Chapter II: Part 2

Every moment which could be spared from school, Penny spent at the plant. Long after the other young people had left, she remained, trying to master the intricacies of the linotype machine. Although in theory it operated somewhat like a typewriter, she could not learn to set type accurately.

Friday night, alone in the building, the task suddenly overwhelmed her.

"Machines, machines, machines," she muttered. "The paper is going to be a mess and all because I can't run this hateful old thing!"

Dropping her head wearily on the keyboard, Penny wept with vexation.

Suddenly she stiffened. Unmistakably, footsteps were coming softly down the hall toward the composing room.

Twice during the week Louise had declared that she believed someone prowled about the plant when it was deserted. Penny had been too busy to worry about the matter. But now, realizing that she was alone and without protection, her pulse began to hammer.

A shadow fell across the doorway.

"Who--who is there?" Penny called, her voice unsteady.

To her relief, a young man, his bashful grin reassuringly familiar, stepped into the cavernous room. Bill Carlyle was one of her father's best linotype operators.

"You nearly startled me out of my wits," she laughed shakily, "What brought you here, Bill?"

"I noticed the light burning," the operator replied, twisting his hat in his hands. "I thought I would drop in and see how you were getting along."

"Why, that's nice of you, Bill." Penny saw that he was gazing hard at her. She was afraid he could tell that she had been crying.

"The boys say you're doing right well." Bill moved nearer the linotype machine.

"Don't look at my work," pleaded Penny. "It's simply awful. I can't get the hang of this horrid old machine. I wish I hadn't started a newspaper--I must have been crazy just as everyone says."

"You're tired, that's what's the trouble," said Bill soothingly. "Now there's nothing to running a linotype. Give me a piece of copy and I'll show you."

He slid into the vacant chair and his fingers began to move over the keyboard. As if by magic, type fell into place, and there were no mistakes.

"You do it marvelously," said Penny admiringly. "What's the trick?"

"About ten years practice. Shoot out your copy now and I'll set some of it for you."

"Bill, you're a darling! But dare you do it? What about the union?"

"This is just between you and me," he grinned. "You need a helping hand and I'm here to give it."

Until midnight Bill remained at his post, setting more type in three hours than Penny had done in three days.

"Your front page should look pretty good at any rate," he said as they left the building together. "Using rather old stories though, aren't you?"

"Old?"

"That one about the man who was pushed off the bridge."

"The story is still news," Penny said defensively. "No other paper has used it. Didn't you like it?"

"Sure, it was good," he responded.

Now that several days had elapsed since her experience at the river, even Penny's interest in John Munn and his strange tattoo, had faded. However, she was determined that the story should appear in the paper if for no other reason than to plague the editor of _Chatter_.

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.

"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!"

She pointed to the name of the paper, printed in large black letters. It read: THE WEAKLY TIMES.

"I'll be the laughing stock of Riverview," Penny moaned. "The papers can't go out that way. Stop the press!"

CHAPTER
7
_PETER FENESTRA_

As the foreman turned off the rotarypress, the loud throb of machinery died away and the flowing web of paper became motionless.

"How could the mistake have been made?" Penny murmured disconsolately. "I know that originally the name-plate was set up right."

"You should have taken page proofs and checked the mat," said the foreman.

"But I did! At least I took page proofs. I'll admit I was careless about the mats."

"Well, it looks as if someone played a joke on you," replied the foreman.

Penny's face hardened. "I can guess who did it! Fred Clousky! Louise told me he spent a long while in the composing room one afternoon while I was away. He must have changed the type just to make me look ridiculous."

"Well, it's done anyway," said the foreman with a shrug. "What will you do about the run?"

"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.

"Here you are, boys," she said with an expansive smile. "Two dozen papers each. Sell them for a nickel and keep half of it for yourself. Turn in the money at the _Weekly Times_ office."

"Two and a half cents!" exclaimed one of the boys. "Gee, that's more than we get for selling the _Star_!"

"Generosity is my motto," laughed Penny. "Just push those papers for all you're worth."

Leaving the _Star_ plant, she went directly to the _Weekly Times_ building. Permission had been granted to absent herself from school, and she planned to be busy throughout the day, checking on paper sales.

As Penny unlocked the front door, she noticed that a faint odor of tobacco lingered in the air. A perplexed frown knitted her brow.

"That's funny," she thought. "None of the boys are allowed to smoke here. I wonder if someone disobeyed rules, or if there's really a prowler in the building?"

Too busy to search the plant again, Penny gave the matter scant consideration. Tossing a package of lunch on the counter, she prepared for a hard day's work.

Now and then, to rest her mind from columns of figures, she wandered to the window. Down the street, newsboys called their wares and it pleased her that they shouted the _Weekly Times_ as frequently as they did the _Star_.

By ten o'clock the boys began to straggle in with their money. Only a few had failed to sell all of their papers, and not one neglected to make a report. Penny's final check-up disclosed that six thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine Weeklies had been sold.

"I can't expect to do that well after the novelty wears off," she thought. "But one thing is assured. My _Weekly_ isn't going to be _weakly_!"

With a large sum of money in her possession, Penny decided to take no chance of losing it. After making a careful count, she poured the coins into a bag which she transported by car to the bank.

