Briggs said nonchalantly:
“McGaffey’s gone.”
“Gone! Gone where?” asked Patsy.
“Back to New York. Caught a freight from the Junction Saturday night.”
“Isn’t he coming back?” inquired Beth.
“Here’s a letter he left,” said Miss Briggs.
They read it together. It was very brief; “Climate don’t suit me. No excitement. I’ve quit. McGaffey.”
“I suppose,” said Patsy, with indignation, “he intended to go, all the while, and only waited for his Saturday pay.”
Miss Briggs nodded. She was at the telegraph instrument.
“What shall we do?” asked Louise. “Can anyone else work the press?”
“I’ll find out,” said Patsy, marching into the workroom.
Neither Fitz nor Larry would undertake to run the press. They said the machine was so complicated it required an expert, and unless an experienced pressman could be secured the paper must suspend publication.
Here was an unexpected dilemma; one that for a time dazed them.
“These things always happen in the newspaper business,” remarked Miss Briggs, when appealed to. “Can’t you telegraph to New York for another pressman?”
“Yes; but he can’t get here in time,” said Patsy. “There’s no Monday train to Chazy Junction, at all, and it would be Wednesday morning before a man could possibly arrive. To shut down the paper would ruin it, for everyone would think we had failed in our attempt and it might take us weeks to regain public confidence.”
“I know,” said Miss Briggs, composedly. “A paper never stops. Somehow or other it always keeps going — even if the world turns somersaults and stands on its head. You’ll find a way, I’m sure.”
But the bewildered girls had no such confidence. They drove back to the farm to consult with Uncle John and Arthur.
“Let’s take a look at that press, my dears,” said Mr. Merrick. “I’m something of a mechanic myself, or was in my young days, and I may be able to work this thing until we can get a new pressman.”
“I’ll help you,” said Arthur. “Anyone who can run an automobile ought to be able to manage a printing press.”
So they went to the office, took off their coats and examined the press; but the big machine defied their combined intelligence. Uncle John turned on the power. The cylinder groaned, swung half around, and then the huge wooden “nippers” came down upon the table with a force that shattered them to kindlings. At the crash Mr. Merrick involuntarily shut down the machine, and then they all stood around and looked gloomily at the smash-up and wondered if the damage was irreparable.
“Couldn’t we print the paper on the job press?” asked the little millionaire, turning to Fitzgerald.
“In sections, sir,” replied Fitz, grinning. “Half a page at a time is all we can manage, but we might be able to match margins so the thing could be read.”
“We’ll try it,” said Uncle John. “Do your best, my man, and if you can help us out of this bog you shall be amply rewarded.”
Fitz looked grave.
“Never knew of such a thing being done, sir,” he remarked; “but that’s no reason it’s impossible.”
“‘Twill be a horror of a make-up,” added Larry, who did not relish his part in the experiment.
Uncle John put on his coat and went into the front office, followed by
Arthur and the girls in dismal procession.
“A man to see the manager,” announced Miss Briggs, nodding toward a quiet figure seated on the “waiting bench.”
The man stood up and bowed. It was the young bookkeeper from the paper mill, who had so bravely defended the girls on Saturday night. Uncle John regarded him with a frown.
“I suppose Skeelty has sent you to apologize,” he said.
“No, sir; Skeelty is not in an apologetic mood,” replied the man, smiling. “He has fired me.”
“What for?”
“Interfering with his workmen. The boys didn’t like what I did the other night and threatened to strike unless I was put in the discard.”
“And now? asked Uncle John, looking curiously at the man.
“I’m out of work and would like a job, sir.”
“What can you do?”
“Anything.”
“That means nothing at all.”
“I beg your pardon. Let me say that I’m not afraid to tackle anything.”
“Can you run a power printing press?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ever had any experience?”
The young man hesitated.
“I’m not sure,” he replied slowly; “but I think I have.”
This statement would not have been encouraging under ordinary circumstances, but in this emergency Uncle John accepted it.
“What is your name?” he asked.
Another moment’s hesitation.
“Call me Smith, please.”
“First name?”
The man smiled.
“Thursday,” he said.
All his hearers seemed astonished at this peculiar name, but Mr. Merrick said abruptly: “Follow me, Thursday Smith.”
The man obeyed, and the girls and Arthur trotted after them back to the pressroom.
“Our pressman has deserted us without warning,” explained Mr. Merrick. “None of our other employees is able to run the thing. If you can master it so as to run off the paper tonight, the job is yours.”
Thursday Smith took off his jacket — a cheap khaki affair — and rolled up his sleeves. Then he carefully looked over the press and found the damaged nippers. Without a word he picked up a wrench, released the stub ends of the broken fingers, gathered the pieces in his hand and asked: “Where is there a carpenter shop?”
“Can you operate this press?” asked Mr. Merrick.
“Yes, sir.”
“The carpenter shop is a little shanty back of the hotel. You’ll find
Lon Taft there.”
Smith walked away, and Mr. Merrick drew a long breath of relief.
“That’s good luck,” he said. “You may quit worrying, now, my dears.”
