_OLD HERM_
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.