THERE WAS A TERRIFIC CRASH AS CAR AFTER CAR PILED ON EACH OTHER. (See [page 44])

FLASH EVANS
CAMERA NEWS HAWK

By
FRANK BELL

Illustrated

CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
Publishers : : New York

FLASH EVANS BOOKS

FLASH EVANS AND THE DARKROOM MYSTERY FLASH EVANS CAMERA NEWS HAWK

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CHAPTER PAGE I. [CRACKING SILK] 1 II. [OVER THE CLIFF] 10 III. [A TRAIN WRECK] 22 IV. [SUBSTITUTE CAMERAMAN] 32 V. [TROUBLE AT THE GATE] 40 VI. [MAJOR HARTGROVE’S VISITOR] 49 VII. [A HINT TO THE WISE] 56 VIII. [DISTRUST] 64 IX. [FLASH ACCEPTS AN OFFER] 73 X. [CHECKING FACTS] 79 XI. [HIGH WATER] 88 XII. [BRIDGE OUT!] 99 XIII. [A POLO GAME] 107 XIV. [RASCOMB’S INVITATION] 115 XV. [THROUGH THE PASS] 125 XVI. [DOYLE’S TREACHERY] 135 XVII. [A KEY TO MYSTERY] 142 XVIII. [ESCAPE] 149 XIX. [A DOUBLE RESIGNATION] 156 XX. [ACCUSATIONS] 163 XXI. [RASCOMB’S EXPLANATION] 171 XXII. [THE MAJOR’S DISAPPEARANCE] 178 XXIII. [CAPTIVES] 188 XXIV. [A DESPERATE CHANCE] 195 XXV. [FADE-OUT] 202

FLASH EVANS
CAMERA NEWS HAWK

CHAPTER I
CRACKING SILK

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.

“Joe Wells!”

The cameraman looked around, and climbed quickly down from his perch.

“Well, if it isn’t Flash Evans!” he exclaimed heartily. “What are you doing out here?”

“Oh, I saw your wagon roll by, and I figured I might get a good picture if I trailed you.”

“Same old Flash, always playing hunches,” Joe chuckled. “But you figured right. Brooks may crack up instead of cracking silk.”

“I hope not. Still, that cliff doesn’t look very high.”

“He’s a fool to try it,” Wells declared in a low tone. “But if he’s bent on committing suicide just to prove his ’chute will work, that’s his lookout. Ours is to take pictures.”

The sound technician had finished setting up his equipment. Working with quiet efficiency, he stationed Bailey Brooks in front of the microphone, and took his own position at the mixing panel.

After the recording had been made, Joe led Flash over to the truck.

“Meet our sound expert,” he said carelessly. “George Doyle.”

The technician, a sullen, serious man of twenty-eight, did not bother to remove the monitor phones from his ears. He stared at Flash, mumbled a few words, and turned his back.

To cover up the rudeness, Joe said quickly:

“Why not quit the Ledger, Flash, and come in with a real outfit? If you’ll consider it I’ll ask News-Vue to give you a chance.”

“Thanks, Joe, but I like my work at the Ledger. I start my vacation tomorrow.”

“You’re fitted for newsreel work,” Joe declared persuasively. “You have steady nerves, good judgment, and you’re cool in an emergency. I know, because I’ve worked with you. Better think it over.”

Flash smiled and offered no response.

A moment later Bailey Brooks came over to say that he was ready to make the jump. Leaving George Doyle and the others below, Flash and Joe began the steep ascent with the aviator. Burdened as they were with heavy equipment, they took it slowly, proceeding in easy stages.

Presently, pausing to rest, Flash glanced downward. He noticed that a coupe had drawn up in a clump of bushes not far from the cliff. A man with field glasses was watching their progress.

“We have an interested watcher,” remarked Flash. “Wonder who he is?”

Both Joe and Bailey Brooks turned to gaze in the direction indicated.

“I can’t tell from this distance,” said the parachute jumper. “It looks like Albert Povy’s automobile.”

“Povy?” inquired Joe Wells in a startled voice.

“Yes, he’s one of the few persons who has been interested in my new ’chute.”

An odd expression settled over the newsreel man’s face. He said no more. But, as the climb was resumed, he dropped some distance behind Brooks to whisper with Flash.

“If that’s really Povy in the car, he must expect something to come of this test today! I’m telling you, his reputation isn’t very good!”

Flash had no opportunity to learn more about Povy, for Bailey Brooks had paused. He waited on the trail until the two men caught up with him.

At the summit of the cliff the three flung themselves on a flat rock to rest. Bailey Brooks seemed nervous. His hand trembled as he lit a cigarette.

“This jump means a lot to me,” he said. “Since my pal, Benny Fraser, was killed testing out the ’chute, government authorities have advised me that my design is unsound. But I know better. I’m willing to risk my life to prove it.”

“And when you succeed, I imagine the government will suddenly take an interest,” Flash remarked.

“Sure. They’ve had their experts studying the invention for months. They claim it has defects which can’t be overcome.”

Brooks arose, tossed aside his cigarette and began to strap on his harness.

“If I succeed everything will be swell. If I fail, I won’t know it. So what’s the difference?”

The man spoke with attempted carelessness. Yet, he could not hide his real feelings from the two observant photographers. He was not so confident as he would have them believe.

Joe Wells set up his automatic hand camera near the edge of the cliff, winding the spring motor and loading the film. Flash stationed himself at a slightly different angle, focusing his Speed Graphic.

“All set?” inquired Brooks.

“Any old time,” said Wells, and signaled the News-Vue men below.

A dizzy, nauseous sensation came over Flash as he gazed downward. If the ’chute failed to open—and the odds were against Brooks—would he have the courage to keep on taking his pictures? He wondered.

“Good luck, Brooks,” said Wells. “Happy landing.”

“I won’t need luck,” the man answered jerkily. “Not with a ’chute like this baby.”

He stepped to the edge of the cliff. For a long moment he stood there, gazing out across the sea, savoring the glint of sunlight upon the tumbling waves.

“Whatever happens,” he said, “keep grinding.”

Then with lips compressed, face tense, he stepped off into space.

CHAPTER II
OVER THE CLIFF

At terrific speed the body of the jumper hurtled toward the earth. The parachute did not open.

Grim-faced, his horrified eyes focused upon the falling figure, Flash shot his first picture. His heart was in his throat, but he was able to keep his hand steady. Swiftly he extracted the holder and made ready to take a second exposure.

“It’s curtains,” he thought. “The ’chute never can save Brooks now.”

And then, even as he abandoned hope, the silken umbrella cracked open.

Perspiration oozed from Flash’s forehead. Joe Wells laughed aloud, so great was his relief.

The danger, however, was not entirely over. As Flash took a picture of the great umbrella drifting downward, he noted that it was falling at a rapid rate toward the sea. For a time it appeared that Brooks would strike the water with great force.

But the aviator began to pull on the risers, and succeeded in working away from the shore. He landed in a plowed field some distance away. The wind billowed the ’chute, dragging him for a few feet. Brooks then skilfully pulled on the underside risers and the big umbrella flattened out.

“He’s safe,” observed Wells, taking a deep breath. “I hope he makes a fortune. A jump like that is worth it.”

The two photographers began to pack their cameras into carrying cases.

“By the way, what did you start to tell me about Albert Povy?” Flash inquired curiously.

“He was supposed to have been mixed up in shady espionage business a few months ago. I understand government operatives have kept a sharp eye on him.”

“And now he seems to be interested in Brooks’ parachute?”

“It looks that way. If Brooks has any sense he’ll steer clear of the fellow. Suppose we get down there, Flash.”

Together they began the dangerous descent. By the time they reached the base of the cliff, Bailey Brooks had walked back from the field, and was receiving the congratulations of the News-Vue men.

As Flash and Joe added their praise, a tall, dark stranger crossed the open space to the sound truck.

“A beautiful jump, Mr. Brooks,” he praised. “You remember me, don’t you? My name is Povy—Albert Povy.”

“Yes, I remember you very well,” the jumper replied dryly. “Did I demonstrate what my ’chute could do?”

“You certainly did,” the man returned heartily. “It was amazing! I never would have believed it possible, if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes. You know, we may be able to do business together, after all.”

A guarded expression came into Bailey Brooks’ steel gray eyes.

“I’m open to propositions,” he said.

“Come over to my car,” invited Albert Povy. “We’ll talk.”

Flash and Joe Wells were closed out of the conversation. Swiftly the News-Vue men loaded their equipment aboard the truck and prepared to leave.

“Listen, Flash,” said Joe as he climbed into the sound truck. “When you’re through at the Ledger this afternoon, drop around at the News-Vue offices. I want to talk with you.”

He handed over a card bearing the company address, and the truck rolled away.

Reminded that he had pictures of his own to rush back to Brandale, Flash stuffed the card into his pocket, and hurried to the waiting taxi. As he drove off he saw that Brooks had gone with Albert Povy.

“Wonder if he knows the man’s reputation?” he thought. “I suppose he must.”

Flash dismissed the matter entirely from his mind. He never expected to see either of the men again. His only concern was the possibility of future news stories or pictures.

The taxicab made a quick trip back to Brandale. Flash paid the bill and kept a receipt to show Riley as proof of his expense.

He was hurrying through the news room on his way to the photographic department when the editor hailed him.

“Hey, Evans, where have you been all afternoon?” The editor gave him a quizzical glance.

Flash paused. “Didn’t Jerry Hayes telephone you?”

“Some kid called in. He said you were after a big picture.”

“I nailed it, too,” Flash said confidently. “Bailey Brooks just disregarded orders and tested his parachute out at Eagle Cliff.”

“Killed?”

“No, the test was a success. So far, the News-Vue people are the only ones to get pictures. Mine ought to be dandies.”

“Good work!” approved Riley. “We can use them, and the story, too. Crack ’em through.”

In a few minutes’ time Flash had developed his pictures and made the prints from wet films. His work finished, he was loitering in the news room when Riley motioned for him to come over to the desk.

“You may as well call it a day, Evans,” he said. “Those were fine pictures you turned in.”

“Thanks, Mr. Riley.”

“You start your vacation tomorrow, I believe?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“You’ve earned it,” Riley said with an attempt at geniality. “Where are you planning to spend your month off?”

“Home mostly. I may visit some friends in Indianapolis and take in the auto races.”

Riley pounced upon the information with the avidity of a bass after live bait.

“We could use some good pictures, Flash. How about covering the races for the Ledger?”

“Well—my plans aren’t definite. I may not be able to make it.”

“Buy yourself a ticket to Indianapolis at the Ledger’s expense,” Riley urged, guessing the reason behind the young man’s indecision. “Why not hop the special streamliner which leaves here tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll do it!” Flash decided suddenly.

“Good! Take any equipment you may need, and send your pictures back by plane.”

Flash returned to the photography department for his camera. After saying good-bye to several friends, he went downstairs where his pay check awaited him. He was finished with work an hour earlier than usual. It would seem strange, he thought, being off duty for an entire month.

As Flash reached for bus fare, he pulled the card Joe Wells had given him from his pocket. The address of the News-Vue Company was only a few blocks away.

“May as well drop around there and kill a little time,” he reflected. “But I don’t aim to let Joe talk me into leaving the Ledger.”

Flash presently found himself standing before a tall white stone building located not far from the waterfront. He consulted the room directory in the lobby and rode the elevator up to the sixth floor.

A receptionist was asking him whom he wished to see when Joe Wells, hearing a familiar voice, stepped from one of the offices.

“Hello, there, Flash,” he greeted cordially. “Come on in.”

He led the photographer into a small room crowded with desks, waving him to a chair.

“I’ll be through in a minute. Then I’ll show you around. I want to write up this dope sheet first.”

“Take your time, Joe.”

The News-Vue man inserted a sheet of printed paper in a typewriter, rapidly filling in the blanks.

“I’m getting ready to take off for Indianapolis tomorrow,” he remarked casually. “George Doyle started on ahead with the sound wagon about an hour ago. I follow by train and meet him there.”

“Maybe I’ll see you,” Flash replied. “I’m covering the races myself. For the Ledger.”

“I never could go back to working on a paper now,” Joe commented. “Too tame compared with the newsreels. Flash, why don’t you consider—”

“No!” Flash cut in with a laugh. “I’m not listening to any arguments.”

