a great deal depends on the skill and judgment of the man who prepares and melts down the mixture bubbling in that kettle. Without his brain and experience there could be no newspapers."

As he spoke Mr. Hawley waved a salutation to the workman in blue overalls who was studying the indicator beside the furnace.

"That indicator tells the exact temperature of the melted solution in the kettle; also the temperature of the furnace. There can be no variation in heat without hindering the work of casting, and perhaps wrecking the casts and wasting a quantity of material. So on that little chap over there by the fire hangs our fate."

The workman heard the words and smiled, and Paul smiled in return.

"Do they make stereotypes for circular rollers and print books this same way?" he asked.

"No. Most books are electrotyped, the machinery being much less complex than is the newspaper press. A rotary press cannot do such fine or accurate work."

For a moment they lingered, watching the busy scene with its shifting figures. Then they stepped into the elevator and were shot up to the street level. The hands of the clock stood at eleven when at last they emerged upon the sidewalk.

Paul sighed.

"Tired?"

"Rather, sir; aren't you?"

"Well, I just feel as if I had played sixteen holes of golf," Mr. Wright replied. They laughed together.

"But, Jove! It was worth it though, wasn't it?" cried Paul.

"I think so."

"I, too! Only," added the boy, "I still believe we ought to pay more for our newspapers."



CHAPTER XV

THE DECISION

For the next few days after his return from Boston Paul thought and talked of little else save the great newspaper press that he had seen. Beside a project as tremendous as the publication of a widely circulated daily the March Hare became a pitifully insignificant affair.

Nevertheless the March Hare was not to be thrust aside. It clamored for attention. Its copy came in as before from students and staff, and mixed with this material were some exceptionally fine articles from patents and distant alumnae. Judge Damon had taken to contributing a short, crisp editorial almost every month, something of civic or national importance; and two of Burmingham's graduates who were in France sent letters that added an international flavor to the magazine. Never had the issues been so good. Certainly the monthly so modestly begun had ripened into an asset that all the town would regret to part with.

In the meantime graduation was approaching and the day was drawing near when 1920 must bid good-by to the familiar halls of the school, and instead of standing and looking down from the top of the ladder, as it now did, it must set forth into the turmoil of real life where its members would once again be beginners. What an ironic transformation that would be! A senior was a person looked up to by the entire student body, a dignitary to be treated with profound respect. But once outside the sheltering walls of his Alma Mater he would suddenly become a very ordinary being who, like Samson shorn of his locks, would enter business or college a weak, timid neophyte. It seemed absurd that such a change could be wrought in so short a time.

But before the day when the diplomas with their stiff white bows would be awarded, the future fate of the March Hare must be decided. Every recurrence of this thought clouded Paul's brow. He still had intact Mr. Carter's fifty-dollar bill. It was as crisp and fresh as on the day the magnate of Burmingham had put it into his hand, and the typewriter Paul coveted still glistened in the window of a shop on the main street. Day after day he had vacillated between the school and that fascinating store window, and each day he had looked, envied, and come home again. It was now so late that the purchase of this magic toy would be of little use to him. Nevertheless, he wanted it. Every night when he went to bed he quieted his conscience's accusations of cowardice by arguing that the money had not been spent. But not spending it, he was forced to own, was far from being the same thing as returning it. It was strange that it should be so hard for him to part with that money!

In the interim he had cashed in his war stamps and with the additional sum he had earned for doing the chores around the place he and Melville Carter had paid the bill the March Hare owed and deposited the remainder of their combined cash in the bank, so that the accounts now stood even. Whatever should now become of the magazine, its slate was a clean one so far as its financial standing went.

Having thus disposed of all debts and entanglements, only the adjustment of the deal with Mr. Carter remained. This was not so easily to be cleared from Paul's path.

It was his first thought in the morning, his last at night. He could never escape from it. Whenever he was in jubilant mood and in a flood of boyish happiness had forgotten it, it arose like a specter to torment him. What was he going to do with that money that he had kept so long? And what was he going to say to his classmates to earn it,—for earn it he must, since he had accepted it. It was a wretched position to be in. Why hadn't he given the bill back to the great man that day in the office? Or if he had no opportunity then, why hadn't he carried it promptly to the Echo building the next morning? He might have gone to Mr. Carter's house with it. There were a score of ways it might have been delivered to its rightful owner. Alas, he had been very weak, and by drifting along and taking no positive action had got himself into the dilemma in which he now floundered.

