The car presently drew up at the curb in front of theStarbuilding. Anthony Parker, a newspaper tucked beneath his arm, stepped from the vestibule where he had been waiting. He was a tall, slender man, alert and courageous in following his convictions. Under his management theRiverview Starhad grown to be one of the most influential papers in the state.
“Hope we haven’t kept you waiting, Mr. Parker,” Jerry greeted him, swinging open the cab door.
“Only a minute or two. Thanks, Jerry, for bringing the girls from the boat. May we offer you a ride home?”
“No, thanks, Chief. I’ll walk from here. Good evening.”
Jerry tipped his hat politely to Penny and Louise as the cab drove away. Mr. Parker asked the girls if they had enjoyed their trip aboard theGoodtime.
“The boat wasn’t very well named, I’m afraid,” answered Penny. “The trip proved to be rather terrible but we met some interesting people.”
During the drive to the Sidell home, she and Louise talked as fast as they could, telling Mr. Parker about Tillie Fellows, the mysterious young woman who had dropped a bundle of clothing into the water, and particularly the man with the strange octopus tattoo.
“You’ll have to tell the rest of it, Penny,” laughed Louise as she bade her chum good-bye. “Thanks for bringing me home.”
The cab rolled on, and Penny glanced questioningly at her father.
“What do you think of the tattoo story?” she asked hopefully. “Won’t it make a dandy feature for theStar?”
“I regret to say it sounds like first-grade fiction.”
“Why, Dad! Louise and Jerry will confirm everything I’ve said.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt your word, Penny. I am sure everything occurred as you report. Nevertheless, were we to use the story our readers might question its veracity.”
“Don’t crush me with such big words, Dad.”
“Veracity means truth, Penny. Now your story is very interesting, but I think you may have placed your own interpretation upon certain facts.”
“For instance?”
“Well, according to John Munn’s statement, he fell from the bridge and was not pushed.”
“But I saw it with my own two eyes, Dad.”
“The night is foggy. You easily could have been mistaken. As for the octopus tattoo, what is so strange about it? Sailors compete in striving for startling decorative effects.”
“Dad, you could rationalize the national debt,” accused Penny. “Very well, since you scorn my story I’ll give it to the High School paper!”
“An excellent idea. That is, if your editor favors highly colored journalism.”
Penny made a grimace, knowing that her father was deliberately teasing her. It was a constant source of irritation that a boy named Fred Clousky had been elected editor of the Riverview High School Chatter instead of Penny by the margin of one vote. She disapproved of Fred, his pimples, and particularly the way he blue-penciled the occasional stories which she submitted.
“The Riverview High Chatter is just as silly as its name,” she announced. “If I had that sheet I’d make it into a real paper.”
“Sour grapes?” inquired her father softly.
“Maybe,” grinned Penny. “But Fred is such an egg, even more conservative than you.”
The cab drew up before the Parker home. A light still burned in the living room where Mrs. Weems, the housekeeper, sat reading a magazine.
“I am glad you have come, Penny,” she remarked, switching on another light. “I was beginning to worry.”
Since the death of Mrs. Parker many years before Mrs. Weems had taken complete charge of the household, caring for Penny and loving her as her own daughter. There were occasions when she found the impulsive girl difficult to restrain, but certainly never dull or uninteresting.
Mrs. Weems soon went to bed, leaving Penny and her father to explore the refrigerator. As they helped themselves to cold ham, potato salad, and celery, Penny spoke of the light which she had seen in the abandonedMorning Pressbuilding.
“It may have been a watchman making his usual rounds,” commented her father.
“Jerry tells me the building has no watchman.”
“Could it have been a reflection from a car headlight?”
“I don’t think so, Dad.”
“Well, I shouldn’t lose sleep over it,” remarked Mr. Parker lightly. “Better run along to bed now.”
Penny arose at six-thirty the next morning, and before breakfast had written a two-page story about John Munn for the Riverview High School Chatter. She read it twice and was very well pleased with her work.
“Editor Fred is lucky to get this,” she thought. “He should make it the lead story.”
Off to school at a quarter to nine, Penny deposited her literary treasure in a box provided for journalistic contributions. All that day she went from class to class, warmed by the knowledge that she had accomplished an excellent piece of writing. To Louise she confided that she thought the work might improve her grade in English Composition.