It was lunch-time when she returned to the plant. She went to the counter for the package of sandwiches. To her surprise it had disappeared.

"Now who took my food?" she muttered.

Penny was annoyed. She did not believe that one of the newsboys had picked up the package. Accumulative evidence pointed to a likelihood that someone was hiding in the building. The moving light, tobacco smoke, unexplained footsteps, suggested that a tramp might be using the empty plant as a comfortable shelter.

"But how can he get in?" she asked herself. "Doors and windows are kept locked."

As Penny considered whether or not to report the matter to police, the front door opened. A man of early middle age, well dressed, but with a sharp, weather-beaten face and a mis-shapen nose, entered.

"This the office of the _Weekly Times_?" he demanded grumpily.

"Yes," said Penny. "Is there anything--"

"I want to see the editor."

"You're looking at her now."

"You! A girl!"

Penny smiled and waited. The stranger hesitated and then took the _Weekly Times_ from his overcoat pocket. With his forefinger he jabbed at a story on the front page--Penny's account of the tattooed man who had been pushed from the bridge.

"You know who wrote this?" he questioned.

"I did."

Again Penny's words surprised the man although he tried not to disclose it.

"That's a right interesting yarn," he said after a long pause.

"I'm glad you like it." Penny stared at the man with interest, wondering why he had come and what he wanted.

"I was kind of curious to know where you got your information."

"Why, I saw it happen, Mr--I don't believe you told me your name."

"Fenestra. Peter Fenestra."

"I was driving near the bridge at the time the man was pushed into the water," Penny resumed.

"You didn't see the one who did it?"

"Not clearly. May I ask why you are so interested in the story?"

"I thought maybe I knew that man, Munn. What became of him?"

"I can't tell you that. He was rescued by a tugboat captain. Everything I know about the affair is in the story."

"Well, thank you kindly," Mr. Fenestra said, tipping his hat.

Penny watched him leave the office and walk to his car. She had never seen the man before to her knowledge. Although she should have felt flattered by his visit, it left her with a vague, unexplainable sensation of distrust.

"There's something queer about the way he came here," she reflected. "Perhaps he knows more than he pretended."

Penny soon dismissed the matter from her mind, turning her thoughts to the problem of the missing lunch. Resolutely she made a tour of the building, venturing everywhere save into the basement. As she had half expected, she found no one. However, returning once more to her work, she occasionally caught herself listening for footsteps.

At three-thirty Louise came from school with other members of the _Times_ staff. She and Penny retired to the latter's private office there to discuss plans for the next week's paper.

"Lou," said Penny abruptly, "did you ever hear of a man named Peter Fenestra?"

"Why, yes, I have."

"He was here today to ask me about the octopus tattoo story. What can you tell me?"

"Not very much, Penny. He lives on a farm two miles from the south edge of Riverview. A place called The Willows."

"Oh, is he a farmer?" Penny was surprised. "I never would have guessed that."

"He isn't one. He merely lives there. According to the report, he has prospered by leaps and bounds."

"How does he make his money?"

"No one seems to know. When Fenestra came here a year or so ago he didn't appear to have anything. Lately he bought a fine car, and he spends money rather lavishly."

"He inquired about John Munn," Penny remarked. "Somehow I had a feeling that he was trying to pump information from me for a particular reason."

"Those who know Fenestra say he's a sly old fox."

"That's the way he impressed me, Lou. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I believe my tattoo story may cause quite a stir in Riverview."

"Was Fenestra annoyed by it?"

"I think so, Lou, although he tried to cover his feelings. He may or may not be a friend of John Munn, but he certainly was anxious to learn what became of him."

"You didn't ask him any questions?"

"No, his visit took me by surprise. But I've been thinking, Lou. I very much want a follow up story on John Munn for next week's paper. Suppose we run out to Fenestra's farm tomorrow."

"What purpose would there be in that?"

"Fenestra may be able to tell us interesting facts which will throw light on the mystery. He may understand the significance of the octopus tattoo."

"You're rather hopeful, I think."

"But you'll go with me?"

"Yes," promised Louise. "I've always had a curiosity to see The Willows. Besides, I need a vacation from my strenuous duties as editor."

CHAPTER
8
_THE STORM CAVE_

"Well, Penny," remarked Mr. Parker casually at the breakfast table. "I finally bought the cottage."

Penny closed her history book with a loud snap, favoring her father with complete attention. "You bought a cottage?" she echoed. "Where? When? Why?"

"I've talked about it for the past week, but you were so busy stealing the _Star's_ advertisers that you never listened."

"I'm all ears now, Dad," Penny assured him, absently reaching for a piece of toast. "Tell me all about it."

"The cottage is located on the Big Bear River. Four rooms and a boathouse. Incidentally, I've hired a man to look after the place and keep the boat in shape. He calls himself Anchor Joe."

"Are we going to live at the cottage this summer?" Penny inquired.

"No, I merely bought it for week-end trips. I plan on a bit of fishing now and then. You may enjoy going with me."

"Oh, Dad," groaned Penny, "how can I? These days I don't even have time to wash my neck. Running a newspaper is more work than I figured."

"I'll give you the address of the cottage, at least," smiled Mr. Parker. "If you have any spare time during the next three months drive out and look over the place."

