Dorothy thanked her, and remarked that it was not likely.

By this time they had reached the newspaper office. Up two flights of
stairs, over the post-office and drug store, the girls found the much-
perplexed Ralph Willoby waiting anxiously for his employer.

Ralph was that kind of a young man whom people trust at once. He was
known all over Dalton as a most zealous worker in the "Liquor Crusade,"
that was being very actively carried on in the town. He had a firm face,
and deep, clear eyes. The major used to say his eyes could talk faster
than his tongue--and he knew how to converse well, too.

He had his sleeves rolled up, and was bending over a pile of "copy" when
the girls entered the office. He brushed his sleeves down and rose to
hear their message.

"Father is ill," began Dorothy weakly, for inside the office its
difficulties seemed to crush her.

"And we're going to get the paper out," blurted Tavia, trying to grasp
the wonders of a real newspaper office in a single sweeping glance.

"Can't he come down?" and the young man's voice betrayed his anxiety.

"I'm afraid not," went on Dorothy. "He said we were to do the best we
could. I was to help--"

"And I guess I'm to sell the papers. Hurry up and print some. Is this
the printing press?" Tavia rattled on.