“Nice going,” he declared in satisfaction as he scanned the big black headlines. “We beat every other Riverview paper by a good margin. A colorful story, too.”
“Thanks to whom?” demanded Penny, giving him a pinch.
“I suppose I should say, to you,” he admitted with a grin. “However, I see you’ve already received ample credit. DeWitt gave you a by-line.”
“Did he really?” Penny took the paper from her father’s hand and gazed affectionately at her own name in print. “Nice of him. Especially when I didn’t even suggest the idea.”
To a newspaper reporter, a story tagged with his own name means high honor. Many times Penny, ever alert for news, had enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing her stories appear with a by-line. Early in her career as a self-made newspaper girl, her contributions had been regarded as something of an annoyance to her father and the staff of the Star. But of late she had turned in many of the paper’s best scoops and incidentally, had solved a few mysteries.
“This is the way I like a story written,” Mr. Parker declared, reading aloud from the account which bore his daughter’s name. “No flowery phrases. Just a straight version of how your sailboat upset and what you saw as it floated down toward the bridge.”
“It’s a pretty drab account if you ask me,” sniffed Penny. “I could have written it up much better myself. Why, the re-write man didn’t even tell how Louise and I happened to upset!”
“A detail of no importance,” Mr. Parker returned. “I mean, in connection with the story,” he corrected hastily as Penny flashed him an injured look. “What did cause you to capsize?”
“A blue bottle, Dad. It had a piece of paper inside. I was reaching for it and—oh, my aunt!”
“Now what?” demanded her father.