Penny scanned the front pages. The story in the Star was well written, with her own facts used, and a great many more supplied by other reporters. But in comparison to the Times, the story seemed colorless. Pictures, she realized, made the difference. The Times had published two of them which half covered the page.
“Can’t see how DeWitt slipped up,” Mr. Parker said, shaking his head sadly. “He should have sent one of our photographers out there.”
“Dad—”
Mr. Parker, who had finished his breakfast, hastily shoved back his chair. “Well, I must be getting to the office,” he said. “Don’t be late, Penny.”
“Dad, about that story last night—”
“No time now,” he interposed. “On a newspaper, yesterday’s stories are best forgotten.”
Penny understood then that her father already knew all the details of her downfall. Relieved that there was no need to explain, she grinned and hurriedly ate her breakfast.
Because her father had taken the car and gone on, she was compelled to battle the crowd on the bus. The trip took longer than she had expected. Determined not to be late for work, she ran most of the way from the bus stop to the office. By the time she had climbed the stairs to the newsroom, she was almost breathless.
As she came hurriedly through the swinging door, Elda Hunt, cool and serene, looked up from her typewriter.
“Why the rush?” she drawled, but in a voice which carried clearly to everyone in the room. “Are you going to another fire?”