"I'll get there somehow," Penny promised, pocketing the card. Her hand encountered a typed, folded sheet of paper which she immediately placed in front of her father. "Oh, by the way, sign this for me, will you?"

"No more cheques."

"This is only an order for a ton-roll of paper. I'm trying to store up a few supplies so that eventually I can publish the _Weekly_ in my own plant."

Mr. Parker signed the order, inquiring teasingly: "Have you engaged your pressman yet? Their wages come rather high you know."

"It takes everything the _Weekly_ makes to meet its current bills," sighed Penny. "But one of these days I'll get the paper out in my own plant. Just wait and see!"

"I'll wait," chuckled Mr. Parker. "My hope is that you don't fail in your studies before that happy day arrives."

On her way to school, Penny studied the card given her by her father, and noticed that the new cottage was situated not far from The Willows. Often she and Louise had talked of calling upon Peter Fenestra, but both had been kept busy at the _Times_ office. Now that a linotype operator had been hired to set type, they had a little more free time.

"If Louise will accompany me, I'll visit both places tonight," decided Penny.

Four-thirty found the two girls walking through a dense maple and oak woods which rimmed the Big Bear River. A breeze stirred the tree leaves, but even so the day was hot and sultry.

"I wish it would rain," remarked Louise, trudging wearily beside her companion. "I never knew it to be so warm at this time of year."

"Maybe we can cool off by taking a boat ride when we get to the cottage," encouraged Penny. "I think I see the place through the trees."

Directly ahead, in a tiny clearing, stood a freshly painted white cottage. Quickening their steps, the girls soon arrived at the front door. No one seemed to be within call, so they pushed it open.

A long living room with a cobblestone fireplace met their gaze. Beyond was the kitchen, a dining alcove, and two bedrooms.

As they went outside again, they saw a short, wiry man coming toward the cottage from the river.

"You're Miss Parker?" he asked, looking at Louise.

"No, _I_ am," corrected Penny. "And you must be Anchor Joe." Her eyes fastened for an instant upon the tattoo of a four-masted sailing ship imprinted on his arm.

"That's me," agreed the man. "Go ahead an' look around all you like."

Penny and Louise wandered about the grounds, then returned to find Anchor Joe giving the motor boat, which was upturned on the grass, a coat of varnish.

"We thought you might take us for a ride," remarked Penny. "It must be cool on the water."

"I sure would like to, Miss Parker," said Anchor Joe regretfully. "But I dasn't get 'er wet now. Not until this varnish dries."

Penny nodded, and then asked: "You're a sailor, aren't you? Where have you sailed?"

"The Atlantic, the Great Lakes, the Gulf o' Mexico. Oh, I been everywhere."

Penny and Louise chatted with Anchor Joe for a time but, although they asked any number of questions, they gained very little definite information. The sailor seemed unwilling to tell anything about himself, save in generalities.

"We may as well go on to Peter Fenestra's place," Penny presently remarked. "It's getting late."

Anchor Joe's varnish brush became motionless. He glanced up with sudden interest.

"I wouldn't go there if I was you gals," he said.

"Why not?" questioned Penny in astonishment.

"The weather don't look so good. She might blow up a gale before sundown."

"Oh, we're not afraid of a little wind or rain," answered Penny carelessly. "Come along, Lou."

Anchor Joe said nothing more, but his sober gaze followed the girls as they walked away.

Keeping close to the river, Penny and Louise trod a path which they knew would lead to the main road and Peter Fenestra's farm.

"Queer sort, wasn't he?" Penny remarked thoughtfully.

"Anchor Joe?"

"Yes, I wonder where Dad found him? He certainly didn't tell us much about himself."

Crossing the river by means of a swaying, suspension bridge, the girls came out from beneath the solid canopy of trees. Penny paused to stare up at the sky.

"Aren't those clouds odd?" she observed. "Just watch them boil!"

"They must be filled with wind," declared Louise uneasily. "Anchor Joe said he thought a storm would blow up."

"It's not far away either. Unless we step right along, we'll surely get caught in it."

"Perhaps we should forget The Willows and start home."

"We never could get there now," responded Penny. "If we hurry we may reach Fenestra's place before the storm breaks."

Walking even faster, the girls hastened along the winding path. The air remained sultry and very still. The sky, Penny noted, had changed to a peculiar yellowish color.

Then, as she watched with increasing alarm, a writhing, twisting, funnel-shaped arm reached down from the boiling clouds, anchoring them to earth. For a moment the entire mass seemed to settle and flatten out.

"Listen!" commanded Penny.

Plainly they both could hear a sullen, deep-throated roar as the storm moved forward.

"A tornado!" gasped Louise. "It's coming this way!"

"Run!" urged Penny, seizing her hand. "We still have a chance to make Fenestra's place."

In a clearing beyond a weed-grown field stood a white farmhouse, a red barn and a silo. One side of the property was bounded by the willow-rimmed river, the other by the road.

Crawling beneath a barbed-wire fence, the girls cut across the field. The sky was darker now, the roar of the wind ominous. They could see the tail of the funnel whipping along the ground, veering to the south, then coming toward them again.

"We'll never make the house," Louise cried fearfully.

"Yes, we will," encouraged Penny.

She raised another wire strand for Louise to roll beneath. Her own sweater caught on the sharp barbs, tearing a large hole as she jerked free.

