With frantic haste he examined a second film, and the remaining two. Every one had been over-exposed.
Weakly, he sagged against the wall, nearly overcome by the disaster which confronted him. Every film ruined! An icy feeling of dread trembled along his nerves.
“But how could I have done it?” he muttered. “Must have figured my lighting wrong.”
After several minutes he opened the door and stepped out into the blinding light. Joe Wells, who also had been on a special night assignment, was putting away his camera. He stared curiously at Flash.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look sick.”
Flash showed him the blank films and explained what had happened.
“This is a tough break,” said Wells, “though you’re not the first photographer who has had the same experience. Know what it means?”
Grim-lipped, Flash nodded.
“Riley will fire me. My work hasn’t impressed him much anyhow.”
Wells stood looking at the black films, frowning thoughtfully.
“There’s just one chance,” he said, “a pretty slim one at that. Do you know Deems of theGlobe?”
“Only when I see him.”
“Was he assigned to the fight tonight?”
“Yes, I saw him there taking pictures. But I don’t see—”
Wells did not bother to answer. Grabbing his hat, he started toward the door.
“You stay here,” he instructed. “Don’t tell anyone about those films until I get back! Deems is a friend of mine. If I can locate him in time, I may be able to save your job.”
Flash waited without hope for Joe Wells’ return. He did not know exactly what the photographer had in mind, but it was too much to believe that Clyde Deems, a rival photographer, would make the slightest effort to help him even if it were possible.
The door swung open. Wells came hurrying in to slap a photograph mailing envelope on the desk before Flash’s startled eyes.
“Got it!” he announced triumphantly. “Only one picture and it’s not of the knock-out. But it may be enough to save your job.”
Flash snatched up the envelope and examined the film eagerly. It was a good clear negative taken during one of the early rounds of the fight.
“Print it up before Riley starts yelping,” Wells instructed tersely. “He’ll squawk because you missed the knock-out, but he may not fire you.”
“Joe, how did you do it? I’ll never forget this favor.”
“Thank Deems, not me, Flash.”
“But I thought photographers were supposed to work entirely on their own.”
“That’s the general idea,” Wells nodded. “Mostly we do work alone, but now and then we give the other fellow a helping hand. Not a photog in the business who hasn’t been in a jam sometime in his life. And Deems is a good friend of mine.”
“I hope he doesn’t get into trouble on my account.”
“He won’t unless Luke Frowein spills the story.”
“Does Luke know?”
“Yes, he was in the darkroom at theGlobewhile I was talking with Deems. I didn’t know it until later. He ought to be decent enough to keep quiet.”
With Joe looking on, Flash rushed the picture through and sent it to the news room. He waited for the summons. It came.
“Is this the best you can do, Evans?” the city editor demanded. “We send you to get good fight pictures and you come back with one shot of the second round! What were you doing—sleeping?”
“I took some others,” Flash admitted lamely. “They weren’t clear enough to print.”
“If you expect to stay with theLedgeryou’ll have to buckle down and do better.”
The editor glared and, writing a caption for the picture, tossed it into a wire basket.
A wave of relief passed over Flash. He wouldn’t be discharged, after all. At least, not before the end of the week. But he had been warned.
The next morning he received a curt reprimand from Fred Orris, and then the matter was dropped. Flash did not forget the way Joe had come to his aid. He made up his mind that if ever he had an opportunity he would return the favor with good measure.
Whenever he was not occupied with picture assignments, Flash puttered about the darkroom, trying to improve his skill in handling films. He spent hours at the public library, studying books on photography, and asking countless questions of Joe Wells.
One Sunday afternoon when theLedgerplant was closed, he went downtown with the intention of using the newspaper darkroom to develop a roll of his own films. As he stepped from the bus, he noticed Luke Frowein leaning indolently against a drugstore wall.
“Well if it isn’t Flash Evans!” theGlobephotographer greeted him mockingly. “Covered any more fights?”
“No, I haven’t,” Flash answered with attempted good nature.
He passed quickly on, but the photographer’s remark both irritated and made him uneasy. He felt that Luke Frowein was not to be trusted. The man would like nothing better than to see him lose his job.
“He’s probably put out because theGlobemissed the Jovitch-Morgan pictures,” thought Flash. “I’ll need to be on my guard.”
TheLedgerbuilding was deserted, for the night shift would not come on until four. Finding the front entrance locked, Flash went around to the rear. The freight elevator was not running. He climbed three flights of steps only to find the photography department locked. And he had neglected to obtain a key.
