“Who—who is there?” Penny called, her voice unsteady.
To her relief, a young man, his bashful grin reassuringly familiar, stepped into the cavernous room. Bill Carlyle was one of her father’s best linotype operators.
“You nearly startled me out of my wits,” she laughed shakily, “What brought you here, Bill?”
“I noticed the light burning,” the operator replied, twisting his hat in his hands. “I thought I would drop in and see how you were getting along.”
“Why, that’s nice of you, Bill.” Penny saw that he was gazing hard at her. She was afraid he could tell that she had been crying.
“The boys say you’re doing right well.” Bill moved nearer the linotype machine.
“Don’t look at my work,” pleaded Penny. “It’s simply awful. I can’t get the hang of this horrid old machine. I wish I hadn’t started a newspaper—I must have been crazy just as everyone says.”
“You’re tired, that’s what’s the trouble,” said Bill soothingly. “Now there’s nothing to running a linotype. Give me a piece of copy and I’ll show you.”
He slid into the vacant chair and his fingers began to move over the keyboard. As if by magic, type fell into place, and there were no mistakes.
“You do it marvelously,” said Penny admiringly. “What’s the trick?”