Dust had begun to blow. Trees and bushes bowed before the first gusts of wind.

Glancing frantically about for a place of refuge, Penny saw a low, circular cement hump rising from the ground not many yards distant. Instantly she recognized it as an old fashioned storm cellar.

"We'll get in there, Lou!" she shouted. "Come on!"

Running across the yard, they reached the cave. Entrance was guarded by a door built in the side of the cement dome. A brass padlock hung unsnapped in the hasp.

"Thank goodness, we can get in," gasped Louise. "Hurry!"

Penny tugged at the heavy door. It would not raise, and then it gave so suddenly that she nearly tumbled backwards.

The door clattered back against the cement dome. Through the rectangular opening protruded the head and shoulders of Peter Fenestra. His face was convulsed with rage.

"What are you trying to do?" he demanded harshly. "Speak up!"

CHAPTER
9
_A FALLEN TREE_

"Speak up!" Peter Fenestra commanded again as the girls stared at him in blank astonishment. "Why are you trying to get into my cave?"

"Listen to that wind!" cried Penny, recovering the power of speech. She pointed toward the sky.

"A tornado!" exclaimed Fenestra in a stunned voice.

"And it's coming this way," added Louise. "Let us down into the cave!"

Instead of stepping aside, the man came up the stone steps. Slamming the door of the cave, he padlocked it.

"Quick! Into the house!" he ordered.

"We'll be much safer underground," argued Penny. "That twister easily can lift a building from its foundation."

"Do as I say!" commanded Peter Fenestra harshly. "The cave is half filled with water. You can't go down there."

Deserting the girls, he ran toward the house. Mystified by the old man's actions, Penny and Louise followed, overtaking him as he reached the porch.

"Get inside!" he ordered.

The girls scurried through the door and he closed it behind them. Barely had they reached shelter when the wind struck the house in full force, fairly shaking it to its foundation. Windows rattled, a tree bough came crashing down on the porch, the air was filled with flying debris.

As a hard object shattered a pane of glass, Penny and Louise heard a terrified scream from the kitchen. A moment later a girl ran into the room. She stopped short as she saw Penny and Louise. They also stared, for it was Tillie Fellows.

"Stop that silly screeching!" Fenestra ordered sharply. "The center of the storm is passing to the south. Now get back to your work!"

"Yes, sir," Tillie mumbled.

Still gazing at Penny and Louise, she slowly retreated. However, as Peter Fenestra went to the window, turning his back, she made strange signs to the girls which they were unable to understand. Obviously she did not wish them to speak to her for she raised a finger to her lips, indicative of silence.

A gate was wrenched from its hinges and carried across the yard. From across the road came the crash of an uprooted tree. With a stifled scream Tillie fled to the kitchen.

"That stupid girl drives me crazy," Fenestra muttered. "I don't know why I ever hired her."

"You can't blame her for being frightened," declared Louise quickly. "This is a dreadful storm."

"The worst is over now," said Fenestra. "You'll be able to go in a few minutes."

Penny and Louise glanced at each other. Peter Fenestra's remark made it very clear that he did not wish them to linger after the storm had passed. Without inviting them to sit down, he nervously went from window to window, watching the clouds.

Rain began to fall. At first it came in a heavy downpour, then slackened somewhat. The wind no longer tore at the doors.

"You'll be able to go any time now," said Fenestra. "I can let you have an umbrella."

"It's still rather bad," answered Penny. "If you don't mind, I believe we'll wait a few minutes longer."

The decision displeased the man. Frowning, he turned to gaze at the girls somewhat critically.

"Who sent you here?" he demanded. "Why did you come?"

His manner was so suspicious that Penny sensed it was no time to reveal the real purpose of the visit. Instead she said:

"My father has a cottage along the river. We were returning from there when the storm broke."

Her explanation seemed to satisfy the man. He shrugged and fell to pacing the floor restlessly.

The rain presently ceased. Penny and Louise felt that they no longer could delay their departure. Saying good-bye to Fenestra, they left the house.

Rounding a corner of the building, they were startled to hear a light tap on the window. Glancing up, they saw Tillie Fellow's face pressed against the pane.

"She's signaling for us to wait," observed Penny. "I guess she wants to talk with us."

The girls stepped into the doorway of a woodshed. In a moment Tillie slipped from the house, a coat thrown over her head.

"I hope old Fenestra doesn't see me," she greeted the girls nervously. "Let's get out of sight."

Penny and Louise followed her into the woodshed, closing the door.

"How long have you worked here?" the latter inquired curiously.

"Ever since I met you girls on the boat. I answered an advertisement the next morning and got this job."

"Do you like it?" asked Penny. "I imagine farm work is hard."

"The work is easy enough. But I hate the place! That's why I wanted to talk with you. Do you know of anyone who needs a girl? I'll work for very small wages."

"I don't know of anyone at the moment," responded Penny.

"I can't stay here much longer," Tillie said, a note of desperation in her voice. "Mr. Fenestra is so overbearing and mean! He can't bear noise either. If I as much as rattle a dish he berates me."

"Does he pay you a decent wage?" inquired Louise.

"Ten dollars a week. I can't complain on that score. But there's something about him--I can't explain--it gives me the creeps."

