Jimmy 'Flash' Evans, 17, ace photographer for The Brandale Ledger, tries his hand at the newsreel game in this upbeat, pre-war adventure. The listed author, Frank Bell, was actually the prolific Mildred Wirt Benson, most famous for writing the early Nancy Drew novels under the pseudonym Carolyn Keene.
By : Mildred A. Wirt Benson (1905 - 2002)
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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.
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