Climbing the stairs, the girls glanced briefly into the newsroom, and then wandered on to the composing room. Penny’s gaze roved over long rows of linotype machines and steel trucks which were used to hold page forms. There were bins of type, Cheltenham, Goudy, Century—more varieties than she had ever seen before.
Passing the stereotyping department, the girls entered the press room where slumbered ten giant double-decked rotary presses. Lying on the roller of one was a torn strip of newspaper, the last issue of the Morning Press ever printed.
“It gives one a queer feeling to see all this,” said Louise. “Why do you suppose Judson closed the plant when it was prosperous?”
“No one seems to know the answer,” Penny replied, stooping to peer into an empty ink pot. “But it doesn’t seem possible a man would give up his business, throw so many persons out of work, without a good reason.”
“His bad luck seems to be yours,” Louise remarked gloomily. “Well, since you’ve fallen heir to all this, what will you do with it? It will take a sizeable chunk of your hundred dollars just to get the place cleaned.”
“Not according to my calculations,” chuckled Penny. “Let’s choose our offices and then we’ll discuss business.”
“Our offices?” echoed Louise. “I’m not in on this brain-storm of yours.”
“Oh, yes, you are. You’ll be the editor.”
“But I thought you were that!”
“I’ll be the managing editor,” said Penny gently. “You’ll have your office, and oodles of authority. Of course, you’ll have to work hard keeping our staff in line.”