The driver, her attention focused upon the blazing factory, apparently did not observe the act, for she continued slowly on down the street.
“D F 3005,” Penny noted the license number. “If only I can remember!”
The factory women were upon the girl, seizing her roughly by the shoulders and shouting accusations. Penny’s jacket was ripped as she jerked free.
“I’m a reporter for the Star!” she cried desperately. “Sent here to cover the story!”
The words made not the slightest impression upon the women. But before they could lay hands upon her again, she fled across the street. The women did not pursue her, for just then two police cars rolled up to the curb.
Penny, greatly relieved, ran to summon help.
“Quick!” she urged the policemen. “That crazy mob has mistaken a reporter for one of the saboteurs who escaped in a car!”
With drawn clubs, the policemen battled their way through the crowd. Already Salt had been roughly handled. But arrival of the police saved him from further mistreatment, and fearful of arrest, the mob began to scatter. In another moment the photographer was free, although a bit battered. His coat had been torn to shreds, one eye had been blackened, and blood trickled from a cut on his lower lip.
“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously as Penny rushed to him.
“Oh, yes! But you’re a sight, Salt. They half killed you!”