said. "I bought it years ago, and seldom use it, and I'll pay for the bulbs."
Mooney opened his eyes and sat up.
"What was that again?"
Harry repeated what he had said.
"That's fine," Mooney said, then suddenly looked suspicious. "Where's the catch?"
Harry grinned at him.
"I want a third of the profits, Mr. Mooney, as well as my salary. You see, it'd mean I'd be working much longer hours, and I'd be supplying the flashgun and bulbs, and it's my idea too. I wouldn't do it unless you gave me a third."
"Have a heart, kid," Mooney protested. "A third! Look, don't let's quarrel about this. We'll make it a quarter, and you pay for the bulbs. How's that?"
"A third or nothing. I need the money. It's got to be a third or nothing."
"Suppose I said nothing?" Mooney said craftily. Where would you be then?"
"I'd take the idea to Quick-Fotos. They'd jump at it."
Mooney nearly fell out of his chair.
"Quick-Fotos?" he bellowed. "They're just a bunch of crooks. What's got into you, Harry? You wouldn't leave me for a cheap-jack firm like that, would you?"
"There's nothing cheap-jack about them, Mr. Mooney," Harry said firmly. "They're doing first— class work. If you can't see your way to pay me a third, then I'll have to go to them. That's all there's to it."
Mooney began to bluster, but seeing the determined look in Harry's eyes realised he wouldn't be persuaded, so reluctantly he gave way.
"All right, kid, if that's how you feel about it. You can have a third. But who's turned you into a businessman? What do you want money for?"
"Who doesn't want money?" Harry said, turning red.
Mooney studied him for a moment, and then exclaimed: "Suffering cats! You're not thinking of getting married, are you? Is that why you want the money. Some dame, eh?"
Harry edged towards the door.
"We don't have to go into that, Mr. Mooney. I'll go home now and get the flashgun. May as well make a start tonight."
"All right, kid. When you're through come along and tell me how you've got on. I'll stay here until ten-thirty. Don't be later than that'
"All right," Harry said and made for the door, "Oh, Harry . . ." Mooney said. Harry paused in the doorway. "Yes, Mr. Mooney?"
"What's she like, kid? Pretty, huh? Have you made her yet?" And Mooney closed one eye and leered.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said indignantly, and almost ran out of the office.
Mooney tilted back his chair and began to sing in a loud, unmusical voice: "Love is the sweetest thing."
chapter seven
T he night turned out to be moonlight and dry. There was a chilly wind blowing, but Harry didn't mind about that. The important thing was that it was dry. He had chosen Leicester Square for his work, and now, at ten o'clock with only three flashbulbs left, he knew the idea was a success.
He had taken over fifty pictures, and was confident he wouldn't have more than five per cent failures. He had been careful to pick his subjects, and in every case he had had no trouble when he handed out his card. The novelty of the flashlight seemed to appeal to the crowd. Perhaps it was because so many film stars had been photographed in Leicester Square that the boys and girls Harry took imagined they had suddenly become celebrities overnight. Harry was sure that had something to do with it.
"This'll please Mooney," Harry thought as he turned the film winder on and screwed in another flashbulb. "Two more, and then I'll pack up."
In a few more minutes the crowds would be coming out of the cinemas, and there'd be no point in trying to get any more photographs with so many people about. And besides, Harry felt chilly. He had been standing against a lamppost opposite the Warner Cinema for the past two and a half hours. It was cold work, and he wouldn't be sorry to get home.
He looked towards the London Hippodrome. There weren't many people about now. In the distance, coming from Long Acre, he caught sight of a man and woman. He watched them, holding the camera in
Mooney opened his eyes and sat up.
"What was that again?"
Harry repeated what he had said.
"That's fine," Mooney said, then suddenly looked suspicious. "Where's the catch?"
Harry grinned at him.
"I want a third of the profits, Mr. Mooney, as well as my salary. You see, it'd mean I'd be working much longer hours, and I'd be supplying the flashgun and bulbs, and it's my idea too. I wouldn't do it unless you gave me a third."
"Have a heart, kid," Mooney protested. "A third! Look, don't let's quarrel about this. We'll make it a quarter, and you pay for the bulbs. How's that?"
"A third or nothing. I need the money. It's got to be a third or nothing."
"Suppose I said nothing?" Mooney said craftily. Where would you be then?"
"I'd take the idea to Quick-Fotos. They'd jump at it."
Mooney nearly fell out of his chair.
"Quick-Fotos?" he bellowed. "They're just a bunch of crooks. What's got into you, Harry? You wouldn't leave me for a cheap-jack firm like that, would you?"
"There's nothing cheap-jack about them, Mr. Mooney," Harry said firmly. "They're doing first— class work. If you can't see your way to pay me a third, then I'll have to go to them. That's all there's to it."
Mooney began to bluster, but seeing the determined look in Harry's eyes realised he wouldn't be persuaded, so reluctantly he gave way.
"All right, kid, if that's how you feel about it. You can have a third. But who's turned you into a businessman? What do you want money for?"
"Who doesn't want money?" Harry said, turning red.
Mooney studied him for a moment, and then exclaimed: "Suffering cats! You're not thinking of getting married, are you? Is that why you want the money. Some dame, eh?"
Harry edged towards the door.
"We don't have to go into that, Mr. Mooney. I'll go home now and get the flashgun. May as well make a start tonight."
"All right, kid. When you're through come along and tell me how you've got on. I'll stay here until ten-thirty. Don't be later than that'
"All right," Harry said and made for the door, "Oh, Harry . . ." Mooney said. Harry paused in the doorway. "Yes, Mr. Mooney?"
"What's she like, kid? Pretty, huh? Have you made her yet?" And Mooney closed one eye and leered.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said indignantly, and almost ran out of the office.
Mooney tilted back his chair and began to sing in a loud, unmusical voice: "Love is the sweetest thing."
chapter seven
T he night turned out to be moonlight and dry. There was a chilly wind blowing, but Harry didn't mind about that. The important thing was that it was dry. He had chosen Leicester Square for his work, and now, at ten o'clock with only three flashbulbs left, he knew the idea was a success.
He had taken over fifty pictures, and was confident he wouldn't have more than five per cent failures. He had been careful to pick his subjects, and in every case he had had no trouble when he handed out his card. The novelty of the flashlight seemed to appeal to the crowd. Perhaps it was because so many film stars had been photographed in Leicester Square that the boys and girls Harry took imagined they had suddenly become celebrities overnight. Harry was sure that had something to do with it.
"This'll please Mooney," Harry thought as he turned the film winder on and screwed in another flashbulb. "Two more, and then I'll pack up."
In a few more minutes the crowds would be coming out of the cinemas, and there'd be no point in trying to get any more photographs with so many people about. And besides, Harry felt chilly. He had been standing against a lamppost opposite the Warner Cinema for the past two and a half hours. It was cold work, and he wouldn't be sorry to get home.
He looked towards the London Hippodrome. There weren't many people about now. In the distance, coming from Long Acre, he caught sight of a man and woman. He watched them, holding the camera in
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