Joe shrugged and said no more. He spent the next half hour showing his friend the newsreel cameras and explaining their operation.

“We ordinarily use one with a front turret, carrying three or four lenses,” he instructed. “This particular camera holds four hundred feet of film in its magazine and can be hand-cranked or driven with either a 110 volt A.C. motor or a 12 D.C.”

“I suppose power is generated from storage batteries?”

“Yes, our trucks are equipped with chargers. Sometimes we are able to plug into a service line. But why am I telling you all this? You know as much about it as I do.”

“Hardly,” Flash corrected. “But I have done a little studying.”

After a trip through the laboratories where positives were being made from “master blues,” Joe led his friend into the projection room.

“We’re in luck,” he said. “They’re showing those Bailey Brooks pictures.”

In the darkened room several editors, script writers and a commentator, sat at dimly lighted desks. On the wall before them a strip of film was being run through. To Flash the moving figures seemed grotesque, for blacks and whites were in reverse.

“What’s this?” demanded an editor as he watched the spectacular leap made by Bailey Brooks. “Just another parachute jump?”

Information provided by Joe Wells’ caption sheet was read aloud.

“That’s interesting stuff,” decided the editor. “Run it full. Cut down that racing shot from Cuba. Now what do we have on the Japanese earthquake?”

For several minutes Flash watched the work of cutting and assembling the eight different subjects which would be used in the completed newsreel. He ended his tour by visiting a studio where the various shots were synchronized with music and the explanatory speech of a commentator.

“The releases will be shown in Brandale theatres in another hour,” Wells declared, escorting his friend to the elevator. “In this business speed means everything.”

Although he would not have admitted it, Flash was strangely impressed. Riding home in the bus, he reflected that Joe might be right about newsreel work offering more thrills than fell to the lot of an ordinary photographer. He would like to try it. But for the present he couldn’t consider leaving the Ledger.

At home a warm supper was waiting. As he shared the well-cooked meal with his mother and younger sister, Joan, Flash mentioned his assignment to cover the Indianapolis races.

“Working on your vacation?” Mrs. Evans inquired mildly. “Really, Jimmy, you need a rest.”

“Shooting a few pictures won’t be work, Mother. I’ll enjoy it. And I’ll get a free trip.”

It was true. Flash never had considered professional picture-taking as drudgery. Save for a month when persons had sought to undermine his job, he had thoroughly enjoyed the time spent on the Ledger.

Flash, who seldom answered to his real name of Jimmy, was seventeen, the son of a former newspaper editor. Since Mr. Evans’ death several years earlier, the little family of three had been hard pressed to make ends meet. But Flash’s recent salary increases had made things much easier. That was one reason why he could not give up a sure job for the more uncertain calling of newsreel cameraman.

“I see you have set your heart upon the Indianapolis trip,” Mrs. Evans remarked, “so you may as well pack your bag.”

Early the next morning when Flash reached the railroad terminal he found it buzzing with activity. He stood in line to buy his ticket, noting that Indianapolis seemed to be the popular destination. Special rates had been offered, and only Indiana passengers were allowed on the streamliner.

Flash swung aboard. Wandering through several cars, he finally came upon his friend, Joe Wells.

“Hello, there,” the newsreel man greeted him. “Let’s go back to the club car and grab a seat before they’re all taken.”

The train began to move. Joe led the way through the corridors. So quietly did the streamliner run that they scarcely were aware of its gathering speed.

At the entrance to the club car, Joe halted suddenly and Flash bumped into him.

“See who is here,” he muttered, indicating a man who sat reading a magazine.

“Albert Povy!” Flash exclaimed in an undertone.

Offering no additional comment, the two photographers entered the car. They took the only vacant chairs which chanced to be directly across from the man who held their attention.

Flash scrutinized the passenger with keen interest. There was something about Povy which fascinated and yet repulsed him. The man was tall, well-built, with a hollow, almost gaunt face. A faint but jagged scar on his left cheek evidently had resulted from an old war wound.

Povy glanced up and met Flash’s steady gaze. He stared hard at the young man for a moment and then glanced away. If he recognized either of the photographers he gave no further sign.

Joe nudged Flash. Raising a newspaper to shield his face, he called attention to a middle-aged man of military bearing who was writing a letter at the desk.

“Major Creighton Hartgrove,” he whispered. “Retired from the army. It’s rumored, though, that he’s doing secret work for the government.”

As Wells spoke, Hartgrove arose and left the club car. A moment later, Albert Povy put aside his magazine and followed. Or at least, Flash gained the impression that the man seemed to be interested in the Major’s movements.

He ventured such an opinion to Joe, who made light of his observation.

“You’re as imaginative as ever, Flash,” he scoffed. “I shouldn’t have told you lurid tales about Povy’s reputation.”

Several times during the day as the streamliner raced westward, Flash caught glimpses of the two men. It struck him as significant that usually the pair were in the same car. More than ever he became convinced that Major Hartgrove was being watched and was himself aware of it.

Joe Wells had scant interest in either of the men, and as the day wore on, slept much of the time. When a colored steward gave the first call for dinner, he shook himself awake.

“Let’s amble into the diner before the big rush starts, Flash.”

They walked forward through two cars, and had just entered the third where Major Hartgrove sat, when the train’s air brakes suddenly were applied.

“Now what?” gasped Joe, clutching a seat for support.

The next instant he and Flash both were hurled violently from their feet. There was a deafening crash, and the car crumpled like an accordion, burying them beneath the debris.

CHAPTER III
A TRAIN WRECK

Flash lay stunned for several minutes, unable to comprehend that the train actually had been derailed. Screams of terror and moans of pain mingled with the shouted orders of the trainmen. The sounds came to him as if from a long distance away.

Dazedly he sat up, dragging himself from beneath a pile of twisted steel and splintered wood. Blood streamed from a gash in his head, but miraculously, he seemed to have suffered no serious injury.

In the gathering twilight he could see that every car had left the track. The engine, taking the baggage car with it, had rolled down a steep embankment. It lay on its side, belching steam like a wounded dragon.

Flash pulled himself to his feet and called hoarsely: “Joe! Joe!”

A moan of pain came from beneath a pile of debris almost at his feet. He saw an arm protruding from the wreckage. Frantically, he worked at a car seat which had wedged fast, and finally succeeded in lifting it off. Joe lay there, his face twisted in agony.

“Go easy,” he muttered. “My leg’s broken. And my insides are scrambled.”

Flash managed to get a supporting arm under Joe’s shoulders, but when he raised the man to a half-standing position, he crumpled back again.

“No use,” the cameraman moaned. “It’s broken. What a fix! Pictures to the right and left, and me with a busted leg and no camera! Leave me to die!”

Joe’s spirited complaint slightly reassured Flash. If his friend could think of pictures, it was unlikely that he had suffered serious internal injuries. But there was no question about the leg. It was broken.

Stretching Joe out as comfortably as possible, he looked about for a board which could be used as a splint.

“Listen,” said Joe, “you can’t do me any good. Run to the nearest farmhouse and send out a call for ambulances and doctors!”

“I don’t like to leave you, Joe.”

“Go on, I say!”

Aroused to action, Flash started for the nearest house, a quarter of a mile away. Crawling beneath a barbed wire fence, he ran through a plowed field. The ground was soft from recent rains. He stumbled and fell flat. Scrambling up, his clothes covered with mud, he raced on, finally reaching the house.

The kitchen door was opened by a housewife who screamed when she saw him. In dramatic words, Flash told what had happened and begged the use of a telephone.

He called the nearest town of Columbia and was promised that all available aid would be rushed to the scene. Then, as an afterthought, he dispatched a telegram to the Brandale Ledger, providing the first news of the train disaster.

Followed by the excited housewife, her husband, and a hired man, Flash ran back to the wreck.

Confusion had increased. Frantic persons moved in a bewildered way from one place to another, searching for loved ones. Already a number of inert bodies had been removed from the wreckage. Only the trainmen seemed cool and effective in their actions.

A coach had caught fire. Flash hurried there, helping a brakeman pull two shrieking women from the debris. By working furiously they were able to make certain that no one had been left under the wreckage. Soon the car was a blazing inferno, adding to the terror of the frightened survivors.

“What caused the wreck?” Flash demanded of the brakeman.

“Rail out of place,” the man answered grimly.

“Done deliberately to derail the train?”

“Can’t say,” the other replied. “Not allowed to talk.”

The rapidly darkening sky increased the difficulty of rescue work. Flash toiled on, unaware of fatigue.

As the first truckload of doctors, nurses, and stretcher bearers arrived from Columbia, he made his way back to the car which he and Joe had occupied throughout the journey. The Pullman was overturned but had not been crushed. Nearly all passengers riding in it had escaped with only minor injuries.

The car was now deserted. Flash crawled inside. Locating his former seat he groped about in the dark. Almost at once his hand encountered Joe Wells’ luggage, and a moment later he found his own camera.

Eagerly, he examined the lens and tested the mechanism.

“This is luck with a capital L,” he exulted. “It doesn’t seem to be damaged.”

Continuing the search, he located his equipment case which provided him with a stock of flash bulbs and film holders.

Without losing another moment, he began making a photographic record of the disaster. First he shot an over-all scene, showing the general wreckage. The derailed engine where two men had lost their lives, was worth another picture. He took one of the burned coach, one of the rail which had caused the wreck, and then turned his attention to human interest shots of the passengers.

A number of prominent persons had been aboard the train. Whenever he recognized a passenger he snapped a picture, but he wasted no film. Every shot told a story.

Gradually, Flash worked his way forward to where he had left Joe Wells. Failing to see the newsreel man he assumed that stretcher bearers had carried him to a waiting ambulance.

More for his own record than because it had news possibilities, he shot a picture of the crushed car in which he had been riding at the time of the wreck. As the flash went off, he saw a dark figure move back, away from him.

Reassuringly, he called to the fleeing person. There was no answer.

Instead, from the railroad right of way, a familiar voice shouted hoarsely: “That you, Evans?”

“Joe!” he answered.

He found the newsreel man sitting with his back to a telephone pole where he had dragged himself, there to await attention from the first available doctor.

“How are you feeling, Joe?” Flash asked him anxiously.

“Okay.”

“I’ll see if I can’t get you some blankets. And I’ll try to bring a doctor.”

“Skip it,” said Joe quietly. “Some of these other folks need attention a lot worse than I do. I see you found your camera.”

“Your luggage, too,” Flash told him encouragingly.

“Stow it in a safe place if you can find one,” Joe advised. “I saw a suspicious-looking fellow going through one of the cars. Helping himself to what he could get!”

“I think I must have seen that same man. He slipped away when I took a picture a moment ago. The wrecking crew ought to be here soon. They’ll put a stop to such business.”

“Don’t let me keep you from shooting your pictures,” said Wells abruptly.

“I’m almost through now.”

As Flash spoke, both men were startled to hear a moan of pain. The sound came from the wrecked Pullman close by.

“Some poor fellow pinned under there!” exclaimed Joe.

Turning his camera and holders over to his friend for safe keeping, Flash darted to the wreckage. In the indistinct light he saw a man sitting with head buried in his hands. The lower portion of his body seemed to be imprisoned.

“Major Hartgrove!” Flash exclaimed, reaching his side.

The army man stared at the young photographer in a dazed manner. He kept fumbling in his vest pocket, mumbling to himself.

“I was struck on the head.... My papers ... my wallet!”

“I don’t believe anyone struck you, Major,” Flash corrected. “You were in a wreck.”

“Don’t you think I know that much!” the army man snapped. “I was struck—struck over the head.”

It occurred to Flash that the Major might have been struck and robbed by the person he had observed slipping away into the darkness. But as the man began to mumble again, he reverted to his original opinion. The Major had been dazed by the terrific impact of the wreck and did not know what he was saying.

Flash tried ineffectively to pull away the heavy timbers which held the man fast.

“It’s no use,” he gasped at last. “I’ll bring help.”

Leaving the Major, he met two burly trainmen carrying lighted lanterns. With their aid he finally succeeded in freeing the army man. As he had feared, the Major was severely injured. One foot was crushed and his head had been wounded.

A doctor came hurrying up with an emergency kit. He gave the Major first aid treatment and ordered stretcher bearers to carry him to a waiting ambulance. Joe Wells also was given a hasty examination and transported to the hospital conveyance.

