“Perhaps it will be best,” he agreed as he walked slowly toward the door.
Helen watched him descend the steps; then saw him reach the street and turn toward home.
She was startled by the expression she had just seen on her father’s face. He had never been particularly robust and now he looked as though something had come upon him which was crushing his mind and body. Illness, worry and apprehension had carved lines in his face that afternoon.
Helen went into the composing room where the Linotype, the rows of type cases, the makeup tables, the job press and the newspaper press were located. At the back end of the room was the large press, moving steadily back and forth as Tom, perched on a high stool, fed sheets of paper into one end. From the other came the freshly printed papers of that week’s edition of the Herald.
“Shut off the press,” called Helen, shouting to make herself heard above the noise of the working machinery.
“What say?” cried Tom.
“Shut it off,” his sister replied.
Tom scowled as he reached for the clutch to stop the press. He liked nothing better than running the press and when he had it well under way, usually printed the whole edition without a stop unless the paper became clogged or he had to readjust the ink rollers.
“What’s the idea?” he demanded. “I’m trying to get through so I can play some baseball before dark.”
“Dad’s sick,” explained Helen, “and I made him go home. Do you know what’s the matter?”