The comical side of the vicissitudes of the _Nancy Jane_, with its passenger list of mothers and babies had so impressed the reporter that he had prepared his story in a humorous vein. Unfortunately, he had elected to weave his story about Obadiah Dale, the manufacturer, and his daughter, instead of about Mrs. Henderson or any humble individual. The story was funny. The way the scribbler linked the generosity of Obadiah towards the babies, the navigation of the Lame Moose by the _Nancy Jane_, and Elgin's Grove, was a scream to those who knew the selfishness of the mill owner, the shallow depth and harmlessness of the Lame Moose and the lurid history of the grove. The editor-owner of the paper had little use for Obadiah and in running this article--good natured and harmless on its face--he had hit the manufacturer in a vulnerable spot. Obadiah could not stand ridicule. While Virginia read, the wide toed shoes of her father resounded, as he tramped excitedly up and down the room. She finished the article and looked up at him. Little chills of fright thrilled up and down her spine, and yet she found no reason for it in the column she had been reading. That struck her as rather silly. As she dropped the paper, Obadiah glowered down at her. "Now," he yelled, in his high voice, "I hope that you are satisfied. You have made me the laughing stock of this town--made a perfect ass out of me." He shook a long forefinger at her. "I've stood enough of your foolishness and it's got to stop." The old man was nearly frantic with anger as he scowled at her, a pale, crushed little thing in the big arm chair. "I'm tired of it," he raged. "You make me ridiculous by your failure to appreciate that there is such a thing as personal dignity. You've mixed me in the most nonsensical affairs. Think of it! Parading down the main street of this town behind a minstrel band with a load of negroes!" He almost gnashed his teeth at the thought. "You got up that fool band concert at the Old Ladies' Home. It was a farce with the fire department dashing up in the middle of it. Now," he bellowed, "you had to go and get mixed in this mess on the river." Obadiah had to pause in the catalogue of his grievances to catch his breath. His temper was choking him. "I've always tried to protect my reputation," he went on. "I've minded my business and let other people attend to theirs. But you have to drag me into this. My name is a hiss and a byword in this town today. I'll never hear the last of it. You are to blame for it all." Self-pity brought Obadiah to the verge of tears.