“Mr. Glasser calls them that when he doesn’t get the daily stock market report,” explained Mrs. Downey, smiling at her guest.
“And don’t the newspapers always arrive?” questioned Francine.
“Not always. Lately the service has been very poor.”
“I’d rather be deprived of a meal than my paper,” growled Mr. Glasser. “What annoys me is that the guests at the Fergus hotel always get their papers. I wish someone would explain it to me.”
“And I wish someone would explain it to me,” murmured Mrs. Downey, retreating to the kitchen.
In the morning Penny decided to ski down to the village for a jar of cold cream. The snow was crusted and fast but she felt no terror of the trail which curved sharply through the evergreens. Her balance was better, and this time she had no intention of impaling herself on Peter Jasko’s barbed wire fence.
Seldom checking her speed, she hurtled along the ribbon of trail. Racing on to the sharp turn, she shifted her weight and swung her body at precisely the right instant. The slope stretched on past rows of tall trees, towering like sentinels along the snow-swept ridges. Presently it flattened out into an open valley. Penny sailed past a house, a barn, and gradually slowed up until she came to a low hillock overlooking the village.
Recapturing her breath, Penny took off her skis and walked on into Pine Top. She made a few purchases at the drug store and then impulsively entered the telegraph office. To her surprise, Francine Sellberg was there ahead of her.
“How late is your office open?” the reporter was asking the operator.
“Six-thirty,” he replied.