“May I ride along to town?” Flash requested the driver. “I have some pictures I ought to rush through to my paper.”

“Jump in,” the man invited. With a quick glance at the young man, he added: “You don’t look any too good yourself. Feeling shock?”

Flash sagged into the seat beside the driver.

“I’m feeling something,” he admitted. “I guess I’m all in.”

Until now excitement had buoyed him, and made him unaware of either pain or fatigue. He shivered. His teeth chattered from a sudden chill.

The driver stripped off his own topcoat and made Flash put it on.

“Better get yourself a bed at the hotel if you can,” he advised. “You’ll feel plenty in another hour.”

Flash shook his head. With pictures to be sent to the Brandale Ledger, he couldn’t afford to pamper himself. He had to keep going until his work was finished.

“Where is the nearest airport?” he questioned.

“We pass it on our way to Columbia.”

“Then drop me off there,” Flash requested.

A few minutes later he said good-bye to Joe Wells, promising to come to the hospital as soon as he could.

“Don’t fail,” the newsreel man urged, “there’s something I want you to do for me.”

At the airport Flash arranged to have his undeveloped film rushed to the Brandale Ledger. From the shipment he kept back only shots which he was certain would be of no use to the editor.

This important duty out of the way, he walked into town. There he dispatched a lengthy message, reporting to Riley such facts as he had been able to gather. Not until then did he allow himself to relax.

Already the town was crowded to overflowing with survivors of the wreck. Hotels, restaurants and the railroad station were jammed. Every available bed had been taken. Flash waited in line twenty minutes for a hot cup of coffee.

Battered and still chilled, he tramped to the hospital. Inquiring about Joe Wells and Major Hartgrove, he was relieved to learn that they both were doing as well as could be expected. After a long delay he was allowed to talk with the newsreel cameraman.

At sight of Flash, Joe’s face brightened.

“I thought you’d come,” he said. “Do you know what the doctor just told me? I’ll be laid up for weeks!”

“That’s a tough break, Joe.”

“Yeah. Flash, will you do me a favor?”

“You know I will.”

“Doyle’s expecting me to meet him at Indianapolis tomorrow morning,” Joe went on jerkily. “He has the sound wagon and all our equipment.”

“I’ll send him a telegram right away.”

The cameraman shook his head impatiently.

“Listen, Flash,” he said persuasively, “I want you to take my place. Meet Doyle and protect the News-Vue people on the race pictures.”

“But I don’t know anything about newsreel work!” Flash protested.

“Sure you do,” Joe denied. “Doyle can help you a lot.”

“Riley is expecting me to get pictures for him.”

“You can do that, too. You won’t lose a thing by helping me out of this hole. It’s a big favor, I know, but you’re the only person who can swing it for me. What do you say?”

Flash hesitated briefly. Joe made it all sound very easy, but he knew it wouldn’t be. Any newsreel pictures he might take likely would be worthless. The journey on through the night to Indianapolis meant sheer torture. But he owed it to his friend to at least make the attempt.

“I’ll do it, Joe,” he promised. “I’ll do it for you.”

CHAPTER IV
SUBSTITUTE CAMERAMAN

Pleased by Flash’s promise, Joe Wells quickly provided him with George Doyle’s Indianapolis hotel address, and offered such advice as he thought might prove useful.

“Doyle knows a lot about newsreel work and can help you,” he declared. “But you readily see the job is too big for him to handle alone. I’m frank to say he’s touchy and rather unpleasant at times. Don’t let that bother you.”

“I’ll be having enough troubles without doing any worrying about him,” Flash returned grimly.

“Well, good luck,” Joe said, extending his hand. “I may see you in Indianapolis. I’m getting out of here as soon as the doctor lets me.”

Flash left the hospital, somewhat bewildered by the rapid way his plans had been altered. While he had experimented with amateur newsreel photography and had studied it many months, he had no faith in his ability. Nor did he think that George Doyle would like the new arrangement.

Consulting time tables, Flash discovered that he never could reach Indianapolis by train. The wrecked streamliner had been the last one which would have arrived in time for the races. A passenger plane left the local airport at eleven that evening and by making his decision quickly he was able to get a ticket.

Morning found him, haggard and worn, standing at the desk of the Seville Hotel in Indianapolis. Nervously he glanced at the lobby clock. His plane had been delayed, held back by strong headwinds. He feared that George Doyle might have already left for the race track.

“Did you wish a room, sir?” the clerk inquired, regarding his unkempt appearance with disapproval. “We’re filled.”

“Do you have a George Doyle here?”

“Newsreel man?” the clerk asked in an altered tone. “Yes, I think so.”

He checked a card index and reported that the man occupied Room 704. Without telephoning to learn if Doyle were in, Flash went up to the seventh floor.

In response to his knock, the door was flung open. George Doyle, hat pushed back on his head, faced him with a frozen gaze.

“Well?” he demanded unpleasantly. “What do you want?”

“I guess you don’t recognize me. We met at Brandale. Remember the Bailey Brooks ’chute pictures—?”

“Oh, sure,” the man broke in, but his voice still lacked warmth. “Sorry I can’t stop to talk now. I’m just starting for the track.”

“Joe Wells sent me,” Flash said significantly.

Immediately the sound technician’s manner changed.

“Why didn’t you say so?” he asked, motioning for Flash to come into the bedroom. “How is Joe? Haven’t heard a word from him since the wreck. You weren’t on the same train?”

“Yes, I was. Joe’s leg is broken and he’s badly battered.”

“No chance then of his getting here today?”

“Not a chance.”

“This leaves me in a nice situation,” Doyle complained. “I can’t handle the job alone. I might know Wells would pull something like that!”

“I don’t think he broke his leg on purpose,” Flash returned dryly.

“Maybe not,” Doyle admitted, “but this was our big opportunity to make a showing. Now I might as well pack up and start back East!”

“Joe sent me to take his place. I don’t know how much good I’ll be, but here I am anyhow.”

Doyle had been nervously pacing the floor. He paused and stared at Flash.

“Joe sent you?” he repeated. “Do you know anything about newsreel work?”

“Not very much,” Flash admitted truthfully. “I’m a photographer for the Brandale Ledger. I can do what you tell me.”

“A lot of help you’ll be,” Doyle growled. “I need a good, experienced man.”

Flash began to lose patience. It seemed to him that Doyle had no interest in Joe Wells’ misfortune save as it affected him. His only thought was for himself and his work.

“If you don’t care to use me, that’s quite all right,” he said. “I have some pictures of my own to take.”

As he turned abruptly toward the door, Doyle stopped him.

“Wait a minute! Don’t be so touchy! I didn’t say I couldn’t use you, did I? If I decide to tackle the job I’ll need a helper. You may do.”

“Thanks,” said Flash ironically.

He had taken an intense dislike to Doyle. The man was conceited and disagreeable. But for Joe’s sake he would see the thing through.

“Had your breakfast yet?” Doyle asked in a more friendly tone.

“No, but I’m not very hungry. Still feeling the effects of last night, I guess.”

Doyle asked no questions about Flash’s experiences in the train wreck. It did not occur to him that the young photographer had undergone extreme physical discomfort in order to reach Indianapolis.

“Well, get shaved,” he said gruffly. “I’ll need to explain to you about the equipment. We haven’t much time.”

Flash borrowed a razor, and did not keep Doyle waiting long. They left the hotel, going directly to the garage where the green sound truck had been left. There the sound technician demonstrated the News-Vue equipment, and seemed slightly reassured to discover that Flash knew a good deal about newsreel cameras.

“Maybe we can get by somehow,” he said gloomily. “Let’s roll.”

“Just as you say.”

Flash jumped into the sound wagon beside Doyle. On the seat he noticed a newspaper of the previous night. In screaming headlines it proclaimed: STREAMLINER WRECKED. 12 DEAD, 27 INJURED.

As the car shot out of the garage into blinding sunlight, he was able to read the finer print. His eye scanned the list of known dead. Seeing a familiar name, he gave a low exclamation of surprise.

“What’s wrong?” Doyle demanded, regarding him curiously.

“Nothing,” Flash answered. “It just gave me a shock—this list of the dead.”

“Someone you know?”

“You remember that fellow, Albert Povy?”

“Povy—I can’t seem to place him.”

“The man we both saw at Brandale. He was trying to buy Bailey Brooks’ parachute after the successful test.”

“Oh, sure,” nodded Doyle. “He wasn’t killed in the wreck?”

“His name is listed.”

Doyle guided the sound truck through traffic at a reckless pace, deliberately stealing the right-of-way from timid motorists.

“If Povy’s dead, then Bailey Brooks is out of luck,” he remarked in a matter of fact tone. “Too bad for him.”

“And for Povy, too,” added Flash dryly. “However, from what I’ve heard of the man, his death may not be such a great loss to humanity.”

“Mixed up in some sort of government scandal, wasn’t he?”

“I never did learn many of the details,” Flash admitted. “It was a funny thing, though. Joe and I saw him on the train. He didn’t remember us or, if he did, he gave no sign. He seemed especially interested in an army man, Major Hartgrove.”

“Interested?”

“Oh, it was only my idea. It struck me he might have boarded the train with the intention of watching the Major.”

“Well, if he’s dead he won’t do any more watching,” Doyle returned carelessly. “We’re getting near the main gate now. Let me have the passes.”

“What passes?”

“Didn’t Joe give them to you?” Doyle demanded, lifting his foot from the accelerator.

“He didn’t give me anything.”

The sound technician groaned. “Joe had all our credentials. You didn’t think they’d let us through the gate without proper identification?”

Flash had not given the matter a thought. “Won’t our truck get us by?” he asked.

“It may, but I doubt it. They’re not letting many sound outfits inside.”

“What will we do?”

“What can we do? If we’re questioned, we’ll have to put up a loud argument.”

The truck had entered dense traffic. It halted to await its turn to enter the grounds. Slowly the line moved up.

Shouting “News-Vue” in a loud voice, Doyle attempted to drive through the gate. He was promptly stopped.

“Not so fast, young man,” said the gateman. “Let’s see your passes.”

“Passes?” Doyle inquired innocently.

“You heard me,” retorted the gateman. “And don’t try any bluff.”

“See here, we don’t need any passes,” Doyle argued. “We’re newsreel men for the News-Vue Company.”

“Can’t let you through without passes. Those are my orders.”

“Have a heart,” Doyle growled. “We did have passes, but we lost ’em. If we don’t get inside and locate our truck before race time, we’ll lose our jobs!”

“And I’ll lose mine if I disregard orders,” the gateman countered.

Doyle alternately argued and pleaded, but to no avail. The gateman remained firm. And at last he lost all patience.

“Pull out of line,” he ordered sharply. “You’re holding up these other cars.”

Angrily Doyle swerved the truck, parking it a short distance away. His eyes smoldered as he turned toward Flash.

“Joe certainly used his brain when he sent you here without credentials!” he muttered. “Now how are we to get those pictures? Any brilliant ideas, Mr. Evans?”

CHAPTER V
TROUBLE AT THE GATE

There was no mistaking the sarcasm in George Doyle’s voice. It was his nature to lash out at others whenever he was confronted with difficulties. This realization alone kept Flash from making an angry retort.

“I have no ideas, brilliant or otherwise,” he responded quietly. “Still, there ought to be some way to get the truck inside.”

“How?”

“Isn’t there an official around somewhere who might listen to our explanation?”

“And while we’re trying to find him the races will be underway. We may as well admit defeat and go back to the hotel.”

“Let’s wait,” urged Flash. “How about trying another entrance?”

Before Doyle could reply, two sound trucks bearing the name of a rival film company, rolled slowly past and halted. The technician recognized one of the men and hailed him jubilantly.

“Hello, Benny! Do a fellow a favor, will you? Tell the gateman we’re okay.”

“What’s the matter?” the other driver asked. “Can’t you get inside?”

“Lost our passes.”

“Now isn’t that too, too bad!” The rival newsreel man grinned wickedly as he shifted gears. “Never saw you before in my life, George. Watch for our pictures on the screen!”

The two drivers flashed their passes and drove on through the gate. Doyle glared after them, calling names under his breath.

Abruptly, Flash leaped to the ground. Without explaining to Doyle, he walked back to the entrance.

“No arguments,” the gateman forestalled him. “You can’t get through without a pass, and that’s final. Maybe you’re telling a straight story, but orders are orders.”

