He shuffled off on his rounds, his dragging feet making an irregular rhythm on the tiled floor.
Left alone, Flash developed the roll of film. He put the negatives through the fixing bath and, when they were washed and dry, made his prints. It was a quarter to four by the time he had finished.
The news room had begun to stir into life. Sauntering through, Flash saw a few reporters at their desks, but Forrest and Ralston, two night-shift photographers, had not yet appeared. Dan Dewey, the editor who would be in charge of the desk, nodded casually to Flash. He was in the act of shedding his overcoat when everyone in the room was startled to alertness by the loud whir of the fire alarm instrument.
“Where’s that?” demanded a reporter, scraping his chair as he jumped to his feet.
“District ten,” responded Dewey tersely. “Must be the old apartment houses on Glendale Avenue or maybe the coal yards! Get down there, Charlie, right away! Where’s Ralston?”
“Not here yet,” spoke up Flash. “Nor Forrest either. Shall I go?”
The editor measured him with a glance.
“All right, Evans,” he muttered. “See what you can do. The fire may not amount to much.”
There was no mistaking the doubt in Dan Dewey’s voice. Everyone in the office had heard of Flash’s failure to bring back good pictures from the Gezzy-Brady fight. Since then he had been given only routine, unimportant assignments.
From far down the street came the wail of a fire siren. Spurred to action, Flash rushed back to the photographic department for his camera and equipment bag.