Anxiously, Flash washed his films, watching for streaks or defects. From a photographic standpoint they were nearly perfect. With Wells hovering near, he dried the negatives and made his prints.
“Nothing wrong with your technique as far as I can see,” said the older photographer. “Those pictures are good enough to suit anyone.”
The prints were rushed to the news room. Flash waited to hear from Riley. When no word came he knew that his work was satisfactory.
Later in the morning he was sent with Wells to take pictures of a warehouse strike. Again, while not exactly covering himself with glory, his shots were equal to those of the more experienced photographer.
“I can’t get over the shock of still being on the payroll,” he confessed to his friend as they lunched together. “After what happened yesterday I was sure I would be fired.”
Wells gave him an amused glance. “Then Riley didn’t tell you?”
“He hasn’t said a word to me all day.”
“Flash, some folks are just naturally born with a rabbit’s foot,” Wells grinned. “You’re one of ’em. Know who that old man was you rescued yesterday?”
“I saw in the paper his name was John Gelette.”
“Which means nothing to you?”