"Fenestra is a peculiar type," admitted Penny. "He didn't act very friendly toward Louise and me. By the way, why does he keep the storm cellar padlocked?"

"That's something I wish you would tell _me_."

"He wouldn't allow us to enter it even when the storm was coming."

"Fenestra always keeps the cave padlocked," revealed Tillie. "He goes there every day, too. Sometimes he spends hours beneath ground. It rather frightens me."

"What do you think he does there?"

"I don't know. Once I asked him about the cave and he flew into a violent rage. He said if he ever caught me near it he would discharge me."

"He told us that the cave was half filled with water."

"I don't believe that," said Tillie. "He has something hidden down there."

"Haven't you any idea what it is?"

"No, and I don't care very much," returned Tillie. "All I want to do is get away from this place. If you hear of a job anywhere will you let me know?"

"Of course," promised Penny. "Mrs. Weems, our housekeeper, may know of a vacancy. If she does, I'll telephone."

"We haven't a telephone. Mr. Fenestra had it taken out because the ringing of the bell made him jumpy. He said the neighbors always listened to his conversations, too. He's very suspicious of everyone."

"Then I can run out in the car," said Penny. "I don't blame you for not liking this place. I shouldn't either."

"Thanks for everything," replied Tillie gratefully. "You've been awfully good to me. I must run back now or old Fenestra will ask me a million questions."

Hastily saying good-bye, she darted away. Walking slowly toward the road, Penny and Louise discussed Peter Fenestra's strange actions. They were inclined to agree with Tillie that he had hidden something of value beneath ground.

Across the road from the farmhouse a giant elm tree had been uprooted. They saw overturned chicken houses, fences laid flat, tangles of telephone and electric wires.

"Even more damage must have been done farther down the river," remarked Penny anxiously. "I hope our new cottage hasn't blown away."

"Shall we go there and see?"

"I wish we could."

For several hundred yards the girls followed the road, then once more they cut across the fields toward the winding river. As they approached the Parker property their misgivings increased. All along the water front, trees had been toppled and split. In sections there were wide paths cut as if by a scythe.

"The cottage is still there!" Penny cried as they presently ascended to higher ground. "I can see it."

"Several trees are down," observed Louise. "One has fallen across the porch."

"A beautiful birch, too," murmured Penny. "Anchor Joe will have a job clearing it away."

Approaching the cottage, the girls saw no glimpse of the workman. Penny called his name several times.

"I wonder where he went?" she murmured.

The girls rounded the corner of the cottage. As their eyes fell upon the giant birch which had demolished the porch railing, they were startled to see a slight movement among the leaves. A hand lay limp against the trunk.

"Anchor Joe!" gasped Penny in horror. "He's pinned beneath the tree!"

CHAPTER
10
_A WORD TO THE WISE_

Penny and Louise stooped beside the groaning man who lay pinned on his side beneath the tree. As they attempted to move him he writhed in pain and pleaded with them not to touch him.

"The tree will have to be lifted," declared Penny. "I'll go for help."

Leaving Louise to encourage Anchor Joe, she ran the entire distance to the main road. The nearest house was the one owned by Peter Fenestra. However, as she hastened in that direction, she observed a truck filled with telephone linemen coming toward her. Hailing the men, she told them what had occurred.

"I am afraid Anchor Joe is badly hurt," she added. "I'll telephone for a doctor while you go on to the cottage."

One of the linemen offered to make the call, leaving her free to guide the other four men to the Parker camp. Reaching the spot, the men raised the fallen tree. Carefully they lifted Anchor Joe who had lapsed into unconsciousness.

"Bring him into the cottage," Penny directed, going ahead to open doors.

One of the rooms had been furnished as a bedroom with an old cot, a chest of drawers and odd pieces brought from the Parker home. Penny spread a blanket over the mattress and the injured man was stretched upon it.

"He's seriously hurt, isn't he?" she asked anxiously.

"Afraid he is," admitted one of the linemen. "Heat up some water and I'll do what I can until the doctor gets here."

Penny and Louise hastened to the kitchen to struggle with the wood-burning range. By the time they had the fire going well they heard voices in the yard. Glancing out the window they saw a lineman coming toward the cottage and walking beside a doctor who carried a light, black bag.

"It's Doctor Griswold," observed Louise. "He made a quick trip from town."

Penny ran to open the door for the two men. Then, at the doctor's bidding, she went to the kitchen again for the boiling water.

"You carry it in," urged Louise. "I can't bear to see poor Anchor Joe."

The linemen had left by the time Penny reentered the bedroom. The doctor was working over Anchor Joe, and she observed in relief that he had recovered consciousness.

"Where do you feel pain?" the doctor inquired as he unfastened the man's shirt.

"My back and chest, doc," the sailor mumbled. "Feels like all my insides is crushed."

"Hardly that," said the doctor cheerfully, "or you wouldn't be telling me about it. Now let's see."

He took Anchor Joe's pulse, then gently probed his chest and sponged a break in the skin. Carefully he turned the man upon his back.

Penny drew in her breath, nearly dropping the pan of water. Across Anchor Joe's back was tattooed the sprawling figure of an octopus. She bent closer. Beneath the front arms of the repulsive sea creature appeared a single word: _One_.

