  Although one of the main concrete piers had been damaged by the explosion, the approaches to the bridge remained intact. Several automobiles drew up at the curbing, but others, their drivers unaware of what had caused the blast, sped on across. From their position beneath the bridge, Louise, Penny, and the watchman could see the entire steel structure quiver. The underpinning had been weakened, but whether or not it was safe for traffic to proceed, only an engineer could determine. “Oughtn’t we stop the cars?” Penny demanded, for the watchman seemed stunned by what had happened. His eyes were fixed on the opposite shore, at a point amid the trees where the pilot of the motorboat had crawled from the water. “Yes, yes,” he muttered, bringing his attention once more to the bridge. “No chance to catch that saboteur now. We must stop the autos.” Shouting as he ran, the watchman scrambled up the steep slope to the western approach of the bridge. Realizing that he would be unable to cope with traffic moving from two directions, the girls hesitated, and then decided to help him. Their wet shoes provided poor traction on the hill. Slipping, sliding, clothing plastered to their bodies, they reached the bridge level. “You hold the cars at this end!” ordered the watchman as he glimpsed them. “I’ll lower the gate at the other side!” Stationing themselves at the entrance to the bridge, Louise and Penny forced motorists to halt at the curb. Within a minute or two, a long line had formed. “What’s wrong?” demanded one irate driver. “An accident?” “Bridge damaged,” Penny replied tersely. All along the line horns began to toot. A few of the more curious motorists alighted and came to bombard the girls with questions. In the midst of the excitement, one of the cars broke out of line and crept to the very end of the pavement. “Listen, Mister,” Penny began indignantly to the driver. “You’ll have to back up. You can’t cross—” she broke off as she recognized the man at the wheel. “Dad! Well, for Pete’s sake!” “Penny!” the newspaper man exclaimed, no less dumbfounded. “What are you and Louise doing here? And in those wet clothes?” “Policing the bridge. Dad, there’s a big story for you here! A saboteur just blew up one of the piers by ramming it with a motorboat!” “I thought I heard an explosion as I was driving down Clark Street!” exclaimed Mr. Parker. Opening the car door, he leaped out and wrapped his overcoat about Penny’s shivering shoulders. “Now tell me exactly what happened.” As calmly as they could, the girls reported how the saboteur had dynamited the bridge. “This is a front page story!” the newspaper owner cried jubilantly. “Penny, you and Louise take my car and scoot for home. When you get there call the Star office. Have Editor DeWitt send a reporter to help me—Jerry Livingston, if he’s around. We’ll need a crack photographer too—Salt Sommers.” “I can get the call through much quicker by running to the drugstore.” Penny jerked her head toward a cluster of buildings not far from the bridge entrance. “As for going home at a moment like this, never!” “So you want a case of pneumonia?” Mr. Parker barked. “How’d you get wet anyhow?” “Sailboat,” Penny answered briefly. She took the car keys from her father, and pressed them upon Louise. “But I don’t want to go if you don’t,” her chum argued. “You’re more susceptible to pneumonia than I am,” Penny said, giving her a little push. “Dash on home, and get into warm, dry clothing. And don’t forget to take off that life preserver before you hop into bed!” Thus urged, Louise reluctantly backed Mr. Parker’s car to the main street, and drove away. “Now I’ll slosh over to the drugstore and call the Star office,” Penny offered briskly. “Lend me a nickel, Dad.” “I’m crazy as an eel to let you stay,” Mr. Parker muttered, fumbling in his pocket for a coin. “You should have gone with Louise.” “Let’s argue about that tomorrow, Dad. Right now we must work fast unless we want other newspapers to scoop us on this story.” While her father remained behind to direct bridge traffic, Penny ran to the nearest drugstore. Darting into the one telephone booth ahead of an astonished woman customer, she called Editor DeWitt of the Star. Tersely she relayed her father’s orders. “Jerry and Salt will be out there in five minutes,” DeWitt promised. “Now what can you give us on the explosion? Did you witness it?” “Did I?” echoed Penny. “Why, I practically caused it!” With no further encouragement, she launched into a vivid, eye-witness account of the bridge dynamiting. As she talked, a re-write man on another telephone, took down everything she reported. “Now about the saboteur’s motorboat,” he said as she finished. “Can you give us a description of it?” “Not a very good one,” Penny admitted. “It looked like one of Ottman’s rented boats with an outboard attached. In fact, Louise and I saw a similar craft earlier in the evening which was cruising not far from the bridge.” “Then you think the saboteur may have rented his boat from Ottman’s?” “Well, it’s a possibility.” “You’ve given us some good stuff!” the rewrite man praised. “DeWitt’s getting out an extra. Shoot us any new facts as soon as you can.” “Dad’s on the job full blast,” Penny answered. “He’ll soon have all the details for you.” Slamming out of the telephone booth, she ran back to the bridge. Her father no longer directed traffic, but had turned the task over to a pompous motorist who thoroughly enjoyed his authority. “You can’t cross, young lady,” he said as she sought to pass him. “Bridge’s unsafe.” “I’m a reporter for the Star,” Penny replied confidently. The man stared at her bedraggled clothing. “A reporter?” he inquired dubiously. Just then a police car, its siren shrilling, sped up to the bridge. Close behind came another car which