“I’m glad you’ve decided to contribute to the paper again,” declared her chum. “It’s time you and Fred buried the hatchet.”
“Oh, I don’t bear him any grudge,” returned Penny. “Of course, everyone knows he campaigned for the editorship with free candy and soda pop.”
At three-thirty, a minute before the closing bell rang, Fred Clousky sauntered down the aisle. With a flourish he dropped two pages of copy on Penny’s desk, face upward. Across one of the pages in huge blue letters had been written: “Too imaginative forChatter. Language too flowery. Spelling bad. Try us again sometime.”
A red stain crept over Penny’s cheeks. Her blue eyes began to snap.
“The poisonous little mushroom!” she muttered. “If he thinks he can do this to me—”
The closing bell rang, and immediately a group of sympathetic friends gathered about Penny. They all tried to soothe her feelings.
“Don’t let it bother you,” Louise advised her chum. “Of course, he did it just to make you peeved.”
“‘Spelling bad,’” Penny read aloud. “Look at this word he underlined! Anyone could tell I merely struck a wrong letter on my typewriter!”
Crumpling the page, she tossed it into the waste paper basket.
“‘Too imaginative,’” she muttered. “‘Language too flowery’!”
“Oh, forget it, Penny,” laughed Louise, leading her toward the locker room. “Fred always has been jealous of you because you’ve had stories published in theStar. Don’t let him know that you’re annoyed.”
“I guess I am acting silly,” admitted Penny, relaxing. “What I must do is to give this problem a good, hard think. Editor Fred will hear from me yet!”
Declining an invitation to play tennis, she went directly home. For an hour she lay on the davenport, staring at the ceiling.
“Penny, are you ill?” inquired Mrs. Weems anxiously.
“No, I’m in conference with myself,” answered Penny. “I am trying to arrive at a momentous decision.”
Presently, she began to scribble figures on a sheet of paper. When her father came home at five o’clock he found her engaged in that occupation.
“Well, Penny,” he remarked, hanging up his hat, “how did it go today? The editor ofChatteraccepted your contribution I hope.”
Penny grinned ruefully. “If you don’t mind, let’s discuss a less painful subject,” she replied. “Suppose you tell me what you know about Matthew Judson and theMorning Press.”
“Why this sudden display of interest?”
“Oh, I saw Mr. Judson last night at the Bean Pot. He looked rather depressed.”
Mr. Parker sat down on the arm of the davenport. “It’s too bad about Judson,” he remarked. “I always admired him because he was a clever newspaper man.”
“Clever? Didn’t he mis-manage the paper so that it had to close?”
“Not that anyone ever learned. No, I never could figure out why Judson quit. ThePresshad a large circulation and plenty of advertisers.”
“What became of the building?”
“It’s still there.”
“No, I mean who owns it,” Penny explained. “Not Mr. Judson?”
“The building was taken over a few months ago by a man named George Veeley. Come to think of it, I once brought him home with me. You should remember him, Penny.”
“I do. He was rather nice. I wonder what he plans to do with thePressbuilding and its equipment.”
“Hold it for speculation, I assume. In my opinion he’ll have it empty for a long while.”
“I rather doubt it,” said Penny. “He has a prospective tenant now, only he doesn’t know it.”
“Indeed? Who?”
“You’re looking at her.”
“You!” Mr. Parker smiled broadly.
“I have it all planned,” announced Penny with quiet finality. “What this town needs is a good, live newspaper, and an imaginative editor to run it.”
“Oh, I see.” With difficulty Mr. Parker kept his face composed. “And where do you propose to start your newspaper? In the oldPressbuilding?”
“You took the words out of my mouth, Dad. Everything is there, awaiting the touch of my magic wand.”
“There’s a little matter of rent. Several thousand a month.”
“I have a solution for that problem.”
“Your staff?”
“I’ll gather it as I prosper.”
“The necessary capital?”
“A mere detail,” said Penny grandly. “I meet only one obstacle at a time. Tomorrow I shall accost Mr. Veeley with an attractive proposition. If he falls into my net, Riverview’s newest paper,The Weekly Times, makes its bow to the public.”
“My dear young lady, do I understand you correctly? You are asking for the use of theMorning Pressbuilding without the payment of rent.”
