scrubbed clean, and the desk and counter were neat and orderly.
“Looks like a different office,” he said. “But wait until I have a chance to swing a broom and mop in the composing room. And I’m going to fix some of the makeup tables so they’ll be a little handier.”
Helen handed him the editorial and Tom read it thoughtfully.
“It’s mighty short,” he said, “but it tells the story.”
“Dad wouldn’t want a long sob story,” replied Helen. “Here’s the clipped editorials. You can put them on the hook on your Linotype and I’ll bring the others out as soon as I write them.”
Tom returned to the composing room with the handful of editorial copy Helen had given him and the editor of the Herald resumed her duties.
She wrote an editorial on the beauty of Rolfe in the spring and another one on the desirability for a paved road between Rolfe and Gladbrook, the county seat. In advocating the paved road, Helen pointed to the increased tourist traffic which would be drawn to Rolfe as soon as a paved road made Lake Dubar accessible to main highways.
It was nearly two o’clock when she finished her labor at the typewriter. She was tired and hungry. One thing sure, being editor of the Herald would be no easy task. Of that she was convinced.
“Let’s go home for dinner,” she called to Tom.
“Suits me,” replied her brother. “I’ve finished throwing in the last page. We’re all ready to start work on the next issue.”
They took off their aprons and while Helen washed her hands, Tom closed the windows and locked the back door. He took his turn at the sink and they locked the front door and started for home.
“What we need now is a good, big story for our first edition,” said Tom.
“We may have it before nightfall if those clouds get to rolling much more,” said Helen.
Tom scanned the sky. The sunshine of the May morning had vanished. Ominous banks of clouds were rolling over the hills which flanked the western valley of Lake Dubar and the lake itself was lashed by white caps, spurred by a gusty wind.
They went down main street, turned off on the side street and climbed the slope to their home.
Mrs. Blair was busy putting some heavy pots over flowers she wanted to protect from the wind.
“Dinner’s all ready,” she told them, “and I’ve asked Margaret Stevens over. She wants to talk with Helen about the sophomore class picnic tomorrow.”
“I won’t have time to go,” said Helen. “We’ll be awfully busy working on the next issue.”
“You’re on the class committee, aren’t you?” asked Tom.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re going to the picnic. We’ll have lots to do on the Herald but we won’t have to give up all of our other activities.”
“Tom is right,” said Mrs. Blair. “You must plan on going to the picnic.”
Margaret Stevens came across the street from her home. Margaret was a decided brunette, a striking contrast to Helen’s blondness.
“We’ll go in and eat,” said Mrs. Blair. “Then we’ll come out and watch the storm. There is going to be a lot of wind.”
Margaret was jolly and good company and Helen thought her mother wise to have a guest for dinner. It kept them from thinking too much about their father’s absence.
There was roast beef and hashed brown potatoes with thick gravy, lettuce salad, pickled beets, bread and butter, large glasses of rich milk and lemon pie.
“I’ve never tasted a better meal,” said Tom between mouthfuls.
“That’s because you’ve been so busy at the office,” smiled his mother.
“We were moving right along,” agreed Tom. “I got the forms all ready for the next issue and Helen has the editorials done.”
“Won’t you need a reporter?” asked Margaret.
“We may need one but Helen and Mother are going to try and do all the news writing,” said Tom.
“I mean a reporter who would work for nothing. I’d like to help for I’ve always wanted to write.”
“You could be a real help, Margaret,” said Helen, “and we’d enjoy having you help us. Keep your ears open for all of the personal items and tell Mother about any parties. She’s going to write the society news.”
“We’re getting quite a staff,” smiled Tom. “I’m open for applications of anyone who wants to work in the mechanical department.”
“That’s not as romantic as gathering and writing news,” said Margaret.
“But just as important,” insisted Tom.
The room darkened and a particularly heavy gust of wind shook the house. From the west came a low rumbling.
Tom dropped his knife and fork and went to the front porch.
“Come here, Helen!” he cried. “The storm’s breaking. You’re going to have your first big story right now!”
CHAPTER IV
Through the Storm
Tom’s cry brought the others from the dinner table to the screened-in porch which overlooked the lake. He was right. The storm was roaring down out of the hills in the west in all its fury.
The black clouds which had been rolling along the horizon when Tom and Helen had come home were massed in a solid, angry front. Driven by a whistling wind, they were sweeping down on the lake. An ominous fringe of yellow wind clouds dashed on ahead and as they reached the porch they saw the waters of Lake Dubar whiten before the fury of the wind.
“Looks like a twister,” shouted Tom.
His mother’s face whitened and she anxiously scanned the sky.
Doctor Stevens ran across from his home.
“Better close all your windows and secure the doors,” he warned. “We’re going to get a lot of wind before the rain comes.”
“Tom is afraid of a tornado,” said Mrs. Blair.
“The weather is about right,” admitted the doctor. “But we won’t worry until we see the clouds start to swirl. Then we’ll run for the storm cellar under my house.”
Helen and Margaret hurried to help Mrs. Blair close the upstairs windows while Tom went around to make sure that the screens were secure. He bolted all doors except the one to the porch and when he returned to join the others, the tempo of the wind was increasing rapidly.
The wind suddenly dropped to a whisper and Doctor Stevens watched the rolling clouds with renewed anxiety. The waters of the lake were calmer and the dust clouds which the wind had driven over the water cleared partially.
“Look!”
