Abruptly changing the subject, the editor inquired regarding his daughter’s success in selling Camp-Benefit tags.
“I have only one left,” Penny replied, presenting it with a flourish. “Twenty-five cents, please.”
“The cause is a worthy one. I’ll double the amount.” Amiably, Mr. Parker flipped a half dollar across the desk.
“While you’re in a giving mood I might mention that my allowance is due,” Penny said with a grin. “Also, you owe me five gallons of gasoline. I saw old Seth McGuire this morning and he agreed with me that the Hubell clock struck thirteen last night.”
Mr. Parker had no opportunity to reply, for just then his secretary re-entered the office to say that Mr. Clyde Blake wished to see him.
“I suppose that means you want me to evaporate,” Penny remarked, gazing questioningly at her father.
“No, stay if you like. It’s probably nothing of consequence.”
Penny welcomed an invitation to remain. After her talk with Seth McGuire she was curious to see the man who had caused the old bell maker to lose his position at the Hubell Tower.
“Blake probably wants to ask me to do him a personal favor,” Mr. Parker confided in a low tone. “He’s a pest!”
In a moment the door opened again to admit the real estate man. He was heavy-set, immaculately dressed, and the only defect in his appearance was caused by a right arm which was somewhat shorter than the left.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Parker,” he said expansively. “And is this your charming daughter?”
The editor introduced Penny, who bowed politely and retreated to a chair by the window. Prejudiced against Mr. Blake, she had no desire to talk to him.
“What may I do for you?” Mr. Parker asked the caller.
“Ah, this time it is I who shall bestow the favor,” Mr. Blake responded, taking a cheque book from his pocket. “Your paper has been campaigning for a very worthy cause, namely the Orphans’ Summer Camp Fund. It wrings my heart that those unfortunate kiddies have been denied the benefit of fresh air and sunshine.”
“If you wish to make a donation, you should give your money to Mrs. Van Cleve,” the editor cut him short.
“I much prefer to present my cheque to you,” the caller insisted. “Shall I make it out for a hundred and fifty dollars?”
“That’s a very handsome donation,” said Mr. Parker, unable to hide his surprise. “But why give it to me?”
Mr. Blake coughed in embarrassment. “I thought you might deem the offering worthy of a brief mention in your paper.”
“Oh, I see,” the editor responded dryly.
“I don’t wish publicity for myself, you understand, but only for the real estate company which bears my name.”
“I quite understand, Mr. Blake. If we should use your picture—”
“That will be very acceptable,” the real estate man responded, smiling with satisfaction. “I’ll be happy to oblige you by posing.”
Helping himself to a pen, he wrote out the cheque and presented it to the editor.
“Penny, how would you like to write the story?” inquired her father. “You’ve been helping Miss Norton with the publicity, I believe.”
“I’m rather bogged down with work,” Penny demurred. “I think Mrs. Weems wants me to clean the attic when I get home.”
“Never mind the attic. Please conduct Mr. Blake to the photography room and ask one of the boys to take his picture.”
Penny arose obediently, but as the real estate man left the office ahead of her, she shot her father a black look. She considered a publicity story very trivial indeed, and it particularly displeased her that she must write honeyed words about a man she did not admire.
“You have a very nice building here, very nice,” Mr. Blake patronizingly remarked as he was escorted toward the photographic department. Noticing a pile of freshly printed newspapers lying on one of the desks, he helped himself to a copy.
“I see the sheriff hasn’t captured Clem Davis yet,” he commented, scanning the front page. “I hope they get him! It’s a disgrace to Riverview that such a crime could be perpetrated, and the scoundrel go unpunished.”
“He’ll probably be caught,” Penny replied absently. “But I wonder if he’s the guilty person.”
“What’s that?” Mr. Blake demanded, regarding her with shrewd interest. “You think Davis didn’t burn the Preston barn?”
“I was only speculating upon it.”
“Reflecting your father’s opinion, no doubt.”