It was the president of 1921 who suddenly brought him up with a sharp turn by remarking one day:

"Well, Kip, you people of 1920 have certainly set us a pretty pace on the March Hare. I don't know whether, when it descends to us, we shall be able to keep it up to your standard or not."

"Descends to you!" repeated Paul vaguely.

"Yes. Of course 1920 is going to pass it on. You fellows can't very well take it with you," laughed the junior.

Paul evaded a direct answer.

"You never can tell which way a hare will run," he replied.

"You can usually figure on the direction he will take, though," retorted the under-classman, whose name was Converse. "1920 has done the school a big service by founding the paper and outlining its policy. My father was saying only last night that the magazine was well worth putting on a permanent business basis. He said that if an experienced publishing house had the handling of it it could be made into a money-making proposition—that is if everybody, young and old, would keep up their same enthusiasm for turning in stuff so the tone of the thing was not spoiled."

"I believe that, too."

"It wouldn't be such a bad idea if next year we could get in an experienced hand to help us, would it?"

The moment Paul dreaded had come.

He summoned all his dignity.

"I am not sure," he answered, "just what 1920 will decide to do with the paper when we finish the year. We may sell it."

"What! You don't mean sell it to an outsider?"

"We have an opportunity to do so."

"But—but—how could you? It's the property of the school, isn't it?" stammered Converse.

"No, not as I see it. A few of us 1920 fellows started it and have done all the work, or the bulk of it. If we choose to sell it, I don't see why we haven't a right to."

"But—Great hat, Kip! You certainly wouldn't do that!" protested the junior.

"Why not?"

"Because—well—it would be so darn yellow," burst out the other boy. "Even if the thing is yours—why—," he broke off helplessly. "And anyway, how could you? Any number of people are interested in it."

"They could keep on being interested in it."

"You mean somebody else would publish it?"

"Yes."

"As it is now?"

"Practically. They would give it a more professional touch, no doubt."

"Do you think for a second that in the hands of a cut and dried publisher it would be the same?" asked Converse hotly. "Do you imagine people would send in articles to it as they do now?"

"I don't see why not."

"They wouldn't—not on your life! Why, the reason that everybody has pitched in and written for us was precisely because the thing was not professional, and they knew they would be free of criticism. The columns have become a sort of town forum, my father said. Do you think you could get the same people to speak out under different conditions? Judge Damon, for instance, has repeatedly refused to write for the professional press. He could get a fat sum for such editorials as he writes for us if he wanted to sell them. Father said so. Besides, what's to become of 1921 if you sell out the March Hare? We couldn't run a rival paper. If the Hare continued, of course people would take a thing that was already established and that they knew about, especially as it had been so bully. It would end us so far as a school magazine was concerned."

Paul offered no reply.

"I'd call it a darn mean trick if you put such a deal over," persisted Converse indignantly, "and I guess everybody else would. I suppose you would have the legal right to sell out if you wanted to; but it has been tacitly understood from the first that the paper was started for the good of the school and would be handed down to your successors."

"I don't see why everybody should jump at that conclusion."

"Because it is the natural, square thing to do. Anybody would tell you so."

"I don't need to take a popular vote to settle my affairs," returned Paul haughtily.

"You may have to in this case," called Converse, turning on his heel.

The incident left Paul nettled and disturbed, and in consequence the Latin recitation that followed went badly; so did his chemistry exam.

The instant recess came he signalled to his closest literary associates and beckoning them into an empty classroom, banged the door.

"See here, you chaps," he began, "I've something to put up to you. We have had an offer to sell the March Hare. How does the proposition strike you?"

The boys regarded their leader blankly.

"You mean to—to—sell it out for money?" inquired one of the group stupidly.

Paul laughed.

"What else could we sell it out for, fat-head?" he returned good-humoredly.

"But—to sell it out for cash, as it stands—you mean that?"

"Righto!"

"Somebody wants to buy it?"

"Yes."

"Gee!"

"We certainly are some little editors," chuckled Melville Carter. "Who is the bidder, Kip?"

"Yes, Kip, who wants it?" came breathlessly from one and another of the group.

It was evident they had no inkling who the prospective purchaser was.

"Mr. Carter."

"Carter—of the Echo?"

"My father?" gasped Melville, dumfounded.

