“Sure.”
“Well, it’s important evidence. Tom Howe told me so. In the end it may help send a man to the jug.”
“Well, if Tom says that it must be so,” replied Scottie. “Tom’s Irish and I’m Scotch. But the Micks and Macks won the great war, so they say, and we still march side by side.
“But that,” he added, “won’t get you a telescopic lens for your camera, for there’s never a one that’ll fit it.
“Nevertheless,” he glanced in the corner, “there’s a box camera over there I once rigged up with a telescopic lens. The lens is still on it. All you have to do is to look at the ground glass in the back to get your focus. That is, if it’s less than a hundred feet. If it’s more you don’t have to look. I don’t mind lending it to you for a few days.”
“Say! That will be great!” Jimmie enthused. “I—I’ll show you some real stuff.”
“I hope so, my boy. I sure do hope so,” said Scottie.
Scottie was growing old. All too soon another would be taking his place. He loved boys though he had none of his own. Deep down in his heart he had hid a warm spot for Jimmie. “He’ll do,” he murmured to himself as Jimmie marched proudly away with his new-found treasure, “He’ll get there. Never doubt it.”
The two days that followed were busy ones for Jimmie. One of the copy boys was sick, another on a vacation. Jimmie was obliged to resume his regular place in line and answer once more to the call of “Boy.”
This he did not entirely regret. He was able to look with new eyes upon the great institution to which he belonged. Since his little excursions to the outside, the make-up room, the thundering press room and the quiet offices of special editors all had a new meaning for him.