“Tattooing is a fascinating subject.”
“It is to you. I doubt if our readers share your enthusiasm.”
“They will when they read my story,” countered Penny.
Early the next morning she presented herself at Mr. Saal’s place of business, a den-like crack in the wall, barely wide enough to accommodate a door.
Pausing, she stared at a sign which proclaimed that for a nominal sum Mr. Saal would tattoo or photograph all comers. In a glass frame were displayed many samples of tattooing—bleeding hearts, clasped hands, sailing ships, birds in flight and other artistic conceptions.
Penny entered the shop. The front end of the long, narrow room was unoccupied, but the sound of hammering led her to the rear. A man of some sixty-odd years was engaged in making a new shelf. As he saw her the hammer dropped from his hand.
“Good morning,” said Penny in her friendliest tone. “Are you Mr. Saal?”
“That’s me,” he replied, regarding her curiously.
“Excuse me for bothering you,” apologized Penny, “but I should like to interview you for my newspaper.”
Mr. Saal’s intelligent but somewhat child-like eyes fixed her in a steady stare.