Disappointed, Flash decided he must do his work at another time. Then his gaze fell upon a time register attached to the wall. “Old Herm,” the watchman, should be along within the hour to sign in upon making his rounds of the building.
Taking a photography magazine from his pocket, Flash sat down on the steps to wait. He had finished the first article when he heard approaching steps. Turning his head, he saw a bent old man with white hair coming down one of the back corridors. Old Herm did not see him.
After a prolonged fumbling at a bunch of keys, the watchman fitted one of them into the time register and turned it.
“It’s the age! It’s the age!” he muttered. “They can’t trust a man to make his rounds, so they make him leave his callin’ card with one of these devil’s own machines. Tyranny, I calls it. Nothin’ but tyranny.”
Flash brought the old man out of his reverie by asking him if he could open the door into the photography department.
“And who are you?” Old Herm demanded suspiciously. “What business do you have in the building?”
“I’m Flash Evans, the new photographer. I have some work to do.”
The old man gazed sharply at the boy.
“You don’t look like a photographer to me. No, sir!”
He stared at Flash as if trying to bore a hole through him with his gimlet-like eyes.
“But there’s somethin’ familiar about you,” he said. “What’s your name again?”
“Evans.”
“Any relation to Curtis Evans who used to work on thePostin the old days?”
“He was my father.”
“So! I remember him,” the old man’s voice dropped to a little more than a mumble. “And I—” He ceased speaking and seemed lost in deep thought.
“Nearly everyone in Brandale knew my father,” remarked Flash proudly. “How about letting me into the office?”
“You’re not playin’ a trick on me? You’re really Evans?”
“Of course.”
“Then I kin let you in, I guess.” The watchman gazed at Flash with an expression which was veiled and unfathomable.
Rather puzzled, the young photographer followed him to the door of the department. Old Herm was slightly crippled in one leg, but his somewhat bent and deformed body still showed the framework of a once-powerful man. Flash felt sorry for the simple old fellow.
The watchman dawdled with his keys and finally opened the door.
“Don’t leave no lights burnin’,” he cautioned. “And turn off the water spigots. I’ve mopped up this place more than once.”
He shuffled off on his rounds, his dragging feet making an irregular rhythm on the tiled floor.
Left alone, Flash developed the roll of film. He put the negatives through the fixing bath and, when they were washed and dry, made his prints. It was a quarter to four by the time he had finished.
The news room had begun to stir into life. Sauntering through, Flash saw a few reporters at their desks, but Forrest and Ralston, two night-shift photographers, had not yet appeared. Dan Dewey, the editor who would be in charge of the desk, nodded casually to Flash. He was in the act of shedding his overcoat when everyone in the room was startled to alertness by the loud whir of the fire alarm instrument.
“Where’s that?” demanded a reporter, scraping his chair as he jumped to his feet.
“District ten,” responded Dewey tersely. “Must be the old apartment houses on Glendale Avenue or maybe the coal yards! Get down there, Charlie, right away! Where’s Ralston?”
“Not here yet,” spoke up Flash. “Nor Forrest either. Shall I go?”
The editor measured him with a glance.
“All right, Evans,” he muttered. “See what you can do. The fire may not amount to much.”
There was no mistaking the doubt in Dan Dewey’s voice. Everyone in the office had heard of Flash’s failure to bring back good pictures from the Gezzy-Brady fight. Since then he had been given only routine, unimportant assignments.
From far down the street came the wail of a fire siren. Spurred to action, Flash rushed back to the photographic department for his camera and equipment bag.
As he went hurriedly through the news room again, the alarm instrument sounded once more. Clang! Clang! Clang! followed by a space and ten quick taps.
“Get going, Evans!” shouted Dewey. “That’s a three-alarm!”
Clutching his camera, Flash bolted out the door. A three-alarm fire meant a front page story and a chance at front page pictures! This was his big opportunity to redeem himself for the Gezzy-Brady mistake. But he wouldn’t have long to work alone. Forrest and Ralston soon would be on the job.
As he reached the street he could see smoke rising in black clouds only a few blocks away. A bright red fire truck, brasswork gleaming, bell clanging, roared past.
Flash ran to the corner and signaled a man in a black coupe.
“Take me to the fire?” he shouted.
“Sure,” the man grinned, opening the door. “Hop in.”