"Yes, he has offered to buy us out," continued Paul steadily. "He'll give us a certain sum of money to divide between us."

"But could we sell?" asked Melville slowly.

"The thing is ours, isn't it?" replied Paul. "Haven't we planned it, built it up, and done all the work?"

"Yes," Melville admitted in a half-convinced tone.

"I suppose, in point of fact, it really is ours," remarked Donald Hall. "But it would be a rotten, low-down trick for us to sell it away from the school and from 1921, I think."

"Did my father suggest it?" queried Melville.

"Yes. He is quite keen on it. He says it can be made a paying proposition."

There was a pause.

"What do you think of the offer, Kip?"

It was one of the members of the editorial staff who spoke.

"I?"

Paul turned crimson.

The question was painfully direct.

"Yes," demanded the other boys. "What do you say, Kipper? What's your opinion?"

Paul looked uneasily into the faces of his friends. Their eyes were fixed eagerly upon him. In their gaze he could read confidence and respect. A flood of scorn for his own cowardice overwhelmed him. He straightened himself.

"If you want to know what I honestly think," he heard himself saying, "I'd call it a beastly shame to sell out."

There was a shout of approval. There was only one boy who did not join in the hubbub; it was Weldon.

"How much would Carter give us apiece?" he asked.

"Shut up, you old grafter!" snapped Roger Bell. "There's no use in your knowing. You're voted down already. Kip's perfectly right. We don't want the Echo's money."

"Tell Carter there's nothing doing," put in a high voice.

"You decide, then, to bequeath the March Hare to 1921 with our blessing?" asked Paul, with a laugh.

"Sure we do!"

"We are poor but honest!" piped Charlie Decker, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling with a gesture that brought a roar of applause. Charlie was the class joke.

A gong sounded.

"There's the bell!" cried somebody. "All aboard for Greek A!"

Melville Carter reached across and rumpled up Donald Hall's hair.

"Quit it, kiddo!" protested Donald nervously, drawing back from his chum's grasp.

"What's the matter with you, all of a sudden?" demanded Melville, surprised.

"Nothing! Cut it out, that's all."

"Aren't you coming to Greek?" asked young Carter.

"In a minute. Trot along; I want to speak to Kip."

The throng filed out until only Donald and Paul were in the room.

The editor-in-chief was standing alone at the window. For the first time in weeks he was drawing the breath of freedom. A weight seemed removed from his soul. He had been weak and vacillating, but when the test had come he had not been false either to himself or to his friends. That at least was something.

Thinking that he was alone, he drew from his pocket the fifty-dollar bill that was to have been the price of his undoing, and looked at it. He would take it back that very day to Mr. Carter and confess that he had not fulfilled the contract the newspaper owner had tried to force upon him. A smile parted his lips. It was as he turned to leave the room that he encountered Donald Hall.

The expression of the lad's face gave him a start; there was shame, regret, suffering in it.

"What's the matter, Don?" Paul asked.

The boy tried to speak but no words came.

"You're not sick, old chap?"

"No. Why?"

"You look so darn queer. Anything I can do for you?"

"N—o. No, I guess not. I just waited to see if you were coming along."

"Yes, I'm coming right now," returned Paul briskly. "We'll both have to be hopping, or we'll be late. So long! See you later."

The boys passed out into the corridor together and there fled in opposite directions.

But Donald's face haunted Paul through the rest of the morning. What could be the matter with the boy?



CHAPTER XVI

AN AMAZING MIRACLE

At the close of the session that day Paul walked with reluctant feet toward the office of the Echo.

It was with the greatest difficulty that he had shaken off the fellows one by one,—Melville, Roger Bell, Donald Hall, Billie Ransom, and the other boys; he had even evaded Converse who, having heard the good news, came jubilantly toward him with the words:

"1920 is all right! She never was yellow, and I knew she wouldn't change color at this late date."

Paul smiled and passed on. Yes, he had done the square thing; he knew it perfectly well. Nor did he regret his action. On the contrary he was more light-hearted than he had been for a long time. Nevertheless he did not exactly fancy the coming interview with Mr. Carter.

He had called up the Echo, and by a bit of good fortune had managed not only to get into touch with the editorial office but to reach the publisher himself. If the business at hand were important, Mr. Carter would see him. It was important, Paul said. Then he might come promptly at four o'clock and the magnate would give him half an hour.

It was almost four now. The hands of the clock were moving toward the dreaded moment only too fast.

