  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 the Globe while 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 the Ledger you’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 the Ledger plant 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!” the Globe photographer 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 the Globe missed the Jovitch-Morgan pictures,” thought Flash. “I’ll need to be on my guard.” The Ledger building 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 the Post in 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. |
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