Flash swung into the car, and they raced off in the wake of the thundering engine.
By the time the automobile reached Fulton street, Flash could see shooting flames. The entire southern sky had taken on a bright crimson glow, and a high wind, blowing from the direction of the waterfront, carried acrid fumes and smoke.
“Must be the old apartment house district!” Flash exclaimed. “The Werner coal yard is near there, too! If the fire really gets started, half of Brandale might go!”
The car came to a jerking halt in a traffic jam. Thanking the driver, Flash leaped out and ran the remaining two blocks.
A tangle of fire equipment laced the narrow street in front of the Elston Apartments, a ten-story brick building which was oozing smoke from beneath the flat roof. Already three pumpers, two rescue squads, and two hook-and-ladder trucks were at the scene, maneuvering into position.
Flash could see flames pouring from the basement and first floor windows. Firemen were leading women and children through the blinding smoke to the safety of the street. A few persons, overcome by smoke were stretched out on the pavement, receiving first-aid treatment.
A deputy chief, three bugles on his white helmet, shouted orders to the men aboard a new ladder truck.
“Raise that aerial! Forty!”
The mechanically operated metal ladder shot skyward in two sections to an upper window of the burning apartment building where a man could be seen bent over the sill, half-overcome by smoke. Flash elbowed his way through the excited crowd of onlookers, reaching the front rank.
“Hey, keep back, you!” a policeman ordered sharply.
Flash pulled out his courtesy card.
“Okay,” nodded the officer, allowing him to pass. “Just keep out of the firemen’s way.”
Flash focused his camera in time to get a shot of a fireman who had clambered up the ladder through the black pall of smoke, rescuing the man at the window. Then he rushed over to where the rescue squad was hard at work. As he leaped over a length of flat hose it bulged full of water, writhing and twisting like a great jungle snake.
The heat was searing Flash’s face but he had no awareness of discomfort. Blazing embers dropped at his feet. One burned a hole through his coat. Filled with a wild elation, he snapped picture after picture, reloading his camera as fast as he could.
Lines of hose had been stretched from every available hydrant so that great streams of water could be poured on the fire. Adjoining buildings were blanketed down in the desperate fight to keep them from igniting.
Flash approached the deputy chief who stood by Engine 12, reading a pressure dial.
“Will the coal yards go?” he asked.
“Don’t know yet,” the chief answered shortly. “We expect to save ’em.”
“Is everyone out of the building?”
The chief nodded and strode away.
Flash dropped back to get a long range shot of the blazing building, because he saw that Deems of theGlobewas taking a similar picture. It was the first time he had seen the photographer since the night of the Gezzy-Brady fight. Edging close he tried to speak a few words of gratitude for the favor he had received. Deems cut him short.
“Glad to do it,” he said curtly. “But I can’t give you any help on this job. It’s every man for himself.”
“Won’t need any help,” grinned Flash. “I’m doing pretty well.”
He hoped that his words would not prove to be an idle boast. The test must come when he developed his films. If he had misjudged the amount of light, he would be faced with a second failure. But Flash refused to think of such a possibility.
He stood gazing up at the flaming walls, listening to the loud, sucking draft which roared through the building. Then his gaze wandered to the adjoining Marilyn Apartment which had been vacated as a precautionary measure. Firemen had carried hose into the dwelling and were shooting a steady stream of water through the windows, across a narrow areaway.
“I might get some unusual shots from up there,” thought Flash. “Anyway, it’s worth trying.”
Unchallenged, he entered the smoke-filled building, and climbed to the fifth floor. Letting himself into a deserted apartment suite opposite the flaming building, he set up his tripod, and focused his camera upon an engine man who was feeding a stream of water across the areaway.
Flash was so close to the fire that the heat nearly choked him. Black, rolling smoke hit him in waves, cutting off the view below, and blinding his eyes for long minutes at a time.
In a near-by window, the engine man motioned to Flash and shouted something which he did not understand. But as he watched, the man shut off the flow to the nozzle and moved to a new location farther away. A blanket of smoke hid him entirely from view.
Flash soon shifted his own position to another window at the corner of the building. As a billow of smoke cleared away, he stared across to the opposite window ledge, scarcely believing what he saw.
An elderly man, groggy from heat and smoke, stood behind the open window, perceptibly weaving back and forth as if about to fall. With horror, Flash realized that in some way the fellow had been overlooked when firemen searched the building. Unless help reached him, and quickly, he would perish, for the halls and stairs leading to safety already were a blazing inferno.