Soon, the boy reflected with a little shiver up his spine, he would be in the bare little sanctum of the great man, facing those piercing eyes and handing back the fifty-dollar bill that had lain in his pocket for so many weeks; and he would be confessing that he had failed in his mission,—nay, worse than that, that he had not even tried to accomplish it. It would, of course, be impossible to explain how, when the crisis had come, something within him had leaped into being,—something that had automatically prevented him from doing what was wrong and forced him to do what was right. He took small credit to himself for his deed. It was his good genius that deserved the praise. He wondered idly as he went along whether this potent force had been his conscience or his soul. Well, it did not matter much; the result was the same. Conscience, soul, whatever it was, it was sending him back to Carter with that unspent bribe money.

He was glad of it. Had he but done this weeks before, he would have been spared days and weeks of uncertainty and worry. He realized now that he had never felt right, felt happy about that bill. Yet although his bonds were now to be broken, and he was to be free at last, the shattering of his fetters was not to be a pleasant process. He knew Mr. Carter too well to deceive himself into imagining that the affair would pass off lightly. Mr. Carter was a proud man. He would not like having his gift hurled back into his face. Nor would he enjoy being beaten. Greater than any value he would set on the ownership of the March Hare would loom the consciousness that he had been defeated, balked by a lot of schoolboys, by one boy in particular. The incident would ruffle his vanity and annoy him mightily.

It was with this knowledge that Paul stepped into the elevator. How he wished there was some escape from the approaching interview! If only Mr. Carter should prove to be busy, or be out!

But Mr. Carter was not busy, and he was not out! On the contrary, the clerk told Paul that the great man was expecting him and had given orders that he was to come into the office as soon as he arrived.

Gulping down a nervous tremor, the lad steadied himself and put his hand on the knob of the awful ground-glass door. Once on the other side of it and all retreat would be cut off. Not that he really wished to retreat. It was only that he dreaded.... The knob turned and he was inside the room.

Mr. Carter was at his desk dictating a letter; he finished the last sentence and motioned his stenographer to withdraw. He then asked Paul to sit down in the chair the girl had vacated.

"Well, you've got some news for me," he began without preamble.

"Yes, sir," Paul replied. "We had a class meeting to-day. I couldn't put your deal through, Mr. Carter. I'm bringing back the money."

He laid the bill on the publisher's desk.

Mr. Carter paid no heed to the money. Instead he kept his eyes on the boy before him, studying him through the smoke that clouded the room.

"You couldn't pull it off, eh?" he said sharply. "I'm sorry to hear that. What was the trouble?"

"I didn't try to pull it off."

"Didn't try!"

"No, sir."

"You mean you didn't advise your staff to sell out?"

"I spoke against it."

"Against it!" snarled Carter, leaning forward in his chair.

The room was breathlessly still.

"You see," explained the boy, "the more I thought about it the less I approved of what you wanted me to do. I tried to think it was straight but I didn't really think so. When the fellows asked my honest opinion, I simply had to tell them the truth."

Mr. Carter made no comment, nor did his eyes leave Paul's face, but he drew his shaggy brows together and scowled.

"So," went on Paul desperately, "I've brought your money back to you. It's the same bill you gave me. I didn't spend it. Somehow I couldn't bring myself to."

There was an awkward pause. Paul got to his feet.

"I'm—I'm—sorry to have disappointed you, Mr. Carter," he murmured in a low tone as he moved across the room to go. "You have been mighty kind to us boys."

The door was open and he was crossing the threshold before the man at the desk spoke; then he called:

"Hold on a minute, son."

Paul turned.

"Shut that door."

Wondering, the boy obeyed.

Mr. Carter took up the greenback lying before him.

"So you've been carrying that money round with you ever since I gave it to you, have you?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's a long time; some weeks."

"Yes," stammered Paul. "I ought to have brought it back to you before."

"I could charge you interest on it."

The smile that accompanied the speech escaped Paul.

"I'll pay whatever you think proper," he said.

"Nonsense, boy! I was only joking," the publisher hastened to say. "But tell me something; what was it you wanted that money for? You must have needed it badly or you would not have been threatening to sell out your Liberty Bond."

"I was going to buy a typewriter, sir."

"Oh! And you didn't get it. That was a pity."

The man tapped the edge of the bill he held against the desk thoughtfully. Paul waited for him to speak; but when after an interval he still remained silent the lad shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and remarked:

"I guess I'll be going along, sir. The half hour you were to give me is up."

