_COVERING THE FIGHT_
The late afternoon and night editions of the _Ledger_ carried Jimmy’s
pictures on the front page, giving prominent space to his eye-witness
account of the Jovitch-Morgan capture. At the Evans cottage there was
high jubilation, and until long after midnight neighbors dropped in to
congratulate him upon his success.
Yet as Jimmy entered the newspaper office at a quarter to eight the next
morning, he had a feeling that already both he and his pictures were
forgotten. As he passed through the news room, only a few reporters
turned their heads to regard him with curious stares.
In the photographic department adjoining the wire-photo room, a man in a
rumpled shirt sat with one leg thrown carelessly over the edge of a
desk. Jimmy approached him hesitantly.
“Are you Mr. Orris?”
“No, I’m Joe Wells, just another flunky around this joint. Fred will be
along any minute. I take it you’re the flashy kid Riley was raving about
yesterday?”
“Raving at, you mean,” grinned Jimmy. “He didn’t like the way I held him
up for a job.”
“Nuts! Riley always bellows, but he never holds it against a fellow for
standing up to him. Now Orris is different.”
The photographer arose and stretched himself. “Your name is Evans, isn’t
it?”
“Yes, they call me Jimmy mostly.”
“Jimmy is all right, but you need a niftier moniker than that. Something
with a little snap. I have it! Flash! That fits you like a glove! Flash
Evans! How’s that, kid?”
Jimmy hardly knew what to make of the liberties so freely taken with his
name but he smiled at the older man as if a favor had been conferred
upon him. And strangely enough, the nickname “Flash” stuck, so that
within a short time he answered to it as readily as he did to his own.
“You were speaking of Orris,” Wells went on, discreetly lowering his
voice. “When that fellow reads you the riot act you say ‘yes, sir,’ and
click your heels together like a little gentleman. Not that he isn’t
usually right. Orris is a good photographer himself and knows what he
wants. You can’t pass off any dud pictures on him.”
“I’ve a lot to learn and I’ll need to learn it quick. I can see that.”
Wells nodded absently. “While you’re waiting for Orris, I’ll show you
around,” he offered. “Over there is our portrait parlor where we mug the
publicity seekers. We have a pretty fair darkroom.”
He went ahead, snapping on the electric lights, Jimmy’s eyes kindled as
he gazed about. The _Ledger_ darkroom was one of the best equipped he
had ever seen, with long, chip-proof tanks of seamless, stainless steel
and a foot-controlled treadle light to prevent any shock from wet hands.
“You’ll be expected to develop and print most of your own films,” said
Wells. “Had much experience?”
“Not with deluxe equipment like this.”
“You’ll soon catch on. This is the electric dryer. Now I’ll show you the
different printing papers we use and how we mix our chemicals—”
An outside door had slammed. A thin, hollow-cheeked man came into the
photography room.
“There’s Orris now,” volunteered Wells.
He waited until the head photographer had removed his overcoat, and then
took Jimmy over to meet him.
“Orris, this is Flash Evans.”
The older man smiled briefly upon hearing the nickname and studied Jimmy
with concentrated attention.
“Good morning, Evans,” he said coldly. “You did a fine job yesterday in
getting those Jovitch-Morgan pictures.”
“Thanks.”
“I hope you keep up the good work,” Orris resumed curtly. “I hardly need
tell you that past deeds don’t count around here. A photographer must
deliver the goods and deliver it every day. Ever handle a Speed
Graphic?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wells will give you your equipment and tell you anything you want to
know about the routine. You’ll work the day shift except on special
assignment. When a big story breaks everyone is expected to be on call.
You take orders from the city editor.”
Flash spent a half hour examining his camera equipment and learning the
office routine. He liked Joe Wells and Blake Dowell, another
photographer to whom he was introduced, but he could not rid himself of
a feeling that Fred Orris had taken a deep dislike to him.
“Oh, Orris hates everyone, even himself,” Wells confided in the privacy
of the darkroom. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll treat you right if you
turn out good pictures.”
On his first assignment, a convention at the Hotel Brandale, Flash
worked with Joe Wells, and everything went smoothly. His pictures, while
not in any way spectacular, were clear and properly focused. Fred Orris
merely nodded and offered no comment when he examined them.
