Ralston gazed at Flash, and whistled softly.
“Tough,” he said. “Heard you were the first photographer on the scene, too.”
“Evans has a good pair of legs,” Orris said with pointed sarcasm.
Flash could endure no more. Jamming on his hat, he left the department, slipping down the back stairway so he need not pass through the news room. In the rear vestibule he met Old Herm who spoke cordially.
“What’s the matter, young feller?” he inquired. “You look down in the mouth.”
“Pictures ruined,” Flash answered briefly. “Just when I had a chance to make a good showing for myself, too.”
“Shoo, you don’t say!” Old Herm exclaimed. “How did it happen?”
But Flash was in no mood to tell his troubles. Making a non-committal reply, he passed on to the street.
Angry thoughts poisoned his mind. There was no denying that Fred Orris had taken a distinct dislike to him. The photographer’s smug attitude of satisfaction over the outcome of the fire pictures, made it clear that he would be glad to see him out of the office.
“I don’t believe it was anything I did which ruined those films,” Flash reflected. “Either the chemicals Orris mixed were no good, or someone doctored the tanks while I was gone! But Orris was in the department all the while. Could he have been guilty of such a low trick?”