A cloud of smoke rose up from a lower window, blotting the figure from view. Flash gazed downward. He could not see the street. He shouted several times, but his cries went unanswered.
In another minute the areaway cleared again. While Flash still could not attract attention from the street, he was relieved to observe that his shouts for help had aroused the old man from a state of daze.
Staggering against the window sill, he motioned to the photographer. His lips moved, yet made no audible sound.
“Stay where you are!” shouted Flash. “Don’t go away! I’ll bring help!”
He was not certain the old man understood or would obey. But he dared waste no time by repeating his instructions. At any moment the fellow might be overcome, or the walls might fall.
Flash ran to the window where he had last seen the engine man. The hose lay there but the fireman was gone, evidently called to a more urgent post.
Starting for the street to summon help, Flash jerked open a door which he thought led into a main corridor. He found himself in a large closet filled with half empty buckets of paint. His gaze focused hopefully upon a tall step ladder used recently by painters.
Instantly Flash’s plan of action changed. With a life at stake time was precious. He doubted if he could bring help in time to save the man. But the ladder might turn the trick.
Seizing it, he hurried back to the window. He was relieved to see the old man standing where he last had been, silhouetted against a wall of flickering flame.
Flash pushed the ladder through the open window and across the narrow areaway to the opposite ledge. It barely bridged the gap.
“Get out on the ledge!” he shouted encouragingly. “Crawl over! I’ll steady the ladder!”
The old man, his face ghastly in the weird light, climbed through the window to the stone ledge. There he cowered, his back to the brick wall, afraid to trust himself to the ladder.
“Come on! Hurry!” Flash urged impatiently. “It’s your only chance! The building can’t last much longer.”
The old fellow stared at him in a stupid, bewildered way. Even the searing fire in the room behind, could not drive him to attempt it. Flash realized that he was only wasting precious time.
Hesitating only an instant, the photographer swung his legs through the window. Testing the ladder to make certain it was firmly in place, he crawled nimbly toward the man on the opposite ledge. Halfway across he glanced down. Through the rolling clouds of smoke, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the street five stories below.
For a moment his courage nearly failed him. He clung tightly to the ladder, fighting the wave of dizziness which swept over him. Then, gaining control of himself, he crawled the remaining distance, and reached out a hand to the terrified man.
“I’m afraid,” the old fellow whimpered piteously. “I can’t do it. The ladder might slip. I can’t.”
“Do you want to burn?” Flash demanded. “Come on, before it’s too late!”
He seized the old man by the coat and pulled him out on the ladder. For a fearful second he thought that they both might lose their balance and plunge to the street. But once on the ladder, the old fellow maintained a measure of self-control. Although he whimpered with fear, he did not clutch Flash or struggle against the grasp of his arm.
Inch by inch the young photographer backed toward his own window and safety. He kept hold of the old man’s coat, steadying him and lending him confidence.
“Don’t look down,” Flash commanded. “Keep your eyes on the window.”
The ladder beneath them creaked and groaned, and as the old man made a jerky movement, one end slipped slightly.
“Steady,” warned Flash.
They remained motionless and the ladder settled back into place.
“Another foot and we’ll be there,” Flash said encouragingly as they crept on once more.
He reached the ledge. With a sigh of relief he felt his feet swing over the sill and strike the floor. But just as he relaxed, the ladder gave a convulsive movement. As it tilted, unburdening its human cargo, Flash clung desperately to the old man.
The ladder struck the street with a resounding crash. The old man had started to plunge with it, but his fall was broken by the powerful grasp of the photographer’s muscular arms. Flash, too, was half pulled through the window. He fought with strong leg and back muscles to maintain his balance.
Terrified by his plight, the old man gave a choked cry and struggled frantically. His wild contortions made the task of pulling him to safety all but impossible. Flash’s heart began to pound from the intensity of the effort. Yet it never occurred to him to release his hold on the man’s wrists.
Exerting his utmost strength he pulled the old man up a few inches, only to feel him slip back a greater distance. And Flash was slowly being dragged across the sill by the old man’s weight. Flash could see the street far below, momentarily clear of smoke. A shiver wracked his exhausted body. Unless help came quickly they both would plunge to their deaths!
Smoke swirled in Flash’s face, and the intense heat from the areaway sapped his little remaining strength. His heart felt as if it would hammer itself from his breast. His breath came in panting gasps.
