_RESCUE_
When Flash opened his eyes, a cool breeze blew over his seared face. He
was lying on the ground across the street from the burning apartment
building. A member of the rescue squad stood over him.
“You’ll be all right now,” he said.
Flash stirred and sat up. He rubbed the back of his hand across his
burning eyes. For a moment he could remember nothing. Then, with
recollection, a wave of panic washed over him.
“My camera!”
“It’s safe,” said the rescue squad man. “And your equipment bag. Both
right here. What paper you from?”
“The _Ledger_.”
“Too bad you didn’t get a picture of your own rescue job.”
“Yeah,” grinned Flash. “That would have been a shot!”
“Nice going, son. You had plenty of nerve.”
“How is the old man?” asked Flash.
“Doing all right. We sent him to St. John’s Hospital.”
“And who brought me out of the building?”
“Oh, one of the boys,” the rescue squad man answered carelessly. “The
heat got you.”
“Something hit me like a ton of bricks,” grinned Flash. “Well, I’m glad
just to be alive. How long have I been out?”
“Only a few minutes.”
Flash scrambled to his feet and stood supported by the other man.
“Feel okay now?”
“I’m still groggy, but my head is clearing. I must rush my pictures back
to the _Ledger_ office.”
With a few hasty words of thanks, he gathered up his equipment, and
started for the corner where he could catch a taxi. The apartment
building had fallen, and the fire companies were playing their hose in
full streams upon the adjoining building. It, too, might eventually go,
but the coal yards would be saved.
As he strode into the _Ledger_ building, the elevator man stared at him.
“What’s happened to your eyebrows?” he asked. “Looks like you’ve been in
a fire.”
Flash squinted at his reflection in the elevator mirror. Not only his
eyebrows but some of his hair as well had been singed off. His clothes
were mussed and his blistered face was smeared with soot.
“Rush me up to three,” he said crisply.
“Yes, sir.” For the first time since Flash had started work on the
_Ledger_, the elevator man addressed him in a tone of deep respect.
The only other passenger in the cage was Old Herm, the watchman. He,
too, regarded the young photographer with more than average curiosity.
“Where was the fire?” he inquired.
“The Elston Apartment district.”
“Get some good pictures?”
“I think so.” Flash could not hide his triumph. “Maybe they’ll be good
enough to pull me out of the dog house.”
Old Herm nodded and grinned in a friendly way.
“You’ll make the grade, son. You’ll make it,” he muttered. “Heard you’ve
been havin’ bad luck, but it can’t keep breakin’ wrong forever.”
Flash slammed through the wooden gate into the newsroom. A reporter
assigned to the fire story already had filled three long sheets of copy
paper, and so news of the young photographer’s rescue work had traveled
ahead of him.
The night editor actually beamed as Flash went past the slot.
“Guess you were the right man for the job,” he praised. “Rush your
pictures through. Ralston and Forrest are on the job now, but they won’t
get back for awhile.”
Flash nodded and hastened on to the photography department. The door of
the darkroom was closed. He rattled the handle.
“Anyone inside?”
Fred Orris answered in a curt voice. A few minutes later, he opened the
door, regarding Flash with a cold gaze.
“What’s the big rush?”
“I want to develop some pictures of the fire,” Flash responded briefly.
“What were you doing at the fire?” Orris demanded in surprise. “Special
assignment?”
Flash nodded. “A lucky break for me,” he said. “Tell you about it
later.”
As he closed himself into the darkroom he heard the older man mutter:
“That’s your middle name—Luck!”
The fresh hypo bath which Orris had just finished mixing was strong and
offensive. Flash placed his films in the tank, set the timer, and then
kept the negatives agitated during the developing process. The
excitement of the past hour had buoyed him up. But now as he waited, he
suddenly felt sapped of all energy. A fear that his pictures might turn
out worthless, took possession of him.
“One more mistake and I’ll be finished,” he thought.
When the alarm went off, he quickly removed the negatives from the
developer. He drew a deep sigh of relief. Of the seven pictures he had
taken, six had come up clear-cut and definite with white and black
contrasting sharply. One was indistinct, but would be printable with
special treatment.
Flash chuckled. Unless he greatly over-estimated the pictures, they were
the best of his career. Why, he might even win a by-line for himself! He
could visualize the caption—“Photographs by Jimmy Evans.” Only a simple
line which few newspaper readers would notice. But to a photographer it
meant everything.
Flash returned the films to the water, and opened the door of the
darkroom. Orris was still outside, talking with Joe Wells who had
wandered into the department on his way home from a movie.
“Hi, there, Flash,” he called with a friendly smile. “I hear you’ve
covered yourself with glory. How did they come out?”
“Pretty fair,” returned Flash. “Want to look at them?”
Wells and Orris both followed him back into the darkroom. They studied
the negatives with the critical gaze of experts, searching for defects
and finding none.
“Swell pictures,” said Wells heartily. “Wish I’d taken them myself.”
Fred Orris’ only comment was a curt suggestion as to the number of
printing paper which should be used.
“Jealous,” thought Flash. “At least he might have loosened up enough to
give me a compliment.” Aloud he said, “Oh, by the way, I wonder if I
could have a key to the department? I was locked out today and had
trouble getting Old Herm to let me inside.”
“I’ll see you have one by tomorrow,” Orris promised.
After the older man had moved to another part of the room, Joe Wells
praised Flash again for his fine work, and demanded all the details of
his thrilling experience at the fire.
“Too bad you didn’t get a shot of yourself hanging to the old man’s
wrists!” he chuckled. “What a picture that would have made!”
“I wasn’t worrying about pictures at that moment. I was trying to save
my neck! Orris doesn’t seem to think much of my work.”
Wells shrugged as he turned to leave. “Oh, you can’t tell what that bird
thinks by how he acts. Keep on the way you’ve started and you ought to
get a raise. See you tomorrow.”
Flash took another look at his negatives and then while they were
soaking, went to wash some of the soot and grime from his face. Fairly
presentable again, he returned to the photographic department. Orris,
who seemed to be writing a letter at his desk did not glance up.
Entering the darkroom, Flash removed the films from the tray. In the act
of carrying them to the drying drum he suddenly paused and stared. For
an instant he thought he had taken the wrong negatives from the tank,
that his pictures had been mixed with those Orris had been making.
Frantically he examined the films. They were his, but so badly streaked
that they never could be used. Not a single one had been spared. His
entire work was ruined!