lease, but even at that, these spicks around here have got money. They're as human as the rest of us, and they'll want a nice picture of themselves. We could break new ground if only you'd use your head."
"I'm sorry," Harry repeated firmly, "but I'm not convinced."
Mooney lifted his shoulders helplessly.
"Well, all right, kid, it's your dough. But I'm warning you unless something crops up within the next month I'll have to make a change." He hoisted his feet on to the desk and tilted back his chair. "As a matter of fact I might do worse than go into the dyeing and cleaning racket. I know a guy who's looking for extra business in that line. I could use these premises as a clearinghouse and send the stuff to him to handle. But there wouldn't be anything in it for you. I'd have to run the place on my own."
"That's the way it will have to be then, Mr. Mooney," Harry said, gloomily, "but perhaps it won't come to that."
Leaving Mooney staring up at the ceiling in what he called his suicidal mood, Harry went into the darkroom to discuss the crisis with Doris Rogers.
Doris was short and plump with a mass of frizzy black hair, a turned-up nose and a smile that made you her friend the moment you saw her. Harry knew little about her, for she never talked about herself.
She was a tremendous worker, and Mooney imposed on her, paying her badly and shifting as much of his own work on to her plump young shoulders as he could. She never grumbled, never seemed to mind if she had to work late, and didn't appear to have any private life of her own.
Harry liked her. She was the kind of girl you could be friendly with and confide in without any of the usual complications. He admired her quickness and skill, and her natural talent for spotting a good picture, and he always listened to her opinions with respect.
As soon as she saw his gloomy expression she knew what the trouble was.
“Has he been moaning again?" she asked, as she stirred a batch of prints in the hypo bath.
"Worse than that. He says he's going to shut down next month if things don't get better."
Doris sniffed scornfully.
"Well, it's his own fault. He never does anything; never gets any new ideas." She transferred the prints to the washer. "What will you do, Harry?"
"I don't know. I suppose I could try Quick-Fotos, but they may not want me. I don't know. I wish I did. What will you do?"
Doris shrugged.
"Oh, I'll find something," she said cheerfully, and paused in her work to smile at Harry.
"Something always turns up. Why don't you tell him about that idea of yours — taking photos at night? We've talked about it for months and never done anything about it. Now's the time. I'm sure it would work. You might even screw some more money out of him if you try hard enough. After all, you'd have to work much longer hours."
"I'd forgotten all about it," Harry said. "I'll have a word with him right away, Doris. If he falls for it I'll make him put me on a percentage basis."
"That's right," Doris said. "Don't stand any nonsense from him."
Mooney was still lolling in his chair, feeling sorry for himself, when Harry came in. He gave Harry a bleak look, and asked, "Now what's the trouble? Never have a minute's peace in this place. It's a wonder I'm not worn out."
"I have an idea, Mr. Mooney, that might be worth trying," Harry said. "I've been thinking about it for some time. Why not switch from day to night photography? Let's give them something new. They might be more interested to have a picture of themselves at night; at least, it's a novelty."
Mooney saw the possibilities at once, but as he hadn't thought of the idea himself he curbed his enthusiasm. Instead, he closed his eyes and looked gloomier than ever.
"It's not a bad idea, of course," he said grudgingly, "but there are snags. For one thing you'll need a flashgun, and that costs money. Then there are flashbulbs, and they cost money too. The trouble is I haven't the money to spare."
"I have a flashgun," Harry
"I'm sorry," Harry repeated firmly, "but I'm not convinced."
Mooney lifted his shoulders helplessly.
"Well, all right, kid, it's your dough. But I'm warning you unless something crops up within the next month I'll have to make a change." He hoisted his feet on to the desk and tilted back his chair. "As a matter of fact I might do worse than go into the dyeing and cleaning racket. I know a guy who's looking for extra business in that line. I could use these premises as a clearinghouse and send the stuff to him to handle. But there wouldn't be anything in it for you. I'd have to run the place on my own."
"That's the way it will have to be then, Mr. Mooney," Harry said, gloomily, "but perhaps it won't come to that."
Leaving Mooney staring up at the ceiling in what he called his suicidal mood, Harry went into the darkroom to discuss the crisis with Doris Rogers.
Doris was short and plump with a mass of frizzy black hair, a turned-up nose and a smile that made you her friend the moment you saw her. Harry knew little about her, for she never talked about herself.
She was a tremendous worker, and Mooney imposed on her, paying her badly and shifting as much of his own work on to her plump young shoulders as he could. She never grumbled, never seemed to mind if she had to work late, and didn't appear to have any private life of her own.
Harry liked her. She was the kind of girl you could be friendly with and confide in without any of the usual complications. He admired her quickness and skill, and her natural talent for spotting a good picture, and he always listened to her opinions with respect.
As soon as she saw his gloomy expression she knew what the trouble was.
“Has he been moaning again?" she asked, as she stirred a batch of prints in the hypo bath.
"Worse than that. He says he's going to shut down next month if things don't get better."
Doris sniffed scornfully.
"Well, it's his own fault. He never does anything; never gets any new ideas." She transferred the prints to the washer. "What will you do, Harry?"
"I don't know. I suppose I could try Quick-Fotos, but they may not want me. I don't know. I wish I did. What will you do?"
Doris shrugged.
"Oh, I'll find something," she said cheerfully, and paused in her work to smile at Harry.
"Something always turns up. Why don't you tell him about that idea of yours — taking photos at night? We've talked about it for months and never done anything about it. Now's the time. I'm sure it would work. You might even screw some more money out of him if you try hard enough. After all, you'd have to work much longer hours."
"I'd forgotten all about it," Harry said. "I'll have a word with him right away, Doris. If he falls for it I'll make him put me on a percentage basis."
"That's right," Doris said. "Don't stand any nonsense from him."
Mooney was still lolling in his chair, feeling sorry for himself, when Harry came in. He gave Harry a bleak look, and asked, "Now what's the trouble? Never have a minute's peace in this place. It's a wonder I'm not worn out."
"I have an idea, Mr. Mooney, that might be worth trying," Harry said. "I've been thinking about it for some time. Why not switch from day to night photography? Let's give them something new. They might be more interested to have a picture of themselves at night; at least, it's a novelty."
Mooney saw the possibilities at once, but as he hadn't thought of the idea himself he curbed his enthusiasm. Instead, he closed his eyes and looked gloomier than ever.
"It's not a bad idea, of course," he said grudgingly, "but there are snags. For one thing you'll need a flashgun, and that costs money. Then there are flashbulbs, and they cost money too. The trouble is I haven't the money to spare."
"I have a flashgun," Harry
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