Once more he made a valiant effort to pull the old man to safety. Again he failed. Inch by inch they both were slipping downward. His knees were losing their grip under the sill. In another instant he and the man he sought to save would plunge to the areaway below.
Even as he abandoned all hope, Flash felt himself firmly grasped by the legs. Slowly but steadily he was hauled back through the window.
The strain upon the young photographer’s arms was terrific, yet he clung desperately to the old man. Both were drawn through the opening to safety. Spent by the ordeal, they slumped on the floor.
Flash saw then, that his rescuer was the same fireman who previously had been in the building.
“Thanks,” he gasped gratefully. “I thought it was curtains for sure.”
“Would have been in another minute,” grunted the fireman. “When that ladder crashed to the street I knew something was wrong up here. Couldn’t see on account of the smoke.”
The old man had passed out completely. Stooping, the fireman gathered him up and slung the inert body over his back.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Flash heard the words as if from a long distance. He tried to follow the fireman but his feet refused to move. Every muscle seemed paralyzed. He weaved sideways, dizzy from the heat.
Then quietly, he crumpled.
When Flash opened his eyes, a cool breeze blew over his seared face. He was lying on the ground across the street from the burning apartment building. A member of the rescue squad stood over him.
“You’ll be all right now,” he said.
Flash stirred and sat up. He rubbed the back of his hand across his burning eyes. For a moment he could remember nothing. Then, with recollection, a wave of panic washed over him.
“My camera!”
“It’s safe,” said the rescue squad man. “And your equipment bag. Both right here. What paper you from?”
“TheLedger.”
“Too bad you didn’t get a picture of your own rescue job.”
“Yeah,” grinned Flash. “That would have been a shot!”
“Nice going, son. You had plenty of nerve.”
“How is the old man?” asked Flash.
“Doing all right. We sent him to St. John’s Hospital.”
“And who brought me out of the building?”
“Oh, one of the boys,” the rescue squad man answered carelessly. “The heat got you.”
“Something hit me like a ton of bricks,” grinned Flash. “Well, I’m glad just to be alive. How long have I been out?”
“Only a few minutes.”
Flash scrambled to his feet and stood supported by the other man.
“Feel okay now?”
“I’m still groggy, but my head is clearing. I must rush my pictures back to theLedgeroffice.”
With a few hasty words of thanks, he gathered up his equipment, and started for the corner where he could catch a taxi. The apartment building had fallen, and the fire companies were playing their hose in full streams upon the adjoining building. It, too, might eventually go, but the coal yards would be saved.
As he strode into theLedgerbuilding, the elevator man stared at him.
“What’s happened to your eyebrows?” he asked. “Looks like you’ve been in a fire.”
Flash squinted at his reflection in the elevator mirror. Not only his eyebrows but some of his hair as well had been singed off. His clothes were mussed and his blistered face was smeared with soot.
“Rush me up to three,” he said crisply.
“Yes, sir.” For the first time since Flash had started work on theLedger, the elevator man addressed him in a tone of deep respect.
The only other passenger in the cage was Old Herm, the watchman. He, too, regarded the young photographer with more than average curiosity.
“Where was the fire?” he inquired.
“The Elston Apartment district.”
“Get some good pictures?”
“I think so.” Flash could not hide his triumph. “Maybe they’ll be good enough to pull me out of the dog house.”
Old Herm nodded and grinned in a friendly way.
“You’ll make the grade, son. You’ll make it,” he muttered. “Heard you’ve been havin’ bad luck, but it can’t keep breakin’ wrong forever.”
Flash slammed through the wooden gate into the newsroom. A reporter assigned to the fire story already had filled three long sheets of copy paper, and so news of the young photographer’s rescue work had traveled ahead of him.
The night editor actually beamed as Flash went past the slot.
“Guess you were the right man for the job,” he praised. “Rush your pictures through. Ralston and Forrest are on the job now, but they won’t get back for awhile.”
Flash nodded and hastened on to the photography department. The door of the darkroom was closed. He rattled the handle.
“Anyone inside?”
Fred Orris answered in a curt voice. A few minutes later, he opened the door, regarding Flash with a cold gaze.
“What’s the big rush?”
“I want to develop some pictures of the fire,” Flash responded briefly.
“What were you doing at the fire?” Orris demanded in surprise. “Special assignment?”
Flash nodded. “A lucky break for me,” he said. “Tell you about it later.”
