Helen in the Editor's Chair Part 14

"We're going back for a while after supper," said Helen, "but I don't think it will take us over a couple of hours to finish, do you, Tom?"

"About nine-thirty," replied Tom, who was devoting himself whole-heartedly to a large baked potato.

When they returned to the office Helen finished the last of her items in half an hour. By eight-thirty Tom had all of the news in type and had made the necessary corrections from the proofs which Helen had read.

"We need a head for the storm story," he said. "A three line, three column 30 point one ought to be about right. You jot one down on a sheet of paper and I'll try and make it fit."

Helen worked several minutes on a headline. "This is the best I can do,"

she said:

"TORNADO CAUSES $150,000 DAMAGE NEAR ROLFE SUNDAY; MISSES TOWN BUT STRIKES RESORT ALONG LAKE"

"Sounds fine," Tom said. "Now I'll see how it fits." He set up the headline and Helen wrote a two column one for the story of the Rolfe school being the best for its size in the state.

Tom put the headlines on the front page and placed the stories under them. Shorter stories, some of them written by Margaret, filled up the page and they turned their attention to page eight, the last one to be made up.

Their mother's social items led the page, followed by the church notices and the last of Helen's personals.

"We've got about ten inches too much type," said Tom. "See if some of the personals can't be left out and run next week."

Helen culled out six items that could be left out and Tom finished making up the page. Tomorrow he would print the last two pages and Helen would a.s.semble the papers and fold them. Their first issue of the _Herald_ was ready for the press.

CHAPTER VIII _Mystery in the Night_

Helen and Tom hurried home from school Thursday noon, ate a hasty lunch and then went on to the _Herald_ office to finish their task of putting out their first issue of the paper.

Helen stopped at the postoffice for the mail and Tom went on to unlock the office, put the pages on the press and start printing the last run.

In the mail Helen found a letter postmarked Rubio, Arizona, and in her Father's familiar handwriting. She ran into the _Herald_ office and on into the composing room where Tom was locking the last page on the old flat-bed press.

"Tom," she cried, "here's a letter from Dad!"

"Open it," he replied. "Let's see what he has to say."

Helen was about to tear open the envelope when she paused.

"No," she decided. "Mother ought to be the one to read it first. I'll call her and tell her it's here. She'll want to come down and get it."

"You're right," agreed Tom as he climbed up on the press. He turned on the motor and threw in the clutch. The old machine clanked back and forth, gathering momentum for the final run of the week.

Helen eagerly scanned the front page as it came off the press. It was heavy with fresh ink but she thrilled at the makeup on page one. There were her stories, the one about the tornado and the other about the high standing of the local school. Tom's heads looked fine. The paper was bright and newsy--easy to read. She hoped her Dad would be pleased.

With the final run on the press it was Helen's task to a.s.semble and fold the papers. She donned a heavy ap.r.o.n, piled the papers on one of the makeup tables and placed a chair beside her. With arms moving methodically, she started to work, folding the papers and sliding them off the table onto the chair.

Tom had just got the press running smoothly when there was a grinding crash followed by the groaning of the electric motor.

Helen turned quickly. Something might have happened to Tom. He might have slipped off his stool and fallen into the machinery of the press.

But Tom was all right. He reached for the switch and shut off the power.

"What happened?" gasped Helen, her face still white from the shock.

"Breakdown," grunted Tom disgustedly. "This antique has been ready for the junk pile for years but Dad never felt he could afford to get a new one or even a good second-hand one."

"What will we do?" asked Helen anxiously. "We've got to get the paper out."

"I'll run down to the garage and get Milt Pearsall to come over. He's a fine mechanic and Dad has called on him before when things have gone wrong with the press."

Tom hastened out and Helen resumed her task of folding the few papers which had been printed before the breakdown. Everything had been going so smoothly until this trouble. Now they might be delayed hours if the trouble was anything serious.

She heard someone call from the office. It was her mother and she hastened out of the composing room.

"Here's the letter," she said, pulling it out of a pocket in her dress.

"We knew you'd be anxious to hear."

"Why didn't you open it and then telephone me?" her mother asked.

"We could have done that," Helen admitted, "but we thought you'd like to be the first to open and read it."

"You're so thoughtful," murmured her mother. With hands that trembled in spite of her effort to be calm, she opened the letter and unfolded the single page it contained. Helen waited, tense, until her mother had finished.

"How's Dad?" she asked.

"His letter is very cheerful," replied Mrs. Blair, handing it to Helen.

"Naturally he is tired but he says the climate is invigorating and he expects to feel better soon."

"Of course he will," agreed Helen.

"Where's Tom?"

"The press broke down and he went to the garage to get Milt Pearsall."

"I hope it's nothing serious," said her mother. "Is there something I can do?"

"If you've got the time to spare, I'd like to have you look over our first issue. Here's a copy."

Helen's mother scanned the paper with keen, critical eyes.

"It looks wonderful to me," she exclaimed. "I like the heads on the front page and you've so many good stories. Tom did splendidly on the ads. How proud your father will be when he gets a copy."

"I thought perhaps you'd like to write his address on a wrapper and we'll put it in the mail tonight when the other papers go out," said Helen.

Mrs. Blair nodded and addressed the wrapper Helen supplied.

"If you're sure there's nothing I can do at the office," she said, "I'll go on to the kensington at Mrs. Henderson's."