Mr. Veeley, slightly bald and with a bulging waistline, regarded Penny across the polished mahogany desk. Upon arriving at his office that Saturday morning, he had found the girl awaiting him. For the past ten minutes she had stunned him with her remarkable figures and plans.
“Yes, that’s about the size of it,” Penny acknowledged. “What Riverview needs is a newspaper unhampered by the conservatism of over-aged minds. Now you have a fine building and equipment which is standing idle, fast falling into decay—”
“Decay?” Mr. Veeley inquired mildly.
“Expensive machinery soon rusts and becomes practically worthless unless kept in use,” declared Penny with authority. “If you’ll agree to my proposition, I’ll publish a weekly paper there, see that your property is kept in good condition, and turn the plant back to you whenever you can find a prosperous renter.”
“Your father sent you here?”
“Oh, goodness, no! Dad thinks it’s all a great joke. But it isn’t! IknowI can make a success of the paper if only I have a chance to test my ideas.”
Mr. Veeley could not fail to be impressed by Penny’s earnest, appealing manner. The novelty of her plan both amused and intrigued him.
“I wish I could help you start your paper,” he said. “However, I doubt if you comprehend the cost of such a venture. Even should I permit the use of my building rent free, how would you meet such expenses as light, water and heat?”
“Oh, I have a plan for everything,” insisted Penny grandly. “All I need is a building. I’ll have the windows washed for you and do a good job of house cleaning. With me in charge you’ll be able to dismiss your watchman.”
“I haven’t one.”
“No watchman?” Penny inquired innocently. “Last night when I drove past the building I saw a light on the third floor. Evidently someone is prowling about there, Mr. Veeley.”
“You’re certain you saw a light?” the man inquired, disturbed by the information.
“Oh, yes, indeed. Excuse me for advising you, Mr. Veeley, but you really should have someone to guard your property.”
Mr. Veeley smiled broadly. “You are a very convincing young lady. While I realize it is a foolish thing to do, I am tempted to let you have the key.”
“Oh, Mr. Veeley, that’s wonderful! You’ll never regret it!”
“I’ll allow you the use of the building for a month,” resumed Mr. Veeley. “At the end of that time we’ll discuss the future.”
Penny was thrown into such a frenzy of excitement that she scarcely could remain outwardly serene until she had left the office. Once on the street she ran the entire distance to theStarbuilding, dashing into her father’s suite with all the sound effects of a laboring steam engine.
“Dad!” she cried dramatically. “I have it! The key to theMorning Pressplant! Now I’m on my way to draw my savings from the bank.”
“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Parker. “Don’t tell me Mr. Veeley listened to your crazy scheme!”
“He’s heartily in favor of it, Dad. Now I must rush off to the bank.”
“Come back here,” her father commanded as she started for the door. “I can’t allow you to withdraw your savings.”
“How can I launch theWeekly Timeswithout capital?”
“You’re really determined to try it?”
“Of course.”
Mr. Parker reached for a cheque book. “How much will you need?”
“Oh, just sign your name at the bottom and leave the amount blank.”
“Sorry, I prefer not to financially cripple myself for life. One hundred dollars is my limit. I’m throwing it down a sink-hole, but the lessons you’ll learn may be worth the cost.”
“I can do a lot with a hundred dollars,” said Penny. “Thanks, Dad.”
She picked up the cheque before the ink was dry and, dropping a kiss lightly on her father’s cheek, was gone.
From the corner drugstore Penny telephoned Louise, telling her the news and asking her to come downtown at once. Fifteen minutes later her chum met her at the entrance to theMorning Pressbuilding.
“Just think, Lou!” she murmured, unlocking the front door. “This huge plant all mine! I’m a publisher at last!”
“You’re completely insane if you ask me,” retorted Louise. “This place is a dreadful mess. You’ll never be able to clean it up, let alone get out an issue of the paper!”
The girls had passed through the vestibule to the lower floor room which once had served as thePress’ circulation department. Behind the high service counter, desks and chairs remained untouched, covered by a thick layer of dust. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling light fixtures and festooned the walls.
Climbing the stairs, the girls glanced briefly into the newsroom, and then wandered on to the composing room. Penny’s gaze roved over long rows of linotype machines and steel trucks which were used to hold page forms. There were bins of type, Cheltenham, Goudy, Century—more varieties than she had ever seen before.