"John Munn's tattoo was exactly the same, save for the word!" thought Penny. "It was 'All' while this is 'One.' What can be the significance?"

Even the doctor was startled by the strange tattoo for he glanced at it curiously as he probed.

"You are a sailor?" he inquired.

"That's right," muttered Anchor Joe. "Ouch, doc! Take it easy, will you?"

Penny could not remain silent. "Joe, do you know a man named John Munn?" she asked.

"Sure I know him," the sailor mumbled. "We shipped together on the _Dorasky_."

"Your tattoo is very similar to his."

Anchor Joe's pain-glazed eyes turned upon Penny as if he were seeing her for the first time. He made an effort to pull the blanket over his back.

"We had 'em put on together," he muttered. "Jack an' John, and that rat, Otto--"

"Please don't talk to the patient," said the doctor significantly. "He should be kept quiet."

"I'm sorry," apologized Penny.

She did not speak again until the doctor had completed his examination and had bandaged Anchor Joe's cuts and bruises.

"What do you advise, doctor?" she asked. "Will it be necessary to remove Joe to a hospital?"

"Neither advisable nor desirable for at least twenty-four hours," he replied. "I find no indication of internal injury, but it is best to be safe. The patient should be kept quiet, in bed, for at least a day or two."

"It's something of a problem to care for him here," said Penny frowning. "Do you suggest a nurse?"

"Any woman who has had practical experience in caring for the sick would do."

"Mrs. Weems may be willing to come," said Penny. "I'll telephone home at once and learn what arrangements can be made."

When the doctor left, Penny accompanied him as far as the first house. From there she telephoned her father, who promised to get Mrs. Weems and come at once to the cottage.

Louise was uneasily waiting by the time Penny returned. Outside the bedroom they held whispered consultation.

"Has Anchor Joe talked?" Penny questioned. "You know what I mean. Has he said anything about John Munn or the tattoo?"

"Not a word. But every so often he mutters that he'll get even with someone by the name of Otto--a fellow sailor who 'ratted.'"

"He mentioned Otto when I was in the room," nodded Penny. "I wish we dared question Joe, but the doctor advised against it."

"I don't think we should annoy him now. Perhaps later on he'll tell us about the tattoo and its meaning."

"Perhaps," echoed Penny. "However, if I am any judge of character, Anchor Joe isn't the talkative type. As soon as he gets over the shock of this accident, he'll lock those lips of his. We'll learn nothing."

"Why are you so convinced there's a deep mystery connected with the tattoo?"

"I can't explain it, Lou. I just _know_ there is. I'll never rest until I learn the significance of those words, _All_ and _One_."

Within a half hour Mrs. Weems and Mr. Parker arrived at the cottage, bringing a supply of linen, food, and comforts for the injured man. The housekeeper agreed to assume charge until Anchor Joe could be safely removed to a hospital.

When Mr. Parker drove to Riverview the girls accompanied him. During the ride Penny questioned her father regarding Anchor Joe.

"I know almost nothing about him," he replied. "He was sent to me by the Acme Employment Agency, and I didn't bother to ask for a recommendation."

"I've learned that he's a friend of John Munn," revealed Penny. "As soon as he's able to get about again, I mean to ask him a number of things."

Mr. Parker drove Louise to her home, and at Penny's request dropped her off at the _Weekly Times_ office.

"By the way, what about dinner tonight?" he inquired. "Shall we dine at the Commodore Hotel?"

"Oh, Dad, I wish I could," Penny sighed wistfully. "Work is stacked a mile high on my desk. I'll just grab a sandwich somewhere and work late."

"I am afraid you are taking the newspaper business too seriously," replied her father. "Shall I leave the car for you?"

"It would be a help."

"All right, Penny."

Mr. Parker gave her the car keys, and walked on to his own newspaper. Entering the _Times_ building, Penny spoke to several high school boys who were working in the advertising office, and climbed the stairs to her own office.

For the next half hour she checked over galley proofs, marking corrections on the margins.

"I never imagined there could be so many things to do on a weekly," she sighed. "One never gets through."

A board creaked in the newsroom. Penny heard it and glanced up. A shadow passed slowly across the frosted glass of the office door.

"Come in," she called.

No one answered, and the shadow disappeared. Penny waited a moment, then impatiently arose and went to the door. The newsroom was deserted.

"Queer," she thought. "Someone walked past my office door."

Thinking that it might have been one of the high school boys, Penny went to the head of the stairs and called:

"Did anyone come up here a moment ago?"

"Not unless it was by way of the back entrance," was the reply.

Decidedly puzzled, Penny returned to her desk. As she sat down a sheet of paper lying on the blotter pad drew her attention. She was certain it had not been there a few minutes earlier.

Reaching for it, she gasped in astonishment. The paper bore a message scrawled in black ink and read:

"To the Editor of the _Weekly Times_:

You are hereby warned to give up your newspaper which offends public taste. We give you three days to wind up your business and close doors. A word to the wise is sufficient."

CHAPTER
11
_MR. JUDSON'S DAUGHTER_

Penny read the message three times. Obviously, it had been placed on her desk during the few minutes she had been absent. Yet she reasoned that it would be useless to search for the cowardly person who undoubtedly had slipped from the building.

"So I am warned to close shop!" she muttered angrily. "And the _Weekly Times_ offends public taste!"

