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!"
CHAPTER
7
_PETER FENESTRA_
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 the _Star_ was 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 the _Weekly Times_ office."
"Two and a half cents!" exclaimed one of the boys. "Gee, that's more than
we get for selling the _Star_!"
"Generosity is my motto," laughed Penny. "Just push those papers for all
you're worth."
Leaving the _Star_ plant, she went directly to the _Weekly Times_
building. 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 the _Weekly Times_ as frequently as they did the
_Star_.
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. My _Weekly_ isn't going to be
_weakly_!"
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 the _Weekly 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 the _Weekly
Times_ from 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.
"I was kind of curious to know where you got your information."
"Why, I saw it happen, Mr--I don't believe you told me your name."
"Fenestra. Peter Fenestra."
"I was driving near the bridge at the time the man was pushed into the
water," Penny resumed.
"You didn't see the one who did it?"
"Not clearly. May I ask why you are so interested in the story?"
"I thought maybe I knew that man, Munn. What became of him?"
"I can't tell you that. He was rescued by a tugboat captain. Everything I
know about the affair is in the story."
"Well, thank you kindly," Mr. Fenestra said, tipping his hat.
Penny watched him leave the office and walk to his car. She had never
seen the man before to her knowledge. Although she should have felt
flattered by his visit, it left her with a vague, unexplainable sensation
of distrust.
"There's something queer about the way he came here," she reflected.
"Perhaps he knows more than he pretended."
Penny soon dismissed the matter from her mind, turning her thoughts to
the problem of the missing lunch. Resolutely she made a tour of the
building, venturing everywhere save into the basement. As she had half
expected, she found no one. However, returning once more to her work, she
occasionally caught herself listening for footsteps.
At three-thirty Louise came from school with other members of the _Times_
staff. She and Penny retired to the latter's private office there to
discuss plans for the next week's paper.
"Lou," said Penny abruptly, "did you ever hear of a man named Peter
Fenestra?"
"Why, yes, I have."
"He was here today to ask me about the octopus tattoo story. What can you
tell me?"
"Not very much, Penny. He lives on a farm two miles from the south edge
of Riverview. A place called The Willows."
"Oh, is he a farmer?" Penny was surprised. "I never would have guessed
that."
"He isn't one. He merely lives there. According to the report, he has
prospered by leaps and bounds."
"How does he make his money?"
"No one seems to know. When Fenestra came here a year or so ago he didn't
appear to have anything. Lately he bought a fine car, and he spends money
rather lavishly."
"He inquired about John Munn," Penny remarked. "Somehow I had a feeling
that he was trying to pump information from me for a particular reason."
"Those who know Fenestra say he's a sly old fox."
"That's the way he impressed me, Lou. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I
believe my tattoo story may cause quite a stir in Riverview."
"Was Fenestra annoyed by it?"
"I think so, Lou, although he tried to cover his feelings. He may or may
not be a friend of John Munn, but he certainly was anxious to learn what
became of him."
"You didn't ask him any questions?"
"No, his visit took me by surprise. But I've been thinking, Lou. I very
much want a follow up story on John Munn for next week's paper. Suppose
we run out to Fenestra's farm tomorrow."
"What purpose would there be in that?"
"Fenestra may be able to tell us interesting facts which will throw light
on the mystery. He may understand the significance of the octopus
tattoo."
"You're rather hopeful, I think."
"But you'll go with me?"
"Yes," promised Louise. "I've always had a curiosity to see The Willows.
Besides, I need a vacation from my strenuous duties as editor."
CHAPTER
8
_THE STORM CAVE_
"Well, Penny," remarked Mr. Parker casually at the breakfast table. "I
finally bought the cottage."
Penny closed her history book with a loud snap, favoring her father with
complete attention. "You bought a cottage?" she echoed. "Where? When?
Why?"
"I've talked about it for the past week, but you were so busy stealing
the _Star's_ advertisers that you never listened."
"I'm all ears now, Dad," Penny assured him, absently reaching for a piece
of toast. "Tell me all about it."
"The cottage is located on the Big Bear River. Four rooms and a
boathouse. Incidentally, I've hired a man to look after the place and
keep the boat in shape. He calls himself Anchor Joe."
"Are we going to live at the cottage this summer?" Penny inquired.
"No, I merely bought it for week-end trips. I plan on a bit of fishing
now and then. You may enjoy going with me."
"Oh, Dad," groaned Penny, "how can I? These days I don't even have time
to wash my neck. Running a newspaper is more work than I figured."
"I'll give you the address of the cottage, at least," smiled Mr. Parker.
