According to a report from Louise, Fred Clousky had called at the Times early that afternoon, and had seemed very gloomy as he inspected the plant. He had spent nearly a half hour in the composing room, a fact which Penny later was to recall with chagrin.
“Poor Fred,” she thought. “After my paper comes out his Chatter will look more than ever like a sick cat.”
Saturday was another day of toil, but by six o’clock, aided by the few faithful members of her staff, the last stick of type was set, the pages locked and transported to the Star ready for the Sunday morning run.
“I’ll be here early tomorrow,” Penny told the pressman. “Don’t start the edition rolling until I arrive. I want to press the button myself.”
At her urging, Mr. Parker, Jerry Livingston, Salt Sommers, and many members of the Star’s staff, came to view the stereotyped plates waiting to be fitted on the press rollers.
“You’ve done well, Penny,” praised her father. “I confess I never thought you would get this far. Still figuring on a street sale of six thousand?”
“I’ve increased the number to seven,” laughed Penny.
“And how do you plan to get the papers sold?”
“Oh, that’s my secret, Dad. You may be surprised.”
Exhausted but happy, Penny went home and to bed. She was up at six, and after a hastily eaten breakfast, arrived at the Star office in time to greet the workmen who were just coming on duty.