Yet, when everything should have been sailing along smoothly, Louise complained that it was becoming difficult to keep her staff of writers satisfied. One by one they were falling away.
“We must expect that,” declared Penny. “Always the weak drop by the wayside. If only we can get on a paying basis, we’ll be able to offer small salaries. Then we’ll have more workers than we can use.”
“You certainly look to the future,” laughed Louise. “Personally I have grave doubts we’ll ever get the first issue set up.”
Every moment which could be spared from school, Penny spent at the plant. Long after the other young people had left, she remained, trying to master the intricacies of the linotype machine. Although in theory it operated somewhat like a typewriter, she could not learn to set type accurately.
Friday night, alone in the building, the task suddenly overwhelmed her.
“Machines, machines, machines,” she muttered. “The paper is going to be a mess and all because I can’t run this hateful old thing!”
Dropping her head wearily on the keyboard, Penny wept with vexation.
Suddenly she stiffened. Unmistakably, footsteps were coming softly down the hall toward the composing room.
Twice during the week Louise had declared that she believed someone prowled about the plant when it was deserted. Penny had been too busy to worry about the matter. But now, realizing that she was alone and without protection, her pulse began to hammer.
A shadow fell across the doorway.