Then Mr. Carter spoke.

"Will you shake hands with me, my boy, before you go, or have you too poor an opinion of me for that?"

"Indeed I haven't a poor opinion of you, Mr. Carter," replied Paul, with hearty sincerity. "You have always been mighty good to me. It's true I didn't like your March Hare proposition but—"

"Your father hasn't much use for me either, I'm afraid," Mr. Carter observed moodily.

"Dad thinks you bought up the election."

"He's right. I set out to win a majority in this town and I did it. But in order to beat a man as white as your father I had to resort to a pretty poor weapon. Everything was with him. Measured up side by side we weren't in the same class. He was by far the better man and I knew it. I couldn't beat him as to character but I could do it with money, and I did. It was a contemptible game. I've always despised myself for playing it. I wish you'd tell your dad so."

Paul could scarcely credit his ears.

"And about this school business," went on Mr. Carter—"you were just right, son. The school should continue the paper along the lines on which you have started it. It ought to remain the property of the students, too. All is, if next year they care to have the Echo print it, we'll donate the labor free. The school can pay the actual cost of materials and I'll see to the rest of it. I can afford to do one decent thing for Burmingham, I guess."

"Oh, Mr. Carter," gasped Paul, "that would be—"

But the man interrupted him.

"And there's a second-hand typewriter lying round here somewhere that you can have if you like. We are getting a new one of another make. You won't find this much worn I reckon, and I guess you can manage to get some work out of it. I'll send it round to your house to-morrow in my car."

"Why, sir, I can't—"

The great man put out his hand kindly.

"There, there, run along! I'm busy," he said. "Don't forget my message to your father."

"No, sir."

Then he added hurriedly:

"I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Carter."

"That's all right," nodded the publisher, cutting him short. "I've always had the greatest respect for your father. Tell him from me that he needn't be ashamed of his son."

With these parting words he waved Paul out of the office and the door closed.



CHAPTER XVII

THE CLOUDS CLEAR

When, glowing with happiness, Paul turned into his gate late in the afternoon, he was surprised to find Donald Hall impatiently pacing the driveway before the house. The boy's bicycle was against the fence and it was evident that he had been waiting some time, for a bunch of lilacs tied to the handle-bar hung limp and faded in the sun.

"How are you, old man," Paul called jubilantly. "What are you doing here?"

"Hanging around until you should heave into sight. I must say you take your time. Your mother has been expecting you every minute since school closed."

"I had to go to the Echo office and so got delayed."

"Did you tell Carter about the meeting?"

"Yes."

"How did he take it?"

"He was great—corking!"

"Really? I thought he'd cut up pretty rough."

"So did I; but he didn't. He's more decent than I gave him credit for being. I like Carter. He's all right."

"You're the first person I ever heard say so."

"Perhaps people don't know him," replied Paul warmly. "You can't judge a man hot off the bat. You've got to try him out."

Donald broke into a laugh.

"Oh, he's been tried out all right. People know him too well; that's the trouble."

Paul stiffened.

"Well, all I can say is that I've found Carter mighty kind. He's treated me white. If you knew as much about him as I do you'd say so too. In the meantime I'd thank you to remember he's my friend and not run him down."

There was an awkward pause. Donald dug the toe of his shoe into the gravel walk and fidgeted uneasily.

Paul waited a moment, then, attributing his chum's silence to resentment, he added in a gentler tone: "I didn't mean to pitch into you so hard, old chap; it's only that Carter has been so mighty generous that I couldn't bear to have you light into him that way."

Donald, however, despite the conciliatory tone, did not raise his head. Instead he continued to bore holes in the walk, automatically hollowing them out and filling them up again with the tip of his boot.

Paul endured the suspense until at last he could not endure it any longer.

"I say, Don, what's fussing you?" he burst out.

The visitor crimsoned.

"What makes you think anything is?" he asked, hedging.

"Well, you wouldn't be loafing around here, digging up our whole driveway, unless there was," persisted Paul good-humoredly. "Come, out with it! You're the darndest kid for getting into messes. What's happened to you now?"

There was an affectionate ring in the bantering words.

