by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER VIII _Mystery in the Night_
Helen and Tom hurried home from school Thursday noon, ate a hasty lunchand then went on to the _Herald_ office to finish their task of puttingout their first issue of the paper.
Helen stopped at the postoffice for the mail and Tom went on to unlockthe 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 herFather's familiar handwriting. She ran into the _Herald_ office and oninto the composing room where Tom was locking the last page on the oldflat-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'llcall 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 onthe motor and threw in the clutch. The old machine clanked back andforth, gathering momentum for the final run of the week.
Helen eagerly scanned the front page as it came off the press. It washeavy with fresh ink but she thrilled at the makeup on page one. Therewere her stories, the one about the tornado and the other about the highstanding of the local school. Tom's heads looked fine. The paper wasbright 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 assemble and foldthe papers. She donned a heavy apron, piled the papers on one of themakeup tables and placed a chair beside her. With arms movingmethodically, she started to work, folding the papers and sliding themoff the table onto the chair.
Tom had just got the press running smoothly when there was a grindingcrash followed by the groaning of the electric motor.
Helen turned quickly. Something might have happened to Tom. He might haveslipped 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 forthe junk pile for years but Dad never felt he could afford to get a newone or even a good second-hand one."
"What will we do?" asked Helen anxiously. "We've got to get the paperout."
"I'll run down to the garage and get Milt Pearsall to come over. He's afine mechanic and Dad has called on him before when things have gonewrong with the press."
Tom hastened out and Helen resumed her task of folding the few paperswhich had been printed before the breakdown. Everything had been going sosmoothly until this trouble. Now they might be delayed hours if thetrouble was anything serious.
She heard someone call from the office. It was her mother and shehastened 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 tobe the first to open and read it."
"You're so thoughtful," murmured her mother. With hands that trembled inspite of her effort to be calm, she opened the letter and unfolded thesingle page it contained. Helen waited, tense, until her mother hadfinished.
"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 heexpects 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 cando?"
"If you've got the time to spare, I'd like to have you look over ourfirst 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 frontpage and you've so many good stories. Tom did splendidly on the ads. Howproud your father will be when he gets a copy."
"I thought perhaps you'd like to write his address on a wrapper and we'llput 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'llgo on to the kensington at Mrs. Henderson's."
"Don't forget to pick up all the news you can at the party," cautionedHelen.
"I won't," promised her mother.
Helen had just finished folding the papers when Tom returned with MiltPearsall.
The mechanic was a large, heavy-set man with a mop of unruly hair, eyesthat twinkled a merry blue, and lips that constantly smiled.
"Hello, Editor," he boomed. "Press broke again, Tom says. Huh, expectedit to happen most anytime. Well, let's see what's the matter."
He eased his bulk down under the press, dug into his tool kit for aflashlight and wormed his way into the machinery.
"Get me the long wrench," he directed Tom.
The request complied with, there followed a number of thumps and whacksof steel against steel, a groan as Pearsall bumped his head in thecrowded quarters, and finally a grunt of satisfaction.
The mechanic crawled from under the press, a smudge of ink across hisforehead. He wiped his hands thoughtfully.
"Some day," he ventured, "that old press is going to fall apart and Iwon't be able to tease it back again."
"What was the trouble?" asked Tom.
"Cross bar slipped out of place and dropped down so it caught and heldthe bed of the press from moving. Good thing you shut off the power oryou might have snapped that rod. Then we'd have been out of luck until Icould have made a new one."
"How much will it be?" Tom asked.
The big mechanic grinned.
"Oh, that's all right, Tom," he chuckled. "Just forget to send me a billfor my subscription. That's the way your Dad and I did."
"Thanks a lot for helping us out," said Tom, "and I'll see that you don'tget a subscription dun."
Tom climbed back to his place on the press, turned on the power and easedthe clutch in gently. Helen watched anxiously, afraid that they mighthave another breakdown but the old machine clanked along steadily and shepicked up the mounting pile of papers and returned to her task offolding.
Paper after paper she assembled, folded and slid onto the pile on thechair. When the chair overflowed with papers she stopped and carried theminto the editorial office and piled them on the floor.
Tom finished his press run and went into the editorial office to get outtheir old hand mailer and start running the papers through to stamp thenames and addresses on each one.
After an hour of steady folding Helen's arms ached so severely shestopped working and went into the editorial office.
"Getting tired?" Tom asked.
She nodded.
"You run the mailer for a while and I'll fold papers," said her brother."That will give you a rest."
Helen agreed and they switched work. She clicked the papers through themailer at a steady pace.
"Papers ready?" called the postmaster from his office in the front halfof the _Herald_ building.
"The city list is stamped and ready," replied Helen. "I'll bring them inright away."
"Never mind," said Mr. Hughes, "I'll save you a trip."
"Matter of fact," continued the postmaster when he entered the office, "Iwanted to see what kind of an issue you two kids got out."