“Isn’t there someone around here who would have the authority to pass us into the grounds?” Flash asked.

The gateman shrugged. Then his gaze fastened upon a dignified man who was walking toward the gate.

“Mr. Hartman could do it,” he said. “You might talk with him.”

Flash approached the man, and quickly explained the difficulty. His straightforward manner impressed the official. He took a quick glance at the News-Vue truck and called to the gateman.

“It’s all right. Let them through.”

Doyle had no word of praise as Flash slid into the seat beside him.

“It’s almost time for the race to start,” he grumbled. “All the good places will be gone.”

While rival newsreel companies had had first choice for positions, Flash and Doyle still were able to park their truck so as to obtain an unobstructed view of Dead Man’s turn. Hurriedly they arranged their camera and sound equipment, having everything in readiness for the drop of the starter’s flag.

With a few minutes still to spare, Flash shot several pictures with his Graphic. He photographed a number of well known racers as they warmed up their cars in preparation for the five hundred mile grind.

Observing the previous year’s winner talking with a dark, foreign looking man who stood beside car 29, he snapped the pair together.

As the shutter clicked, the racer’s companion, turned angrily toward Flash. Then pulling his hat down low, he hastily retreated.

“Camera shy,” thought Flash. “I’ve seen that fellow before. But where?”

He was staring after the man when Doyle called to him. Quickly he walked back to the News-Vue sound wagon. A policeman stood there, talking with the technician.

“Anything wrong?” Flash asked.

“There will be if you don’t get this truck out of here!” the policeman replied grimly. “You’re blocking the view of race officials.”

“What officials?” Doyle demanded belligerently.

“None of your smart talk,” the policeman returned. “Either show your permit or move out of here!”

“I can’t see that we’re blocking the judges’ view,” Flash interposed. “And we’re all set to shoot the start of the race. If we move now we’ll likely miss it.”

“Why be so tough?” added Doyle.

The policeman had shown visible signs of weakening. But at Doyle’s question, he became grim again.

“Get going!”

Arguments and explanations were useless. Once more the green News-Vue truck rolled. This time Flash shared Doyle’s disgust. No other place was available which would offer them an unobstructed shot at Dead Man’s turn. It was at this point of the track where accidents most frequently occurred.

“If we can’t train our lens there we’ll miss all the good pictures,” Doyle said gloomily. “One site is as bad as another now.”

Looking over the big track, they finally chose a place at random. Scarcely had they set up their apparatus behind the railing when the first cars roared down the stretch.

“Start grinding!” ordered Doyle curtly.

Flash pressed a button which controlled a motor. The camera began its steady whirr.

Motor wide open, a car whizzed past and skidded around the turn. Flash kept his camera lens trained on the racers behind.

And then it happened!

Watching through the viewfinder, he saw a driver suddenly lose control. A car skidded toward the railing.

Flash’s instinct was to leap aside out of all possible danger, but he held himself to his post.

The car careened toward him. Racers directly behind could not swerve aside. There was a terrific crash as car after car piled on each other and went rolling. Two overturned on the track, and a third smashed against the fence. The fourth tore away a section not six yards from where Flash stood. A body hurtled through the air.

Horrified, but with nerves steady, Flash swung his camera to catch it all. He kept grinding until the crowd closed in about the wrecked car, blocking his view. A siren screamed.

“Get the ambulance!” Doyle yelled at him.

Flash shot the entire “clean up” scene, only delaying long enough to first obtain a few “still” shots of the wreckage for the Brandale Ledger. When track attendants had carried the injured from the field and had towed away the battered cars, he drew a deep sigh. He felt as weak as a rag, but at least he hadn’t wilted at the critical moment.

“Boy, we shot a picture that time!” Doyle exclaimed with his first show of enthusiasm. “If we had stayed with the other newsreel men, we’d have missed it!”

“The cop booted us into a lucky place, all right,” Flash agreed.

“No chance of our getting another shot like that today,” Doyle sighed. “We may as well take some crowd pictures and then try for ordinary fill-in stuff of cars coming down the stretch.”

They shifted locations twice, finally returning to a place at the railing not far from their original site. Both Flash and Doyle felt that they had experienced their big moment of the day. They anticipated no additional favor of luck, but it came when a second crash occurred close to where they had set up their equipment.

“What a day!” Doyle chuckled. “Now we’ll shoot the finish of the race and be done!”

They managed after considerable difficulty to squeeze into a hole near the finish line. Flash caught a picture of the race winner, weary and covered from head to foot with dust and oil, being congratulated upon his victory. The man was induced to speak a few words into the microphone.

“Now we’re through,” Doyle said in satisfaction. “I certainly didn’t miss any tricks! If the pictures turn out well, I ought to get a raise.”

They stowed their equipment away and edged the sound truck into the flow of traffic. Flash waited, expecting that Doyle would offer some word of praise. He waited in vain. The technician took the entire credit for the day’s work to himself.

As they neared the exit gate, they caught sight of two rival sound trucks.

“Hi, Benny!” Doyle shouted in a loud voice. “How did you do?”

“Terrible,” was the discouraged response. “We missed all the crashes.”

“I got everything,” Doyle boasted, “and I mean everything!”

During the ride back to the hotel, the technician remained in a high mood. Flash had little to say. He was tired, and in addition, bored by his companion’s smug boasting.

They stopped at the airport where Doyle previously had arranged for shipment of the cans of exposed film to the News-Vue offices. Flash made up a package of his best “still” shots for the Brandale Ledger. With that duty accomplished, his work was completed. At last he was free to enjoy his vacation.

“Well, good-bye,” he said, extending his hand to Doyle.

“Good-bye?” the man echoed in surprise. “Where are you going?”

“To find myself a bed,” Flash answered. “Then tomorrow I may go back to Columbia. I want to see how Joe is doing.”

“Oh, yes,” Doyle murmured, frowning. “I’ll have to drive over there myself tomorrow. Want to ride along?”

Flash hesitated. The matter of car fare was an item to be considered. Doyle certainly owed him free transportation if nothing more.

“Thanks,” he accepted. “I’ll be glad to ride along.”

But later, alone in his hotel room, he regretted the decision. He did not like George Doyle. And the technician had no use for him. The journey at best would be an unpleasant one.

Flash picked up a newspaper which he had bought on the street. The headlines were devoted to the auto races and the two deaths which had occurred. Already the train wreck story was old, buried on page two. However, a revised and final list of the known casualties had been reprinted. Again Albert Povy’s name appeared.

“I’m sure that fellow was on the train to shadow Major Hartgrove,” he mused. “But now—well, it doesn’t matter. The mystery, if any, has been blacked out by death.”

CHAPTER VI
MAJOR HARTGROVE’S VISITOR

The long journey to Columbia proved less disagreeable than Flash had anticipated. For the most part, George Doyle attended strictly to his driving. True, he bemoaned the hard life of a newspaper cameraman, the ingratitude of his superiors. But by this time Flash had learned to expect a steady stream of complaint.

Reaching Columbia, they drove at once to the city hospital. Although the building still was overcrowded with patients, Joe Wells had been assigned to a private room.

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.

“It was exciting. Still, I can’t say I enjoyed it. Seeing two men go to their deaths—”

“I know,” Joe interrupted, “it shatters you, at first. That’s why so few men are any good as newsreel cameramen. But you have the stuff, Flash. Why don’t you take my job until I’m able to get around again?”

The abrupt question startled both Flash and Doyle. The latter could not hide a frown of displeasure.

“How about it, George?” Joe asked the soundman. “You’d like to have him work with you?”

“Oh, sure,” he replied without warmth. “Only I imagine district manager, Clewes, has a man hand-picked for the job.”

“Flash is on the spot. Another man would need to come here. I can send Clewes a wire.”

“Please don’t bother,” Flash said quietly. “This is my vacation.”

“It would be good experience for you.”

“I don’t doubt that, Joe. Perhaps, some other time I’ll try it.”

“Well, thanks anyway for pinch hitting,” the newsreel man replied gratefully. “That trip yesterday must have been quite a strain. You’re tough as a hunk of whang leather, Flash.”

A nurse entered the room to take a temperature reading. After she had gone, Joe turned to Doyle:

“Do me a favor, will you? Run over to the drug-store and buy me some tooth paste.”

Doyle left on the errand. As soon as his footsteps had died away, Joe motioned for Flash to draw his chair closer.

“Now we can talk,” he said comfortably. “What’s the real reason you don’t want my job? Doyle?”

“His attitude figures. He doesn’t like me. Working with him would be unpleasant.”

“You’ll get used to his grouching and boasting after awhile. I did. Why not give it a little whirl—while you’re on your vacation anyhow? It’s not easy, getting a chance to break into the newsreel game, and here it drops right into your lap. If you don’t like it, you can go back to the Ledger and no harm done. And another thing, the pay is much better.”

As Flash remained thoughtfully silent, Joe added: “If your pictures turn out well, Clewes may offer you the job on his own initiative. Don’t let Doyle’s personality stand in your way.”

“I’ll think it over. By the way, how is the Major?”

Joe jerked his head toward the wall behind the bed.

“They have him in the next cell,” he revealed in a low voice. “I’m telling you that old goof nearly drives me crazy.”

“Not out of his head?”

“You couldn’t prove it by me. He keeps that call bell ringing like a fire engine! Always wanting this and that. And visitors! If you ask me, the entire Intelligence Department of the Army has been here to see the Major.”

“Then he’s connected with the secret service?” Flash questioned in astonishment.

Joe raised himself on an elbow.

“I’m sure of it, although I never guessed it before. He thinks someone on the train deliberately cracked him over the head after the wreck. He claims the fellow tried to steal important papers he carried on his person.”

“That’s odd, Joe. When I helped him from the wreckage he kept mumbling something about being struck. I thought he was out of his head.”

“Maybe he still is, but he talks straight enough. These walls are like paper. I’ve heard him conferring with big-wigs of the Army. They’re out to get some fellow involved in an espionage plot against the government.”

“Who is he, Joe?”

“No names mentioned. I’ve been wondering if it might not be that man we saw in the club car.”

“Povy?”

Joe nodded. “He’s had the reputation of being mixed up in that sort of business. Nothing ever was proven against him though.”

“Povy seemed to be interested in Major Hartgrove on the train. But he couldn’t have been the one—”

Flash broke off quickly. George Doyle stood in the doorway.

Returning with the tooth paste, the sound technician had approached so quietly he had not been heard. His attitude was that of a person who suspected he was the object of discussion.

Conversation became general. Within a few minutes the two visitors took leave of Joe.

“I’m holing in over at the hotel,” Flash remarked. “Before I leave town I’ll drop around and see you again.”

“I’ll be here, too, until I hear from Clewes,” added Doyle. “So far I haven’t had any assignment.”

They shook hands with Joe, and quietly closed the door behind them. As they went down the hall, Flash could not keep from directing a curious glance toward Major Hartgrove’s room.

The door stood half open. A man in military uniform sat with his back to the corridor. Major Hartgrove, reclining in a wheel chair, also was plainly visible. As Flash stared at him, the Major returned the steady gaze.

“Someone you know?” asked Doyle.

“A man I helped at the time of the wreck,” Flash explained briefly.

As they passed on, the signal light over the Major’s door winked in rapid succession. Flash smiled, recalling Joe’s remark about the army man’s demand for constant service.

The two cameramen reached the elevator and were entering it when an attractive nurse came quickly after them.

“One moment please,” she requested in a muted voice.

They both waited. Doyle straightened his tie and twisted his face into a wasted smile. The pretty nurse gazed at Flash as she spoke.

“Major Hartgrove wishes to speak with one of you,” she said. “He doesn’t know the name. However, he means the young man who aided him in the wreck.”

“I guess that must be me,” acknowledged Flash. “My name is Jimmy Evans.”

“Then will you please come with me?”

The nurse turned and walked back down the corridor. Flash and George Doyle both followed.

“You didn’t tell me you were a hero,” the technician said jokingly. “Maybe the Major is going to pin a medal on your chest!”

At the door of Room 67, the nurse paused. She smiled apologetically at Doyle.

“Do you mind waiting outside?” she requested. “The Major expressly requested that he wished to see Mr. Evans alone.”

CHAPTER VII
A HINT TO THE WISE

As Flash entered the bedroom, a stocky, middle-aged man in a captain’s uniform, turned to face him. He regarded the young man with an alert, penetrating gaze.

