The Clock Strikes Thirteen Part 15

Obligingly, the taxi driver backed into position behind Leaping Lena.

After the two cars had gathered speed, Penny s.h.i.+fted gears. Lena responded with an ailing cough and then a steady chug.

"Thanks!" Penny shouted, waving farewell to her benefactor. "I'll return the favor someday."

"Not with that mess of junk!" the taxi man laughed.

By keeping the motor running at high speed, Penny reached home without mishap. Her father had arrived ahead of her, she noted, for the maroon car had been put away for the night.

Locking the garage doors, Penny entered the house by way of the kitchen.

"Where's Dad?" she asked the housekeeper, absently helping herself to a freshly baked cookie.

"Listen, and I think you can tell," Mrs. Weems answered.

A loud hammering noise came from the bas.e.m.e.nt. Inspired by an advertis.e.m.e.nt of Waldon's Oak Paneling, Mr. Parker had decided to wall up the recreation room without the services of a carpenter. Much of his spare time was spent carrying on a personal feud with boards which refused to fit into the right places.

"Poor Dad," Penny grinned as she heard a particularly loud exclamation of wrath. "I'll go down and drip a few consoling words."

Descending the stairs, she stood watching her father from the doorway of the recreation room.

"h.e.l.lo, Penny," he said, looking over his shoulder. "You may as well make yourself useful. Hold this board while I nail it in place."

"All right, but be careful where you pound. Remember, I have only two hands and I prize them both."

With Penny holding the board, Mr. Parker nailed it to the underpinning.

"Well, what do you think of the job?" he asked, standing back to admire his work.

"As a carpenter you're a very good editor," Penny answered with exaggerated politeness. "Aren't walls supposed to come together at the corners?"

"I made a little mistake in my calculations. Later on I may build a corner cupboard to cover up the slight gap."

"Slight!" Penny chuckled. "Dad, if I were you I wouldn't get tangled up in any more carpenter jobs. It's too hard on your disposition."

"I never was in a better mood in my life," Mr. Parker insisted. "Good reason, too. At last I've got the best of Mr. Ben Bowman!"

"Bowman?" Penny inquired in a puzzled tone.

"That crank who keeps sending me collect messages."

"Oh, to be sure! I'd forgotten about him."

"He sent another telegram today," Mr. Parker declared, smiling grimly. "I suspected it came from him and refused to pay for it."

"Bravo," Penny approved. "I knew you could get the best of that fellow if you just put your mind to it."

On the floor above a telephone rang, but neither of them paid any heed, knowing that Mrs. Weems would answer. In a moment the housekeeper called down the stairway, telling Mr. Parker he was wanted on the 'phone.

"It's Mr. DeWitt from the office," she informed him.

Putting aside his hammer, Mr. Parker went upstairs. Soon he returned to the bas.e.m.e.nt, his manner noticeably subdued.

"What's the matter, Dad?" Penny inquired curiously. "You look as if you had just received a stunning blow."

"DeWitt telephoned to tell me the _Star_ lost an important story today."

"How did that happen, Dad?"

"Well, a correspondent wired in the news, but by accident the message never reached DeWitt's desk."

Penny regarded her father shrewdly. "Ben Bowman's telegram?"

"I'm afraid it was," Mr. Parker admitted. "The message came to two dollars. I didn't know DeWitt had hired a correspondent at the town of Altona. Naturally I jumped to conclusions."

"So you lost a news story because you refused a bona fide telegram,"

Penny said, shaking her head. "Ben Bowman scores again."

"You see what I'm up against," the editor growled. "I'd give a hundred dollars to be rid of that pest."

"You really mean it?" Penny demanded with interest.

"My peace of mind would be well worth the price."

"In that case, I may apply my own brain to the task. I could use a hundred dollars."

The discussion was interrupted by Mrs. Weems who called that dinner was ready. As Mr. Parker went to his usual place at the dining room table, he saw a yellow envelope lying on his plate.

"What's this?" he demanded sharply.

"A telegram," explained Mrs. Weems. "It came only a moment ago. I paid the boy."

"How much was the message?" the editor asked, his face grim.

"A dollar and a half." Mrs. Weems regarded her employer anxiously. "Did I do anything I shouldn't have? I supposed of course you would want me to accept the message."

"This is just too, too good!" Penny chuckled, thoroughly enjoying the situation. "Everything so perfectly timed, almost as if it were a play!"

"I don't understand," Mrs. Weems murmured. "I've done something I shouldn't--"

"It was not your fault," Mr. Parker a.s.sured her. "In the future, however, refuse to accept any collect message."

As her father did not open the telegram, Penny seized upon it.

"This is from a man who calls himself Isaac Fulterton," she disclosed, glancing at the bottom of the typed page.

"Merely one of Ben Bowman's many names," Mr. Parker sighed.

"Ah, this is a gem!" Penny chuckled, and read aloud: "'Here is a suggestion for your rotten rag. Why not print it on yellow paper? I know you will not use it because editors think they know everything. I once knew a reader who got a little good out of your paper. He used it to clean the garbage can.'"