Penny switched off the engine.
“I guess you’re new around here,” she said, climbing out. “The next truck isn’t due until five-twenty-three.”
“Say, who do you think you are, tellin’ me—?”
The employee trailed off into silence as another workman gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs.
“Pipe down,” he was warned. “If the boss’ daughter wants to park her jitney in the paper chute it’s okay, see?”
“Sure, I get it,” the other mumbled.
Penny grinned broadly as she crossed the loading area.
“After this, you might mention my automobile in a more respectful tone,” she tossed over her shoulder. “It’s not scrap iron or a jitney either!”
Riding up the freight elevator, Penny passed a few remarks with the smiling operator and stepped off at the editorial floor. She noticed as she went through the news room that Jerry Livingston’s desk was vacant. And because the waste basket was empty, the floor beside it free from paper wads, she knew he had written no story that day.
Penny tapped lightly on the closed door of her father’s private office and went in.