"I can't help that," blustered Mr. Cameron, striding impatiently across the hall. "Why, it's preposterous! He's making a goat of you, son, that's all. He never meant to print your paper. He simply made up a lot of conditions that he knew could never be fulfilled and sent you away with them. It was a mean trick. Just like him, too! He'd think it a great joke."
"I don't believe he was joking," Paul answered slowly. "And anyway, even if he were, I don't have to take it as a joke. I can take him seriously, fulfill his contract, and make him live up to his agreement, can't I? Then if the whole thing were a joke, the joke would be on him."
Mr. Cameron gazed into the boy's eager face a few seconds, then smiled suddenly.
"That's not a bad idea," he observed. "We'd have Carter fast in his own trap then."
"To be sure."
"By Jove, Paul—if I haven't half a mind to help you out!" He slapped his son on the shoulder. "I'll do it! I declare if I won't. I'll send in my subscription to the Echo to-morrow. I needn't read the thing, even if I do take it. What other tasks did the old schemer impose on you?"
"I've got to get some ads for him—ten of them."
"Whew!"
"And I've got to ask Judge Damon for six articles on The League of Nations."
"Ha, ha! That's a good one," chuckled Mr. Cameron. "The League of Nations is like a red rag to the Judge. He can't be trusted to speak of it, let alone writing about it."