"Please don't shout!" she begged, sitting down on her box again, "I'll explain. You see, the San Francisco CALL, one of the big city dailies, has offered the job of being its local press representative to the college man who brings in the best newspaper story between now and the first of May--that's less than ten days. Of course, all the boys have gone crazy over it. It's a job that a boy could easily hold down with his regular class work, and it might lead to a permanent position on the paper's staff after graduation. About ten boys are working furiously for it, and all their friends are working for them. Tony's helping Jerry Billings, and Jerry has already taken in a couple of good stories, and has a good chance. This, of course, would land it!" "What would?" "Why, THIS!" She was laughing again. "Can't you see? Think of the head-lines! Even your New York papers would play it up. Think of the chance to get funny! 'Old Fox in a Trap!' 'Goes to Bed with the Chickens!' 'Iron King Plays Chanticleer!'" "Thunder!" said Anthony, uncomfortably. "There'd be no end of it, for you or me," said Miss Mix. "I know this town." "Yes, you're right!" agreed Anthony. "The idea is for me to sit here until after the first of May, eh?" he continued uncertainly. Her eyes danced. "Oh, we MAY think of some other way!" "Tony's not to be trusted, you think?" "No-o! I wouldn't dare. He's simply mad to have Jerry win. He'd let it out involuntarily." "The maid can go for a plumber?" "Statia? She's working for Joe Bates. And both the boys in the plumber's shop are in college, anyway." "You might telephone for a plumber from San Francisco?" suggested Anthony, afterthought. "Yes, I could do that." Miss Mix brightened. "No, I can't, either," she lamented. "Elsie White, the long-distance operator, is working for Joe Bates, too." She meditated again for a space, then raised her head, listening. "They're calling me!" she whispered. With a gesture for silence, she sprang to the door. Outside, some one shouted: "O Sally!" "Hello, Tony!" she called hardily, in answer. "Lunch, is it? No, don't come down! I'm just coming up!" With a warning glance over her shoulder for Anthony, she closed the door and was gone. III A long hour followed, the silence broken only by occasional low comments from the chickens, and by voices and footsteps coming and going on the side of the chicken house where the street lay. Anthony, his back against the rough wall, his hands in his pockets, had fallen into a smiling revery when Miss Mix suddenly returned. She carried a plate of luncheon, and two files. "We are safe!" she reassured him. "The boys think I am playing bridge, and I've locked the gate on the inside. Now, files on parade!"