Major Hartgrove, his head and leg swathed in bandages, sat in a wheel chair by the window. He too appraised the visitor.

“You wished to see me, sir?” Flash inquired.

The Major nodded. “Captain Johns,” he said gruffly, “this is the young man I was telling you about. The photographer who pulled me out of the wreck. Your name—”

“Evans. Jimmy Evans.”

“I am pleased to meet you, sir,” Captain Ernest Johns spoke cordially and extended his hand. “So sorry I must be going. Another appointment. You will excuse me?”

Without waiting for a reply, he departed, carefully closing the door behind him. Clearly the speedy leave-taking had been prearranged.

“Sit down!” invited the Major abruptly.

His tone was so explosive that Flash jumped. He dropped into a chair opposite the army man.

“Evans,” said the Major, “I’ve tried to locate you ever since the night of the wreck. Where have you been hiding?”

“Indianapolis,” Flash returned, and explained how he had substituted as a cameraman for Joe Wells.

“So you’re a professional photographer?” inquired the Major. “Took a few pictures of the train wreck, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have they been published?”

“I couldn’t say. I sent some of my films to the Brandale Ledger. Haven’t had time to hear from my editor yet.”

The Major took a quick turn across the room in his wheel chair. He came back to the window again.

“If I remember correctly you shot a picture of me.”

“Of you?” Flash asked in surprise.

“A flash bulb went off just as I was trying to pull myself from the wreckage.”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” Flash nodded. “I doubt if that picture will be much good. I didn’t send it with the others.”

The Major relaxed in his chair.

“You still have it?” he demanded.

“Yes, but I haven’t had time to develop the film yet.”

“How long will it take?”

“Why, I don’t know,” Flash replied. “I have no developing outfit with me. I could send it to a local newspaper—”

“Not to a paper,” Major Hartgrove interrupted. “To a studio where photographic work is done. I’ll want no publicity.”

Flash smiled, rather amused by the army man’s assured way of giving orders.

“As soon as the film is developed, bring it to me,” the Major resumed. He hesitated, and then added: “Under no circumstances must that picture be published until after I have seen it. You understand?”

“I hear,” responded Flash dryly. “I can’t say I understand. After all, I’m a professional photographer. If a picture has news value it’s my duty to publish it unless I have a mighty good reason for doing otherwise.”

The Major made a rumbling noise in his throat.

“Young man, a hint to the wise is sufficient. There are certain things I am not in a position to explain. However, great harm might result if that picture were printed. I wish to make it clear that if you disregard my wishes, you may find yourself in trouble with the government.”

“I doubt if the picture would be worth it, Major. However, I’ll try to cooperate with you.”

“I am glad that you are taking a sensible attitude,” the army man returned. “I assure you the picture has no value save to myself and possible enemies. Upon second thought, you are to bring the film to me undeveloped.”

Again Flash smiled. The Major mistook his silence for consent.

“Where is the film now?” he questioned.

“In my luggage.”

“Then please bring it to the hospital without delay,” the army man requested in dismissal.

Flash walked to the door. There he paused.

“Oh, by the way,” he said carelessly, “did you ever learn who it was that struck you over the head?”

Major Hartgrove made a swift turn in his wheel chair.

“What was that?” he demanded.

Flash repeated the question.

“You’re mistaken, young man,” the Major snapped. “No one struck me. What gave you that idea?”

“Merely your own words. When I helped you from the wreck you muttered that someone had struck you and taken your wallet.”

“Then I was dazed. I may have been hit by a falling timber when the car was derailed. Nothing was stolen from me. An absurd notion!”

“Oh, I see,” said Flash. “My mistake, Major.”

Without waiting for a reply he went out the door, softly closing it behind him.

George Doyle had remained at the elevator.

“Well, did the Major make you a pretty little speech of gratitude, Flash?” he inquired curiously.

“He made me a speech. Period.”

Doyle pressed a button and the automatic elevator descended to the lower floor.

“What was it all about?” he probed.

Flash had no intention of confiding in the technician and so made an evasive answer. Doyle took the hint, but he lapsed into sullen silence as they walked back to the parking lot where the sound truck had been left.

“Where are you going now?” he inquired, watching Flash gather up his camera and luggage.

“The hotel. I think I’ll stay here a day or so and rest up before I start back to Brandale.”

“I may hole in myself,” Doyle responded. “I gave News-Vue this town as my address. I’m stuck here until Clewes sends me orders. I’ll probably be seeing you at the hotel.”

“Well, if we shouldn’t meet again, good-bye and good luck with your pictures.”

“Same to you.”

They shook hands with a show of cordiality and parted company. Flash was glad to be done with the pretense. He never could like George Doyle and was relieved to escape from him. Doubtlessly, the technician felt the same way about him.

At the corner, beyond Doyle’s view, Flash paused. Opening his handbag, he removed the holders which held all the exposed films still in his possession.

“Wonder why the Major is so anxious to see that picture of himself in the wreck?” he mused. “At the time I snapped it I didn’t think I had anything. Maybe I was wrong.”

Deeply puzzled, he could not guess why the picture had any special significance. Yet he shrewdly reasoned that Major Hartgrove would not bother to obtain the negative save for a very particular reason.

The army man’s assured way of expecting his orders to be obeyed without question annoyed Flash. Obviously, the Major had sought to confuse him by contradicting his first story that he had been struck over the head by an assailant.

“I’ll have the film developed and see what all the shooting is about,” he decided. “Then maybe I’ll deliver it to the Major, and maybe I won’t.”

Walking along Main street, Flash presently came to a small photographic studio. Entering he spoke to the owner, Mr. Dee.

“I have some films here to be developed and printed. How soon may I have them?”

“Tomorrow.”

“This is rush work. I’ll be glad to pay extra but I need them right away.”

“Make it three hours, then,” replied the photographer.

“I’ll be back for them later,” nodded Flash.

He walked on two blocks to the Columbia Hotel. The lobby was crowded. In response to his inquiry for a single room, the clerk shook his head.

“We’ve been filled to overflowing ever since the train wreck. Folks coming to see their relatives in the hospital, you know. For a while we were selling cot space in the halls.”

“No chance then?”

“We did have a double room but it was assigned a few minutes ago. If you don’t object to sharing it, I could put you in there. The young man who occupies it isn’t much over your age, and is very respectable, sir.”

“How about him complaining?”

“He took it with the understanding he might be compelled to double up. The room has twin beds.”

“All right, I’ll take it,” decided Flash.

A boy conducted him up two flights of stairs, through a dingy hallway. He knocked and opened the door of Room 42. Flash stepped inside.

At the writing desk sat George Doyle. They stared at each other.

“I seem to be your new roommate,” said Flash at last. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not. Come on in.” Doyle spoke with an attempt at friendliness. “Wait, I’ll take my junk off the bed.”

He arose and carried an armload of garments into a near-by closet.

The bellboy opened a window. An unexpected gust of wind carried a sheet of paper from the writing desk. Flash stooped to pick it up. A name caught and held his attention. It was his own.

Without meaning to read what Doyle had written, he saw the entire paragraph at a glance:

“... rid of that pest, Evans at last. If you put in your application without delay, you should get Wells’ job, and hold it permanently.”

CHAPTER VIII
DISTRUST

Without reading further, Flash replaced the letter on the desk. Scarcely had he moved away, when George Doyle stepped from the clothes closet. He glanced sharply at the young photographer, but Flash’s face gave no indication that anything was wrong.

Doyle removed the remaining garments from the bed. Then, walking quickly to the desk, he picked up the letter, and thrust it into his pocket.

“Don’t let me interrupt you if you’re busy,” Flash remarked.

“I was only writing a letter to a pal. I’ll finish it another time.”

The bellboy pocketed Flash’s tip and left the two together. A constrained silence settled between them. Flash began to unpack his shirts and socks.

“Staying long in Columbia?” Doyle inquired after an awkward moment.

“A day or two, perhaps.”

Flash spoke shortly. Doyle glanced at him curiously, aware that for some reason he was offended.

For the next few minutes the technician made a special effort to be agreeable. Flash could not respond. He felt that the man’s sudden friendliness was only a pose.

“Doyle has no honor,” he thought. “Instead of being loyal to Joe, he’s scheming to install a friend in his job. Between them they’ll arrange it so that Joe never does get his place back again.”

The telephone jingled. Doyle answered, and learning that a telegram had arrived for him, ordered it sent up.

“It must be from the News-Vue Company,” he remarked. “My boss is the only one who knows where to reach me.”

The telegram was brought to the door. Doyle ripped open the envelope. With feet propped on the foot of the bed, he read it and chuckled.

“It’s from Clewes himself.”

“District manager of the News-Vue?” Flash recalled.

“That’s right. The auto race pictures turned out great. When Clewes wastes money on a congratulatory telegram you know you’ve hit the bull’s eye!”

Flash could not help feeling elated that his first work as a newsreel cameraman had been successful. He waited for Doyle to read the telegram aloud or offer it to him. Instead, the technician stuffed it into his pocket.

“I’m going to jog downstairs and get something to eat,” he said genially. “Coming along?”

“No, thanks.”

After Doyle had gone, Flash flung himself on the bed, relieved to be left alone. He wanted to think.

Although annoying, it didn’t really matter that Doyle belittled his efforts and withheld praise. What worried him was the letter he had read by accident. Should he warn Wells that the technician was trying to transfer the News-Vue job to a friend? And what could Joe do about the matter? Nothing. It would only serve to make him uneasy.

Flash could see only one solution, and that, not to his liking. Still thinking the matter over, he arose, washed, and scribbled a hasty letter to his mother.

Deciding not to mail it in the hotel box, he walked to the post office. As a matter of routine, he asked if any mail had arrived for him, general delivery.

Thumbing through a thick stack of mail, the post master proffered a thin envelope bearing the name of the Brandale Ledger.

As Flash eagerly opened the letter, a crisp new bill fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and saw that it represented twenty dollars. The letter was from City Editor, Riley. Scattered phrases seized his eye:

“... Your train wreck pictures scooped the East.... shots of the Indianapolis races best we’ve run in years.... Congratulations on the excellent work! Accept this twenty dollars as a bonus, and have a good time on your vacation.”

Flash pocketed the money and read the letter twice. At least Riley appreciated his work even if George Doyle didn’t! He was glad to know that all his pictures had turned out well. A big load had been lifted from his mind.

Leaving the post office, Flash glanced at his watch. Two hours had elapsed since he had left the undeveloped camera films at Mr. Dee’s photographic studio. He wandered slowly about for a half hour longer and then dropped into the establishment.

“Your pictures are ready,” the photographer said, offering him the packet. “However, I’m afraid you’ll not be very well pleased. Only two of the prints came out well.”

“I didn’t expect much from them,” Flash replied. “I hope you printed them all.”

“Yes, I did.”

Flash paid the bill, and took the prints over to a window. Running rapidly through them he came to the picture which Major Hartgrove had requested.

There was nothing so very startling about it. Major Hartgrove appeared as an unrecognizable, shadowy figure, with his face half turned away from the camera. But as Flash studied the scene carefully, he distinguished the faint outline of another form—a man slipping away into the darkness.

“I wonder if that might not have been the person who ran when I called to him!” he reflected. “It might be the same man who struck Major Hartgrove and tried to rob him.”

By this time Flash no longer doubted that the army man had been the object of an attack. What the mysterious assailant had been after he could not guess, unless the Major had carried valuable military plans or other documents upon his person. Certainly no ordinary thief had been responsible for the assault.

“I would think Povy might have had a hand in it,” he mused, “only Povy was killed in the wreck. So he’s out.”

To make certain no mistake had been made in the records, Flash decided to investigate further the following day. While very unlikely, there was still a chance that Albert Povy’s name had been listed by mistake.

“The Major won’t learn much from this picture,” he thought. “But it’s no good to me. I’ll take it around tomorrow just to keep him from breaking a blood vessel.”

Rapidly he glanced at the remaining prints. The pictures taken at the auto races were only moderately good, and without news value.

With a shrug, he pocketed the envelope and returned to the hotel where he dined and went to bed early.

He did not hear Doyle come in, but when he awoke in the morning, his roommate already was up and dressed. The technician stood by the window, looking over the prints which Flash carelessly had left lying on the dresser.

“These aren’t such hot shots,” he commented, observing that Flash was awake.

