Pop grinned. “People complain these days about the low standards of craftsmanship, but in some ways it’s a help. There aren’t many engravers in this country who can turn out a good set of plates, and what few there are, are working for the Bureau of Engraving in Washington or for some legitimate private business.”
“Of course there was one case, years ago,” Holt said. “I was just a cub reporter at the time, but I happened to be involved. I remember....”
He was off on another yarn. Almost an hour went by before Sandy happened to glance at the clock.
“Hey!” He jumped up. “Sam Morris said half an hour.”
The wail of a siren and the sudden clanging of the fire-engine’s bell seemed to put an exclamation mark at the end of his sentence.
“Vacation or no vacation, a fire is news,” Pop said. He reached for the phone, dialed rapidly, and spoke a few brisk questions into the mouthpiece. Then he slammed the receiver down.
“Get going, Ken,” he said. “You too, Sandy. This might be good for a picture. The fire’s at Sam Morris’s jewelry shop!”
CHAPTER III
A SCRAP OF FILM