They found him with his leg in a cast, propped up by pillows. He tossed aside a newspaper as they entered and grinned a welcome.
“It’s sure good to see a familiar face in this morgue,” he chuckled. “Sit down—anywhere except on the bed.”
“How are you feeling, Joe?” asked Flash.
“Not so hot,” he admitted, “but I’m getting out of here tomorrow if it means climbing down a fire escape. Tell me, how did you make out at the races?”
Doyle related their success, taking most of the credit upon himself. Joe listened with a tolerant, half-amused attitude.
“Where was Flash while all this was going on?” he inquired dryly.
“Flash?” Doyle was brought up sharply. “Oh, he was right at my elbow. He helped a lot.”
“I figured he might. You know, big stories and smash pictures always have a way of breaking around him. He’s better than a rabbit’s foot any day!”
“We were lucky yesterday,” Flash admitted with a grin. “Those auto crashes seemed to have been staged for our special benefit. I only hope the films turn out well.”
“How did you like the experience?” Joe asked curiously.