CHAPTER 6 HEADLINES AND HEADACHES

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 old Press building 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.”

“My presses!”

“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 organized Weekly 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 the Weekly 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 of Chatter.

According to a report from Louise, Fred Clousky had called at the Times early 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 his Chatter will 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 the Star ready 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 the Star’s staff, 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 the Star office 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!”