“‘Spelling bad,’” Penny read aloud. “Look at this word he underlined! Anyone could tell I merely struck a wrong letter on my typewriter!”
Crumpling the page, she tossed it into the waste paper basket.
“‘Too imaginative,’” she muttered. “‘Language too flowery’!”
“Oh, forget it, Penny,” laughed Louise, leading her toward the locker room. “Fred always has been jealous of you because you’ve had stories published in the Star. Don’t let him know that you’re annoyed.”
“I guess I am acting silly,” admitted Penny, relaxing. “What I must do is to give this problem a good, hard think. Editor Fred will hear from me yet!”
Declining an invitation to play tennis, she went directly home. For an hour she lay on the davenport, staring at the ceiling.
“Penny, are you ill?” inquired Mrs. Weems anxiously.
“No, I’m in conference with myself,” answered Penny. “I am trying to arrive at a momentous decision.”
Presently, she began to scribble figures on a sheet of paper. When her father came home at five o’clock he found her engaged in that occupation.
“Well, Penny,” he remarked, hanging up his hat, “how did it go today? The editor of Chatter accepted your contribution I hope.”