Donald smiled feebly. It was true that he was usually in some scrape or other. It was not that he did mean or vicious things; Donald Hall was far too fine a lad for that. But he never could resist playing a prank, and whenever he played one he was invariably caught. Even though every other member of the crowd got away, Donald never contrived to. The boys declared this was because he was slow and clumsy. But the truth really was that he was wont, in unselfish fashion, to let every one else go first and was in consequence the unlucky victim whom the pursuers were sure to capture. The fleeing culprits were generally in too great haste to appreciate his altruism and he never enlightened them. He took his punishment, loyally refusing to peach on his chums. That was one reason Donald was such a favorite with his classmates. There was not a fellow in the school who had more friends. To be sure they called him "slow coach", "old tortoise", "fatty", and bestowed upon him many another gibing epithet, frankly telling him to his face that he was a big idiot. Nevertheless they did not conceal from him that he was the sort of idiot they all loved.

Hence it followed that when Paul saw his chum in the present disturbed frame of mind he was much distressed and immediately leaped to the conclusion that for the hundredth—nay, the five hundredth—time Don had been caught in the snares of justice.

"Come, come, Tortoise," he repeated; "tell a chap what's up with you."

"Kip," burst out Donald with sudden vehemence, "I've done a mighty mean thing."

"You!"

"Yes, sir."

"Bosh! You never did a mean thing in your life, kid."

"But I have now," smiled the lad wanly. "They say there always has to be a first time. I didn't start out to do it, though. Still, that doesn't help matters much, for it's ended that way."

"Going to let me in on it?" asked Paul, hoping to make the confession easier.

"Yes, I came over on purpose to tell you, Kip. It's the queerest mix-up you ever heard of. It's worried me no end. Sometimes, it's seemed as if I was going nutty."

"Fire ahead! Tell a man, can't you?"

"Well, you see a while ago my father sent me to deposit some money in the bank for him—a hundred-dollar bill. I put the envelope in my pocket, carefully as could be. I remember perfectly doing it. I didn't go anywhere but straight down town, either. Well, anyhow, when I got to the bank the money was gone! It wasn't in my pocket; it wasn't anywhere about me."

He stopped an instant.

"You can imagine how I felt. My father had cautioned me not to lose that money on my life. I hadn't the nerve to tell him. Somehow I thought that if I could just smooth the matter over for a little while the envelope with the money in it would turn up. I was certain I couldn't have lost it."

Again he paused.

"At first I thought I'll sell a Liberty bond I had and put my hundred in the bank to dad's credit. Then I happened to think that my father had the bond locked up in his safe-deposit box and that I couldn't get at it without telling him. I didn't know what to do. I simply hadn't the courage to go home and tell the truth. You wouldn't like to face your father and tell him you'd lost a cool hundred of his cash for him. Besides, I was sure it wasn't lost. I felt morally certain I had somehow misplaced that envelope and that it would come to light. I hunted all day, though, through my pockets and everywhere I could think of and it didn't appear. I began to get scared. What was I going to do? When the bank statement came in my father would see right off that the money had not been deposited. And anyway, even if he didn't, it was only square to tell him what I'd done. I was casting round for a way out when that noon Mel called me and asked me if I'd do an errand for him on the way home. He wanted me to stop at the bank as I passed and put in some March Hare money. It was a hundred dollars and it seemed to drop right out of the sky into my hands. I decided to deposit it to my father's credit and trust to finding the sum I'd lost to square up the school accounts."

A light of understanding began to break in on Paul.

He waited.

"I guess you know what's coming," Donald murmured.

"No, I don't."

"Well, somebody does," declared the boy wretchedly. "That's what's got me fussed. I chance to know how the March Hare books stood. Somebody's made good that money I took—made it good without saying a word about it."

Donald, studying his friend's face, saw a gleam of satisfaction pass over it.

"Kip!" he whispered, "was it you? Did you put the money back when you found it gone from the treasury?"

"Mel and I divided it. We found the accounts short and of course we had to do something. We thought we'd made a mistake in the books," explained Paul. "So we turned in the sum and evened things up."

"Without telling anybody?"

"Yes; what was the use of blabbing it all over town?"

"Gee!"

Donald fumbled in his pocket.

"Well, I've found the hundred, Kip. Here it is safe and sound. The envelope had slipped down through a hole in the lining of my pocket. The other day when I was hunting for my fountain pen, I discovered the rip. You bet I was glad. I'd have made that money good somehow. I wasn't going to take it. I hope you'll believe I'm not such a cad as that. But what I ought to have done was to tell my father in the first place. It's been an awful lesson to me. I've worried myself thin—I have, Kip. You needn't laugh."

