“As a reporter,” Penny corrected. “I’m serious, Dad. You’re desperate for employes. I’m desperate for spending money. I have three weeks school vacation coming up, so why not strike a bargain?”
“The paper needs experienced workers, Penny.”
“Precisely.”
“You’re a very good writer,” Mr. Parker admitted. “In fact, in months past you turned in some of the best feature stories the Star ever printed. But always they were special assignments. We must have a reporter who can work a daily, eight-hour grind and be depended upon to handle routine stories with speed, accuracy and efficiency.”
“And you think I am not what the doctor ordered?”
“I think,” corrected Mr. Parker, “that you would blow your pretty little top by the end of the second day. For instance, it’s not easy nor pleasant to write obituaries. Yet it must be done, and accurately. On this paper, a new reporter is expected to do rewrites and other tedious work. You wouldn’t like it, Penny.”
“I’d take it neatly in my stride, Dad. Why not try me and see?”
Mr. Parker shook his head and began to read the three-star edition of the paper, its ink still damp from the press.
“Give me one sound, logical reason for turning me down,” Penny persisted.
“Very well. You are my daughter. Our editors might feel that they were compelled to treat you with special consideration—give you the best assignments—handle you with kid gloves.”