Flash Evans, Camera News Hawk

Flash Evans dribbled the basketball down the gymnasium floor, gave it a final flip through the net, and started for the shower room.

“Not leaving, are you?” his friend, Jerry Hayes, called after him.

“Yes,” Flash answered regretfully, “I’ll be late getting back to work unless I do. Business before fun, you know.”

“Wait a minute and I’ll walk along to the Ledger office with you.”

“All right, but step on it! My ticker says ten of one.”

For as far back as the two boys could remember they had been close friends. Both were graduates of Brandale High School, lived on the same street, and enjoyed the same sports.

During the past nine months Flash had worked as a photographer on the Brandale Ledger and, of necessity, his pleasures had been somewhat curtailed. Yet, he still found time to swim at the “Y,” and on this Saturday had given up his lunch hour to play basketball.

The two friends quickly dressed. As they left the “Y” building together, Flash strapped a Speed Graphic camera over his shoulder.

“You never go anywhere without that thing, do you?” Jerry remarked.

“Not during working hours. You never know when a big picture may come your way.”

“Those were dandies you ran in the Ledger a short time ago,” Jerry recalled. “Cleaned up an arson gang by getting a picture of the head man, didn’t you?”

“The police did the work,” Flash corrected carelessly, “but my pictures helped. And on the strength of them, Editor Riley is giving me a month’s vacation instead of the usual two weeks. I start tomorrow.”

“Where are you going, Flash?”

“Don’t know yet. I may take in the Indianapolis auto races.”

The pair had reached a street corner. As they halted to wait for the traffic light to change, an automobile rolled leisurely by close to the curb. Flash stared.

“See that fellow at the wheel!” he exclaimed, grabbing Jerry’s arm.

“Sure. Who is he?”

“Bailey Brooks!”

“And who is he?” Jerry demanded bluntly.

“You haven’t read about Bailey Brooks, the aviator and parachute jumper?”

“Oh, sure,” Jerry nodded, “the fellow who has been having so much trouble. I remember now. Government officials refused him permission to test that new parachute he invented.”

“And for a good reason. Brooks claims his new ’chute will open up at a very low altitude. But a month ago when it was given the first test, a jumper was killed.”

The automobile had been held up by a red light. Jerry was staring at the driver with deep interest when a green-painted sound truck bearing the sign, News-Vue Picture Company, rolled up directly behind the car.

“Say, that sound truck seems to be following Bailey Brooks!” Flash exclaimed, excitement creeping into his voice. “Something must be in the wind!”

“Sure looks that way,” agreed Jerry. “The newsreel lads must be after pictures.”

“Do you know what I think, Jerry? Brooks is slipping off somewhere on the quiet to make his parachute jump despite government orders! Gosh, that’s worth a picture! Whether he succeeds or fails, the Ledger will want it.”

Already the traffic light had changed from red to green. The automobile and the sound truck started to move slowly ahead. Flash knew that if he were to learn the destination of Bailey Brooks and the newsreel men, not a moment must be lost.

“Listen,” he said crisply to his friend. “Telephone the Ledger office for me, will you? Tell Riley I’m after a hot picture!”

Without waiting for Jerry’s reply, he signaled a taxi, leaping on the running board as it slowed down.

“Follow that green sound truck!”

The chase led through the business section of Brandale into open country. There the car and sound truck chose a road which wound along the ocean. Some twelve miles from the city, they both drew up at the base of a high cliff overlooking the beach.

“Wait for me,” Flash instructed the driver.

As he stepped from the cab, he saw that his hunch had been right. Bailey Brooks was unloading parachute equipment from his automobile.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Brooks,” he greeted the aviator. “Are you making a jump from the cliff?”

“You’ve guessed it,” the man grinned. “What paper do you represent?”

“The Ledger. Mind if I take a few pictures?”

“Go ahead,” Bailey Brooks responded cordially. “The publicity ought to do me some good.”

Flash took a pose of the man beside his car, but decided to save his remaining films for the actual jump.

He wandered over toward the green sound truck which had maneuvered into position near the base of the cliff. A sound technician and two helpers were stringing up their microphone. Two cameramen, on the roof of the truck, were attaching the tripod of a large turret-front camera to the metal platform.

The younger man turned slightly and Flash recognized him as a photographer who, until three months previously, had been employed by the Ledger.