  “Sorry, son. There are no jobs open. Afraid we can’t use these pictures, either.” Tom Riley, city editor of The Brandale Ledger shoved the stack of glossy black and white prints across the desk toward Jimmy Evans who faced him squarely, a miniature camera protruding from the pocket of his shabby tweed overcoat. “Well, thanks anyway.” Jimmy spoke in a flat, discouraged tone as he gathered up the photographs and slid them into a cardboard folder. The editor watched him with a thoughtful gaze. “You’ve been coming around here quite often, Evans.” “Yes, I have. I figure there’s no law against trying.” “Sold us a few pictures, haven’t you?” “A few,” Jimmy said with a rueful grin. “But lately I haven’t done so well. There must be something radically wrong with my stuff.” Before the editor could reply, a reporter dashed up to the desk to make a report on a story assignment. Jimmy assumed that his presence no longer was desirable. He turned to leave. “Wait a minute, Evans,” said Riley. “Sit down. I’ll be through in a moment. I want to talk to you.” Jimmy sat down. While the reporter talked to the editor, his eyes wandered over the long news room. The clicking of a dozen typewriters, the absorbed interest of the copy readers as they bent over their work, even the purposeful scurrying about of the office boys, filled him with a vague yearning. It would be great to belong to a place like the Ledger—to have a job of his own! Presently Riley finished with the reporter and turned to Jimmy again. “About your pictures, son,” he said. “They’re pretty fair art. What they lack is news punch. The woods are full of fellows who can take pretty pictures; but they wouldn’t recognize a good news shot if you labeled it for them.” “I’m always anxious to pick up ideas,” answered Jimmy. “Any tips you can give me will be a big help—that is, if you can spare the time, Mr. Riley.” Jimmy was a tall, slender lad with a thick shock of dark, curly hair and frank gray eyes set in a pleasant, firmly molded face. The editor smiled at the young man’s persistence and swept a pile of copy paper to one side. “Well, this thing they call ‘punch’ is hard to define,” he began. “Sometimes it’s a picture which ties up with a big front page story. For instance, a bank robbery, an explosion, or maybe a shipwreck. “Then again, it may be human interest stuff. A policeman holding up city traffic while a cat carries its kitten across a busy intersection. You see, a free lance photographer must have ideas, and be on the spot when important news is breaking.” “Isn’t there a lot of luck to that—being on hand when it happens?” “Yes, but not always,” admitted the editor. “Learn to use your head as well as your feet. Be ready when an opportunity comes along.” “The one I’m looking for is a steady job on a newspaper.” “We’re not likely to have an opening on the Ledger for months to come. If a job does turn up, it probably will go to an experienced newspaper photographer.” “But how can a fellow get experience when no one will give a beginner any chance?” With a trace of impatience, the editor replied gruffly: “You’ll have to create your own job. No one will hand it to you on a silver platter. Study news photographs and try to discover what makes them click. Learn how to take good pictures under every possible lighting condition. Then maybe someday you’ll stumble into one so big we couldn’t afford to turn it down.” Riley reached for a sheet of copy paper, a signal that the interview had ended. But as the young man started away, a tired droop to his shoulders, he added: “I didn’t intend to discourage you, Evans. You’re young, with plenty of time ahead. Not over eighteen, are you?” “Sixteen.” “You look older. Well, keep at it, and one of these days you may make the grade.” Only slightly encouraged by the words, Jimmy pocketed his samples and left the office. Rather than face the knowing glance of the elevator man, he walked down three flights of steps to the street. For months now, since graduating from Brandale High School, he had tried without success to obtain a staff position on a newspaper. There was scarcely a newspaper or syndicate in town where he had not been flatly rejected at least once a week. Few editors were as decent about it as Riley of the Ledger. Jimmy shifted his camera to a more comfortable position, and wandered aimlessly down a street leading toward the waterfront. Where would one find picture material which packed a punch? It was all very well to talk about being in a place where news was breaking, but buildings didn’t explode or ships sink just to oblige an ambitious photographer. His prospect of ever landing a job on the Ledger seemed pretty hopeless. “Hi, Jimmy!” called a familiar voice. “What are you doing in this part of town?” Hearing his name, Jimmy turned to see Jerry Hayes, a boy who lived on his street, lounging in the doorway of a corner drugstore. “Hello, Jerry,” he answered briefly. “Just out job hunting.” Jerry fell into step with him. “No luck, I’ll bet.” “It’s the same old story. There’s no place for a beginner.” “Why don’t you quit playing around with that camera of yours and start looking for other kind of work?” “Well, I don’t know,” Jimmy returned. “I’ve spent a lot of time learning how to take pictures. My father was city editor on the Brandale Post—that was years ago before the paper folded. I sort of figured I would follow a newspaper career, too.” “You’ve had a tough time of it since your father died, Jimmy.” “It’s been worse for Mother than it has for me. What I need is a job.” “The Red Ball Chain Store is looking for a delivery boy. Why don’t you apply there?” “Maybe I will. Thanks for the tip.” They had reached the next corner where the Green Hut Hamburger Diner stood. Jerry paused. “Let’s have one, Jimmy,” he proposed. “I’ll treat.” Jimmy