Passing the stereotyping department, the girls entered the press room where slumbered ten giant double-decked rotary presses. Lying on the roller of one was a torn strip of newspaper, the last issue of theMorning Pressever printed.
“It gives one a queer feeling to see all this,” said Louise. “Why do you suppose Judson closed the plant when it was prosperous?”
“No one seems to know the answer,” Penny replied, stooping to peer into an empty ink pot. “But it doesn’t seem possible a man would give up his business, throw so many persons out of work, without a good reason.”
“His bad luck seems to be yours,” Louise remarked gloomily. “Well, since you’ve fallen heir to all this, what will you do with it? It will take a sizeable chunk of your hundred dollars just to get the place cleaned.”
“Not according to my calculations,” chuckled Penny. “Let’s choose our offices and then we’ll discuss business.”
“Our offices?” echoed Louise. “I’m not in on this brain-storm of yours.”
“Oh, yes, you are. You’ll be the editor.”
“But I thought you were that!”
“I’ll be the managing editor,” said Penny gently. “You’ll have your office, and oodles of authority. Of course, you’ll have to work hard keeping our staff in line.”
“What staff?”
“We’ll recruit from Riverview High, concentrating on the journalism majors. Now I think Jack Malone will be our new advertising manager.”
“Jack Malone! Why, Penny, he hasn’t an ounce of push.”
“I know, Lou. But his father is president of the Malone Glass Company. I figure if his son is in charge of advertising—”
“I get the idea,” interrupted Louise. “Penny, with a head like yours, we should land all the important accounts in town.”
“I aim to win several fat ones away from theStar,” Penny said with quiet confidence. “If we don’t, it will be bankruptcy before the first issue of the paper is off the press.”
Louise glanced dubiously at the dusty machinery.
“There’s no denying you’re a genius, Penny. Even so, I don’t see how you expect to get these presses running.”
“We’ll only need one.”
“True, but you can’t recruit pressmen or linotype operators from Riverview High.”
“Unfortunately, no,” sighed Penny. “The first issue of theTimeswill be printed at theStarplant. Dad doesn’t know it yet. After that—well, I’ll think of something.”
“How do you propose to get this place cleaned?”
“Every person who works on our paper must wield a broom, Lou. After we’ve chosen our offices, we’ll scamper forth and gather our staff together.”
Returning to the second floor, the girls inspected the offices adjoining the newsroom. Penny selected for hers the one which previously had been occupied by Matthew Judson. His name remained on the frosted-glass door, and the walls bore etchings and paintings of considerable value.
In the top drawer of the flat-top desk there remained an assortment of pens, erasers, thumbtacks, and small articles. All letters and papers had been removed.
“Mr. Judson apparently left here in a great hurry,” she remarked. “For some reason he never returned for the paintings and personal trifles.”
Louise chose an office adjoining Penny’s new quarters. They both were admiring the view from the window when her chum suddenly drew herself into an attitude of attention.
“What’s wrong?” inquired Louise, mystified.
“I thought I heard someone moving about,” whispered Penny. “Quiet!”
They remained motionless; listening. A board creaked.
Darting to the door, Penny flung it open. The newsroom was deserted, but she was almost certain she heard footsteps retreating swiftly down the hall.
“Lou, we’re not alone in this building!”
“I thought I heard someone, too.”
The girls ran through the newsroom to the hall, and down the stairway. Three steps from the bottom, Penny suddenly halted. On the service counter of the advertising department lay a man’s grimy felt hat.
“Look at that,” she whispered. “Someonewasupstairs!”
“He may still be here, too. Penny, did you leave the entrance door unlocked?”
“I guess so. I don’t remember.”
“A loiterer may have wandered into the building, and then left when we gave chase.”
“Without his hat?”
“It probably was forgotten.”
“Anyhow, I intend to look carefully about,” declared Penny. “After all, I am responsible for this place now.”
Both girls were uneasy as they wandered from room to room. Penny even ventured into the basement where a number of rats had taken refuge. The building seemed deserted.
“We’re only wasting precious time,” she said at last. “Whoever the intruder was, he’s gone now.”
Retracing their way to the advertising department, the girls stopped short, staring at the counter. The hat, observed there only a few minutes before, had vanished.
Penny and Louise stared at the counter, unable to believe their eyesight. They knew that they had not touched the hat. Obviously it had been removed by the man who had left it there.
“The hat’s gone,” whispered Louise nervously. “That means someone is still inside the building!”
