“Nuts! Riley always bellows, but he never holds it against a fellow for standing up to him. Now Orris is different.”
The photographer arose and stretched himself. “Your name is Evans, isn’t it?”
“Yes, they call me Jimmy mostly.”
“Jimmy is all right, but you need a niftier moniker than that. Something with a little snap. I have it! Flash! That fits you like a glove! Flash Evans! How’s that, kid?”
Jimmy hardly knew what to make of the liberties so freely taken with his name but he smiled at the older man as if a favor had been conferred upon him. And strangely enough, the nickname “Flash” stuck, so that within a short time he answered to it as readily as he did to his own.
“You were speaking of Orris,” Wells went on, discreetly lowering his voice. “When that fellow reads you the riot act you say ‘yes, sir,’ and click your heels together like a little gentleman. Not that he isn’t usually right. Orris is a good photographer himself and knows what he wants. You can’t pass off any dud pictures on him.”
“I’ve a lot to learn and I’ll need to learn it quick. I can see that.”
Wells nodded absently. “While you’re waiting for Orris, I’ll show you around,” he offered. “Over there is our portrait parlor where we mug the publicity seekers. We have a pretty fair darkroom.”
He went ahead, snapping on the electric lights, Jimmy’s eyes kindled as he gazed about. The Ledger darkroom was one of the best equipped he had ever seen, with long, chip-proof tanks of seamless, stainless steel and a foot-controlled treadle light to prevent any shock from wet hands.
“You’ll be expected to develop and print most of your own films,” said Wells. “Had much experience?”