“Just some of my bad ones. I study them to learn my mistakes.”

“Ambitious, aren’t you?” Doyle’s lip curled in amusement. “This one of Rascomb is the best of the lot.”

Flash rolled out of bed.

“Rascomb?” he questioned. “Who’s he?”

Peering over Doyle’s shoulder he saw that the man was gazing at an auto-racing picture. It was a shot of one of the drivers talking with a distinguished looking individual in street clothing.

“That’s Rascomb,” identified Doyle, jabbing at the figure with his thumb. “You see him at most of the big sporting events.”

“Never even heard of him. But I thought there was something familiar about his face! Still, I can’t remember ever having seen him before the day of the races.”

“Rascomb has plenty of dough,” Doyle remarked enviously. “Swell car, a plane of his own, even his own private landing field. He’s a good polo player and has a hunting and fishing lodge up in the north woods. The news lads always give him favorable publicity, and he returns the favor with invitations to his lodge.”

“Have you ever been there?” Flash inquired curiously.

“No, but the fellows who have gone tell me he’s a wonderful host. Gives you everything.”

Flash dressed leisurely. As he combed his hair, he saw through the mirror that Doyle was watching him with a peculiar, speculative expression.

“Any plans for this morning, Flash?” he inquired casually.

“None in particular. I thought I would go over to the hospital. Would you like to come along?”

Doyle shook his head. He seemed relieved by Flash’s answer.

“No, I’ll be tied up all morning. I want to check over my sound equipment and get ready to roll when my new assignment comes through. Tell Joe hello for me.”

Flash ate breakfast and reached the hospital in time for the ten o’clock visiting hours. The door of Major Hartgrove’s room stood ajar. But the bed was empty and attendants were stripping off the linen.

A nurse was passing in the hall. Flash stopped her and inquired where he would find the Major.

“You are too late,” she replied. “Major Hartgrove left the hospital early this morning.”

Flash went on to Joe Wells’ room. He had made up his mind not to tell his friend of George Doyle’s treachery. However, when Joe again urged him to take the newsreel job for at least a month, he gave the matter rather serious consideration.

“The only reason I might do it would be to protect you, Joe,” he replied. “If I held the post until you were up and around again, no one could steal it from you.”

“Oh, that wouldn’t happen,” his friend responded carelessly. “I have a good stand-in with the News-Vue people.”

“Even so, you can’t tell what will happen these days,” hinted Flash.

“Then will you take the job if I can land it for you?”

“I’ll not promise yet, Joe. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll wire Riley and see what he says. I can’t afford to jeopardize my own place on the Ledger, you know.”

The matter was allowed to rest. Leaving the hospital before the visiting hours were over, Flash dispatched the telegram, and then returned to the hotel.

As he passed through the lobby he was surprised to see George Doyle sitting in a near-by chair, his back turned. He was talking earnestly with an alert-eyed, gray-haired man of forty.

Instantly it struck Flash that Doyle had wished to have him away from the hotel at the time of an anticipated interview. Impulsively, he crossed the room, intending to test out his theory by speaking to the technician.

Doyle did not see him approach. As Flash paused just behind the upholstered chair, he arose and extended his hand to the man who faced him.

“I’m glad you liked my work,” he said heartily. “And I’m sorry about Evans. He’s given me to understand he wouldn’t be interested in any proposition.”

CHAPTER IX
FLASH ACCEPTS AN OFFER

Flash stepped forward into George Doyle’s view. The soundman saw him and lapsed into confused silence.

“Sorry. I couldn’t help hearing,” Flash apologized. “I don’t mind saying I’m curious about this proposition which wouldn’t interest me.”

“You’re not Flash Evans?” inquired the stranger before Doyle could find his voice.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Flash, this is our district manager, Mr. Clewes,” Doyle said unwillingly. “We were just speaking of your fine work at Indianapolis.”

“Yes,” nodded Mr. Clewes, “as I mentioned in my telegram, those pictures were the best we’ve had in months! The sound effects were fairly good, too.”

Flash glanced at Doyle who shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another.

“Thank you, sir,” he said politely to the district manager. “I didn’t happen to see your wire.”

Mr. Clewes gazed questioningly at the sound technician.

“I repeated the contents to him,” Doyle said defensively.

Ignoring the technician, Mr. Clewes turned to Flash again.

“Howard Brandiss, who heads our company, was much impressed by your work. When he saw the crash films run through he said to me: ‘Fly down to Columbia and sign that photographer on the dotted line before some other company gets him.’ But Doyle here tells me you wouldn’t be interested in any proposition we might offer.”

“Flash already is employed by the Brandale Ledger,” Doyle broke in hurriedly. “He’s on his vacation now. I understood him to say he wouldn’t consider working for a newsreel concern.”

“I’m afraid your hearing was almost too acute,” Flash said pleasantly. “Either that or I gave the wrong impression.”

“Then you are interested?” Mr. Clewes asked quickly.

“Not in a permanent job. I might consider filling in a month for Joe Wells. That is, if Mr. Riley has no objection.”

“And who is Mr. Riley?”

“My editor on the Brandale Ledger.”

“I am sure we can arrange everything to his satisfaction,” said Mr. Clewes. “And I respect you for being loyal to your employer. If you are unwilling to leave the Ledger, we should not try to convince you otherwise. Nevertheless, after a month of newsreel work, you may decide you prefer it to your newspaper position.”

“That’s quite possible, sir.”

Dismissing Doyle with a curt nod, Mr. Clewes drew Flash aside. For a half hour they talked together, discussing salary and matters of general routine. The district manager then insisted upon placing a long distance telephone call to Riley of the Brandale Ledger.

He stepped from the booth, smiling broadly.

“Everything has been arranged. Mr. Riley says you may work for us, providing we don’t try to steal you away from him at the end of the month.”

“I aim to go back to Brandale when my vacation is over,” Flash insisted. “My home is there.”

Mr. Clewes gazed about the lobby in search of Doyle. The technician had slumped down in a chair in front of the fireplace. He came over as the district manager motioned to him.

“Doyle, meet your new partner. You two will continue to work together.”

The technician’s face twisted into a strained smile.

“Glad Mr. Clewes was able to persuade you when I couldn’t,” he said to Flash. “We’ll get along fine.”

The district manager glanced at his watch. “I have fifteen minutes to catch my plane,” he declared hurriedly.

“How about our next assignment?” asked Doyle.

“I was coming to that. No news of special importance is breaking in this section of the country right now. Your instructions are to start East again. Stop off at Melveredge Field and try to get shots of the new bombing plane which is being tested there.”

“Try is right,” grumbled Doyle. “That place is so surrounded by barbed-wire red tape a newsreel man couldn’t cut his way through in a month. How about permits?”

“News-Vue will endeavor to make the necessary arrangements. Even if you can’t obtain pictures of the bomber, you should be able to get routine maneuvers. Do the best you can. Further orders will be forwarded to you at the Clarinda Hotel.”

Mr. Clewes shook hands with both Flash and Doyle, and hastened to his taxi. In silence, the two newsreel men went to their room. They began to pack.

“This is a poor assignment,” Doyle complained, jamming shirts into his bag. “We’ll waste a lot of time at Melveredge Field, fail to get the pictures, and then be reprimanded for our pains.”

“Mr. Clewes must think we have a chance or he wouldn’t send us.”

“Us,” said Doyle with biting sarcasm. “A lot of good you’re going to do me!”

The words were spoken before he thought. Once said, he could not retract them. But instantly he was ashamed of the unwarranted outburst.

“Sorry,” he apologized curtly. “I shouldn’t have said that. But you made me sore, trying to show me up in front of Mr. Clewes.”

“In what way?”

“Letting on that I hadn’t shown you his telegram. And then the way you breezed up and accepted a job after you made me think you wouldn’t take one.”

“I don’t remember that we ever discussed it,” Flash returned coldly. “But that’s neither here nor there. I’ve taken the job. Whether we like it or not, we’ll be working together. Why not try to get along without friction?”

“Suits me. All I ask is that you do your work and don’t expect to use me as a crutch.”

“We understand each other perfectly, Doyle. Now when do we start?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“I’ll meet you at the parking lot. I want to telephone Joe and tell him I’ve taken the job.”

Flash had another errand in mind, one which he did not reveal to Doyle. Quickly he made his telephone call from the lobby of the hotel.

“I’m glad you’ve changed your mind,” Joe told him gratefully. “Can’t you come over to the hospital before you leave town?”

“Afraid not. We’re starting in a few minutes.”

Joe Wells hesitated, and then said: “You’ll get along fine, Flash, if you manage to stay on the good side of Doyle. He can help you a lot. But I’ll give you a tip. If he takes a dislike to a fellow, he knows all the ways of making it plenty tough.”

“Everything will be fine, Joe. I’ll manage. And your job will be waiting whenever you want it back.”

He hung up, smiling ruefully at his friend’s belated warning. Already he had incurred George Doyle’s dislike. But he was not afraid of what the technician might attempt to do. He would be ready and waiting.

CHAPTER X
CHECKING FACTS

With fifteen minutes to spare, Flash made a quick trip to the railroad station. His next errand was anything but to his liking. Yet he was unwilling to leave Columbia without verifying a certain fact.

He found the station agent in his little office behind the ticket window.

“What may I do for you, sir?” the man questioned.

Introducing himself as a representative of the Brandale Ledger, Flash added that he was checking upon the death of a man reported killed in the streamliner crash.

“Sorry I can’t help you on that,” replied the agent. “It’s against orders to give out information about the accident. You’ll have to see some other person.”

Flash was persistent. He explained that any information obtained would not be published in a newspaper.

“I’m trying to learn about a man named Albert Povy.”

“I guess I can tell you about him,” the agent conceded. “He was among the victims.”

“The body was shipped from here?”

“It was.”

“To relatives?”

“Couldn’t tell you as to that. The body was claimed by a man named Rascomb. Herbert Rascomb.”

Flash was startled by the name. He wondered if it could be the same man George Doyle had been telling him about. But that scarcely seemed possible.

“And where was the casket sent?” he asked after a moment. “That is, what city?”

“To a place called Clear Lake.”

Flash thanked the agent for the information and left the station. He was ten minutes late in reaching the parking lot. Doyle was waiting in the sound truck, appearing none too pleased at the delay.

They drove out of town with Doyle at the wheel. The truck made good speed. For a time neither of them spoke.

“Oh, by the way,” Doyle said at length, “what sort of salary did Clewes give you?”

“Somewhat less than Joe was getting,” Flash answered vaguely. “More than I’ll earn probably.”

“You’ll be getting a double salary while you’re on vacation, won’t you?” Doyle could not hide his envy.

“Yes, but it won’t last long.”

Flash decided to ask a few questions himself. A little later he introduced the subject of the sportsman, Rascomb, asking Doyle the man’s first name.

“Herbert. Herb Rascomb.”

“And where is his lodge located? What town is it near?”

“Couldn’t tell you exactly,” responded Doyle. “I understand it’s not far from where we’re heading—Melveredge Field. But why this sudden interest in Rascomb?”

“Merely curious, that’s all. What sort of reputation does he have?”

“Reputation? Oh, he steps around in fast company, if that’s what you mean. He has a lot of foreign friends.”

“Was he ever mixed up in trouble with the government or anything of the sort?”

“Rascomb? Say, that fellow is in the blue book. The only thing he’s interested in is having a good time. If he did get into trouble he could buy himself out.”

Again Flash fell silent, for he saw that Doyle had grown irritated by his questions. It struck him as an interesting fact that Rascomb had been connected with Albert Povy, a man of dubious reputation.

Actually there was no good reason why the pair should not have been friends. With a large circle of acquaintances, Rascomb could have met Povy in his travels about the country and, learning that the man was without relatives, might have claimed the body out of kindness. In any case, it was none of his affair. He never expected to see Rascomb again.

Throughout the day the sound truck rumbled steadily eastward, making only brief stops for oil and gas. Twice Flash offered to relieve Doyle at the wheel, and both times was turned down.

Toward dusk they pulled into a busy little city of some fifty thousand population. They had reached their destination. Melveredge Field was located close by.

Doyle glanced at his watch.

“Ten after five,” he announced. “Too late to do anything tonight. We’ll find the Clarinda Hotel and call it a day.”