“No, not anyone’s thought but my own.”
“Your father seems to be making quite a story of it,” Mr. Blake resumed. “It will be most unfortunate for the community if he stirs up talk about underground organizations.”
“Why unfortunate?” Penny asked.
“Because it will give the city a bad reputation. I doubt there is anything to this Black Hood talk, but if there should be, any publicity might lead to an investigation by state authorities.”
“A very good thing, I should think.”
“You do not understand,” Mr. Blake said patiently. “Depredation would increase, innocent persons surely would suffer. With Riverview known unfavorably throughout the country, we would gain no new residents.”
Penny did not reply, but opened the door of the photographic room. While Mr. Blake wandered about, inspecting the various equipment, she relayed her father’s instructions to Salt Sommers, one of the staff photographers.
“Better get a good picture of Blake,” she warned him. “He’ll be irritated if you don’t.”
“I’ll do my best,” Salt promised, “but I can’t make over a man’s face.”
Mr. Blake proved to be a trying subject. Posed on a stool in front of a screen, he immediately “froze” into a stiff position.
“Be sure to make it only a head and shoulders picture, if you please,” he ordered Salt.
“Can’t you relax?” the photographer asked wearily. “Unloosen your face. Think of all those little orphans you’re going to make happy.”
Mr. Blake responded with a smirk which was painful to behold. Nothing that Salt could say or do caused him to become natural, and at length the photographer took two shots which he knew would not be satisfactory.
“That’ll be all,” he announced.
Mr. Blake arose, drawing a deep sigh. “Posing is a great ordeal for me,” he confessed. “I seldom consent to having my picture taken, but this is a very special occasion.”
Completely at ease again, the real estate man began to converse with Penny. In sudden inspiration, Salt seized a candid camera from a glass case, and before Mr. Blake was aware of his act, snapped a picture.
“There, that’s more like it,” he said. “I caught you just right, Mr. Blake.”
The real estate man turned swiftly, his eyes blazing anger.
“You dared to take a picture without my permission?” he demanded. “I’ll not have it! Destroy the film at once or I shall protest to Mr. Parker!”
The real estate man’s outburst was so unexpected that Penny and Salt could only stare at him in astonishment.
“It’s a good full length picture,” the photographer argued. “Much better than those other shots I took.”
“I can’t allow it,” Blake answered in a calmer tone. He touched his right arm. “You see, I am sensitive about this deformity. Unreasonable of me, perhaps, but I must insist that you destroy the film.”
“Just as you say,” Salt shrugged. “We’ll use one of the other pictures.”
“No, I’ve changed my mind,” Blake said shortly. “I don’t care for any picture. Kindly destroy all the films—now, in my presence.”
“Why, Mr. Blake!” Penny protested. “I thought you wanted a picture to accompany the story I am to write.”
“You may write the article, but I’ll have no picture. The films must be destroyed.”
“Okay,” responded Salt. Removing two plates from a holder he exposed them to the light. He started to take the film from the candid camera, but did not complete the operation. Mr. Blake, however, failed to notice.
“Thank you, young man,” he said, bowing. “I am sorry to have taken so much of your valuable time, and I appreciate your efforts.”
Nodding in Penny’s direction, Mr. Blake left the studio, closing the door behind him.
“Queer duck,” commented Salt. “His picture on the front page would be no break for our readers!”
“I can’t understand why Mr. Blake became so provoked,” Penny said thoughtfully. “That excuse about his arm seemed a flimsy one.”
“Let’s develop the film and see what it looks like,” Salt suggested, starting for the darkroom. “It was just an ordinary shot though.”
Penny followed the young photographer into the developing room, watching as he ran the film through the various trays. In exactly six minutes the picture was ready, and he held it beneath the ruby light for her to see.
“Nothing unusual about it,” he repeated. “Blake’s right arm looks a bit shorter than the left, but we could have blocked that off.”