In the afternoon Flash was called to Riley’s desk.
“Get down to the Y.W.C.A.,” the editor ordered. “They’re giving a water
carnival. We want a snappy picture of some girls.”
Flash caught a street car farther downtown. He was nervous over the
assignment, but he need not have been. Upon arriving at the Y.W.C.A.
building everything was made easy for him. He merely said, “I’m Evans,
from the _Ledger_,” and a kindly, white-haired lady who was the
publicity director, took him in charge.
A dozen swimmers were waiting in the tank room. Flash had only to pose
the girls on the diving board, set up his tripod and snap three
flash-gun pictures.
Hurrying back to the newspaper office, he ran the films through the
darkroom, and when the glossy prints were ready, offered them to Orris.
“Not bad,” the photographer said, “only you could have posed the girls
better. Where are the names?”
“Names?”
“You can’t run a picture without names,” said Orris with biting
emphasis. “If a reporter isn’t sent along with you, you’re expected to
get them.”
His confidence somewhat shattered, Flash hastened to a telephone. After
endless trouble, he obtained the names and succeeded in properly tagging
the girls in the picture.
“I don’t think I’ll last long on this job,” he confessed gloomily to Joe
Wells.
“Sure, you will, Flash. In a few days you’ll learn the routine.”
Flash was grateful for the help and friendly advice which the
photographer gave him. During the next few days his work gradually
showed improvement. He became more confident, and Orris seldom had
occasion to offer criticism.
Then Friday afternoon as he was ready to leave the office, Riley called
him to the desk. Flash’s pulse hammered. He was almost certain the city
editor meant to tell him he was fired.
“Evans, how about doing some extra work tonight?” Riley asked. “We’re
short of photographers and I need a good picture of the Gezzy-Brady
fight at the armory.”
“I’ll be glad to go,” said Flash in relief.
He telephoned home, then had supper at a café across from the _Ledger_
office. A full hour before the fight was scheduled to start, he carried
his equipment to the armory, setting it up close to the arena.
The building began to fill. Other photographers and reporters from
various newspapers began to take their ringside seats. Among the late
arrivals were Luke Frowein and Clyde Deems, both veteran photographers
for the _Globe_.
A sports writer from the _Ledger_ slumped into the empty seat beside
Flash.
“Wouldn’t waste many films if I were you,” he said with a yawn. “Gezzy
is expected to take the kid in three or four rounds.”
By fight time the armory was packed. The buzzing rumble of the crowd
arose from behind a blanket of murky tobacco smoke. A gray-shirted
referee climbed into the ring to test the ropes.
With tolerant good humour the crowd sat through the first two
preliminary bouts, but when the third dragged itself out into a
clinching match, the customers began to call impatiently:
“Give us Gezzy! We want Brady!”
At last the main bout was brought on and Flash watched the ring with
alert attention. He took only one picture during the first three rounds
because the experienced Gezzy made the youngster look very bad. The
older fighter feinted him out of position, made him miss by wide
margins, and kept up a steady tattoo of stinging left jabs which had
Brady bewildered.
And then it happened! The writers said the next day it was only a lucky
punch, but Brady connected with a slashing left hook to the point of
Gezzy’s chin. The older boxer folded at the hips and toppled to the
canvas in a limp heap.
Flash clicked his camera just as the blow landed. He took another shot
as Gezzy made a pathetic attempt to struggle to his feet at the count of
ten. The fighter fell back and rolled over, his face ashen and still in
the blinding glare of the ring lights. Flash got a shot of that, too.
Elated at his success, he pushed his way through the milling crowd to
the street. He was jubilant over the streak of luck which had turned an
ordinary assignment into a big story.
“Riley can’t do any kicking this time,” he thought. “I ought to have
four dandy pictures.”
Back at the newspaper office he closed himself into the darkroom and
placed his films in the developing tank. He set the timing clock. When
it went off he removed the films. Eagerly he studied the first one under
the ruby light.
For a minute Flash could not believe his own eyes. The film was dark!
Not a single detail was visible.
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 the _Globe_?”
“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.”