As he closed himself into the darkroom he heard the older man mutter: “That’s your middle name—Luck!”
The fresh hypo bath which Orris had just finished mixing was strong and offensive. Flash placed his films in the tank, set the timer, and then kept the negatives agitated during the developing process. The excitement of the past hour had buoyed him up. But now as he waited, he suddenly felt sapped of all energy. A fear that his pictures might turn out worthless, took possession of him.
“One more mistake and I’ll be finished,” he thought.
When the alarm went off, he quickly removed the negatives from the developer. He drew a deep sigh of relief. Of the seven pictures he had taken, six had come up clear-cut and definite with white and black contrasting sharply. One was indistinct, but would be printable with special treatment.
Flash chuckled. Unless he greatly over-estimated the pictures, they were the best of his career. Why, he might even win a by-line for himself! He could visualize the caption—“Photographs by Jimmy Evans.” Only a simple line which few newspaper readers would notice. But to a photographer it meant everything.
Flash returned the films to the water, and opened the door of the darkroom. Orris was still outside, talking with Joe Wells who had wandered into the department on his way home from a movie.
“Hi, there, Flash,” he called with a friendly smile. “I hear you’ve covered yourself with glory. How did they come out?”
“Pretty fair,” returned Flash. “Want to look at them?”
Wells and Orris both followed him back into the darkroom. They studied the negatives with the critical gaze of experts, searching for defects and finding none.
“Swell pictures,” said Wells heartily. “Wish I’d taken them myself.”
Fred Orris’ only comment was a curt suggestion as to the number of printing paper which should be used.
“Jealous,” thought Flash. “At least he might have loosened up enough to give me a compliment.” Aloud he said, “Oh, by the way, I wonder if I could have a key to the department? I was locked out today and had trouble getting Old Herm to let me inside.”
“I’ll see you have one by tomorrow,” Orris promised.
After the older man had moved to another part of the room, Joe Wells praised Flash again for his fine work, and demanded all the details of his thrilling experience at the fire.
“Too bad you didn’t get a shot of yourself hanging to the old man’s wrists!” he chuckled. “What a picture that would have made!”
“I wasn’t worrying about pictures at that moment. I was trying to save my neck! Orris doesn’t seem to think much of my work.”
Wells shrugged as he turned to leave. “Oh, you can’t tell what that bird thinks by how he acts. Keep on the way you’ve started and you ought to get a raise. See you tomorrow.”
Flash took another look at his negatives and then while they were soaking, went to wash some of the soot and grime from his face. Fairly presentable again, he returned to the photographic department. Orris, who seemed to be writing a letter at his desk did not glance up.
Entering the darkroom, Flash removed the films from the tray. In the act of carrying them to the drying drum he suddenly paused and stared. For an instant he thought he had taken the wrong negatives from the tank, that his pictures had been mixed with those Orris had been making.
Frantically he examined the films. They were his, but so badly streaked that they never could be used. Not a single one had been spared. His entire work was ruined!
The extent of the catastrophe nearly overwhelmed Flash. Jerking open the darkroom door, he called hoarsely to Fred Orris.
“Now what?” the man demanded impatiently.
“I wish you would look at these negatives.”
The urgency of Flash’s voice brought the older photographer to his feet. He studied the streaked films one after another.
“They’re ruined,” he said, with no show of sympathy. “What did you do to them?”
“Nothing. The films were all right when I went to the wash room. I left them soaking. I wasn’t gone ten minutes.”
“What developer and hypo did you use?”
“The same you had mixed.”
“Well, you must have done something unusual,” Orris snapped. “My pictures came out all right. Sure you didn’t add any extra chemicals to the tanks?”
Flash shook his head. “I can’t understand it,” he mumbled. “The pictures were okay when I left them. Someone must have tampered—”
“See here, Evans,” Orris broke in sharply, “don’t try to pass the buck. No one around here would have any interest in ruining your films. In any case, I’ve been sitting at my desk most of the time.”
“I wasn’t trying to offer an alibi. I can’t understand it, that’s all.”
“Let me tell you this, Evans. In professional news photography nothing pays off except knowledge. Guess work won’t get you far. Darkroom procedure must be scientifically exact.”
Flash crumpled the damp films and dropped them into a waste paper basket. With an effort he kept from making an angry retort. Orris deliberately was rubbing salt into sore wounds.
“This means my job, I suppose,” he said bitterly.
