A bus, the last one until two o’clock rumbled down the street. Flash broke into a run and caught it at the corner. He reached home shortly after midnight, raided the refrigerator, and finally went to bed.
At six-thirty he was sleeping soundly when the alarm buzzed in his ear. Flash started up, and then as the realization came to him that he need not go to work on Sunday, he muffled it and fell back on his pillow.
But he had been thoroughly aroused and could not sleep again. He lay for a time staring at the ceiling. From the street he heard the cheerful whistle of a boy on a bicycle. The Sunday paper thudded against the front porch.
Jumping out of bed, Flash put on his robe and stole quietly down the stairway. He shot up the blinds and unlocked the door.
Eagerly he stripped off the brown wrapper and glanced at the front page of the Ledger. His fire pictures were not there.
Flash thumbed rapidly through the paper. There were pictures in profusion but none he had taken.
Finally, on the back page of Section C he found a brief four-line news item, stating that the Sam Davis Home Supply Store had been damaged to the extent of two hundred dollars by fire of an undetermined origin.
“Undetermined, my eye!” Flash exclaimed, slamming the paper on the davenport.
Joan appeared at the top of the stairway.
“What’s the matter, Jimmy?” she asked. “Didn’t they use your pet pictures?”