CHAPTER 13 PAPER PROBLEMS

The next afternoon Penny and Louise arrived at the Weekly Times to find that the entire lower floor had been cleaned and swept. Old Horney was discovered in the composing room, stirring up a great cloud of dust with a stub of a broom.

“I was just cleaning the place up a bit,” he said apologetically. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” laughed Penny. “I’m delighted. Our staff of janitors has lost interest here of late.”

“I set a little type for you last night, too.”

“Why, Horney! I didn’t know you were a linotype operator.”

“I’m not,” answered the old man, “but I can learn most anything if I set my mind to it. If you have any jobs you want done just turn them over to me.”

“Horney,” said Penny soberly, “more than anything else I would like to publish the Weekly in my own plant. The obstacles seem almost too great to overcome; do you think it could be accomplished?”

“Why, sure,” said Horney. “If I had some tools and a little to do with I could get the presses ready in a day.”

“What about the stereotyping work?”

“I could master the trick of it,” declared Horney confidently.

“Horney, you’re a jewel!” laughed Penny. “I’ll place you in charge of my production department, but I fear I can’t give you a salary in proportion to your duties.”

“Don’t worry about that, Miss. I would rather be working than sitting around with nothing to do.”

“Then look over the plant and make up a list of the things you must have,” suggested Penny. “I’ll go over to the Star this minute and arrange for printing paper.”

Leaving Louise in charge of the office, she jubilantly set forth for her father’s plant. Now that Old Horney had been added to the staff of the Weekly, problems which previously had seemed unsurmountable suddenly had become easily solved.

Entering the Star building, Penny went directly to the stockroom, wandering about until she found Mr. Curry, the foreman.

“Here’s something for you,” she grinned, offering a slip of paper.

“What’s this?” Mr. Curry asked with a puzzled frown. “An order for a roll of paper?”

“Yes, Mr. Curry,” explained Penny. “At last I am going to publish my own sheet over in the old Press building. Dad is staking me to a little paper.”

“A little! Why, one of these big rolls would print more copies of your paper than you could sell in six months! And paper is expensive. How about a half-roll or even a quarter? It would be a lot easier to handle.”

“Oh, all right,” agreed Penny. “Just so I get enough to print my first issue.”

Mr. Curry led the way to one of the presses, pointing to a roll of paper mounted on a feeding rack.

“That one is about half used up,” he said. “Will it do?”

“Yes, I guess so,” agreed Penny. “May I have it right away?”

Mr. Curry replied by pushing a tram along a miniature railway which ran under the press. With surprising skill, he maneuvered the roll into position on the carrier. Then he pushed the tram to the elevator, moved the portable paper lift over the roll, and up it went to the platform. The elevator grounded at the first floor where the paper was rolled to the loading dock with pry bars.

“There you are,” said the foreman.

“All I need now is a truck,” Penny cried exultantly. “Thanks, Mr. Curry!”

Standing guard beside her paper she waited until one of the Star drivers had finished unloading his cargo and was ready to pull from the dock.

“How’s chances fer a ride, buddy?” asked Penny, jerking her thumb in the manner of a hitch-hiker. “Me and my paper to the Weekly Times.”

“Okay,” laughed the trucker.

He rolled the paper onto the truck, and Penny climbed into the cab beside him. At the Times building she had the roll set off at the rear entrance where Old Horney easily could get it to the press room.

Highly elated, Penny mounted the steps two at a time, bursting in upon Louise who was busy writing headlines.

“Got it!” she announced. “About six hundred pounds of paper. That should keep the Weekly going for awhile.”

“Here’s something to dampen your enthusiasm.” Louise thrust a letter toward her. “Another kick on that octopus tattoo story you wrote. A Mrs. Brown says she heartily disapproves of such outlandish tales, and that she’ll never buy another copy of the Times.”

“At least it proves my story attracted attention,” chuckled Penny. “Anything else while I was gone?”

“Yes, Mrs. Weems telephoned to ask that you come to the cottage as soon as possible. And that reminds me—the telephone bill. The company requires a month’s advance—”

“Never mind the bills,” interrupted Penny. “Did Mrs. Weems say anything about Anchor Joe?”

“He appears to be much better.”

“I’m glad of that. I suppose I should drive out to the cottage before it gets dark.”

“Run along. I’ll look after everything here.”

Penny swept her desk clear of papers and locked the drawers. “If you have any spare time you might see what you can do with my algebra assignment,” she suggested. “I missed every problem but one yesterday.”

“I have my own lesson troubles,” responded Louise. “I’m wading up to my neck in Latin, and the next monthly quiz is certain to drown me.”

“Teachers have no consideration,” sighed Penny. “None at all.”

Gathering up her school books, she bade Louise good-bye and left the office. On the stairway she met Old Horney.

“I’ve made my list,” he said, offering it to her. “I figure we can’t get out the paper with less than this.”

Penny glanced at the paper and slipped it into her purse.

“I’ll get the things somehow,” she promised. “By the way, there’s a roll of paper on the loading dock.”

“I’ve already hauled ’er in,” replied Old Horney. “Any other jobs for me?”

“No, you seem to be one jump ahead,” laughed Penny.

They descended the stairway together, the steps creaking beneath their weight. There was a different look to Old Horney, Penny thought, stealing a glance at him. His hair had been cut and his face was clean-shaven. Work had given him a new outlook, a desire to recover his self respect.

“I suppose you knew Matthew Judson rather well?” she remarked reflectively.

“Oh, sure.”

“What was he like, Horney?”

“Well—” the old man hesitated, at a loss for words. “Judson was queer, sort of cold and unfriendly except to those who knew him best, but he was a square-shooter.”

“The employes liked him?”

“Everyone did except a few chronic sore-heads.”

“Horney, was it true that the Press was making money at the time it closed?”

“That’s what everyone on the paper thought. It was a shock to us all when Judson closed down. I’ll never forget the day he told us he was giving up the plant. The old man looked like death had struck him, and he cried when he said good-bye to the boys.”

“I wonder why he closed the plant?”

“Some say it was because he had lost a pile of money speculating on the stock market. But I never believed that. Judson wasn’t the gambling type.”

“Why do you think he gave up the paper, Horney?”

“I’ve done a lot of speculating on it,” the old man admitted. “This is just my own idea, but I figure Judson may have been blackmailed.”

“Blackmailed! By whom?”

“I can’t tell you—it’s only my guess.”

“You have no evidence to support such a theory, Horney?”

“Nothing you could call that. But the day before Judson quit he was in the pressroom. He was sort of thinking out loud, I guess. Anyhow he said to me, ‘Horney, the dirty blackmailer couldn’t do this to me if it weren’t for my daughter. If it didn’t mean smearing her name, I’d fight!’”

“Did you ask him what he meant?”

“I made some reply, and then he closed up like a clam. I figure he hadn’t realized what he was saying.”

“You haven’t any idea as to whom he meant?”

“I couldn’t make a guess.”

“No matter what the reason, it was a pity the Press had to close,” declared Penny. “I feel very sorry for Mr. Judson.”

Bidding Horney good-bye, she hurried home for her automobile. However, as she drove toward the river cottage she kept thinking about what the old pressman had told her.

“It’s barely possible his theory is right,” she mused. “But why should Mr. Judson submit to blackmail even for his daughter’s sake? Somehow the pieces of the puzzle refuse to fit.”