Flash nodded. Doyle never bothered to consult his wishes. He quickly had learned that the easiest way to get along with the technician was to have no opinions of his own. So far any differences they might have had were trivial. But clashes were certain to come later.

Flash had been relieved to learn that News-Vue paid all traveling expenses. The arrangement, however, had one distinct drawback. He and Doyle were expected to share the same room.

“We see too much of each other as it is,” thought Flash. “Before the end of a month we won’t be on speaking terms.”

They registered at the Clarinda Hotel and inquired for mail. There was none. The anticipated orders from the News-Vue Company had not yet arrived.

The newsreel men both were tired and dirty from their long journey.

“Me for the tub,” Doyle announced.

Slamming the bathroom door behind him, he started the water running, and remained soaking for nearly an hour. Flash became irritated at the long delay.

“Say, have you gone to bed in there?” he called at last. “You’re not the only dirty pebble on the beach!”

Doyle did not answer, nor would he hurry. He took another half hour to dress. Finally be unlocked the door and sauntered out.

“What’s all the shouting about, Flash?”

“You’ve been in there exactly an hour and a half!”

“Well, it’s all yours now,” Doyle shrugged. “Such impatience! Dear! Dear!”

Flash glanced at the tub. It was rimmed with dirt. Every bath towel had been used.

“Say, you lug—” he began.

An outside door slammed. The culprit had gone.

Ringing for more towels, Flash cleaned the tub and hastened through his own bath.

“I’ll get even with him tomorrow,” he thought. “We’ll see how he likes it when the joke is on him.”

It was after seven o’clock when Flash finally left the hotel in search of a restaurant. He sauntered along, pausing to read menus printed on the plate glass windows. Suddenly he felt a hand touch his shoulder.

Flash whirled around. For a moment he did not recognize the smiling young man who stood there. Then he gave a pleased cry:

“Bailey Brooks! What are you doing out this way?”

“Oh, prowling around,” the parachute jumper replied. “Had your dinner?”

“Not yet.”

“Then let’s go inside. I’m meeting a man, but he’s not due to show up for fifteen minutes.”

Flash felt flattered that Bailey Brooks had remembered him. He was even more pleased when the parachute jumper praised him for the pictures he had taken at Brandale.

“All the publicity helped,” Brooks declared warmly. “Since the parachute test proved successful, several concerns have been after me. I’ve not had a definite offer yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

The two young men entered the restaurant and selected a table not far from the door. Flash hesitated, and then said:

“Too bad about Povy.”

“Yeah.” The smile faded from Brooks’ face. “He was interested in my invention. Offered me a good price for it, too. But probably it’s just as well the deal didn’t go through.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You know who Povy was, don’t you?”

“I’ve heard rumors.”

“He was mixed up with a spy ring years ago and probably was doing espionage work at the time of his death. That was the main reason I held off about selling him the parachute. I liked Povy personally but I never trusted him.”

“I wonder what government employed him?”

“I never learned. Povy was very cautious in his dealings. He revealed nothing about himself. All he ever told me was that he represented a firm which would pay well for my invention, providing the tests were successful.”

A waitress came to take orders and Flash gave his. Bailey Brooks said that he would wait for a man with whom he had a dinner appointment.

“You say several other persons are after your invention now?”

“Several is an exaggeration,” Brooks admitted with a grin. “One private party and the United States Army.”

“So that’s why you’re here!”

Brooks nodded. “The ’chute is to be given exhaustive tests out at Melveredge Field. If it comes through okay, I’ll be sitting pretty.”

“When will the tests be made?”

“All week. There’s an endless amount of red tape.”

“I’m with the News-Vue people now,” Flash explained abruptly. “Any chance to get some shots of the tests?”

“Not a glimmer. Melveredge Field is closed tighter than a drum these days. I doubt if they’ll even allow you near the place with a newsreel camera.”

Flash mentioned the chain of events which had led him to spend his vacation working for the News-Vue Company. The parachute jumper immediately recalled Joe Wells and expressed regret over his accident.

“While I was in Columbia I inquired about Albert Povy,” Flash presently remarked. “You know, I thought there might have been some mistake about his death.”

“There wasn’t?”

“No. His body was shipped to a place called Clear Lake.”

“That town isn’t so far from here,” Brooks said thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of it.”

“Povy’s body was claimed by a man named Herbert Rascomb. A well known sportsman and—”

Bailey Brooks had been toying with a silver knife. It slid from his hand, making a clatter as it struck the floor.

“Rascomb?” he asked in a strange voice. “Did you say Rascomb?”

Flash could see that the information had startled the parachute jumper. But before he could explain further or ask a question, the door of the café swung open.

A dapper man in army uniform strode across the room directly toward the pair at the table.

“Ah, here is my host now,” murmured Bailey Brooks.

Flash turned his head. The man who approached was Captain Ernest Johns.

CHAPTER XI
HIGH WATER

Bailey Brooks arose to greet the newcomer. As he turned to introduce Flash, Captain Johns forestalled him by saying in a curt voice:

“We have met before, I believe!”

“At the Columbia Hospital,” recalled Flash.

The Captain seated himself on the opposite side of the table, regarding the cameraman with a cold scrutiny which was not easy to interpret. Assuming that he was an intruder at a private business conference, Flash offered an apology and started to leave.

“No, don’t go.” Captain Johns waved him back into his chair. “Finish your dinner. Why did you fail to keep your promise to Major Hartgrove?”

Flash now understood the reason behind the officer’s coolness. Major Hartgrove had reported his failure to give up the requested pictures.

“I made no promise,” he replied.

“It was understood that you would bring the pictures to the hospital without delay.”

“The Major may have understood it that way,” replied Flash evenly. “But I work for the News-Vue Company, not the United States Army.”

Captain Johns’ lips twisted in a faint suggestion of a smile. Yet his voice had an edge to it as he asked:

“You still have those pictures?”

“I have.”

“What is your reason for withholding them?”

“No reason,” Flash admitted cheerfully. “As a matter of fact, I went back to the hospital yesterday after I had them printed. The Major was gone.”

“You went back after you had looked at them yourself?”

“Quite right, sir. I wanted to see what I was giving away. Just protecting my paper, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” responded Captain Johns dryly. “You may be interested to learn that Major Hartgrove has been removed to the army hospital at Melveredge Field.”

“Doing well I hope.”

“He will be dismissed tomorrow or the day following. Now about those pictures. Where are they now?”

“In my room at the hotel.”

“May I see them?”

“I’ll be glad to show them to you, Captain,” replied Flash, grinning. “But I don’t think you’ll find them of any aid in running down the man who struck the Major.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Now as I recall, Major Hartgrove said you were the first person to reach him after the train wreck.”

“Hardly the first, sir. As I approached the car, I saw someone slipping away into the dark. It may have been the man who robbed him.”

“You are mistaken. Major Hartgrove was not robbed.”

“I understood otherwise.”

“An attempt was made to take Major Hartgrove’s wallet. The man did not succeed.”

Flash accepted the explanation without comment. He was rather inclined to believe that the Major had not been robbed. However, it seemed unreasonable that the army men would be making such strenuous efforts to apprehend an ordinary thief. Obviously Major Hartgrove had carried military papers or something of far greater value than money.

Ignoring Bailey Brooks for the moment, Captain Johns asked Flash a number of questions about his actions following the train wreck. Cleverly but without success he tried to make the cameraman contradict himself. At last, he seemed satisfied the young man was telling the truth, and turned his attention once more to the parachute jumper.

After the meal had ended, Captain Johns volunteered to go with Flash to his room. The three walked together to the Clarinda Hotel.

George Doyle looked up in surprise as Flash pushed open the bedroom door. He rose quickly to his feet.

“You remember Bailey Brooks,” said Flash. “And this is Captain Ernest Johns.”

Doyle was impressed by the caller. He lost his customary indifference and put himself out to be agreeable. But the captain paid him scant attention.

“I have only a few minutes,” he said impatiently. “May I see the pictures now, please?”

Flash found the envelope in his luggage. Doyle sat watching him curiously as he sorted through the prints.

“I have only one which will interest you,” he said to the captain. “It isn’t much good.”

The army man examined the picture carefully and returned it to the stack.

“You are right,” he admitted regretfully. “For our purposes it is valueless.” Methodically, he thumbed through the other prints. “Now here is an excellent one!”

“A snap I took at the races. Too bad the wreck picture didn’t come out the same way. Conditions were against me.”

Bailey Brooks had crossed the room. As Captain Johns dropped the prints carelessly on the table, he picked them up and glanced through the stack.

The army officer turned to leave but Doyle stepped forward, neatly blocking his way.

“Say, Captain,” he began, “Flash and I are with News-Vue, you know. What are the picture possibilities out at Melveredge?”

“There are none, Mr. Doyle.”

“Oh, come now, I know it’s hard to get in there these days, but it can be done with pull. How about giving us a permit?”

“I regret I am not in a position to grant such a favor,” the captain returned stiffly. “Good evening.”

Accompanied by Bailey Brooks, he went away. As soon as the footsteps receded, Doyle turned angrily to Flash.

“You might have said something instead of standing there like a clam! Here the Captain is a good friend of yours. He could have passed us into Melveredge Field.”

“The Captain isn’t a friend of mine.”

“Then why did you bring him here?”

“You must have observed for yourself, Doyle. To look at those pictures.”

The technician picked up the stack and glanced through the prints.

“What’s all this about anyway?” he demanded. “Why would the Captain be interested?”

Flash made an evasive answer which only irritated Doyle further. Despite the technician’s displeasure, he had no intention of taking him into his confidence.

“I’m tired,” he said shortly. “Let’s go to bed.”

It was dark in the hotel room when Flash awakened to hear the telephone ringing. Struggling out of sleep, he reached to roll up the window shade. A few carts were creaking by on the street below. The sky was barely light.

The telephone rang again.

“Answer it, will you?” growled Doyle.

“All right.”

Flash took the receiver from its hook. He was informed by the hotel operator that long distance was calling. As he relayed the message to Doyle, the latter leaped from bed and seized the instrument.

“That must be Clewes!”

Doyle talked for several minutes and then hung up the receiver.

“Get dressed!” he said curtly. “We’re clearing out of here. And we haven’t much time.”

“What’s up?”

“We move again. Clewes says to let the Melveredge pictures slide. Arrangements can’t be made with the authorities.”

“A new assignment?”

“Yeah. Not a bad one either. We’re to cover an International polo match at Excelsior City. We ought to be there not later than twelve-thirty.”

Flash looked at his watch and whistled.

“It’s nearly six now. Excelsior City must be at least three hundred miles from here.”

“Nearer three twenty. It means fast stepping.”

Quickly they dressed and crammed their clothing into suitcases. There was no time for breakfast. A clock on the street chimed six-thirty as they pulled out of the drowsing city.

A fog hung low over the valley. Before the sound truck had covered many miles a fine, steady rain began to fall.

Strangely, Doyle offered no complaint about either the weather or the early morning call to duty. Flash stole a curious glance at him. The technician’s face was animated and he whistled a cheerful tune.

“This assignment seems to please you, Doyle.”

“It could be a lot worse.”

“What teams are playing? You haven’t told me anything about the set-up.”

“An American team against one from India headed by Rajah Mitra. Know anything about polo?”

“I’ve seen a few games.”

“Herbert Rascomb will be playing on the American team.”

“Rascomb!”

“He’s one of the best players in the country.”

“I never even heard of him until a few days ago.”

“Rascomb doesn’t like publicity. He goes into a rage if his picture is taken. The boys humor him, and he returns the favor by showing them a good time at his lodge.”

“Buys them off?”

“Nothing of the sort. It’s only to show his appreciation. We could do with a day in the north woods, eh?”

Flash avoided answering the question. Instead he inquired:

“Why is Rascomb so against publicity? A pose?”

Doyle shrugged as he steered the sound truck into a filling station.

“No, he’s just that way. But they tell me Rascomb is a fine fellow.”

An attendant filled the gasoline tank, checked the oil and replenished the water in the radiator. As Doyle paid him, he volunteered road information.

“Aiming to take U.S. 49 out of here?”

“That’s right,” answered Doyle. “How is the road to Excelsior City?”

“The road’s in good condition. But if you want to be on the safe side you’d better take Highway 23. We’ve had some hard rains around here. The Coon River is over its banks, and there’s a bad bridge about six miles beyond town.”

“Then the road is closed?”

