Part 3

"I aim to win several fat ones away from the _Star_," 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 the _Times_ will be printed at the _Star_ plant. 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. "Someone _was_ upstairs!"

"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.

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!"

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."