Helen handed him an unstamped paper and he sat down in the one vacantchair. She valued the old postmaster's friendship highly and awaited hiscomment with unusual interest.
"One of the best issues of the _Herald_ I've ever seen," he enthused whenhe had finished looking ove
r the paper. "Your stories have got all yourDad's 'get up and go' and these headlines are something new for the_Herald_. Believe I like 'em."
"Some people may not," said Helen, "so we'll appreciate all of theboosting you do."
"I'll do plenty," he chuckled as he picked up an armful of papers andreturned to the postoffice.
Margaret Stevens bustled in after school in time to help carry the lastof the papers to the postoffice and she insisted on sweeping out theeditorial office.
"You're just 'white' tired," she scolded Helen. "Sit down and I'll swingthis broom a few times."
"I am a little tired," admitted Helen. "How about you, Tom?"
"Me for bed just as soon as I get home and have something to eat," agreedher brother. "Guess we were all worked up and nervous over our firstissue."
"You were a real help, Margaret," said Helen, "and I hope you'll likereporting well enough to stick with us."
"I'm crazy about it," replied Margaret, wielding the broom with newvigor.
Conversation among the sophomores the next morning at school was devotedsolely to the class picnic in the afternoon. The refreshment committeehad been busy and each member of the class was to furnish one thing.Helen was to bring pickles and Margaret's mother was baking a largechocolate cake.
The class was dismissed at noon for the rest of the day, to meet again atone o'clock at Jim Preston's boat landing for the trip down the lake tothe picnic grounds on Linder's farm.
There were 18 in the sophomore class and it was necessary for the boatmanto make two trips with the _Liberty_ to transport them to the picnicgrounds. Helen and Margaret were in the first boat load and were thefirst ones out on the sandy beach at Linder's. The rambling oldfarmhouse, famous for its home cooked chicken dinners, set back severalhundred feet from the lake shore. To the left of the farm was a densegrove of maples. The picnic was to be along the shore just in front ofthe maples where there was ample shade to protect the group from the warmrays of the sun.
Miss Carver, the class advisor, rented two rowboats at Linder's, and theclass took turns enjoying cruises along the shore, hunting unusual rocksand shells for their collection at school.
The day previous Miss Carver and another teacher had come down the lakeand made arrangements for a treasure hunt. The first clue was to berevealed at three o'clock and the class, divided into two groups, was tocompete to see which group could find the hidden treasure. The first cluetook them to the Linder farmyard, the second through the maples to an oldsugarhouse, and the third brought them out of the timber and along ameadow where placid dairy cattle looked at them with wondering eyes. Thefourth clue was found along the stream which cut through the meadow andHelen, leading one group, turned back toward the lake. A breeze wasfreshening out of the west and the sun dropped rapidly toward the shadowswhich were enfolding the hills.
The final clue took them back to their picnic ground and they arrivedjust ahead of Margaret and her followers to claim the prize, a two poundbox of chocolates.
Miss Carver had laid out the baskets and hampers of food and the girls,helped by the boys in their clumsy way, started serving the supper.
One of the boys built a bonfire and with the coming of twilight and thecooling of the air its warmth felt good. The flames chased the shadowsback toward the timber and sent dancing reflections out on the ruffledwaters of Lake Dubar.
The afternoon in the open had whetted their appetites and they enjoyedtheir meal to the fullest. Thick, spicy sandwiches disappeared as if bymagic, pickles followed in quick order and the mounds of potato saladmelted away.
They stopped for a second wind before attacking the cakes and cookies butwhen those fortresses of food had been conquered the boys cut andsharpened sticks and the girls opened a large sack of marshmallows.
More wood was heaped on the fire and they gathered around the flames totoast the soft, white cubes.
With the wind whispering through the trees and the steady lap, lap, lapof the waves on the shore, it was the hour for stories and they settledback from the fire to listen to Miss Carver, whose reputation as a storyteller was unexcelled.
"It was a night like this," she started, "and a class something like thisone was on a picnic. After supper they sat down at the fire to tell ghoststories, each one trying to outdo the other in the horror of the thingsthey told."
From somewhere through the night came a long drawn out cry rising from asoft note to a high crescendo that sent shivers running up and down theback of everyone at the fireside.
Helen laughed.
"It's only the whistle of a freight train," she assured the others, butthey all moved closer to the fire.
"While they told stories," went on Miss Carver, "the blackness of thenight increased, the stars faded and over all there was a canopy of suchdarkness as had never been seen before. The wind moaned dismally like alost soul and the waters of the lake, white-capped by the breeze,chattered against the rocky beach. The last ghost story was being told byone of the boys. He told how people disappeared as if by magic, leavingno trace behind them, uttering no sound. Some of the other stories hadbeen surprising, but this one gave the class the creeps and everyoneturned to see if the others were there."
Involuntarily Helen reached out to clasp Margaret's hand and when shefailed to find it, turned to the spot where Margaret had been sittingbeside her a few minutes before.
Margaret had disappeared!