bore a printed card “Star” on its windshield. It braked to a standstill nearby and out leaped two young men, Jerry Livingston and Salt Sommers. “Hello, Penny!” Jerry greeted her. “Might have known you’d be here. Where’s the Chief?” “Somewhere, sleuthing around,” Penny answered. “I lost him a minute ago when I telephoned the Star office.” Salt Sommers, a felt hat cocked low over his eyes, began unloading photographic equipment from the coupe. “Where’ll I get the best shots?” he asked Penny. “Other side or this?” “Under the bridge,” she directed crisply. “None of the damage shows from above.” Salt slung the heavy camera over his shoulder, and disappeared down the incline which led to the river bed. Before Jerry and Penny could move away, Mr. Parker hurried up with the watchman in tow. “This is Carl Oaks, bridge guard,” he announced without preliminary. “Take him over to the drugstore, Jerry, and put him on the wire. We want his complete story for the Star.” “Not so fast,” drawled a voice from behind. “We want to talk to Carl Oaks.” One of the policemen, a detective, moved over to the group and began to question the watchman. “It wasn’t my fault the bridge was dynamited,” the old fellow whined. “I shouted at the boatman and fired twice.” “He got away?” “Yeah. Jumped overboard before the boat struck the pier. Last I saw of him, he was climbing out of the river on the other shore.” “At what point?” “Right over there.” The watchman indicated a clump of maples beyond the far side of the bridge. “I could see him plainly from the beach.” “And what were you doing on the beach?” questioned the detective sharply. “Ask her,” Carl Oaks muttered, eyeing Penny. “Mr. Oaks helped my friend and me when our sailboat upset,” she supported his story. “It really wasn’t his fault that he was away from his post at the time of the explosion.” Both Penny and the watchman were questioned at considerable length by the detective. Meanwhile, other officers were searching for the escaped saboteur. Several members of the squad went beneath the bridge to inspect the damage and collect shattered sections of the wrecked boat. Dismissed at last by the detective, Penny, her father and Jerry crossed the bridge to join in the search. Carl Oaks, whose answers did not entirely satisfy police, was detained for further questioning. “Penny, tell me more about this fellow Oaks,” Mr. Parker urged his daughter. “I suppose he did his best to stop the saboteur?” “It seemed so to me,” Penny replied slowly. “He was a miserable marksman, though. I guess he must have been excited when he fired.” Following a trail of moving lights, the trio soon came to a group of policemen who were examining footprints in the mud of the river bank. “This is where the saboteur got away,” Penny whispered to her father. “Do you suppose the fellow is still hiding in the woods?” “Not likely,” Mr. Parker answered. “A job of this sort would be planned in every detail.” The newspaper owner’s words were borne out a few minutes later when a policeman came upon a clump of bushes where an automobile had stood. Grass was crushed, a small patch of oil was visible, and the soft earth showed tire imprints. Penny, her father and Jerry, did not remain long in the vicinity. Satisfied that the saboteur had made his get-away by car, they were eager to report their findings to the Star office. Mr. Parker telephoned DeWitt and then joined the others at the press car. As Salt Sommers climbed aboard with his camera, an automobile bearing a News windshield sticker, skidded to a stop nearby. “Too bad, boys,” Salt taunted the rival photographers. “Better late than never!” Already news vendors were crying the Star’s first extra. Once well away from the bridge, Mr. Parker stopped the car to buy a paper. “Nice going,” he declared in satisfaction as he scanned the big black headlines. “We beat every other Riverview paper by a good margin. A colorful story, too.” “Thanks to whom?” demanded Penny, giving him a pinch. “I suppose I should say, to you,” he admitted with a grin. “However, I see you’ve already received ample credit. DeWitt gave you a by-line.” “Did he really?” Penny took the paper from her father’s hand and gazed affectionately at her own name in print. “Nice of him. Especially when I didn’t even suggest the idea.” To a newspaper reporter, a story tagged with his own name means high honor. Many times Penny, ever alert for news, had enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing her stories appear with a by-line. Early in her career as a self-made newspaper girl, her contributions had been regarded as something of an annoyance to her father and the staff of the Star. But of late she had turned in many of the paper’s best scoops and incidentally, had solved a few mysteries. “This is the way I like a story written,” Mr. Parker declared, reading aloud from the account which bore his daughter’s name. “No flowery phrases. Just a straight version of how your sailboat upset and what you saw as it floated down toward the bridge.” “It’s a pretty drab account if you ask me,” sniffed Penny. “I could have written it up much better myself. Why, the re-write man didn’t even tell how Louise and I happened to upset!” “A detail of no importance,” Mr. Parker returned. “I mean, in connection with the story,” he corrected hastily as Penny flashed him an injured look. “What did cause you to capsize?” “A blue bottle, Dad. It had a piece of paper inside. I was reaching for it and—oh, my aunt!” “Now what?” demanded her father. “Turn the car around and drive back to the bridge!” “Drive back? Why?” “I’ve lost that blue bottle,” Penny fairly wailed. “Louise had it, but I know she didn’t take it home with her. It must be lying somewhere on the beach near our stranded sailboat. Oh, please Dad, turn back!” |
|