hesitated, then shook his head. Lately he had accepted entirely too many favors from his friend. “Oh, come along,” Jerry urged, pulling him through the doorway. Jimmy was hungry, for he had not eaten since breakfast and it was now late afternoon. Perched high on a stool at the counter, he watched Gus, the cook, pound sandwich meat into two flat cakes which he slapped on the smoking grille. “Plenty of excitement around here today,” the man volunteered. “The police caught a fellow wanted for stealing automobiles. They just walked in and yanked him off a stool. Coffee?” Jimmy nodded mechanically. “Wish I had been here,” he said. “That’s the trouble. I’m never around at the right time.” As he ate his sandwich, Jimmy stared out the window. He dreaded going home. Not that his mother would blame him for failing to find a position. She encouraged him in his ambition to follow a chosen field of work, but camera supplies constantly drained their slender resources. The small amount of monthly insurance dividends was barely enough to feed and clothe them, and keep his younger sister, Joan, in school. He never accepted pocket money without a sense of shame. A loud screeching of brakes on the pavement, caused Jimmy to whirl around. A black sedan, ignoring a traffic light which had flashed from green to red, plunged across the intersection at high speed, to crash into the side of a blue automobile driven by a woman. Both boys leaped down from their stools. Jimmy pulled his miniature camera from his pocket, adjusting it as he ran out into the street. One of the first persons to reach the scene of the accident, he snapped a picture of the wreck, and then took a second photograph just as the driver of the black sedan stepped to the pavement. Without particularly taking mental note of the fact, Jimmy saw that the man was heavy-set with dark hair and bushy brows. His companion who did not alight appeared to be a tall, thin fellow with a slightly hooked nose. The woman driver also left her car. One glance at the damaged fenders and she began to berate the two men in an angry voice. “Just see what you have done! You’ll have to pay for this! It was entirely your fault because you went against the light!” A crowd had gathered. Opinion was divided as to who had caused the accident, but the majority of pedestrians favored the woman driver. One man offered to telephone for the police. At mention of the word “police,” the slim fellow spoke in a low tone to his companion, who promptly leaped into the sedan. They drove rapidly away, the car turning at the first corner. “Someone stop them!” cried the woman helplessly. “I haven’t the license number.” No other automobile had taken up the pursuit, and indeed, considering the speed of the first car, pursuit seemed useless. Jimmy stepped forward. “Excuse me,” he said to the woman. “I just took two pictures of the smash-up. The license number ought to show on the negative.” “Then I could trace the men and have them arrested!” “Yes,” nodded Jimmy, “and if they refuse to settle, my pictures will serve as court evidence.” “Thank you, young man. Thank you,” the woman said gratefully. “I’ll be glad to pay you well for your work. How soon may I have the pictures?” “In an hour. I’ll hurry home and develop them for you right away.” The woman, Mrs. Clyde Montross of East Moreland Drive, gave Jimmy her engraved card. He, in turn, gave the woman his name and address. Without waiting for the arrival of the police, he hastened toward home in company with his friend, Jerry. “That was a nice break for me,” he declared. “I should pick up five dollars at least for my pictures. And if the case comes to court I ought to get a witness fee, too.” “How about selling your pictures to the Ledger?” asked Jerry. “They wouldn’t be interested. Accident cases are too common.” “It’s queer how those fellows drove off when someone spoke of calling the police.” “Oh, they were afraid of being arrested, all right,” Jimmy agreed carelessly. “Well, so long, Jerry. See you later.” They parted company and Jimmy entered a pleasant, white-painted cottage. His mother was baking cookies, while Joan, his twelve-year-old sister, was perched on the kitchen sink. “Hello, Jim,” she sang out. “Did you get the job?” He shook his head, helping himself to a handful of warm cookies. “No, but I have a chance to pick up a little pocket money by selling some auto-crash pictures. I’m going to develop them now. Mother, I wish you’d tie Joan up so she doesn’t come barging into the darkroom when I’m half finished.” “I’ll try to keep my eye on her,” Mrs. Evans promised, smiling. Mrs. Evans was a slender, gray-haired woman with kindly blue eyes and a pleasant disposition. “Oh, go on!” said Joan, tossing her head. “Who wants to see your silly old pictures, anyway?” Jimmy had taken over a large closet adjoining the bathroom for his photographic laboratory. In addition to a ruby and green lamp, developer and hypo trays, he had equipped it with a film drying machine and had built shelves to hold his chemicals, printing papers and general supplies. He mixed fresh developer. Then, closing himself in the darkroom, he ran his films through the tray. The two pictures came up quickly. As he studied them beneath the red glow he was elated to see that they both would make good, clear prints. The license number of the black sedan showed plainly, as did the face of the heavy-set driver. Jimmy had taken the films from the fixing solution and was washing them when Joan rattled the door knob. “Oh, Jim! Are you about finished?” “Listen, little half-pint, if you come in here now—” “Who wants to come in?” she called in a longsuffering voice. “But you’d better hurry! A policeman is downstairs waiting to see you, and he says it’s important!” |
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