Salt tossed the damp picture into a wastepaper basket, only to have Penny promptly rescue it.
“I wish you would save this,” she requested. “Put it in an envelope and file it away somewhere in the office.”
“What’s the big idea, Penny?”
“Oh, just a hunch, I guess. Someday the paper may want a picture of Blake in a hurry, and this one would serve very nicely.”
Aware that time was fast slipping away, Penny returned to her father’s office to report Mr. Blake’s strange action. Mr. Parker, well versed in the peculiarities of newspaper patrons, shrugged indifferently.
“Blake always was a queer fellow,” he commented, fingering the cheque which still lay on his desk. “I never trusted him, and I wish I hadn’t accepted this money.”
“How could you have refused, Dad?”
“I couldn’t very well. All the same, I have a feeling I’ll regret it.”
“Why do you say that?” Penny asked curiously.
“No reason perhaps. Only Blake isn’t the man to give something for nothing. He aims to profit by this affair, or I’m no judge of human nature.”
“He craves publicity, that’s certain.”
“Yes, but there’s more to it than that,” Mr. Parker declared. “Oh, well”—he dismissed the subject, “I’ll turn the cheque over to the camp committee and let someone else do the worrying.”
“I’ll tell you why I dislike Mr. Blake,” Penny said with feeling. “He caused Seth McGuire to lose his job at the Hubell Tower.”
“That so?” the editor asked in surprise. “I hadn’t heard about it.”
“Blake gave the position to a special friend of his. Can’t you do something about it, Dad?”
“I don’t know any of the basic facts, Penny. Why should I interfere in a matter which is none of my affair?”
“At least let’s not give Mr. Blake a big build-up because of his donation.”
“The story must be written,” Mr. Parker said with finality. “I always keep a bargain, even a bad one.”
“Then you might write the story,” Penny proposed mischievously. “I can’t spell such a big word as hypocrite!”
“Never mind,” Mr. Parker reproved. “Just get busy and see that you handle the article in a way favorable to Blake.”
With a deep sigh, Penny took herself to the adjoining newsroom. Selecting a typewriter, she pecked listlessly at the keys. Presently Jerry Livingston, one of the reporters, fired a paper ball at her.
“Your story must be a masterpiece,” he teased. “It’s taken you long enough to write it.”
Penny jerked the sheet of copy from the typewriter roller. “It’s not fair,” she complained. “I have to dish out soft soap while you handle all the interesting stories. There should be a law against it.”
“Learn to take the bitter along with the whipped cream,” chuckled Jerry. “I’ve also just been handed an assignment that’s not to my liking.”
“Covering the Preston fire, I suppose.”
“Nothing that spectacular. DeWitt’s sending me out to the Riverview Orphans’ Home to dig up human interest material in connection with the camp-fund campaign. Want to ride along as ballast?”
“Well, I don’t know?” Penny debated. “I’ve had almost enough of publicity stories for one day.”
“Oh, come on,” Jerry coaxed, taking her by the arm. “You can talk to the orphans and maybe turn up a lot of interesting facts.”
“For you to write,” she added ruefully. “Just a Sister Friday—that’s my fate in this office.”
Actually Penny welcomed an opportunity to accompany Jerry, for she liked him better than any young man of her acquaintance. Spearing the story she had just written on the copy desk spindle, she followed the reporter to the parking lot. Jerry helped her into one of the press cars, and they expertly drove through heavy downtown traffic.
“What’s the latest on the Preston case?” Penny inquired, clutching her hat to keep it from blowing out the window.
“No latest,” Jerry answered briefly. “The Prestons won’t talk, Mrs. Davis won’t talk, the sheriff won’t talk. So far it totals up to one little story about a fire.”
“Dad said the sheriff had learned Clem Davis was a member of a secret organization, probably known as the Black Hoods.”
“Sheriff Daniels claims he has documentary proof,” Jerry admitted. “He won’t produce it though, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he may be bluffing.”
