Flash Evans and the Darkroom Mystery

“Sorry, son. There are no jobs open. Afraid we can’t use these pictures, either.”

Tom Riley, city editor of The Brandale Ledger shoved the stack of glossy black and white prints across the desk toward Jimmy Evans who faced him squarely, a miniature camera protruding from the pocket of his shabby tweed overcoat.

“Well, thanks anyway.”

Jimmy spoke in a flat, discouraged tone as he gathered up the photographs and slid them into a cardboard folder. The editor watched him with a thoughtful gaze.

“You’ve been coming around here quite often, Evans.”

“Yes, I have. I figure there’s no law against trying.”

“Sold us a few pictures, haven’t you?”

“A few,” Jimmy said with a rueful grin. “But lately I haven’t done so well. There must be something radically wrong with my stuff.”

Before the editor could reply, a reporter dashed up to the desk to make a report on a story assignment.

Jimmy assumed that his presence no longer was desirable. He turned to leave.

“Wait a minute, Evans,” said Riley. “Sit down. I’ll be through in a moment. I want to talk to you.”

Jimmy sat down. While the reporter talked to the editor, his eyes wandered over the long news room. The clicking of a dozen typewriters, the absorbed interest of the copy readers as they bent over their work, even the purposeful scurrying about of the office boys, filled him with a vague yearning. It would be great to belong to a place like the _Ledger_—to have a job of his own!

Presently Riley finished with the reporter and turned to Jimmy again.

“About your pictures, son,” he said. “They’re pretty fair art. What they lack is news punch. The woods are full of fellows who can take pretty pictures; but they wouldn’t recognize a good news shot if you labeled it for them.”

“I’m always anxious to pick up ideas,” answered Jimmy. “Any tips you can give me will be a big help—that is, if you can spare the time, Mr. Riley.”

Jimmy was a tall, slender lad with a thick shock of dark, curly hair and frank gray eyes set in a pleasant, firmly molded face.

The editor smiled at the young man’s persistence and swept a pile of copy paper to one side.

“Well, this thing they call ‘punch’ is hard to define,” he began. “Sometimes it’s a picture which ties up with a big front page story. For instance, a bank robbery, an explosion, or maybe a shipwreck.

“Then again, it may be human interest stuff. A policeman holding up city traffic while a cat carries its kitten across a busy intersection. You see, a free lance photographer must have ideas, and be on the spot when important news is breaking.”

“Isn’t there a lot of luck to that—being on hand when it happens?”

“Yes, but not always,” admitted the editor. “Learn to use your head as well as your feet. Be ready when an opportunity comes along.”

“The one I’m looking for is a steady job on a newspaper.”

“We’re not likely to have an opening on the Ledger for months to come. If a job does turn up, it probably will go to an experienced newspaper photographer.”

“But how can a fellow get experience when no one will give a beginner any chance?”

With a trace of impatience, the editor replied gruffly:

“You’ll have to create your own job. No one will hand it to you on a silver platter. Study news photographs and try to discover what makes them click. Learn how to take good pictures under every possible lighting condition. Then maybe someday you’ll stumble into one so big we couldn’t afford to turn it down.”

Riley reached for a sheet of copy paper, a signal that the interview had ended. But as the young man started away, a tired droop to his shoulders, he added:

“I didn’t intend to discourage you, Evans. You’re young, with plenty of time ahead. Not over eighteen, are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“You look older. Well, keep at it, and one of these days you may make the grade.”

Only slightly encouraged by the words, Jimmy pocketed his samples and left the office. Rather than face the knowing glance of the elevator man, he walked down three flights of steps to the street.

For months now, since graduating from Brandale High School, he had tried without success to obtain a staff position on a newspaper. There was scarcely a newspaper or syndicate in town where he had not been flatly rejected at least once a week. Few editors were as decent about it as Riley of the Ledger.

Jimmy shifted his camera to a more comfortable position, and wandered aimlessly down a street leading toward the waterfront. Where would one find picture material which packed a punch? It was all very well to talk about being in a place where news was breaking, but buildings didn’t explode or ships sink just to oblige an ambitious photographer. His prospect of ever landing a job on the Ledger seemed pretty hopeless.

“Hi, Jimmy!” called a familiar voice. “What are you doing in this part of town?”

Hearing his name, Jimmy turned to see Jerry Hayes, a boy who lived on his street, lounging in the doorway of a corner drugstore.

“Hello, Jerry,” he answered briefly. “Just out job hunting.”

Jerry fell into step with him. “No luck, I’ll bet.”

“It’s the same old story. There’s no place for a beginner.”

“Why don’t you quit playing around with that camera of yours and start looking for other kind of work?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Jimmy returned. “I’ve spent a lot of time learning how to take pictures. My father was city editor on the _Brandale Post_—that was years ago before the paper folded. I sort of figured I would follow a newspaper career, too.”