CHAPTER X

BOB’S FIRST CUSTOMER

Mr. Starleigh was much interested in the story Bob had to tell him on the following morning.

“Lawrence has got back, and his desk was robbed of a hundred and five dollars, so he says.”

“Those chaps are bad ones,” said the boy. “They steal wherever they happen to be.”

The old photographer advised Bob to make a complaint against the officer who had allowed Barker to slip away, but Bob shook his head.

“What’s the use? He would find some excuse, and I would only get into trouble. No; after all, I’ll simply do what I can alone, and let the rest go.”

A week passed, and Bob made rapid strides in the art he was following, for photography now interested him more than ever before.

One day he was left alone at noon, and in rushed a young man.

“I’ve got fifteen minutes to spare,” he said. “Can you give me a sitting in that time?”

“I am sorry, but Mr. Starleigh is out, and so is his assistant,” said Bob.

“Too bad! If I had a sitting to-day when could I have the photos?”

“All of them?”

“The first one.”

“In a few hours. The others, if you want a dozen, would be done a couple of days later.”

“I wanted one to-morrow night sure. My brother is going to South America day after to-morrow, and I promised him my picture to take along.” The young man scratched his head. “Can’t you give me a sitting?”

“I would rather you would wait,” replied Bob, fearing Mr. Starleigh would not like such a proceeding.

“I can’t wait. Go ahead, if you know anything about the work.”

The young man insisted, and at last Bob consented to give him a sitting.

With great care Bob adjusted his focus, and gave his customer what he considered an artistic pose. In a minute more two plates were taken.

“How about proofs?” asked the youth, as the young man pulled out his watch and then a roll of bills.

“I haven’t time to come for them. How much will the dozen be?”

“Four dollars and a half.”

“Here’s your money. Send that picture to my home on Mountain Avenue. My name is Ralph Maverick.”

And before Bob could say a word, the young man was gone.

“Ralph Maverick,” murmured Bob to himself. “I wonder if he is any relation to Grace? The two look a little alike. Perhaps they are sister and brother.”

When Mr. Starleigh returned, Bob related what he had done. The old photographer lost no time in looking at the plates and developing them.

“One is no good, but the other is excellent,” he said. “You gave him a first-rate pose, Bob. Get a frame and some paper, and we will print a couple at once. You’ll soon be a full-fledged photographer, and I’m glad of it, for Sidler drinks so much I’ll have to discharge him.”

While Bob was getting the paper, he asked Mr. Starleigh if he knew the young man.

“Oh, yes; he is a son of Gregory Maverick, the president of the T. W. & L. Railroad. You can take the picture to his house as soon as it is done.”

This pleased Bob. He wished to see Grace Maverick once again, if possible, but he did not care to make a call unless he had business, being afraid she might think he had come to be rewarded for his bravery in helping her down the cliff.

Bob left the photographing establishment at six o’clock with four of the pictures in his pocket. He had worked hard during the day, and he felt both tired and dirty.

“I think I’ll go home first and wash, dress, and get supper before I deliver the picture,” he said to himself. “If I called at the house looking like this, Grace Maverick might take me for a tramp.”

Which showed that Bob placed a high value on the beautiful young girl’s opinion.

Bob hurried to his boarding-house, and after a good scrubbing dressed himself in a new suit he had just purchased. Then he hastily swallowed his supper, and set out for Mountain Avenue.

The way lay past the studio, and as Bob drew near to the place where he was employed, he noticed a crowd rushing along.

“What’s up?” he asked of a man who was running.

“Fire up the street.”

The man had hardly answered, when with a shrill tooting an engine came tearing along, followed by a hose-cart and a hook and ladder company.

Bob was instantly interested. He had never witnessed a fire in the city, and he was anxious to see how the thing was managed.

He followed the crowd. What was his astonishment to see the engine stop directly in front of the building in which the studio was situated.

“Back there!” cried a policeman to the crowd, while the firemen began to run a hose into the hall-way.

“Why, where is the fire?” cried Bob, in alarm.

“Upstairs,” returned a bystander.

“They say it started in a photographic place,” said another man.

Bob turned pale. They must mean Mr. Starleigh’s studio. He wondered if his employer was around.

Bob had a key to the studio. Breaking through the crowd, he dashed past the policeman on duty.

“Here--what?” demanded the officer.

“I want to save our things if I can,” returned Bob.

He dashed up the first flight of stairs and then the second. The hall-way was filling with smoke, but no fire was to be seen.

But on the third landing he paused. The smoke was thicker than ever, and he could hear the faint crackling of flames. Would it be safe to venture farther?

He hesitated for only a second.

“I’ll save what I can,” he murmured, and up he dashed.

He was about to insert the key in the lock, when he noticed that the door was already unfastened. He pushed it open, and rushed in.

The thick smoke rolled directly into his face, almost choking him.

“I can’t stand this very long,” was his thought.

Suddenly a puff of flame rolled overhead, lighting up the apartment.

Guided by this, Bob made a rush for the operating-room, bent on saving the valuable lenses, if nothing more.

He had just reached the curtain to this apartment, when there came another puff of flame, followed by a shower of sparks.

Some of the sparks alighted on a table in the corner filled with chemicals.