“He could have slipped out the front door while we were in the basement.”
Once more the girls made a complete tour of the building, entering every room. Unable to find an intruder they finally decided to give up the futile search.
“After this I’ll take care to lock the door,” declared Penny as they prepared to leave the building. “Now let’s get busy and gather our staff.”
During the next hour she and Louise motored from house to house, recruiting school friends. Early afternoon found the oldPressbuilding invaded by a crew of willing and enthusiastic young workers. A group of fifteen boys and girls, armed with mops, window cloths and brooms, fell to work with such vigor that by nightfall the main portion of the building had emerged from its cocoon of grime.
Weary but well satisfied with her first day as a newspaper publisher, Penny went home and to bed. At breakfast the next morning she ate with such a preoccupied air that her father commented upon her sober countenance.
“I hope you haven’t encountered knotty problems so soon in your journalistic venture,” he remarked teasingly.
“None which you can’t solve for me,” said Penny. “I’ve decided to run the octopus tattoo story on the front page of our first issue.”
“Indeed? And when does the first issue appear?”
“I’ll print one week from today.”
“A Sunday paper?”
“I thought probably your presses wouldn’t be busy on that day.”
“Mypresses!”
“Yes, I haven’t hired my pressroom force yet. I plan to make up the paper, set the type and lock it in the page forms. Then I’ll haul it over to your plant for stereotyping and the press run.”
“And if I object?”
“You won’t, will you, Dad? I’m such a pathetic little competitor.”
“I’ll run off the first edition for you,” Mr. Parker promised. “But mind, only the first. How many papers will you want? About five hundred?”
“Oh, roughly, six thousand. That should take care of my street sales.”
Mr. Parker’s fork clattered against his plate. “Your street sales?” he repeated. “Where, may I ask, did you acquire your distribution organization?”
“Oh, I have plans,” Penny chuckled. “Running a paper is really very simple.”
“Young lady, you’re riding for a heartbreaking fall,” warned her father severely. “Six thousand copies! Why, you’ll be lucky to dispose of three hundred!”
“Wait and see,” said Penny confidently.
During the week which followed there were no idle moments for the staff of the newly organizedWeekly Times. Leaving Louise in charge of the news output, Penny concentrated most of her attention on the problem of winning advertisers. Starting with a page taken by the Malone Glass Company, she and Jack Malone toured the city, selling a total of forty-two full columns.
The novelty of the enterprise intrigued many business men, while others took space because they were friends of Mr. Malone or Mr. Parker. Money continued to pour into the till of theWeekly Times.
Yet, when everything should have been sailing along smoothly, Louise complained that it was becoming difficult to keep her staff of writers satisfied. One by one they were falling away.
“We must expect that,” declared Penny. “Always the weak drop by the wayside. If only we can get on a paying basis, we’ll be able to offer small salaries. Then we’ll have more workers than we can use.”
“You certainly look to the future,” laughed Louise. “Personally I have grave doubts we’ll ever get the first issue set up.”
Every moment which could be spared from school, Penny spent at the plant. Long after the other young people had left, she remained, trying to master the intricacies of the linotype machine. Although in theory it operated somewhat like a typewriter, she could not learn to set type accurately.
Friday night, alone in the building, the task suddenly overwhelmed her.
“Machines, machines, machines,” she muttered. “The paper is going to be a mess and all because I can’t run this hateful old thing!”
Dropping her head wearily on the keyboard, Penny wept with vexation.
Suddenly she stiffened. Unmistakably, footsteps were coming softly down the hall toward the composing room.
Twice during the week Louise had declared that she believed someone prowled about the plant when it was deserted. Penny had been too busy to worry about the matter. But now, realizing that she was alone and without protection, her pulse began to hammer.
A shadow fell across the doorway.
“Who—who is there?” Penny called, her voice unsteady.
To her relief, a young man, his bashful grin reassuringly familiar, stepped into the cavernous room. Bill Carlyle was one of her father’s best linotype operators.
“You nearly startled me out of my wits,” she laughed shakily, “What brought you here, Bill?”
“I noticed the light burning,” the operator replied, twisting his hat in his hands. “I thought I would drop in and see how you were getting along.”
“Why, that’s nice of you, Bill.” Penny saw that he was gazing hard at her. She was afraid he could tell that she had been crying.