Penny crumpled the paper into a ball, hurling it toward the wire basket. Reconsidering her action, she recovered the note and, carefully smoothing the wrinkles, placed it in her purse.

"I'll show this to Dad," she told herself. "But no one else."

When Penny's anger had cooled she was left with a vague sensation of misgiving. Resolutely she reflected that it was not unusual for editors to receive threatening notes. Often her father had shown her such communications sent to the _Star_ by cranks.

"It doesn't mean a thing," she assured herself. "Not a thing. I'll keep on publishing the _Weekly_ as long as I please."

One fact contributed to Penny's uneasiness. Often she worked late in the building, and a single light burning from an upper story window proclaimed to any street watcher that she was alone. In the future she must use far more caution.

Try as she would, Penny could not forget the warning. After the boys who comprised the advertising staff had gone home for dinner, she caught herself listening tensely to every unusual sound. At length she shut the desk and arose.

"I'm doing no good here," she thought in disgust. "I may as well go home."

Taking particular care to lock all doors and windows, Penny left the building. Street lights were blinking on as she climbed into the parked automobile.

Driving mechanically, she weaved through downtown traffic, now and then halting for a red light. As she was starting ahead from an intersection, an elderly man suddenly stepped from the curb. His gaze was upon the pavement, and he did not see the car.

Penny swerved the wheel and slammed on the foot brake. The edge of the fender brushed the man's overcoat. He gasped in astonishment and staggered backwards.

Penny brought the car to a standstill at the curb.

"You're not hurt?" she called anxiously.

"No--no," the man murmured in a bewildered way.

As he turned his face toward her, Penny recognized Matthew Judson, the former publisher of the _Morning Press_. Calling him by name, she invited him into the car.

"Let me take you home, or wherever you are going," she urged. "You don't look well, Mr. Judson. I am afraid I frightened you."

"It was my fault," admitted the old gentleman, staring at Penny. "I--I was thinking about something when I stepped from the curb."

"This is a dangerous intersection. Please, Mr. Judson, can't I take you home?"

"If you insist," he murmured, entering the car. "You seem to know my name, but I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance."

"I'm Penny Parker. My father publishes the _Star_."

"Oh, yes." Mr. Judson's voice became spiritless.

"Your home is on Drexel Boulevard, I believe?" Penny inquired.

Matthew Judson nodded and in the same dull, lifeless voice supplied the address. He made no attempt at conversation.

As she stole occasional glimpses at the man, Penny thought that his face bore lines of mental fatigue and discouragement. He stared straight ahead with glazed, unseeing eyes.

Hoping to start a conversation, she presently remarked that she was the managing editor of the _Weekly Times_. For the first time Matthew Judson displayed interest.

"Oh, are you the girl who has taken over my building?" he asked.

"Yes, Mr. Veeley allows me the use of it rent free. I hope you don't mind?"

"Mind?" repeated Mr. Judson, laughing mirthlessly. "Why should I?"

"Well, I thought--that is--" Penny began to stammer.

"You thought that because I gave up my own paper I might not wish to see the building used by another?"

"Something like that," admitted Penny.

"I try not to think about the past," said Mr. Judson quietly. "Long ago I made my decision, and now must abide by it. I realize that I never can publish the _Press_ again. I'm broken, beaten!"

The old man spoke with such bitterness that Penny glanced quickly at him. There was an expression in his dark eyes which startled her.

"Surely one can't be defeated as long as he's willing to fight," she ventured. "Why, if you chose to make a come-back, I'm certain you would succeed."

Mr. Judson shook his head impatiently. "You don't understand. I am through--finished. All I can hope to do is to hold fast to what little I have, and try to protect Pauletta."

"Pauletta is your wife?" Penny inquired kindly.

"My daughter. If it weren't for her--" Mr. Judson hesitated, then finished in a voice quite casual: "If it weren't for her, I probably would end it all."

Penny was shocked.

"Why, Mr. Judson!" she protested. "You can't mean that!"

"Don't be alarmed," he said, smiling faintly. "I have no intention of taking the easy way out."

A dozen questions flashed through Penny's mind, but she was afraid to ask any of them. From Mr. Judson's remarks it was fairly evident that he never had relinquished the _Press_ voluntarily. Could financial difficulties alone account for his state of mental depression?

In the darkening twilight the car approached a white-painted brick house, set back some distance from the boulevard. Once an elegant dwelling, peeling paint had made it an unsightly residence. Roof shingles were curling, the front porch sagged, while an iron fence only partially hid a wide expanse of untended lawn.

"This is my home," said Mr. Judson. "Turn into the driveway if you wish."

Penny stopped the car just inside the iron gate.

As Mr. Judson alighted, a girl who appeared to be in her early twenties, arose from a bench. A white collie at her side, she came toward the car. Midway across the lawn, she paused, staring. Then, she half turned as if to retreat.

"Pauletta," called Mr. Judson. "Will you come here, please?"

Reluctantly the girl approached the car, her gaze meeting Penny's almost defiantly. Pauletta was a beautiful girl with auburn hair and steel-blue eyes.

"Pauletta, this is Miss Parker," said her father.

"How do you do," responded the girl coldly.