“Well, you hardly can expect to learn at the paper’s expense,” Orris shrugged.
The outside door opened and the two photographers, Ralston and Forrest, their clothing scented with smoke, strode into the room. Shedding their cameras and coats, they started to enter the darkroom.
“Better mix new developer and hypo,” Orris said curtly. “The kid just ruined his entire batch of films.”
Ralston gazed at Flash, and whistled softly.
“Tough,” he said. “Heard you were the first photographer on the scene, too.”
“Evans has a good pair of legs,” Orris said with pointed sarcasm.
Flash could endure no more. Jamming on his hat, he left the department, slipping down the back stairway so he need not pass through the news room. In the rear vestibule he met Old Herm who spoke cordially.
“What’s the matter, young feller?” he inquired. “You look down in the mouth.”
“Pictures ruined,” Flash answered briefly. “Just when I had a chance to make a good showing for myself, too.”
“Shoo, you don’t say!” Old Herm exclaimed. “How did it happen?”
But Flash was in no mood to tell his troubles. Making a non-committal reply, he passed on to the street.
Angry thoughts poisoned his mind. There was no denying that Fred Orris had taken a distinct dislike to him. The photographer’s smug attitude of satisfaction over the outcome of the fire pictures, made it clear that he would be glad to see him out of the office.
“I don’t believe it was anything I did which ruined those films,” Flash reflected. “Either the chemicals Orris mixed were no good, or someone doctored the tanks while I was gone! But Orris was in the department all the while. Could he have been guilty of such a low trick?”
Flash was ashamed of the thought and dismissed it as quickly as it entered his mind. No use trying to alibi his failure. The deed was done. He alone must accept responsibility for the result. As Orris had said, he couldn’t expect to learn at the paper’s expense.
Dreading to go home, Flash wandered into Joe’s hamburger shop, loitering there until the night edition of theLedgerreached the street. Then he bought a copy.
The paper carried three excellent photographs of the fire with no identifying by-line to tell whether Ralston or Forrest had taken them. It gave him a measure of satisfaction to note that from the standpoint of subject matter they were not as interesting as those he had snapped and ruined.
Also on the front page appeared Flash’s own name, together with a vivid account of his rescue act. He learned that the elderly man he had saved was John Gelette, an ailing tenant who had occupied the same apartment building for nearly twelve years. The old fellow, becoming confused at the outbreak of the fire, had wandered about in a daze, unable to locate an exit.
Flash stuffed the paper into his pocket and walked home. A warm supper and words of comfort awaited him there.
“I’m proud of you, Jimmy,” his mother said tremulously after she had read the story in the paper and heard his own account. “It doesn’t matter about losing the job. You’ll find another.”
Flash shook his head. “Not in Brandale. If you’re fired from one newspaper, word gets around. No other sheet will take me.”
“You’ve not actually been discharged yet, Jimmy.”
“Orris the same as told me I’m through. No use going back tomorrow.”
“Mr. Riley hired you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Then I would consider myself still on the staff until Mr. Riley discharged me.”
Flash refused to be cheered. “I was in bad even before this happened,” he said gloomily. “No use going after my pay check. I’ll let the cashier mail it.”
Next morning when the alarm clock jingled at six-thirty, Flash aroused only to shut it off and fall back on his pillow. With no job awaiting him he could stay in bed as long as he liked. His muscles were battered and sore from the ordeal of the previous day. He felt as if he could sleep forever.
For a time, thoughts raced rampant in his tortured mind. Then he dropped off into troubled slumber again to be tormented by wild nightmares. He awoke once more to find himself gasping for breath and clawing the bed clothes.
His sister, Joan, was pounding on the door.
“Get up, lazy bones!” she called. “It’s ten after eight.”
Flash groaned and rolled over. “Go away and leave me alone,” he mumbled drowsily, burying his head deeper into the pillow.
“You’re wanted on the telephone!” screamed Joan at the top of her lungs. “It’s theLedgeroffice!”
Flash leaped from bed. Pulling on his robe, he took the stairs two at a time, and snatched up the telephone receiver.
“Hello, Evans?” barked Riley’s voice. “What in blazes is the matter with you? Why didn’t you show up this morning?”
Flash was too startled to make a coherent reply.
“I thought—that is, Orris said—”
“You deserve to be fired,” snapped Riley, “but when you’re through, I’ll tell you so! Now grab a taxi and get down to Dock 10. Two freighters collided. We want pictures right away.”