“Sold us a few pictures, haven’t you?”
“A few,” Jimmy said with a rueful grin. “But lately I haven’t done so well. There must be something radically wrong with my stuff.”
Before the editor could reply, a reporter dashed up to the desk to make a report on a story assignment.
Jimmy assumed that his presence no longer was desirable. He turned to leave.
“Wait a minute, Evans,” said Riley. “Sit down. I’ll be through in a moment. I want to talk to you.”
Jimmy sat down. While the reporter talked to the editor, his eyes wandered over the long news room. The clicking of a dozen typewriters, the absorbed interest of the copy readers as they bent over their work, even the purposeful scurrying about of the office boys, filled him with a vague yearning. It would be great to belong to a place like the Ledger—to have a job of his own!
Presently Riley finished with the reporter and turned to Jimmy again.
“About your pictures, son,” he said. “They’re pretty fair art. What they lack is news punch. The woods are full of fellows who can take pretty pictures; but they wouldn’t recognize a good news shot if you labeled it for them.”
“I’m always anxious to pick up ideas,” answered Jimmy. “Any tips you can give me will be a big help—that is, if you can spare the time, Mr. Riley.”
Jimmy was a tall, slender lad with a thick shock of dark, curly hair and frank gray eyes set in a pleasant, firmly molded face.