“Then you think he wants to convict Clem Davis whether or not he’s guilty?”
“He wants to end the case just as quickly as he can, Penny. The November elections aren’t far away. If this night rider story gets a start, the dear public might turn on him, demanding action or his job.”
“Do you think there actually is such an organization as the Black Hoods, Jerry?”
“I do,” he returned soberly. “After talking with the Prestons and Mrs. Davis, I’m convinced they could tell quite a bit about it if they were willing to furnish evidence.”
It pleased Penny that Jerry’s opinion so nearly coincided with her own. Eagerly she told him of her own talk with Mrs. Davis, mentioning that someone had been hiding in the cornfield near the cabin.
“What time was that?” Jerry asked, stopping the car at a traffic light.
“Shortly after twelve o’clock.”
“Then it couldn’t have been Sheriff Daniels or his deputies,” the reporter declared. “I was at the county office talking to them about that same time.”
“It might have been Clem Davis,” Penny suggested. “I’m sure his wife knows where he is hiding.”
As the car sped over the country road, she kept the discussion alive by mentioning the watch charm which she had picked up at the Davis stable. Jerry had not seen the picture of the little boy, but promised to inspect it just as soon as he returned to theStaroffices.
“Clem Davis has no children,” he assured Penny, “so it’s unlikely the charm ever belonged to him. You may have found an important clue.”
“I only wish Dad would officially assign me to the story,” she grumbled. “He never will, though.”
Presently the car approached the Riverview Orphans’ Home, a large brick building set back some distance from the road. Children in drab blue uniforms could be seen playing in the front yard, supervised by a woman official.
“Poor kids,” Jerry said with honest feeling, “you can’t help feeling sorry for ’em. They deserve the best summer camp this town can provide.”
“The project is certain to be possible now,” Penny replied. “Mr. Blake’s cheque put the campaign over the top.”
Jerry gave the steering wheel an expert flip, turning the car into the private road.
“Don’t tell me that old bird actually parted with any money!”
“Oh, he did, Jerry. He donated a cheque for a hundred and fifty dollars.”
“And no strings attached?”
“Well, he hinted that he wanted a nice write-up about himself. I was torturing myself with the story when you interrupted.”
“It’s mighty queer,” the reporter muttered. “Leopards don’t change their spots. Blake must expect something more tangible than publicity out of the deal.”
His mind centering on what Penny had just told him, Jerry gave no thought to his driving. Handling the steering wheel skillfully, but automatically, he whirled the car into the play area of the institution, drawing up with a loud screeching of brakes.
Uncertain that the reporter could stop, the children scattered in all directions. One little girl remained squarely in front of the car. Covering her face with her hands, she began to scream.
“Gosh all fish hooks!” Jerry exclaimed in dismay. “I didn’t mean to frighten the kid.”
Jumping from the coupe, he and Penny ran to the child.
“You’re all right,” Jerry said, stooping beside the little girl. “The car didn’t come within a mile of you. I’m mighty sorry.”
Nothing that either he nor Penny could say seemed to quiet the child. Her screams did not subside until a matron appeared and took her by the hand.
“Come Adelle,” she said gently. “We’ll go into the house.”
“I’m as sorry as I can be,” Jerry apologized, doffing his hat. “I didn’t intend to drive into the yard so fast. It’s all my fault.”
The attendant smiled to set him at ease. “Don’t mind,” she said quietly. “Adelle is very easily upset. I’ll explain to you later.”
Both Penny and Jerry regretted the incident, feeling that they had been at fault because they had driven into the play area at such high speed.
“Maybe I can send the kid a box of candy or make it up to her in some way,” the reporter remarked.
Roving about the yard, he and Penny talked to many of the orphans. Nearly all of the children answered questions self-consciously and had little to say.
“We’ll not get much of a story here,” Jerry commented in an undertone. “These youngsters are as much alike as if they had been cut from one pattern.”