The instant Penny heard the voice she knew where she previously had seen Mr. Judson's daughter--on the steamer _Goodtime_! Pauletta was the girl who had tossed a wig and clothing into the river.

"How do you do, Miss Judson," she responded. "Haven't we met before?"

Pauletta kept her face averted from her father. She met Penny's gaze with a bold stare.

"I think not," she said evenly. "No, Miss Parker, you are mistaken."

CHAPTER
12
_OLD HORNEY_

Penny made no reply to Pauletta and the silence became unbearable.

"Won't you stay for a few minutes?" Mr. Judson invited. "Pauletta, why not show Miss Parker our rose garden?"

"It's rather dark," his daughter replied. "Anyway, she wouldn't care to see it."

"Indeed, I should," contradicted Penny. Deliberately she switched off the car ignition.

Pauletta glared at her, but dared make no protest in her father's presence. With a shrug she led Penny along a gravel path to the rear of the house. Mr. Judson remained behind.

As soon as they were beyond hearing, Penny said quietly:

"Need we pretend? I am sure you recall that we met aboard the _Goodtime_."

"Yes, I remember now," admitted Pauletta coldly. "You were with another girl."

"And you were accompanied by a young man."

"A friend of mine."

"This may be something of a shock," said Penny, "but my chum and I saw you drop a bundle containing a wig into the river."

"Oh!"

"The bundle caught fast and I fished it out."

"You have no proof it was mine! You--you won't tell Father?"

"Not if you can offer a good reason why I shouldn't."

"There are any number of them. You mustn't tell my father! That's why I pretended not to know you."

"I certainly wish you would explain. Tillie Fellows was robbed that night."

"Who is Tillie Fellows?"

"One of the excursionists. Her pocketbook was taken shortly before the boat docked."

"You can't believe I had anything to do with it!"

"I don't wish to think so, but your actions were very strange."

"I can explain everything," Pauletta said hurriedly. "My reason for wearing a disguise was a simple one. I didn't care to have anyone on the boat recognize me."

"Why, may I ask?"

Before Pauletta could answer, Mr. Judson came around the corner of the house.

"Please say nothing about it to Father," the young woman pleaded in a whisper. "I'll explain everything later."

Penny nodded, and for Mr. Judson's benefit, offered a few remarks about the roses.

"We once had a beautiful garden," commented Pauletta. "Now it's in ruin, the same as the yard. Father doesn't look after the place as he should."

"The grounds are large," replied Mr. Judson mildly.

"You shouldn't try to do the work yourself," Pauletta protested. "It was foolish of you to let the gardener go."

Penny felt increasingly ill at ease. As they wandered about the grounds, Pauletta kept making disparaging remarks, thoughtless comments which wounded her father. However, he offered no rebuttal, nor did he reprove his daughter.

"I really must be going," said Penny at last. "It's getting very dark."

Mr. Judson walked with her to the car, closing the gate after she had driven from the grounds. He stood there a moment, the wind rumpling his gray hair. Then he raised his hand in friendly salute and turned toward the house.

"Poor Mr. Judson," she thought. "So discouraged and yet so gallant! How can Pauletta be completely blind to his suffering? Doesn't she realize?"

Penny did not regret having kept the young woman's secret, for she felt that the revelation of their meeting would only add to Mr. Judson's troubles. Pauletta represented his entire life, and if it developed that she had acted unbecomingly, the shock might be a severe one.

"I can't believe that Pauletta would steal," she told herself. "She must have had another reason for wearing the disguise."

Penny was satisfied that if Mr. Judson had not interrupted, the young woman would have explained her puzzling actions. Therefore, she was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. She made up her mind that she would return as soon as she could to talk privately with Pauletta.

The Parker house was dark and deserted when Penny let herself in with a key. Her father had not expected her home so early and, disliking an empty house, had remained away. There was no telling where he had gone.

After preparing a belated dinner for herself, Penny spent an hour with her studies. However, her mind kept reverting to the events of the day. A great deal had happened. Her meeting with Peter Fenestra had been interesting. Anchor Joe's mishap worried her, and she remained disturbed by the threatening message left on her desk.

"Could it have been written by a prowler in the building?" she mused. "Ever since we started the paper I've felt that someone was hiding there. It may be a scheme to get me away."

Before dropping off to sleep Penny made up her mind that the following night she would set a trap for the intruder. Taking Louise into her confidence, she made careful plans. Preparing a tasty lunch, the girls wrapped and laid it conspicuously on the counter of the downstairs advertising room.

"Now the stage is set," declared Penny. "Louise, you go upstairs to my office and tap on the typewriter. I'll hide here and see what happens."

After Louise had gone, Penny secreted herself in a storage closet not far from the counter. By leaving the door open she could see fairly well in the dark room for street lights cast a reflection through the plate glass windows.

The minutes stretched into a half hour. Louise's typewriting, at first very energetic, began to slacken in speed. Penny moved restlessly in the cramped quarters. She had not imagined that waiting could be so tedious.

An hour elapsed. Far down the street a clock struck ten times.

With a weary sigh Penny arose from the floor. Inactivity bored her, and she no longer could sit quietly and wait.

As she started from her hiding place, intending to call Louise, a door opened at the west end of the room. Instantly Penny froze against the wall, waiting.

A flashlight beam played across the floor, missing her by a scant two feet.