“They were keeping it open an hour ago. A radio report said it would be closed if the water came any higher.”

Doyle and Flash studied a map. Highway 23 was graveled and at least fourteen miles out of their way.

“We’ll keep on 49 and take a chance,” Doyle decided.

The decision satisfied Flash, for it had occurred to him that possibly they might have an opportunity to take interesting flood pictures.

Two miles beyond the town limits they began to see evidence of high water. Ditches on either side of the road ran with it. In several low places tiny rivers blocked their way. The water was not deep and they rode through it without mishap.

They picked up speed on a long stretch of clear pavement. Ahead they could see the bridge, a long, wooden affair of ancient design. A flimsy, make-shift barrier of boards had been raised across the entrance way.

“Closed!” muttered Doyle in disgust. “We’ll never get to Excelsior City by game time now!”

He slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a standstill not far from the bridge. Thrusting his head out the window, he called to one of the guards:

“How about letting us through? We’re newsreel cameramen and in a big hurry.”

“The bridge is unsafe,” the man answered. “It’s apt to go out any time now.”

Flash leaped from the truck and went to look at the bridge. He saw for himself that much of the underpinning had washed away. The weight of an automobile, even higher water, would be almost certain to shift it from its position.

“Water still rising?” he questioned a guard.

“Coming up fast, brother. Three inches in the last twenty minutes. Another half hour and this road may be completely covered.”

Flash ran back to the truck. Doyle had turned it around and was impatiently waiting.

“Jump in!” he commanded. “We’re going to be late getting to Excelsior City now that we have to back-track.”

“Listen, Doyle!” Flash was excited. “While we’re breaking our necks trying to reach there, we’ll be passing up better pictures.”

“What do you mean, better pictures?”

“The bridge is going out any time.”

“Maybe,” Doyle retorted. “But we’re not waiting here several hours on a slim chance like that! Our assignment is to shoot the polo match.”

Flash gazed steadily at the technician.

“Sorry to disagree. We’re staying right here.”

“Say who do you think you are?” Doyle drawled insolently. “I’m not taking orders from any fresh kid.”

“I’ve taken plenty of orders from you. But not any more. I’m washed up! Through!”

“Oh, so you’re through, eh? Well, quit any time you like!”

“I’m not quitting,” Flash corrected. “Just letting you know that from now on I’m not your man Friday. Mr. Clewes gave me to understand I was to use my own judgment about picture values. Your part is to record the sound effects.”

Doyle stared at Flash. Spots of bright color tinted his taut cheeks. With an effort he kept his voice under control.

“All right, Evans, you’ll take full responsibility for this!”

“I expect to,” Flash retorted grimly. “Now help me get my stuff up on the roof! That bridge won’t last many minutes!”

CHAPTER XII
BRIDGE OUT!

Flash was prepared for a curt refusal. Surprisingly, Doyle considered a moment, and then began to unload equipment. He said nothing, but his smoldering eyes made it clear he intended to make a full report to Mr. Clewes.

With camera set up and focused on the bridge, Flash nervously waited. The only thing which would justify his high-handed action would be success. If the bridge failed to go out, Doyle would score heavily in the final reckoning.

The water rose higher and higher, slapping against the piling with a powerful surge. Yet the bridge held. Minutes elapsed and Flash became increasingly uneasy. Surely, he thought, the structure could not withstand such punishment for long.

Doyle looked at his watch with a disgusted expression.

“We’ve wasted another half hour—” he began.

From far down the road came the roar of a fast traveling automobile. Flash and Doyle both turned to stare.

A car raced toward the bridge at seventy miles an hour. It struck a dip in the road where water flowed, and the tires sent up a great muddy sheet. With undiminished speed, the automobile sped on.

At the bridge, guards leaped into action, shouting and waving their red flags to draw attention to the barrier.

The driver could not fail to see that the bridge entrance was blocked. Still the car roared on. Flash suddenly comprehended the reason. The man was being pursued by a state highway police car. If he halted for the bridge, it meant capture!

“There’s our picture, Doyle!” he shouted. “Get ready!”

The car struck the barrier with a resounding crash. Boards splintered like so much match wood, but scarcely slowed down the daring driver. Bridge girders rattled and planks pounded as the automobile plunged on.

Nothing happened for a moment. And then a cry of horror arose from the crowd of spectators.

“It’s going out!”

One side of the bridge wrenched free from the piling and swung around in the swift current. There it held an instant and then slowly toppled sideways into the boiling flood. As the car slid with it, the driver pushed open the door and leaped into the river. His dark head remained above the surface for a minute, then disappeared.

Horrified at the disaster, Flash nevertheless pivoted his camera to photograph the entire scene—the crumbling of the bridge, the driver’s wild leap, even the arrival of the state police car which raced to the end of the road and stopped with a jolting lurch.

Attracted by a startled outcry from the excited spectators, his gaze was drawn far down river. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the struggling man before the unfortunate fellow was pulled under again by the racing current.

The distance was too great for an effective shot, but Flash was not thinking of pictures. Leaving his camera behind, he plunged into a deep ditch at the roadside. Wading across, muddy water oozing about his armpits, he ran on through a soggy field to a bend in the river.

Once more he glimpsed the struggling man who was fighting gamely for life against overpowering odds.

With no thought for his own safety, Flash kicked off his shoes and dived into the river. Exerting all of his strength, he fought to keep from being carried downstream.

He had judged the current accurately, for the man was brought directly toward him. Reaching out, he barely grasped him by the coat. There was a brief struggle and they both disappeared beneath the surface.

After an exhausting effort they regained the surface, and drifted with the current, using what strength remained to keep their heads above water. Even with lungs bursting, Flash managed to hold tightly to the man. Whenever he could, he gulped in air, but breath and strength were ebbing.

Suddenly he felt himself dashed against a solid object. The current had brought a long, heavy plank downstream. He pulled himself and his companion onto it, and they clung with head and shoulders well above water.

For a minute the river carried them swiftly. Then their ride ended abruptly, as the plank caught against a half-submerged fallen tree which was festooned with a motley collection of debris and foam.

There the plank lodged fast. They were able to secure fairly firm holds on the projecting arms of the tree, but the current whipped their legs beneath them and threatened to sweep them on.

Grimly they clung to their precarious refuge. The man Flash had aided aroused himself after a dazed moment, and looked about in panic.

“Easy now,” warned Flash.

Instead of thanking the cameraman for saving his life, he began to revile him.

“If you had kept out of this I would have made a clean get-away! Now the dicks probably are on my tail!”

The man’s words proved prophetic for the state police had followed down river and were at a point opposite where the pair clung.

A rope sailed accurately through the air, settling across the tree. Reaching to his full length, Flash was able to grasp it. As he started to knot it about his companion’s body, the man struck wildly at him.

“They won’t get me!” he shouted hoarsely. “I’ll drown first!”

His hold loosened, but Flash acted quickly. He seized the man’s coat collar with his left hand, maintaining his own grasp on the tree limb. The swift current whipped his legs from beneath him.

But help was at hand. A state patrolman who was a strong swimmer, reached the sunken tree. He tied the rope about the struggling man and signaled for a fast haul-in to shore. Flash followed with the officer.

“Good work,” a trooper praised him. “You took a big chance, young man, both with the river and your pal here. Know who he is?”

Flash shook his head. He was searching for his discarded shoes.

“Andy Clevenger.”

“Not the bank robber?”

“The same. He was recognized at a quarantine stop, but got away. We’ve chased him twenty miles.”

Flash began wringing water from his ruined suit. He was plastered with mud from head to foot.

“There’s a reward out for Clevenger’s capture,” the state policeman went on. “You may get some of the money. Give me your name and address. I think I can guarantee you a new suit at least.”

“I can use it. And I’d like permission to take some pictures before you pack this fellow off to jail.”

“Go right ahead.”

Handcuffed, the prisoner was led back to the patrol car where Flash shot close-ups and obtained complete information about his past record.

Doyle, somewhat stunned by the events which had transpired, had little to say.

“Are you sorry we waited?” Flash asked him. “These pictures should stack up any day with a polo match.”

“You’re a fool for luck, just as Joe said,” Doyle muttered. “I suppose you knew just what would happen?”

“I only hoped for a good bridge picture. But when Lady Luck showers down I believe in spreading a wide net.”

Flash was shivering from cold. Wrapping himself in his overcoat, he allowed Doyle to do most of the loading work.

Back in town once more, he sought a clothing store and quickly purchased a new suit. While it was cheaply tailored, he thought it would serve until he reached Excelsior City.

“You look like a country rube in that outfit,” Doyle jeered as his companion climbed back into the sound truck.

“Can’t help it,” Flash replied, undisturbed. “It’s warm and clean, at least.”

The cameramen followed Highway 23, avoiding the river. At the first city of any size which boasted an airport, they paused long enough to ship their cans of film to the home office. Then they drove on at break-neck speed for Excelsior City.

Doyle squinted at a clock in a store window as they went through a town.

“By skipping lunch we still might get there in time for the last chukker of the game,” he announced.

“It won’t do any harm to try,” Flash agreed. “But after the pictures we just took, polo will seem pretty tame.”

“It’s our assignment,” Doyle said sharply. “Don’t forget that.”

“I’ve not forgotten.”

Flash glanced sideways at his companion. He could not believe that Doyle honestly thought they had made a mistake in passing up a polo game for the flood pictures. Obviously, the technician had a special reason for wishing to reach Excelsior City.

“And that reason,” he reflected, “has nothing to do with our work. If I’m any good at guessing, he’s bent on wangling an invitation to Rascomb’s lodge!”

CHAPTER XIII
A POLO GAME

The News-Vue sound truck pulled into the private grounds of the Excelsior Polo Club at exactly ten minutes to three. Through the elm trees George Doyle caught sight of the field, and gave a chuckle of pleasure.

“The match is still on!”

The seventh chukker was underway as the truck drew up at the sidelines. Flash and Doyle worked swiftly, knowing they had little time.

Flash Evans, Camera News Hawk

FLASH EVANS
CAMERA NEWS HAWK

CONTENTS

FLASH EVANS
CAMERA NEWS HAWK

CHAPTER I
CRACKING SILK

CHAPTER II
OVER THE CLIFF

CHAPTER III
A TRAIN WRECK

CHAPTER IV
SUBSTITUTE CAMERAMAN

CHAPTER V
TROUBLE AT THE GATE

CHAPTER VI
MAJOR HARTGROVE’S VISITOR

CHAPTER VII
A HINT TO THE WISE

CHAPTER VIII
DISTRUST

CHAPTER IX
FLASH ACCEPTS AN OFFER

CHAPTER X
CHECKING FACTS

CHAPTER XI
HIGH WATER

CHAPTER XII
BRIDGE OUT!

CHAPTER XIII
A POLO GAME

Flash Evans, Camera News Hawk

FLASH EVANSCAMERA NEWS HAWK

CONTENTS

FLASH EVANSCAMERA NEWS HAWK

CHAPTER ICRACKING SILK

CHAPTER IIOVER THE CLIFF

CHAPTER IIIA TRAIN WRECK

CHAPTER IVSUBSTITUTE CAMERAMAN

CHAPTER VTROUBLE AT THE GATE

CHAPTER VIMAJOR HARTGROVE’S VISITOR

CHAPTER VIIA HINT TO THE WISE

CHAPTER VIIIDISTRUST

CHAPTER IXFLASH ACCEPTS AN OFFER

CHAPTER XCHECKING FACTS

CHAPTER XIHIGH WATER

CHAPTER XIIBRIDGE OUT!

CHAPTER XIIIA POLO GAME

FLASH EVANS
CAMERA NEWS HAWK

FLASH EVANS
CAMERA NEWS HAWK

CHAPTER I
CRACKING SILK

CHAPTER II
OVER THE CLIFF

CHAPTER III
A TRAIN WRECK

CHAPTER IV
SUBSTITUTE CAMERAMAN

CHAPTER V
TROUBLE AT THE GATE

CHAPTER VI
MAJOR HARTGROVE’S VISITOR

CHAPTER VII
A HINT TO THE WISE

CHAPTER VIII
DISTRUST

CHAPTER IX
FLASH ACCEPTS AN OFFER

CHAPTER X
CHECKING FACTS

CHAPTER XI
HIGH WATER

CHAPTER XII
BRIDGE OUT!

CHAPTER XIII
A POLO GAME