“Come on, boy! You’re drafted for something really big.”
“I—I—what?” Jimmie stammered.
“Got your little camera, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sure,” Jimmie stared.
“Percy Palmer’s been found dead. Come with us. You’re going to take his picture.”
“Percy Palmer, the millionaire? Oh, I—” Jimmie held back.
“Sure! Come on! You’re drafted, I tell you.”
And Jimmie went.
While they were on their way in a taxi John explained that two photographers were home sick and three out on big stories.
“So that left only you,” John finished.