Nevertheless, Paul did laugh. He couldn't help it when he looked at Donald's conscience-smitten expression. Moreover he could now afford to laugh.

But Donald was not so easily consoled.

"I'm almighty sorry, Kip," he said. "The whole thing has been rotten. Think of you and Mel Carter turning in your cash to make the bank accounts square. Where on earth did you each get your fifty?"

"Some of it was money I'd earned and put aside toward a typewriter; and the rest I got by cashing in my war stamps."

"Oh, I say!"

Regret and mortification overwhelmed the culprit.

"It's no matter now, Don."

"But it is, old chap. I suppose that knocked you out of buying your typewriter. It's a darn shame."

"I was pretty sore, Don—no mistake!" admitted Paul. "But it's all right now. The accounts are O.K.; I shall get my money back; and I have a typewriter into the bargain. Mr. Carter has just given me a second-hand machine they weren't using."

"Did he know about this muddle?"

"Not a yip! He did know, though, that I wanted the typewriter."

"Well, I'll take back all I ever said about him," cried Donald. "He's a trump! As for you, Kip—you deserve a hundred typewriters! It's all-fired good of you not to rub this in. I know I've caused you a lot of trouble and I'm sorry. That's all I can say."

"Shut up, Tortoise. It's all right now," repeated Paul. "Only don't go appropriating any more funds that don't belong to you. We might jail you next time. Taking other people's cash isn't much of a stunt."

"You bet it isn't!" cried Donald heartily. "When you do it you think it's going to be easy as fiddle to slip it back again; but it doesn't seem to turn out that way. Jove, but I'm glad I'm clear of this mess!"

"I guess we both will sleep better to-night than we have for one while," called Paul, moving toward the house. "So long, Don!"

"So long, Kipper. And don't you go losing that money. It's caused too much worry already."

"I'll take care of it—don't you fuss about that. There are no rips in my coat lining."

Thus they parted—the happiest pair of boys in all Burmingham.



CHAPTER XVIII

GRADUATION

Thus did Paul's troubles dissolve in air and with the June winds blow far away. In the meantime graduation came and the essay he delivered was clicked off on Mr. Carter's typewriter which, considering the fact that it was a second-hand one, was an amazingly fresh and unscarred machine.

Nor was this all. After the graduation exercises had come to a close, and the audience was passing out of the building, Mr. Cameron and the publisher of the Echo came face to face in the corridor. They had not met since the famous mayoral campaign when Carter, by means of wholesale bribery, had swept all before him. Hence the present encounter was an awkward one and many a citizen of Burmingham stopped to witness the drama. Had the two men been able to avoid the clash they would undoubtedly have done so; but the hallway was narrow and escape was impossible. Here they were wedged in the crowd, each of them having come hither to see his son take his diploma. It was a day of rejoicing and no time for grudges.

Melville was at his father's elbow while at Mr. Cameron's heels tagged Paul, hot, tired, but victorious.

The instant the group collided the magnate's hand shot out and gripped that of the editor-in-chief of the March Hare.

"Well, youngster, I'm proud of you!" he exclaimed. "You did well. We shall be making a newspaper man of you yet."

Then, glancing up into the face of the lad's father, he added with hesitating graciousness:

"I—I—congratulate you on your son, Cameron."

Mr. Cameron was not to be outdone.

"And I on yours, Mr. Carter. Melville is a fine boy. You must be glad that he has done so well."

"Oh, Melville's not perfect," declared Mr. Carter, obviously pleased, "but he is all the boy we've got and we like him."

There was a pause.

"Our young representatives have done pretty well on this paper of theirs, haven't they?" remarked Mr. Carter the next moment.

"They certainly have," agreed Mr. Cameron. "The March Hare is a very readable and creditable little magazine. You've done both the school and the community a service, Carter, by printing it."

"I've made some blunders in my life, Cameron, for which I have since been very sorry," the rich man said, looking significantly into Mr. Cameron's eyes. "But printing the March Hare was not one of them, thank God! We consider the school paper well worth printing," he added in a lighter tone. "Everything the Echo prints is worth while, you know."

Mr. Cameron laughed at the jest.

"I've been dragged into reading your august publication, you know," said he. "I subscribed to it against my will, I must own; however, I must confess that I have enjoyed it very much. If you'd change your party, Carter, and come into the proper political fold—"

Mr. Carter held up his hand.

