Flash was ashamed of the thought and dismissed it as quickly as it entered his mind. No use trying to alibi his failure. The deed was done. He alone must accept responsibility for the result. As Orris had said, he couldn’t expect to learn at the paper’s expense.
Dreading to go home, Flash wandered into Joe’s hamburger shop, loitering there until the night edition of the Ledger reached the street. Then he bought a copy.
The paper carried three excellent photographs of the fire with no identifying by-line to tell whether Ralston or Forrest had taken them. It gave him a measure of satisfaction to note that from the standpoint of subject matter they were not as interesting as those he had snapped and ruined.
Also on the front page appeared Flash’s own name, together with a vivid account of his rescue act. He learned that the elderly man he had saved was John Gelette, an ailing tenant who had occupied the same apartment building for nearly twelve years. The old fellow, becoming confused at the outbreak of the fire, had wandered about in a daze, unable to locate an exit.
Flash stuffed the paper into his pocket and walked home. A warm supper and words of comfort awaited him there.
“I’m proud of you, Jimmy,” his mother said tremulously after she had read the story in the paper and heard his own account. “It doesn’t matter about losing the job. You’ll find another.”
Flash shook his head. “Not in Brandale. If you’re fired from one newspaper, word gets around. No other sheet will take me.”
“You’ve not actually been discharged yet, Jimmy.”
“Orris the same as told me I’m through. No use going back tomorrow.”
“Mr. Riley hired you, didn’t he?”