“Adelle was different,” Penny returned with a smile. “Almost too much so.”
In a short while, Miss Anderson, the young woman who had taken the child away, returned to the play yard. Penny and Jerry immediately inquired about the little girl.
“Oh, she is quite herself again,” the young woman responded. “The upset was only a temporary one.”
“Is Adelle easily frightened?” Penny inquired curiously.
“Unfortunately, she is terrified of automobiles,” responded Miss Anderson. “I am afraid it is becoming a complex. You see, about a year ago both of her parents were killed in a motor accident.”
“How dreadful!” Penny gasped.
“Adelle was in the car but escaped with a broken leg,” the young woman resumed. “The incident made a very deep impression upon her.”
“I should think so!” exclaimed Jerry. “How did the accident occur?”
“We don’t know exactly, for Adelle was the only witness. According to her story, the Hanover automobile was crowded off the road by another motorist who drove at reckless speed, without lights. The car upset, pinning the occupants beneath it.”
“It seems to me I remember that story,” Jerry said thoughtfully. “The hit-run driver never was caught.”
“No, according to Adelle he stopped, only to drive on again when he saw that her parents were beyond help.”
“The man must have been heartless!” Penny declared indignantly. “How could he run away?”
“Because he feared the consequences,” Miss Anderson answered. “Had he been apprehended he would have faced charges for manslaughter, and undoubtedly would have been assessed heavy damages.”
“I take it the child has no property or she wouldn’t be at this institution,” Jerry said soberly.
“Adelle is penniless. Her parents were her only relatives, so she was brought to us.”
“It’s a shame!” Penny declared feelingly. “Wasn’t there any clue as to the identity of the man who caused the fatal accident?”
“No worthwhile ones. Adelle insists that she saw the driver’s face plainly and could recognize him again. However, she never was able to give a very good description, nor to make an identification.”
Having heard the story, Jerry was more than ever annoyed at himself because he had caused the child needless suffering.
“Miss Anderson, isn’t there something I can do to make amends?” he asked earnestly. “What would the little girl like? Candy, toys?”
“It isn’t necessary that you give her anything.”
“I want to do it,” Jerry insisted.
“In that case, why not make some small bequest to the institution, or send something which may be enjoyed by all the children.”
“Jerry, I have an idea!” cried Penny impulsively. “Why not give a party? Would that be permissible, Miss Anderson?”
“Indeed, yes. The children love them, and outings away from the institution are their special delight.”
“Let’s give a watermelon party!” Penny proposed, immediately considering herself Jerry’s partner in the affair. “We could take the children to a nearby farm and let them gorge themselves!”
“The children would enjoy it, I’m sure,” Miss Anderson smiled. “Can transportation be arranged? We have sixty boys and girls.”
“I’ll take care of everything,” Jerry promised. “Suppose we set tomorrow afternoon as the date.”
“Oh, can’t we have the party at night?” Penny pleaded. “There will be a full moon. A watermelon feast wouldn’t be much fun by daylight.”
Miss Anderson replied that she thought the children might be allowed to attend such a party, providing it were held early in the evening. Penny and Jerry talked with her about various details of the plan, and then drove away from the institution.
“Well, you certainly got me into something,” Jerry chuckled as the car turned into the main road. “Where are we going to throw this party?”
“Oh, any melon farmer will be glad to let the children invade his patch, providing we pay for the privilege,” Penny answered carelessly. “You might turn in at the next farm.”
Her confidence proved to be ill-founded, for Mr. Kahler, the farmer whom they accosted, would not consider the proposition.
“The children will trample the vines, and do a lot of damage,” he declined. “Why don’t you try the Wentover place?”
At the Wentover farm, Jerry and Penny likewise were turned down.
“No one wants sixty orphans running rampant over his place,” the reporter observed in discouragement. “We may as well give up the idea.”
“It’s possible Mrs. Davis would allow us to hold a muskmelon party at her farm,” Penny replied thoughtfully. “Now that her husband has skipped, she must be in need of money.”
