The Clock Strikes Thirteen.
by Mildred A. Wirt.
CHAPTER 1.
SANDWICHES FOR TWO
Jauntily, Penny Parker walked through the dimly lighted newsroom of the _Riverview Star_, her rubber heels making no sound on the bare, freshly scrubbed floor. Desks were deserted, for the final night edition of the paper had gone to press half an hour earlier, and only the cleaning women were at work. One of the women arrested a long sweep of her mop just in time to avoid splashing the girl with water.
"I sorry," she apologized in her best broken English. "I no look for someone to come so very late."
"Oh, curfew never rings for me," Penny laughed, side stepping a puddle of water. "I'm likely to be abroad at any hour."
At the far end of the long room a light glowed behind a frosted glass door marked: "Anthony Parker--Editor." There the girl paused, and seeing her father's grotesque shadow, opened the door a tiny crack, to rumble in a deep voice:
"Hands up! I have you covered!"
Taken by surprise, Mr. Parker swung quickly around, his swivel chair squeaking a loud protest.
"Penny, I wish you wouldn't do that!" he exclaimed. "You know it always makes me jump."
"Sorry, Dad," Penny grinned, slumping into a leather chair beside her father's desk. "A girl has to have some amusement, you know."
"Didn't three hours at the moving picture theatre satisfy you?"
"Oh, the show was worse than awful. By the way, here's something for you."
Removing a sealed yellow envelope from her purse, Penny flipped it carelessly across the desk.
"I met a Western Union boy downstairs," she explained. "He was looking for you. I paid for the message and saved him a trip upstairs. Two dollars and ten cents, if you don't mind."
Absently Mr. Parker took two crisp dollar bills from his pocket and reached for the telegram.
"Don't forget the dime," Penny reminded him. "It may seem a trifle to you, but not to a girl who has to live on a weekly allowance."
For lack of change, the editor tossed over a quarter, which his daughter pocketed with deep satisfaction. Ripping open the envelope, he scanned the telegram, but as he read, his face darkened.
"Why, Dad, what's wrong?" Penny asked in surprise.
Mr. Parker crumpled the sheet into a round ball and hurled it toward the waste paper basket.
"Your aim gets worse every day," Penny chuckled, stooping to retrieve the paper. Smoothing the corrugations, she read aloud:
"YOUR EDITORIAL 'FREEDOM OF THE PRESS' IN THURSDAY'S STAR THOROUGHLY DISGUSTED THIS READER. WHAT YOUR CHEAP PAPER NEEDS IS A LITTLE LESS FREEDOM AND MORE DECENCY. IF OUR FOREFATHERS COULD HAVE FORESEEN THE YELLOW PRESS OF TODAY THEY WOULD HAVE REGULATED IT, NOT MADE IT FREE.
WHY DON'T YOU TAKE THAT AMERICAN FLAG OFF YOUR MASTHEAD AND SUBSTITUTE A CASH REGISTER? FLY YOUR TRUE COLORS AND SOFT-PEDAL THE PARKER BRAND OF HYPOCRISY!"
"Stop it--don't read another line!" the editor commanded before Penny had half finished.
"Why, Dad, you poor old wounded lion!" she chided, blue eyes dancing with mischief. "I thought you prided yourself that uncomplimentary opinions never disturbed you. Can't you take it any more?"
"I don't mind a few insults," Mr. Parker snapped, "but paying for them is another matter."
"That's so, this little gem of literature did set you back two dollars and ten cents. Lucky I collected before you opened the telegram."
Mr. Parker slammed his desk shut with a force which rattled the office windows.
"This same crack-pot who signs himself 'Disgusted Reader' or 'Ben Bowman,' or whatever name suits his fancy, has sent me six telegrams in the past month! I'm getting fed up!"
"All of the messages collect?"
"Every one. The nit-wit has criticised everything from the _Star_'s comic strips to the advertising columns. I've had enough of it!"
"Then why not do something about it?" Penny asked soothingly. "Refuse the telegrams."
"It's not that easy," the editor growled. "Each day the _Star_ receives a large number of 'collect' messages, hot news tips from out-of-town correspondents and from reporters who try to sell free lance stories.
We're glad to pay for these telegrams. This fellow who keeps bombarding us is just smart enough to use different names and send his wires from various places. Sometimes he addresses the telegrams to me, and then perhaps to City Editor DeWitt or one of the other staff members."
"In that case, I'm afraid you're out of luck," Penny said teasingly. "How about drowning your troubles in a little sleep?"
"It is late," Mr. Parker admitted, glancing at his watch. "Almost midnight. Time we're starting home."
Reaching for his hat, Mr. Parker switched off the light, locked the door, and followed Penny down the stairway to the street. At the parking lot opposite the _Star_ building, he tramped about restlessly while waiting for an attendant to bring the car.
"I'll drive," Penny said, sliding behind the steering wheel. "In your present mood you might inadvertently pick off a few pedestrians!"
"It makes my blood boil," Mr. Parker muttered, his thoughts reverting to the telegram. "Call my paper yellow, eh? And that crack about the cash register!"
"Oh, everyone knows the _Star_ is the best paper in the state," Penny said, trying to coax him into a better mood. "You're a good editor too, and a pretty fair father."
"Thanks," Mr. Parker responded with a mock bow. "Since we're passing out compliments, you're not so bad yourself."
Suddenly relaxing, he reached out to touch Penny's hand in a rare expression of affection. Tall and lean, a newspaper man with a reputation for courage and fight, he had only two interests in life--his paper and his daughter. Penny's mother had been dead many years, but at times he saw his wife again in the girl's sparkling blue eyes, golden hair, and especially in the way she smiled.
"Hungry, Dad?" Penny asked unexpectedly, intruding upon his thoughts. "I know a dandy new hamburger place not far from here. Wonderful coffee too."
"Well, all right," Mr. Parker consented. "It's pretty late though. The big clock's striking midnight."
As the car halted for a traffic light, they both listened to the musical chimes which preceded the regularly spaced strokes of the giant clock.
Penny turned her head to gaze at the Hubell Memorial Tower, a grim stone building which rose to the height of seventy-five feet. Erected ten years before as a monument to one of Riverview's wealthy citizens, its chimes could be heard for nearly a mile on a still night. On one side, its high, narrow windows overlooked the city, while on the other, the cultivated lands of truck farmers.
"How strange!" Penny murmured as the last stroke of the clock died away.
"What is strange?" Mr. Parker asked gruffly.
"Why, that clock struck thirteen times instead of twelve!"