The woman, Mrs. Clyde Montross of East Moreland Drive, gave Jimmy her engraved card. He, in turn, gave the woman his name and address. Without waiting for the arrival of the police, he hastened toward home in company with his friend, Jerry.
“That was a nice break for me,” he declared. “I should pick up five dollars at least for my pictures. And if the case comes to court I ought to get a witness fee, too.”
“How about selling your pictures to the Ledger?” asked Jerry.
“They wouldn’t be interested. Accident cases are too common.”
“It’s queer how those fellows drove off when someone spoke of calling the police.”
“Oh, they were afraid of being arrested, all right,” Jimmy agreed carelessly. “Well, so long, Jerry. See you later.”
They parted company and Jimmy entered a pleasant, white-painted cottage. His mother was baking cookies, while Joan, his twelve-year-old sister, was perched on the kitchen sink.
“Hello, Jim,” she sang out. “Did you get the job?”
He shook his head, helping himself to a handful of warm cookies.
“No, but I have a chance to pick up a little pocket money by selling some auto-crash pictures. I’m going to develop them now. Mother, I wish you’d tie Joan up so she doesn’t come barging into the darkroom when I’m half finished.”