"No propaganda, Cameron!" he declared good-naturedly. "We must learn wisdom of our children. Their paper is quite non-partisan. In fact," he continued, lapsing into seriousness, "the younger generation teaches us many things. I've learned a lesson or two from your son. You have put a great deal of your fineness of principle into him, Cameron. I hope you realize what a deep respect I entertain for you. I have always regretted the occurrences that parted us. If I had my life to live over again, my dear sir, there are some offenses that I should not repeat. An honor that one wins by foul means is an empty one. I took an unfair advantage of an honorable gentleman in the campaign of 1916 and I have always been sorry and longed to tell you so. I now offer you my hand. It is the only amendment I can make for the past."

The apology was a handsome one and Mr. Cameron was a big enough man to be forgiving.

Taking his enemy's palm in a warm grasp he said:

"We all blunder sometimes, Carter."

"An honest blunder is one thing; but pre-meditated meanness is quite another, Cameron. However, I appreciate your generosity. It is like you—on the same scale with the rest of your nature." Then to shift a subject that was embarrassing he remarked: "As for these young rascals of ours, I suppose a great career awaits each of them after college is over. Your son has a better brain than mine; but they are both promising fellows. I'd like to land Paul in an editorial position. He has a decided gift for such a job. Perhaps later on I may be able to help him, should he decide to take up such work permanently. I should be very proud to be of service either to you or him, Cameron."

"Thank you, sir," replied Mr. Cameron courteously.

Amid the pressing crowd they separated, the parents to go home in a mood of satisfaction and happiness, and the boys to continue the day's festivities with a class banquet and a dance.

That banquet was a never-to-be-forgotten affair!

For weeks the class officers had been planning it and no detail was omitted that could add merriment and joy to the crowning event of 1920's career.

No sooner were the guests seated at the long table and the spread fairly begun than a stuffed rabbit, exquisitely decorated with the class colors, was borne into the room. This was, of course, the far-famed March Hare. Its advent was greeted with a storm of clapping.

Very solemnly it was elevated in Paul's hands and amid shouts and cheers was carried by the graduating editor-in-chief to the president of 1921 where, with an appropriate speech, it was surrendered into the keeping of the incoming seniors.

Then the banquet went on only to have its progress interrupted at intervals by bustling attendants who came rushing in with telegrams, special delivery letters, and telephone messages from the Hatter, the Red Queen, the Dormouse, and many another well-beloved Wonderland character. Afterward the Walrus and the Carpenter sang a song and then, with great acclaim and a crash of the orchestra, the folding doors opened and Alice herself, impersonating 1921, entered, gathered up the March Hare, and with a graceful little poem of farewell to 1920 took the head of the table.

With a sigh glad yet regretful, Paul surrendered his place.

He had longed for the day when he should be graduating from school and setting forth for college; but now that the moment had really arrived, he found himself not nearly so glad to depart from the High School as he had expected to be. Many a pleasant memory clustered about the four years he had spent in those familiar classrooms. And the comrades of those years,—he was parting from them, too. Some were scattering to the various colleges; some were going into business; others were to remain at home. Never again would they all travel the same path together. Alas, graduation had its tragic as well as its happy aspects!

Perhaps some such thought as this lurked deep down in the breast of every member of 1920, but for the sake of one another, and to make the last moments they were to spend together unclouded by sadness, each bravely struggled to banish this sinister reflection.

Hence the dance that followed the banquet was an uproarious affair. When one is young and all the world lies before, the conqueror Gloom is short-lived. So 1920 danced gayly until midnight, forgetful of every shadow, and when weary, sleepy, but triumphant, a half-jubilant, half-sorrowful lot of girls and boys betook themselves to their homes, it was with ringing cheers for the Burmingham High School, the class of 1920, the March Hare, Mr. Carter, its printer, and Paul Cameron, its editor-in-chief.



[Transcriber's Note:

The following errors have been corrected:

List of Illustrations: The page number for the last illustration has been changed from 137 to 136. Page 77: "Strasburg" changed to "Strasbourg" (a native of Strasbourg,) Page 111: "acounts" changed to "accounts" (When the accounts were found to be short,) Page 171: "papier-mache" changed to "papier-mache" (a sort of papier-mache)

All other spelling and punctuation inconsistencies have been retained.]

THE END