“Well, you must have done something unusual,” Orris snapped. “My pictures came out all right. Sure you didn’t add any extra chemicals to the tanks?”
Flash shook his head. “I can’t understand it,” he mumbled. “The pictures were okay when I left them. Someone must have tampered—”
“See here, Evans,” Orris broke in sharply, “don’t try to pass the buck. No one around here would have any interest in ruining your films. In any case, I’ve been sitting at my desk most of the time.”
“I wasn’t trying to offer an alibi. I can’t understand it, that’s all.”
“Let me tell you this, Evans. In professional news photography nothing pays off except knowledge. Guess work won’t get you far. Darkroom procedure must be scientifically exact.”
Flash crumpled the damp films and dropped them into a waste paper basket. With an effort he kept from making an angry retort. Orris deliberately was rubbing salt into sore wounds.
“This means my job, I suppose,” he said bitterly.
“Well, you hardly can expect to learn at the paper’s expense,” Orris shrugged.
The outside door opened and the two photographers, Ralston and Forrest, their clothing scented with smoke, strode into the room. Shedding their cameras and coats, they started to enter the darkroom.
“Better mix new developer and hypo,” Orris said curtly. “The kid just ruined his entire batch of films.”