“Everything is set,” the foreman told her presently. “You can start the press now.”
Penny was so nervous that her hand trembled as she pressed the electric switch. There was a low, whining noise as the wheels began to turn, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Pressmen moved back and forth, oiling the machinery and tightening screws.
Penny’s gaze was upon the long stream of paper feeding into the press. In a moment the neatly folded newspapers would slide out at the rate of eight hundred a minute. Only slightly over an hour and the run would be completed.
The first printed paper dropped from the press, and the foreman reached for it.
“Here you are,” he said, offering it to Penny.
Almost reverently she accepted the paper. Even though there were only eight pages, each one represented hours of labor. She had turned out a professional job, and could rightly feel proud.
[And then suddenly Penny’s eyes fell upon the uppermost line of the front page.] She gasped and leaned against the wall.
“I’m ruined!” she moaned. “Ruined! Someone has played a cruel joke on me!”
“Why, what’s wrong?” inquired the press foreman, reaching for another paper.
“Look at this,” wailed Penny. “Just look!”