  Jimmie was tired. The ball game was over. It was evening now and he and his father were on their way home. The events of that day had been exciting enough, but all days come to an end. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. Cameras and silver fox skins, blown safes, speeding trucks, policemen in uniform, a ball game in full swing, and Tom Howe’s piercing eyes passed across his mental vision. Because, for the moment, he wished to forget all these things, he opened his eyes. When he looked at his father he realized with almost a shock that he too must be tired. Yes, there were tired lines about his mouth and wrinkles around his eyes he had never noticed before. “Dad,” he said, “why do you work so late?” “To get my work done.” The wrinkles about his father’s eyes gathered into a smile. “Couldn’t someone else do your work?” “Oh! Undoubtedly,” the smile broadened. “But if they did they’d want the pay.” “But why work so hard?” Jimmie persisted. “Well,” his father drawled, “there’s the grocer and the milk man to pay. There are taxes. The old house needs a new roof. And your college days are only a year away.” “Oh, yes, college,” Jimmie said thoughtfully. He had often dreamed of college. “Dad,” he said after a moment of silence, “how much have I cost you?” “Well—” his father hesitated, “the income tax man allows me four hundred dollars exemption for having you around. Perhaps that’s about right.” “Four hundred a year and I’ll be eighteen when I’m through High.” Jimmie figured for a moment. “Why that’s over eight thousand dollars!” “What? Oh, yes, I suppose it is.” His father lapsed into silence. “What do you expect to get out of it?” Jimmie demanded. “Why! Nothing! Probably nothing except the fun of seeing you grow up. Some people like to raise pigs, just to see them grow. Some raise horses and some raise boys for the same reason.” “Then,” said Jimmie, and there was a note of finality in his voice, “you’re not going to work nights to send me to college.” “What? Don’t you want to go to college?” his father stared. “Sure, I do. But look! You know Bill Baley and the Dale boys. They go to college.” “Yes.” “Bill’s father works hard.” “Too hard. That’s right.” “The Dale boys live off their grandfather and he works hard.” “He sure does, son.” “Bill and the Dale boys dance and play tennis, live in fraternity houses, wear good clothes and study some in college but somebody has to work too hard so they can keep it up.” “Well,” his father was smiling again. “What’s the answer?” “Work!” Jimmie was not smiling. “If I go to college I’ll earn my keep. I’ll find a college town with an up-to-date newspaper. I’ll develop the candid camera and telescopic lens ideas as far as I can, then I’ll make them give me a job. And I’ll work, not just sit and wait for checks from home.” “Son,” there was a warm light in his father’s eye. “I like to hear you say that. The greatest discovery any boy ever made is the fact that every tub must stand on its own bottom, every fellow pull his own oar, make his own way in the world. “But, son,” his tone was deeply serious, “no one ever succeeded in a newspaper office without hard work and long hours. It’s the workingest place in the world.” “I know,” said Jimmie. And at once his mind was busy on the problems that might lie before him tomorrow, and all the other tomorrows to come. Next day Jimmie had the very unusual experience of seeing one of his own candid camera shots on the front page of the Press. This, however, was overshadowed by a startling discovery made shortly after his negatives taken at the ball game had been developed. The picture, of course, was a candid shot of the city’s new idol, the millionaire pitcher. Inside the paper, on the sports page, were a half dozen other shots of Ogden Durant. Surely this was Jimmie’s big moment. As he came into the office Scottie, the scarred veteran of many pictures, shouted a cordial greeting. “You made good, boy!” he exclaimed, slapping him on the back. “Did it with that old box of mine. I’m proud of you.” Nothing could have pleased Jimmie half so much, especially as it came from Scottie. But the big things of that day were not over. Scarcely had Jimmie taken his humble place in the row of waiting copy boys, when his father stepped out into the corridor and beckoned to him. He followed his father into his office only to find with a start of surprise and joy that “Oggie” Durant, his