"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."

Sat.u.r.day 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 b.u.t.ton 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 advertis.e.m.e.nts 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 pa.s.sed 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_!"