“Well, do you remember anything more about the events of that day—the last that Norton was here?”
“Yes, father. And the more I think about it now, the better I understand things that I didn’t think much of at the time.”
“What were these things, Obed?”
“Yes!” involuntarily muttered Mr. Force. “What?”
Wynnette and Leonidas almost held their breath.
Obed told his story:
“You know, father, when the last paper was taken off the press that twentieth of August, Norton and I didn’t go to distributing the type, either of us, but both came into the front office at your call to help to fold and direct the papers, because the edition was a large one on account of the agricultural fair. You remember that, father?”
“Yes, now you remind me of it.”
“And when the papers were all dispatched it was nearly dark, and you went home, leaving Norton and myself to close up. The type was not distributed, but left, as it often was, till the next day.”
“Our paper is a weekly, as you, perhaps, know, sir,” interpolated the editor.