The chance of success seemed unlikely. However, to please Penny, Jerry drove to the Davis property. To their surprise they found the place humming with activity. Professional melon pickers were at work in the patch, and Mrs. Davis, dressed in overalls, was personally supervising the laborers.
“I have no time to answer questions!” she announced to Jerry before he could speak. “Please go away and leave me alone!”
“Oh, I’m not here in an official capacity this time,” the reporter grinned. “We want to make you a business proposition.”
He then explained what he had in mind. Mrs. Davis listened attentively but with suspicion.
“It’s likely some trick!” she declared. “I’ll have nothing to do with it!”
“Mrs. Davis, we’re not trying to deceive you,” Penny interposed earnestly. “We’ve tried several other farms before we came here. No one is willing to let the children trample the vines.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt mine,” the woman admitted. “By tomorrow night we’ll have all the best melons picked and sorted. I reckon the youngsters can have what’s left in the patch.”
“We’ll pay you well for the privilege,” Jerry promised, taking out his wallet.
“I don’t want your money,” the woman answered shortly. “Just see to it that the youngsters don’t tear up the place.”
Neither Penny nor Jerry wished to accept such a favor, but Mrs. Davis firmly refused to take pay.
“You know, I think the old girl has a tender heart beneath a hard exterior,” the reporter remarked after the woman had gone back to the patch. “Down under she’s a pretty decent sort.”
For a time Penny and Jerry watched the laborers at their work. Heaping baskets of melons were brought from the patch to the barn. There they were sorted, stamped, and packed into crates which were loaded into a truck.
“Nice looking melons,” the reporter remarked. “Mrs. Davis should make a pretty fair profit.”
An elderly workman, who was sorting melons, glanced sideways at Jerry, grinning in a knowing way.
“Maybe,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?” Jerry questioned him.
“Sellin’ melons is a speculative business,” the old fellow shrugged. “You ain’t sure o’ anything until your harvest is sold and you get the money in your fist.”
Penny and Jerry watched the sorting work for a few minutes longer and then returned to the car.
“You know, for a minute I thought that old duffer was hinting at something,” the reporter remarked. “He acted as if it would give him real pleasure to see something happen to Mrs. Davis’ melons.”
“Oh, I didn’t take it that way,” Penny responded. “He was only waxing philosophical.”
The hour was late. Knowing that he might be wanted at theStaroffice, Jerry drove rather fast over the bumpy road.
As the press car sped around a bend, a man who stood leaning against a fence post, quickly retreated into the woods. His act, however, had drawn Penny’s attention.
“Stop the car, Jerry!” she cried. “There he is again!”
“Who?” demanded the reporter, slamming on brakes.
“I think it’s the same man who hid in the cornfield!” Penny exclaimed excitedly. “It must be Clem Davis!”
“Which way did the fellow go?” Jerry demanded, bringing the car to a standstill.
“Into the woods,” Penny answered tersely.
Leaping from the automobile, they climbed a fence, and reached the edge of the woods. Pausing there, they listened intently. No sound could be heard, not even the crackling of a stick.
“This timber land extends for miles,” said Jerry. “We’d only waste time playing hide and seek in there. Our best bet is to notify Sheriff Daniels and let him throw a net around the entire section.”
“I guess you’re right,” Penny acknowledged regretfully.
Making all haste to Riverview, they stopped briefly at the sheriff’s office to make their report. Penny then said goodbye to Jerry and went to the newspaper building where she had parked Leaping Lena. The car would not start. Experienced in such matters, Penny raised the hood and posed beside it, a picture of a young lady in deep distress. Soon a taxi-cab cruised along.
“Having trouble, sister?” the driver asked.
Penny slammed down the hood, and scrambled into Leaping Lena.
“Just give me a little push,” she instructed briskly.
Obligingly, the taxi driver backed into position behind Leaping Lena. After the two cars had gathered speed, Penny shifted gears. Lena responded with an ailing cough and then a steady chug.
