It was long after nightfall before Penny reached the station. Every muscle protested as she dragged herself wearily to the doorstep. During her absence the flood had lowered by nearly a foot. However, the current remained swift, and she steadied herself for a moment against the building wall.
“Who’s there?” called Quigley sharply.
“Penny Parker.”
“Okay, come on in,” the agent invited. “Thought you might be a looter.”
Penny pushed open the door. The waiting room was filled with men, women and children who slumped in cold misery on the uncomfortable row of seats. Few were provided with any warm clothing.
Penny splashed through the dark, musty room to the inner office. Quigley had lighted a smoky oil lamp which revealed that he had made himself a bed on top of the telegraph desk.
“I’m turning in for the night,” he explained. “There’s nothing more we can do until morning.”
“How about my story to the Star?” Penny asked wearily. “Is the special wire set up yet?”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Quigley replied. “The Dispatcher’s wire went out for good over an hour ago. Too bad you killed yourself to get that story, because it will have to wait.”
“But it mustn’t wait,” Penny protested. “Dad’s counting on me. I gave my promise. How about the telephone company?”