idol was waiting for him there. “He came in to thank us for the fine pictures,” Jimmie’s father smiled. “So I thought he’d like to meet the photographer.” “You don’t mean—” The young millionaire looked at Jimmie in surprise. “Yes.” There was a note of pride in the father’s voice. “Jimmie’s been a camera bug for a long time. He’s with us for the summer so I drafted him into my service yesterday.” “Well! Shake!” Oggie gave Jimmie’s hand a true pitcher’s solid grip. Never had Jimmie been happier than at this moment. To be shaking the hand of a young man who had been born rich, who might at that moment have been lolling on some beach surrounded by a bevy of beauties, or coasting along in some palatial yacht, but who had chosen the long years of labor and practice that makes a man a professional pitcher, that was a joy indeed. “Og—I mean, Mis—mister Durant,” Jimmie burst out suddenly, “do you remember me?” “Why, no, I—I can’t say I do.” The great pitcher looked him over. “You gave me two golf balls,” Jimmie confided, “quite a long time ago. I—I’ve got them yet. Per—perhaps it sounds silly, but they’re as new as when I first got them.” “I gave you golf balls?” Durant looked at him again. “Why, yes, now I do recall. Burton Keating hit you with a long shot.” “Yes—yes, that was the time,” Jimmie exclaimed, pleased that he had not been quite forgotten. “Well now isn’t it strange,” said Durant with a queer smile, “how our every little act comes back to haunt us?” “Mis—mister Durant,” Jimmie burst out again, “will you do me a favor?” “Gladly. Name it.” The great one smiled. “Autograph a baseball for me,” Jimmie’s tone was eager. “Is that all? I shall be glad to do that,” laughed Durant. “In fact, I’ll do more. I’ll pass the ball down the line to all the members of the team and have them sign it.” “That—ah—that will be swell!” said Jimmie. “But these pictures?” Durant’s voice took on a puzzled note. “How could you take them? I can’t say I saw you on the diamond.” “I’ll say not,” exclaimed Jimmie. “It isn’t allowed. Wait! I’ll show you.” He was away and back again in the same moment. “See!” he held up Scottie’s old camera. “Telescopic lens.” “That,” the pitcher took the camera and examined it closely, “that’s a wonderful idea. But this camera now.” He hesitated. “It really doesn’t look very new. Is it up-to-the-minute?” “No,” Jimmie grinned. “It isn’t much more than up to the day-before-yesterday. But I had to make it do.” “We’ll correct that,” said Durant. Taking out a small, blank book, he entered some notes; then, without further comment, returned the book to his pocket. Five minutes later Jimmie was back in his place in the row of copy boys. But not for long. It was Scottie who now called him out. “Jimmie,” he said, “here’s a negative I found in your lot of baseball shots. Looks like some sort of a row. What’s it all about? And do we keep it?” “Oh, yes. Er—let’s see! Now, I know.” “Here’s a print,” suggested Scottie. The moment his eyes fell upon that print Jimmie knew there was something unusual about the central figure in the picture, but cudgel his brain as he might he could not, for a long time, tell what it was. When it did come it was with the force of a blow on the head. Taking the picture to a bright corner of the great, busy room, he studied it for a long time. When his turn for answering the call, “Boy,” came, he thrust it into his pocket. Fortunately his errand that time took him to the art department. There, while he was awaiting a series of drawings he picked up a magnifying glass and through this took another look at the picture. Barely did he escape dropping the glass. “The ear!” he said aloud. “It’s the ear.” Glancing about to make sure no one saw him, he took a thin box from his pocket and compared its contents to the ear of the central figure in the picture. The shot was of the man who had attempted to rattle Ogden Durant by his abusive language at the ball park; the shot Jimmie had taken on pure hunch as the man was being ushered from the grounds. “The ear,” he thought, as his hand shook. “It’s the ear of the Silent Terror. That man at the ball park was the Silent Terror. I’ve taken his picture again. How strange!” “Here you are,” said a voice close beside him. It was the artist with the pictures. “Oh! Oh, yes!” the boy stammered. Thrusting the unusual photograph once more into his pocket he went on his way, walking almost in a daze. |
|
