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 bya 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 yourMarch 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, theBoston Postventured 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 thePostwas 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 thepapier-mâchéforms 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 metalis 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 thatlittle 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."
For the next few days after his return fromBoston 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 theMarch Harebecame a pitifully insignificant affair.
Nevertheless theMarch Harewas 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 alumnæ. 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 approachingand 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 theMarch Haremust 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, hewanted 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 theMarch Hareowed 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 theEchobuilding 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 theMarch 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 theMarch Hare? We couldn't run a rival paper. If theHarecontinued, of course people would take a thing that was already established and that they knew about, especially as it hadbeen 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 theMarch Hare. How does the proposition strike you?"
The boys regarded their leader blankly.
"You mean to—to—sell it out formoney?" 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 theEcho?"
"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 arotten, 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 theEcho'smoney."
"Tell Carter there's nothing doing," put in a high voice.
"You decide, then, to bequeath theMarch Hareto 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 weightseemed 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?
At the close of the session that day Paulwalked with reluctant feet toward the office of theEcho.
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 theEcho, 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. Itwas 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 happyabout 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 theMarch Harewould 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. Whenthe 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 yourMarch Hareproposition 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 theEchoprint 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 somework 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.
When, glowing with happiness, Paul turnedinto 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 theEchooffice 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 decentthan 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 favoritewith 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'tlost. 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 someMarch Haremoney. 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 theMarch Harebooks 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.
Thus did Paul's troubles dissolve in air andwith 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 theEchocame 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 hisdiploma. 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 theMarch 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. "TheMarch Hareis 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 theMarch Harewas not one of them, thank God! We consider the school paper well worth printing," he added in a lighter tone. "Everything theEchoprints 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 gentlemanin 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 theday'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 theMarch Hare, and with a graceful little poem of farewellto 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 withringing cheers for the Burmingham High School, the class of 1920, theMarch Hare, Mr. Carter, its printer, and Paul Cameron, its editor-in-chief.