“Are you sure he’s a good pressman, Uncle?”
“No; but he is sure. I’ve an idea he wouldn’t attempt the thing, otherwise.”
Mr. Merrick returned to the farm, while Arthur drove Louise over to Huntingdon to gather items for the paper, and Patsy and Beth sat in the office arranging copy.
In an hour Smith came back with new nippers, which he fitted to the steel frame. Then he oiled the press, started it going a few revolutions, to test its condition, and handled the machinery so dexterously and with such evident confidence that Larry nodded to Fitz and muttered, “He’ll do.”
McGaffey, knowing he was about to decamp, had not kept the press very clean; but Thursday Smith put in the afternoon and evening removing grease, polishing and rubbing, until the huge machine shone resplendent. The girls went home at dinner time, but they sent Arthur to the office at midnight to see if the new pressman was proving capable. The Tuesday morning Tribune greeted them at the breakfast table, and the presswork was remarkably clean and distinct.
CHAPTER X
THURSDAY SMITH
In a day or so Mr. Merrick received a letter from Mr. Skeelty, the manager of the paper mill. He said: “I understand you have employed one of my discharged workmen, who is named Thursday Smith. My men don’t want him in this neighborhood, and have made a strong protest. I therefore desire you to discharge the fellow at once, and in case you refuse to accede to this reasonable demand I shall shut off your power.”
Mr. Merrick replied: “Shut off the power and I’ll sue you for damages. My contract with you fully protects me. Permit me a request in turn: that you mind your own business. The Millville Tribune will employ whomsoever it chooses.”
Uncle John said nothing to the girls concerning this correspondence, nor did he mention it to the new pressman.
On Wednesday Larry and Fitz sent i
n their “resignations,” to take effect
Saturday night. They told Patsy, who promptly interviewed them, that the
town was altogether too slow for men accustomed to the city, but to
Smith they admitted they feared trouble from the men at the mill.
“I talked with one of the mill hands last night,” said Larry, “and they’re up to mischief. If you stay here, my boy, you’d better watch out, for it’s you they’re after, in the first place, and Skeelty has told ‘em he wouldn’t be annoyed if they wiped out the whole newspaper plant at the same time.”
Thursday nodded but said nothing. He began watching the work of the two men with comprehensive care. When Mr. Merrick came down to the office during the forenoon to consult with his nieces about replacing the two men who had resigned, Smith asked him for a private interview.
“Come into the office,” said Uncle John.
When the man found the three girl journalists present he hesitated, but Mr. Merrick declared they were the ones most interested in anything an employee of the paper might have to say to his principals.
“I am told, sir,” Thursday began, “that the people at the mill have boycotted this paper.”
“They’ve cancelled all their subscriptions,” replied Beth; “but as they had not paid for them it won’t hurt us any.”
“It seems the trouble started through your employing me,” resumed the young man; “so it will be best for you to let me go.”
“Never!” cried Mr. Merrick, firmly. “Do you suppose I’ll allow that rascal Skeelty to dictate to us for a single minute? Not by a jug full! And the reason the men dislike you is because you pounded some of them unmercifully when they annoyed my girls. Where did you learn to use your fists so cleverly, Smith?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, you have earned our gratitude, and we’re going to stand by you. I don’t mind a bit of a row, when I’m on the right side of an argument. Do you?”
“Not at all, sir; but the young ladies — ”
“They’re pretty good fighters, too; so don’t worry.”
Thursday was silent a moment. Then he said:
“Fitzgerald and Doane tell me they’re going to quit, Saturday.”
“It is true,” replied Patsy. “I’m sorry, for they seem good men and we may have trouble replacing them.”
“They are not needed here, Miss Doyle,” said Smith. “There isn’t a great deal of electrotyping to do, or much job printing. More than half the time the two men are idle. It’s the same way with my own job. Three hours a day will take care of the press and make the regular run. If you will permit me, I am sure I can attend to all the work, unaided.”
They looked at one another in amazement.
“How about the make-up?” asked Uncle John.
“I can manage that easily, sir. I’ve been watching the operation and understand it perfectly.”
“And you believe you can do the work of three men?”
“Three men were unnecessary in a small plant like this, sir. Whoever sent them to you did not understand very well your requirements. I’ve been watching the compositors, too, and your three girls are one too many. Two are sisters, and can set all the type very easily. I recommend that you send the other back to New York.”
They considered this advice seriously.
“I think Mr. Smith is right,” observed Patsy. “The girls have not seemed busy, at all, and spend most of their time laughing and talking together.”
“It will cut down expenses a lot,” said Beth, “and I’m sure we ought to be able to run this paper more economically than we have been doing.”
Uncle John looked at the man thoughtfully.
“Where did you learn the printing business?” he asked.
“I — I don’t know, sir.”
“What offices have you worked in?”
“I cannot tell you that, sir.”
“You seem to answer all my questions with the statement that you ‘don’t know,’“ asserted Mr. Merrick, with an annoyed frown. “Is there any reason you should refuse to tell us of your former life?”