“The boys say you’re doing right well.” Bill moved nearer the linotype machine.
“Don’t look at my work,” pleaded Penny. “It’s simply awful. I can’t get the hang of this horrid old machine. I wish I hadn’t started a newspaper—I must have been crazy just as everyone says.”
“You’re tired, that’s what’s the trouble,” said Bill soothingly. “Now there’s nothing to running a linotype. Give me a piece of copy and I’ll show you.”
He slid into the vacant chair and his fingers began to move over the keyboard. As if by magic, type fell into place, and there were no mistakes.
“You do it marvelously,” said Penny admiringly. “What’s the trick?”
“About ten years practice. Shoot out your copy now and I’ll set some of it for you.”
“Bill, you’re a darling! But dare you do it? What about the union?”
“This is just between you and me,” he grinned. “You need a helping hand and I’m here to give it.”
Until midnight Bill remained at his post, setting more type in three hours than Penny had done in three days.
“Your front page should look pretty good at any rate,” he said as they left the building together. “Using rather old stories though, aren’t you?”
“Old?”
“That one about the man who was pushed off the bridge.”
“The story is still news,” Penny said defensively. “No other paper has used it. Didn’t you like it?”
“Sure, it was good,” he responded.
Now that several days had elapsed since her experience at the river, even Penny’s interest in John Munn and his strange tattoo, had faded. However, she was determined that the story should appear in the paper if for no other reason than to plague the editor ofChatter.
According to a report from Louise, Fred Clousky had called at theTimesearly that afternoon, and had seemed very gloomy as he inspected the plant. He had spent nearly a half hour in the composing room, a fact which Penny later was to recall with chagrin.
“Poor Fred,” she thought. “After my paper comes out hisChatterwill look more than ever like a sick cat.”
Saturday was another day of toil, but by six o’clock, aided by the few faithful members of her staff, the last stick of type was set, the pages locked and transported to theStarready for the Sunday morning run.
“I’ll be here early tomorrow,” Penny told the pressman. “Don’t start the edition rolling until I arrive. I want to press the button myself.”
At her urging, Mr. Parker, Jerry Livingston, Salt Sommers, and many members of theStar’sstaff, came to view the stereotyped plates waiting to be fitted on the press rollers.
“You’ve done well, Penny,” praised her father. “I confess I never thought you would get this far. Still figuring on a street sale of six thousand?”
“I’ve increased the number to seven,” laughed Penny.
“And how do you plan to get the papers sold?”
“Oh, that’s my secret, Dad. You may be surprised.”
Exhausted but happy, Penny went home and to bed. She was up at six, and after a hastily eaten breakfast, arrived at theStaroffice in time to greet the workmen who were just coming on duty.
“Everything is set,” the foreman told her presently. “You can start the press now.”
Penny was so nervous that her hand trembled as she pressed the electric switch. There was a low, whining noise as the wheels began to turn, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Pressmen moved back and forth, oiling the machinery and tightening screws.
Penny’s gaze was upon the long stream of paper feeding into the press. In a moment the neatly folded newspapers would slide out at the rate of eight hundred a minute. Only slightly over an hour and the run would be completed.
The first printed paper dropped from the press, and the foreman reached for it.
“Here you are,” he said, offering it to Penny.
Almost reverently she accepted the paper. Even though there were only eight pages, each one represented hours of labor. She had turned out a professional job, and could rightly feel proud.
And then suddenly Penny’s eyes fell upon the uppermost line of the front page.She gasped and leaned against the wall.
“I’m ruined!” she moaned. “Ruined! Someone has played a cruel joke on me!”
“Why, what’s wrong?” inquired the press foreman, reaching for another paper.
“Look at this,” wailed Penny. “Just look!”
She pointed to the name of the paper, printed in large black letters. It read: THE WEAKLY TIMES.
“I’ll be the laughing stock of Riverview,” Penny moaned. “The papers can’t go out that way. Stop the press!”
As the foreman turned off the rotarypress, the loud throb of machinery died away and the flowing web of paper became motionless.
“How could the mistake have been made?” Penny murmured disconsolately. “I know that originally the name-plate was set up right.”
“You should have taken page proofs and checked the mat,” said the foreman.
“But I did! At least I took page proofs. I’ll admit I was careless about the mats.”
