With the final run on the press it was Helen’s task to assemble and fold the papers. She donned a heavy apron, piled the papers on one of the makeup tables and placed a chair beside her. With arms moving methodically, she started to work, folding the papers and sliding them off the table onto the chair.
Tom had just got the press running smoothly when there was a grinding crash followed by the groaning of the electric motor.
Helen turned quickly. Something might have happened to Tom. He might have slipped off his stool and fallen into the machinery of the press.
But Tom was all right. He reached for the switch and shut off the power.
“What happened?” gasped Helen, her face still white from the shock.
“Breakdown,” grunted Tom disgustedly. “This antique has been ready for the junk pile for years but Dad never felt he could afford to get a new one or even a good second-hand one.”
“What will we do?” asked Helen anxiously. “We’ve got to get the paper out.”
“I’ll run down to the garage and get Milt Pearsall to come over. He’s a fine mechanic and Dad has called on him before when things have gone wrong with the press.”
Tom hastened out and Helen resumed her task of folding the few papers which had been printed before the breakdown. Everything had been going so smoothly until this trouble. Now they might be delayed hours if the trouble was anything serious.
She heard someone call from the office. It was her mother and she hastened out of the composing room.