“None whatever, sir.”
“Who are you, Smith?”
“I — I don’t know, sir.”
Mr. Merrick was getting provoked.
“This obstinacy is not likely to win our confidence,” he said. “Under the circumstances I think we ought to know something more about you, before we allow you to undertake so much responsibility. You seem a bright, able young man, and I’ve no doubt you understand the work you’re about to undertake, but if we have no knowledge of your antecedents you may cause us considerable future trouble.”
Smith bowed his head and his cheeks flamed red.
“I have no knowledge of my antecedents to confide to you, sir,” he said in a low voice.
Uncle John sighed regretfully and turned away, but Patsy looked at the man with new interest.
“Won’t you please explain that a little more fully?” she gently inquired.
“I am quite willing to tell all I know,” said he; “but that is very little, I assure you. Two years ago last May, on the morning of Thursday, the twenty-second, I awoke to find myself lying in a ditch beside a road. Of my life previous to that time I have no knowledge whatever.”
The three girls regarded him with startled eyes. Uncle John turned from the window to examine the young man with new interest.
“Were you injured?” he asked.
“My right ankle was sprained and I had a cut under my left eye — you can see the scar still.”
“You have no idea how you came there?”
“Not the slightest. I did not recognize the surrounding country; I had no clear impression as to who I was. There was a farmhouse a quarter of a mile away; I limped to it and they gave me some breakfast. I found I was fifty-six miles from New York. The farmer had heard of no accident; there was no railway nearer than six miles; the highway was little used. I told the good people my story and they suspected me of being drunk or crazy, but did not credit a single word I said.”
“That was but natural,” said Uncle John.
“After breakfast I took stock of myself. In my pockets I found a twenty-dollar bill and some silver. I wore a watch and chain and a ring set with a good-sized diamond. My clothing seemed good, but the ditch had soiled it. I had no hat, nor could the farmer find one when I sent him back to look for it. My mind was not wholly a blank; I seemed to have a fair knowledge of life, and when the farmer mentioned New York the city seemed familiar to me. But in regard to myself, my past history — even my name — I was totally ignorant. All personal consciousness dated from the moment I woke up in the ditch.”
“How wonderful!” exclaimed Louise.
“And you haven’t solved the mystery yet, after two years?” asked Patsy.
“No, Miss Doyle. I hired the farmer to drive me to the railway station, where I took the train to New York. I seemed to know the city, but no recollection guided me to home or friends. I went to a small hotel, took a room, and began to read all the newspapers, seeking to discover if anyone was reported missing. The sight of automobiles led me to conceive the theory that I had been riding in one of those machines along a country road when something threw me out. My head might have struck a stump or stone and the blow rendered me insensible. Something in the nature of the thing, or in my physical condition, deprived me of all knowledge of the past. Since then I have read of several similar cases. The curious thing about my own experience was that I could find no reference to my disappearance, in any way, nor could I learn of any automobile accident that might account for it. I walked the streets day after day, hoping some acquaintance would accost me. I waited patiently for some impulse to direct me to my former haunts. I searched the newspapers persistently for a clue; but nothing rewarded me.
“After spending all my money and the proceeds of my watch and diamond, I began to seek employment; but no one would employ a man without recommendations or anteced
ents. I did not know what work I was capable of doing. So finally I left the city and for more than two years I have been wandering from one part of the country to another, hoping that some day I would recognize a familiar spot. I have done odd jobs, at times, but my fortunes went from bad to worse until of late I have become no better than the typical tramp.”
“How did you secure employment as a book-keeper for Skeelty?” asked
Uncle John.
“I heard a new mill had started at Royal and walked up there to inquire for work. The manager asked if I could keep books, and I said yes.”
“Have you ever kept books before?”
“Not that I know of; but I did it very well. I seemed to comprehend the work at once, and needed no instruction. Often during these two years I have encountered similar curious conditions. I sold goods in a store and seemed to know the stocks; I worked two weeks in a telegraph office and discovered I knew the code perfectly; I’ve shod horses for a country blacksmith, wired a house for electric lights and compounded prescriptions in a drug store. Whatever I have undertaken to do I seem able to accomplish, and so it is hard for me to guess what profession I followed before my memory deserted me.”
“You did not retain any position for long, it seems,” remarked Uncle
John.
“No; I was always impatient to move on, always hoping to arrive at some place so familiar that my lost memory would return to me. The work I have mentioned was nearly all secured during the first year. After I became seedy and disreputable in appearance people were more apt to suspect me and work was harder to obtain.”
“Why did you come to Millville?” asked Louise.
“You brought me here,” he answered, with a smile. “I caught a ride on your private car, when it left New York, not caring much where it might take me. When I woke up the next morning the car was sidetracked at Chazy Junction, and as this is a section I have never before explored I decided to stay here for a time. That is all of my story, I believe.”
“Quite remarkable!” declared Mr. Merrick, emphatically. The girls, too, had been intensely interested in the strange recital.
“You seem educated,” said Patsy thoughtfully; “therefore you must have come from a good family.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 481
