Mary had very little to say; her fingers ached from plying the scissors, her eyes burned from reading so much and so fast, and her head was in a whirl.
At the house they met Mrs. Murdoch.
"Oh, my dear children!" exclaimed she to Mary, "Mr. Murdoch is delirious. The doctor's been here, and says he won't be able to think of work—not for days and days. Can you,—can you run the Eagle? You won't let it stop."
"No, indeed!" said Mary. "There's plenty of 'copy' ready, and Jack can run the engine."
"I'm so glad," said Mrs. Murdoch. "I'd never dare to clip anything. I might make serious mistakes. He's so careful not to attack anything nor to offend anybody. All sorts of people take the Eagle, and Mr. Murdoch says he has to steer clear of almost everything."
"We won't write anything," said Jack; "we'll just select the best there is and put it right in. Those city editors on the big papers know what to write."
The editor's wife was convinced; and, after Mary had gone to her room, Jack returned to a room prepared for him in the Eagle office.
"I sha'n't wear my Sunday clothes to-morrow," said Jack; "I'll put on a hickory shirt and old trousers; then I'll be ready to work."
The last thing he remembered saying to himself was:
"Well, I'm nine miles nearer to New York."