“Thanks!” Penny shouted, waving farewell to her benefactor. “I’ll return the favor someday.”
“Not with that mess of junk!” the taxi man laughed.
By keeping the motor running at high speed, Penny reached home without mishap. Her father had arrived ahead of her, she noted, for the maroon car had been put away for the night.
Locking the garage doors, Penny entered the house by way of the kitchen.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked the housekeeper, absently helping herself to a freshly baked cookie.
“Listen, and I think you can tell,” Mrs. Weems answered.
A loud hammering noise came from the basement. Inspired by an advertisement of Waldon’s Oak Paneling, Mr. Parker had decided to wall up the recreation room without the services of a carpenter. Much of his spare time was spent carrying on a personal feud with boards which refused to fit into the right places.
“Poor Dad,” Penny grinned as she heard a particularly loud exclamation of wrath. “I’ll go down and drip a few consoling words.”
Descending the stairs, she stood watching her father from the doorway of the recreation room.
“Hello, Penny,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “You may as well make yourself useful. Hold this board while I nail it in place.”
“All right, but be careful where you pound. Remember, I have only two hands and I prize them both.”
With Penny holding the board, Mr. Parker nailed it to the underpinning.
“Well, what do you think of the job?” he asked, standing back to admire his work.
“As a carpenter you’re a very good editor,” Penny answered with exaggerated politeness. “Aren’t walls supposed to come together at the corners?”
“I made a little mistake in my calculations. Later on I may build a corner cupboard to cover up the slight gap.”
“Slight!” Penny chuckled. “Dad, if I were you I wouldn’t get tangled up in any more carpenter jobs. It’s too hard on your disposition.”
“I never was in a better mood in my life,” Mr. Parker insisted. “Good reason, too. At last I’ve got the best of Mr. Ben Bowman!”
“Bowman?” Penny inquired in a puzzled tone.
“That crank who keeps sending me collect messages.”
“Oh, to be sure! I’d forgotten about him.”
“He sent another telegram today,” Mr. Parker declared, smiling grimly. “I suspected it came from him and refused to pay for it.”
“Bravo,” Penny approved. “I knew you could get the best of that fellow if you just put your mind to it.”
On the floor above a telephone rang, but neither of them paid any heed, knowing that Mrs. Weems would answer. In a moment the housekeeper called down the stairway, telling Mr. Parker he was wanted on the ’phone.
“It’s Mr. DeWitt from the office,” she informed him.
Putting aside his hammer, Mr. Parker went upstairs. Soon he returned to the basement, his manner noticeably subdued.
“What’s the matter, Dad?” Penny inquired curiously. “You look as if you had just received a stunning blow.”
“DeWitt telephoned to tell me theStarlost an important story today.”
“How did that happen, Dad?”
“Well, a correspondent wired in the news, but by accident the message never reached DeWitt’s desk.”
Penny regarded her father shrewdly. “Ben Bowman’s telegram?”
“I’m afraid it was,” Mr. Parker admitted. “The message came to two dollars. I didn’t know DeWitt had hired a correspondent at the town of Altona. Naturally I jumped to conclusions.”
“So you lost a news story because you refused a bona fide telegram,” Penny said, shaking her head. “Ben Bowman scores again.”
“You see what I’m up against,” the editor growled. “I’d give a hundred dollars to be rid of that pest.”
“You really mean it?” Penny demanded with interest.
“My peace of mind would be well worth the price.”
“In that case, I may apply my own brain to the task. I could use a hundred dollars.”
The discussion was interrupted by Mrs. Weems who called that dinner was ready. As Mr. Parker went to his usual place at the dining room table, he saw a yellow envelope lying on his plate.
“What’s this?” he demanded sharply.
“A telegram,” explained Mrs. Weems. “It came only a moment ago. I paid the boy.”
“How much was the message?” the editor asked, his face grim.
