Allan gave his full name; the check was signed by a white-haired man in the adjoining room, who came out from the inner office as the cashier was handing the check to Allan.
“So you are the boy who photographed the fire,” said the white-haired man.
“I guess he would like to do it often,” laughed the superintendent.
“Probably—if it paid as well. But it is no more than the plates are worth to us just now. I want to see them.” And the white-haired man examined the plates with great interest. “They don’t look much like the prints, do they? I tell you,” he said, turning again to Allan, “you must let us call on you sometime when we want a piece of photographic work done. We probably shan’t have a lawsuit in mind again, but there are things we need from time to time, and you could make use of a little money now and then, I suppose—photography costs something, doesn’t it?”
Allan said that he should be glad to try his hand at anything that he was able to do. “You see, I’m only a beginner,” he said. He liked the white-haired man, who had a pleasant look in his eyes and whose smile was very friendly.
When Allan left the factory the feeling of good fortune, of having succeeded after threatened failure, of new opportunities for his photographic enthusiasm, not to mention the feeling of the check in his pocket and the new privileges it promised, gave him a cheerful expression of countenance which doubtless appeared to Owen when he met him on his way back to the house.
“What luck?” asked Owen, cheerily.
“Good luck,” answered Allan. “Everything is all settled. They paid me for the plates, and the old gentleman—the president of the company I guess he is—thinks there are other things I might do for them.”
“That’s great!” exclaimed Owen.
“And, Owen,” Allan went on, “I shan’t have a bit of fun out of this money until you have divided it with me.”