“Well, if you feel that way about it,” agreed the druggist, “tell your father to come down here to-night and perhaps he will be put on the committee.”

This was quite satisfactory to Tavia, and after making sure that no more strangers lurked about, the girls made their way home.

“I never was afraid in daylight before,” remarked Dorothy, whose face was still pale from the fright.  “Let us hurry.  There are the boys.  Be sure not to say anything to them about the scare.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Joe swinging his empty strap.  “All sold out.”

“Me too,” said little Roger, who had his strap buckled so tightly about his fat waist, that he had hard work to breathe under the pressure.

“Hip—­hip—­” answered Tavia, continuing: 

    “Blow Bugle, blow,
     Blow Bugle blow,
     We’re very proud
     You blew so loud
     To let the people know.”

“Price five cents!  Order now!  That’s the way city people put things in the papers about their goods,” declared Tavia.  “I think when I leave school I’ll look for work in a newspaper office.”

“Ralph said you did splendidly,” said Dorothy, “I’m sure I never could have gotten along without you.  But we are home now and—­”

“No paper for the major,” finished Tavia.

“There’s a boy.  I’ll get one,” said Joe, running off at full speed to overtake the newsboy, who had just turned the corner.

“Aunt Libby may be cross,” whispered Dorothy, “for she has been all alone, and this being Saturday she would expect help.”

“Mother won’t say anything to me,” Tavia decided, “for—­well, I have something to tell her that will make her forget all about the work.”

“Not about the—­you know—­” cautioned her companion.”

“My, no,” answered the other.  “It’s just about Mrs. Douglass’ funeral.  You know ma always goes to funerals, and I have found out that people may go to the house and see her.  That will interest ma.”

Joe was back with the paper, and was proud to have such an active interest in the Bugle.  It seemed something to say it was his own father’s paper, and then to have people remark what a bright sheet it was, and how it was never afraid to tell the truth.

“Let me give it to father?” he asked Dorothy.

“No, let me?” pleaded little Roger, “cause I ain’t hardly seen him a bit lately.”

“But you must not tell that we sold papers,” directed Joe.  “Father is not to know yet, you know.”

“Oh, I won’t tell,” Roger promised.

“But you might forget,” argued Dorothy.

“Nope,” declared the little fellow, “I’ll just let this strap keep squeezing me, then I couldn’t forget.”

“And have father ask where you got it,” said Joe laughing.

“Then I’ll tie a string round my finger,” persisted the younger brother.

“I’ll tell you,” Dorothy concluded, “You just run in, give father a good hug, put the paper on his lap and run out again without saying a word.  Then he will think you are playing newsboy.”