He leaped and they crashed to the floor together. Flash was strong and muscular for his age, but his opponent had arms of steel. However, he was gaining the upperhand when the room lights suddenly went on. Someone grasped him roughly by the collar and jerked him to his feet. Whirling around, he saw that the newcomer was Fred Orris, who evidently had returned upon hearing the commotion.
“Say, what’s the big idea?” the head photographer demanded. “Beating up an old man!”
Flash glanced down at the whimpering figure on the floor. Poor old Herm! But he steeled himself against a feeling of pity. The watchman was deserving of no sympathy or consideration.
“Herm is the one who stole my arson picture!” Flash accused. “He’s been trying to make trouble for me from the day I started work here, adding chemicals to the hypo tank and doing dirty little tricks to ruin my work!”
“It’s a lie!” muttered Herm, offering his gnarled hand for Fred Orris to help him to his feet. “I been workin’ here over ten years and have a long record of faithful service. He can’t hang nothin’ on me!”
“What were you doing in the darkroom?” Flash demanded.
“I went in there to see if you had left the water runnin’.”
“That excuse is getting rather threadbare, Herm.”
“You’re one of the worst offenders of the lot,” the watchman accused, glaring at Flash.
“I don’t believe I ever left a tap running in my life. But we’ll not argue that point. You say you went in the darkroom to turn off the water?”