“I’ll never let it go through this way. I’d rather die.”
The foreman reminded Penny that with paid advertisements she would be compelled to print an issue. She knew that it would not be possible to make a change in the starter plate. The entire page must be recast.
“I don’t suppose the type can be matched in this plant,” she said gloomily.
“We may have some like it,” replied the foreman. “I’ll see.”
Soon he returned to report that type was available and that the work could be done by the stereotypers. However, the men would expect overtime pay.
“I’ll give them anything they want,” said Penny recklessly. “Anything.”
After a trying wait the new plate was made ready and locked on the cylinder. Once more the great press thundered. Again papers began to pour from the machine, every fiftieth one slightly out of line.
“What do you want done with ’em?” inquired the foreman.
“Have the papers carried to the mailing room and stacked by the door,” she instructed. “I’ll be around in the morning to arrange for deliveries.”
Monday’s first issue of the Star was hot off the press when Penny stationed herself beside the veritable mountain of papers. The room was a bedlam, with newsboys shouting noisily for their wares. As they passed her on their way to the street, she waylaid them one by one.