  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 the Ledger reached 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 the Ledger office!” 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.” “I’ll get there as quickly as I can!” Flash exclaimed. Bewildered by the unexpected turn of events, he darted back upstairs and quickly dressed. “Jimmy, you’re not leaving without a cup of coffee,” his mother protested as he raced down again. “Can’t stop for anything,” he answered, pulling on his overcoat. Hailing a cab, Flash paused at the Ledger building only long enough to pick up his camera equipment and then drove on to Dock 10. Hiring a launch, he motored out to the two vessels, took his pictures, and was back at the office in record time. “Want me to help you develop those?” Fred Orris inquired, with a faint suggestion of a sneer. “No, thanks,” Flash replied shortly. Joe Wells, who was near, followed him into the darkroom and closed the door. “Guess you heard what happened to my fire pictures,” Flash said in a low tone. “I can’t figure out what went wrong.” “Neither can I,” answered Wells. “I fished those films out of the basket and looked at them. Never ran into anything just like it before. Now you go ahead and develop these films while I watch.” With the photographer standing at his elbow, Flash followed exactly the same procedure which he had used the previous afternoon. The ship pictures came up quickly with good contrast. “They’re all right,” said Wells with emphasis. “Orris can’t kick on those, or Riley, either.” “My fire pictures were good, too. Something happened to them while they were in the water.” “Who was here after you left?” “Only Orris so far as I know. You don’t think he would play a dirty trick just to get me fired?” “I hear Orris has a nephew he’s been trying to get into the department for over a year,” Wells remarked thoughtfully. “Still, I’m sure he wouldn’t do it. Orris may be a crab but he’s not a snake.” Anxiously, Flash washed his films, watching for streaks or defects. From a photographic standpoint they were nearly perfect. With Wells hovering near, he dried the negatives and made his prints. “Nothing wrong with your technique as far as I can see,” said the older photographer. “Those pictures are good enough to suit anyone.” The prints were rushed to the news room. Flash waited to hear from Riley. When no word came he knew that his work was satisfactory. Later in the morning he was sent with Wells to take pictures of a warehouse strike. Again, while not exactly covering himself with glory, his shots were equal to those of the more experienced photographer. “I can’t get over the shock of still being on the payroll,” he confessed to his friend as they lunched together. “After what happened yesterday I was sure I would be fired.” Wells gave him an amused glance. “Then Riley didn’t tell you?” “He hasn’t said a word to me all day.” “Flash, some folks are just naturally born with a rabbit’s foot,” Wells grinned. “You’re one of ’em. Know who that old man was you rescued yesterday?” “I saw in the paper his name was John Gelette.” “Which means nothing to you?” “Can’t say it does.” Wells bit into a doughnut. “To tell you the truth, I never heard of the old duffer myself until yesterday,” he admitted. “But it turns out he’s a first cousin to Cordell Burman. I trust you’ve heard of him?” “The owner of the Ledger!” “Exactly,” responded Wells dryly. “No one needs to teach you the secret of getting on, my lad. Your job is safe for awhile. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if you found a raise tucked into your next pay envelope.” |
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