“Well, it looks as if someone played a joke on you,” replied the foreman.
Penny’s face hardened. “I can guess who did it! Fred Clousky! Louise told me he spent a long while in the composing room one afternoon while I was away. He must have changed the type just to make me look ridiculous.”
“Well, it’s done anyway,” said the foreman with a shrug. “What will you do about the run?”
“I’ll never let it go through this way. I’d rather die.”
The foreman reminded Penny that with paid advertisements she would be compelled to print an issue. She knew that it would not be possible to make a change in the starter plate. The entire page must be recast.
“I don’t suppose the type can be matched in this plant,” she said gloomily.
“We may have some like it,” replied the foreman. “I’ll see.”
Soon he returned to report that type was available and that the work could be done by the stereotypers. However, the men would expect overtime pay.
“I’ll give them anything they want,” said Penny recklessly. “Anything.”
After a trying wait the new plate was made ready and locked on the cylinder. Once more the great press thundered. Again papers began to pour from the machine, every fiftieth one slightly out of line.
“What do you want done with ’em?” inquired the foreman.
“Have the papers carried to the mailing room and stacked by the door,” she instructed. “I’ll be around in the morning to arrange for deliveries.”
Monday’s first issue of theStarwas hot off the press when Penny stationed herself beside the veritable mountain of papers. The room was a bedlam, with newsboys shouting noisily for their wares. As they passed her on their way to the street, she waylaid them one by one.
“Here you are, boys,” she said with an expansive smile. “Two dozen papers each. Sell them for a nickel and keep half of it for yourself. Turn in the money at theWeekly Timesoffice.”
“Two and a half cents!” exclaimed one of the boys. “Gee, that’s more than we get for selling theStar!”
“Generosity is my motto,” laughed Penny. “Just push those papers for all you’re worth.”
Leaving theStarplant, she went directly to theWeekly Timesbuilding. Permission had been granted to absent herself from school, and she planned to be busy throughout the day, checking on paper sales.
As Penny unlocked the front door, she noticed that a faint odor of tobacco lingered in the air. A perplexed frown knitted her brow.
“That’s funny,” she thought. “None of the boys are allowed to smoke here. I wonder if someone disobeyed rules, or if there’s really a prowler in the building?”
Too busy to search the plant again, Penny gave the matter scant consideration. Tossing a package of lunch on the counter, she prepared for a hard day’s work.
Now and then, to rest her mind from columns of figures, she wandered to the window. Down the street, newsboys called their wares and it pleased her that they shouted theWeekly Timesas frequently as they did theStar.
By ten o’clock the boys began to straggle in with their money. Only a few had failed to sell all of their papers, and not one neglected to make a report. Penny’s final check-up disclosed that six thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine Weeklies had been sold.
“I can’t expect to do that well after the novelty wears off,” she thought. “But one thing is assured. MyWeeklyisn’t going to beweakly!”
With a large sum of money in her possession, Penny decided to take no chance of losing it. After making a careful count, she poured the coins into a bag which she transported by car to the bank.
It was lunch-time when she returned to the plant. She went to the counter for the package of sandwiches. To her surprise it had disappeared.
“Now who took my food?” she muttered.
Penny was annoyed. She did not believe that one of the newsboys had picked up the package. Accumulative evidence pointed to a likelihood that someone was hiding in the building. The moving light, tobacco smoke, unexplained footsteps, suggested that a tramp might be using the empty plant as a comfortable shelter.
“But how can he get in?” she asked herself. “Doors and windows are kept locked.”
As Penny considered whether or not to report the matter to police, the front door opened. A man of early middle age, well dressed, but with a sharp, weather-beaten face and a mis-shapen nose, entered.
“This the office of theWeekly Times?” he demanded grumpily.
“Yes,” said Penny. “Is there anything—”
“I want to see the editor.”
“You’re looking at her now.”
“You! A girl!”
Penny smiled and waited. The stranger hesitated and then took theWeekly Timesfrom his overcoat pocket. With his forefinger he jabbed at a story on the front page—Penny’s account of the tattooed man who had been pushed from the bridge.
“You know who wrote this?” he questioned.
“I did.”
Again Penny’s words surprised the man although he tried not to disclose it.
“That’s a right interesting yarn,” he said after a long pause.
“I’m glad you like it.” Penny stared at the man with interest, wondering why he had come and what he wanted.