In the little storage room close to the outside building wall were tires of all sizes and description. Some were new, still wrapped in clean paper. Others appeared slightly used.
“See, Dad!” Penny cried triumphantly. “I was right!”
“We still have no proof this rubber was illegally obtained.”
Penny darted forward to inspect a stack of tires which rose half way to the ceiling.
“Here’s one that might have come off my car!” she cried. “See! Mine had a tiny cut place where I rammed the maple tree backing out of our garage!”
“All tires look alike, Penny. Without the serial number—”
“I do remember part of it. One was 8910 something.”
“Then this isn’t your tire,” replied Mr. Parker, reading the number. “However, I shouldn’t be surprised that these are stolen tires.”
Penny held up her hand as a signal for silence.
“Quiet, Dad!” she whispered.