"If you have any spare time during the next three months drive out and
look over the place."
"I'll get there somehow," Penny promised, pocketing the card. Her hand
encountered a typed, folded sheet of paper which she immediately placed
in front of her father. "Oh, by the way, sign this for me, will you?"
"No more cheques."
"This is only an order for a ton-roll of paper. I'm trying to store up a
few supplies so that eventually I can publish the _Weekly_ in my own
plant."
Mr. Parker signed the order, inquiring teasingly: "Have you engaged your
pressman yet? Their wages come rather high you know."
"It takes everything the _Weekly_ makes to meet its current bills,"
sighed Penny. "But one of these days I'll get the paper out in my own
plant. Just wait and see!"
"I'll wait," chuckled Mr. Parker. "My hope is that you don't fail in your
studies before that happy day arrives."
On her way to school, Penny studied the card given her by her father, and
noticed that the new cottage was situated not far from The Willows. Often
she and Louise had talked of calling upon Peter Fenestra, but both had
been kept busy at the _Times_ office. Now that a linotype operator had
been hired to set type, they had a little more free time.
"If Louise will accompany me, I'll visit both places tonight," decided
Penny.
Four-thirty found the two girls walking through a dense maple and oak
woods which rimmed the Big Bear River. A breeze stirred the tree leaves,
but even so the day was hot and sultry.
"I wish it would rain," remarked Louise, trudging wearily beside her
companion. "I never knew it to be so warm at this time of year."
"Maybe we can cool off by taking a boat ride when we get to the cottage,"
encouraged Penny. "I think I see the place through the trees."
Directly ahead, in a tiny clearing, stood a freshly painted white
cottage. Quickening their steps, the girls soon arrived at the front
door. No one seemed to be within call, so they pushed it open.
A long living room with a cobblestone fireplace met their gaze. Beyond
was the kitchen, a dining alcove, and two bedrooms.
As they went outside again, they saw a short, wiry man coming toward the
cottage from the river.
"You're Miss Parker?" he asked, looking at Louise.
"No, _I_ am," corrected Penny. "And you must be Anchor Joe." Her eyes
fastened for an instant upon the tattoo of a four-masted sailing ship
imprinted on his arm.
"That's me," agreed the man. "Go ahead an' look around all you like."
Penny and Louise wandered about the grounds, then returned to find Anchor
Joe giving the motor boat, which was upturned on the grass, a coat of
varnish.
"We thought you might take us for a ride," remarked Penny. "It must be
cool on the water."
"I sure would like to, Miss Parker," said Anchor Joe regretfully. "But I
dasn't get 'er wet now. Not until this varnish dries."
Penny nodded, and then asked: "You're a sailor, aren't you? Where have
you sailed?"
"The Atlantic, the Great Lakes, the Gulf o' Mexico. Oh, I been
everywhere."
Penny and Louise chatted with Anchor Joe for a time but, although they
asked any number of questions, they gained very little definite
information. The sailor seemed unwilling to tell anything about himself,
save in generalities.
"We may as well go on to Peter Fenestra's place," Penny presently
remarked. "It's getting late."
Anchor Joe's varnish brush became motionless. He glanced up with sudden
interest.
"I wouldn't go there if I was you gals," he said.
"Why not?" questioned Penny in astonishment.
"The weather don't look so good. She might blow up a gale before
sundown."
"Oh, we're not afraid of a little wind or rain," answered Penny
carelessly. "Come along, Lou."
Anchor Joe said nothing more, but his sober gaze followed the girls as
they walked away.
Keeping close to the river, Penny and Louise trod a path which they knew
would lead to the main road and Peter Fenestra's farm.
"Queer sort, wasn't he?" Penny remarked thoughtfully.
"Anchor Joe?"
"Yes, I wonder where Dad found him? He certainly didn't tell us much
about himself."
Crossing the river by means of a swaying, suspension bridge, the girls
came out from beneath the solid canopy of trees. Penny paused to stare up
at the sky.
"Aren't those clouds odd?" she observed. "Just watch them boil!"
"They must be filled with wind," declared Louise uneasily. "Anchor Joe
said he thought a storm would blow up."
"It's not far away either. Unless we step right along, we'll surely get
caught in it."
"Perhaps we should forget The Willows and start home."
"We never could get there now," responded Penny. "If we hurry we may
reach Fenestra's place before the storm breaks."
Walking even faster, the girls hastened along the winding path. The air
remained sultry and very still. The sky, Penny noted, had changed to a
peculiar yellowish color.