“A dollar and a half.” Mrs. Weems regarded her employer anxiously. “Did I do anything I shouldn’t have? I supposed of course you would want me to accept the message.”
“This is just too, too good!” Penny chuckled, thoroughly enjoying the situation. “Everything so perfectly timed, almost as if it were a play!”
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Weems murmured. “I’ve done something I shouldn’t—”
“It was not your fault,” Mr. Parker assured her. “In the future, however, refuse to accept any collect message.”
As her father did not open the telegram, Penny seized upon it.
“This is from a man who calls himself Isaac Fulterton,” she disclosed, glancing at the bottom of the typed page.
“Merely one of Ben Bowman’s many names,” Mr. Parker sighed.
“Ah, this is a gem!” Penny chuckled, and read aloud: “‘Here is a suggestion for your rotten rag. Why not print it on yellow paper? I know you will not use it because editors think they know everything. I once knew a reader who got a little good out of your paper. He used it to clean the garbage can.’”
“How dreadful!” Mrs. Weems exclaimed, genuinely shocked.
“Penny, if you insist upon reading another line, I shall leave the table,” Mr. Parker snapped. “I’ve had quite enough of Ben Bowman.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Penny apologized, slipping the message into her pocket. “I can appreciate that this doesn’t seem very funny to you.”
The telegram was not mentioned again. Nevertheless, Mr. Parker’s good humor had given way to moody silence, contributing no cheer to the evening meal. Mrs. Weems kept glancing uneasily at her employer, wondering if she had offended him. Only Penny, whose appetite never failed, seemed thoroughly at ease.
“Dad,” she said suddenly. “I have an idea how Ben Bowman might be trailed!”
“Never mind telling me,” her father answered. “I prefer not to hear his name mentioned.”
“As you like,” she shrugged. “I’ll shroud myself in mystery and silence as I work. But when the case is ended, I’ll present my bill!”
Actually, Penny held slight hope that ever she would be able to turn the elusive Ben Bowman over to the police. The wily fellow was far too clever ever to file two messages from the same telegraph office, and very seldom from the same city. However, the town of Claymore, from which the last message had been sent, was only fifty-five miles away. It had occurred to her that by going there she might obtain from telegraph officials the original message filed.
“In that way I’d at least have Ben Bowman’s signature,” she reflected. “While it wouldn’t be much, it represents a start.”
Always, Penny’s greatest problem was insufficient time. Greatly as she desired to drive to Claymore, she knew it would be out of the question for several days. Not only must arrangements for the orphans’ melon party be completed, but other interests demanded attention.
Temporarily dismissing Ben Bowman from her mind, Penny devoted herself to plans for the outing. Cars easily were obtained, and the following night, sixty excited orphans were transported to the Davis farm. With shrieks of laughter, the boys and girls took possession of the melon patch.
“Pick all you like from the vines,” Penny called, “but don’t touch any of the crated ones.”
In the yard not far from the storage barn stood a truck loaded with melons which were ready for the market.
“This must represent the cream of Mrs. Preston’s crop,” Jerry remarked, lifting the canvas which covered the load. “Maybe she’ll be luckier than her neighbors, the Doolittles.”
“What happened to them?” Penny asked, surprised by the remark.
“Don’t you ever read theStar?”
“I didn’t today. Too busy. Tell me about the Doolittles, Jerry.”
“Mr. Doolittle was taking a load of melons to market. Another truck brushed him on the River road. The melon truck upset, and the entire shipment was lost.”
“Can’t he get damages?”
“Doolittle didn’t learn who was responsible.”
“Was it an accident or done deliberately?” Penny asked thoughtfully.
“Sheriff Daniels thinks it was an accident. I’m inclined to believe the Black Hoods may have had something to do with it.”
“Why should anyone wish to make trouble for Mr. Doolittle, Jerry? All his life he has stayed on his little truck farm, and strictly attended to his own affairs.”