There was an explosion almost immediately, and poor Bob was hurled backward, while the chemicals flew all around him.

The smoke was thick, and, completely bewildered, the lad could not tell which way to turn to reach the door.

Once he started, crawling on his hands and knees, and brought up directly opposite to where he wanted to go.

The smoke was every moment getting thicker, and it looked as if the brave youth was to die like a rat in a trap.

“I must get out somehow,” he muttered, desperately. “Why can’t I find the door?”

He turned, and, rising, made a dash forward.

“Help, help!”

The cry startled him. It came from the developing closet, and Bob recognized the voice as that of Mr. Starleigh.

“Mr. Starleigh!” he called out.

“Oh, Bob, is that you? Help me, in Heaven’s name!”

“I will.”

Guided by the voice, Bob rushed through the operating-room, and threw open the door of the dark closet.

A red light burned on a stand, and by it Bob saw his employer lying on the floor, one hand grasping a box of plates.

“Help me, Bob!”

“I will if I can, sir. Can’t you get up?”

“Yes, but I can’t walk. I tried to save all those new plates, and two of the boxes fell on my ankle.”

“Take my hand.”

The old photographer did so, and got up, although the movement caused him great pain.

“I’m afraid we can’t get out through the main room,” said Bob. “The flames are breaking through everywhere.”

“I see, and--your coat is on fire. Let me put it out.”

Mr. Starleigh caught the burnt portion in his hand, and crushed it.

“That must have caught when the chemicals exploded. Tell me, what is beyond this closet?”

“The hall-way, I believe.”

“There is no door out?”

“There was, in that corner, but I nailed it up.”

“We must get it open somehow. Stand over there, out of the way.”

Mr. Starleigh followed directions. Bob pulled away the stand which stood before the closed door.

“If I only had an axe,” he said.

“There is a hammer in the next room on the shelf.”

“I’ll get it.”

Leaving Mr. Starleigh leaning against a table, Bob rushed out into the operating-room. He found the hammer, and also brought with him the valuable lenses, which he knew his employer greatly prized.

With all his force he began to batter on the door. At first it resisted his efforts, but finally with a crash one of the panels gave way.

Then another panel was knocked out, and, with savage energy, Bob attacked the middle strip.

His blows fell thick and fast. At last came a crash, and the top of the door was smashed into several parts.

“Just in time,” cried Mr. Starleigh. “See, the whole operating-room is in flames!”

The hall-way seemed to be now quite free from smoke. Bob leaped through the opening he had made, and helped his employer to follow.

“Hullo! what’s up here?”

It was a fireman who asked the question.

“We’ve just escaped,” said Mr. Starleigh. “Help us to get down-stairs.”

“He can’t walk,” said Bob. “If you will get on one side of him I will get on the other.”

The fireman willingly complied, and it was not long before they reached the sidewalk, where a denser crowd than ever was now congregated.

Mr. Starleigh was assisted to a near-by drug-store, and a doctor at once gave his injured ankle proper attention.

“I wish I had saved my lenses,” he sighed. “The rest of the stuff in the place was not of so much account.”

“Here are the lenses,” returned Bob, producing them.

“What! Did you really get them?”

“Yes. I trust they are not scratched,” went on the youth, with considerable concern.

“They do not appear to be. Bob, I shall not forget you for this work, nor for saving my life, also.”

“Pooh! I didn’t save your life,” replied Bob, and he returned to the fire.

By this time several other engines had arrived, and half a dozen streams of water were being poured on the flames. The firemen had a hard fight of it, but in less than an hour the fire was under control, although they continued on guard and would allow no one within the fire lines.

Bob stood around for a while longer, and then he suddenly remembered the photographs in his pocket. He pulled them out, and found they were uninjured, which was strange, considering the rough usage they had seen.

“I might as well deliver these, and get it off my hands,” he said to himself. “I wonder if Mr. Starleigh saved the plate, so that we can print the others.”

Bob returned to the drug-store. He found a fellow-photographer talking to Mr. Starleigh. A number of plates had been saved, among them the one containing Ralph Maverick’s picture, and these the other photographer said he would finish for Mr. Starleigh.

At the drug-store Bob brushed up as best he could. His new coat had several small holes burnt in it, but this could not be helped.

Arriving at the Maverick mansion, he rang the bell and asked for Mr. Ralph Maverick.

“Yes, he is in.”

“Please tell him I come from Mr. Starleigh’s studio.”

The servant who had answered the summons retired, and presently Ralph Maverick appeared.

He was well satisfied with the picture.

“I don’t see how Mr. Starleigh could have done any better,” he said.

Bob told the young man of the fire, but added, that the pictures would, nevertheless, be ready in the course of a few days.

“Well, it’s too bad you were burned out,” said Ralph Maverick. “Will you start up again?”

“I suppose so.”

A little more talk followed, and then Bob turned to go. He was keenly disappointed at not seeing Grace.

But his disappointment was of short duration. Presently, while the two stood in the hall-way, there was a rush of feet on the stairs and Grace Maverick ran up.

“There! I was afraid you would never call!” she cried, catching Bob by the hand, and giving him a squeeze that made him blush.

“Why, Grace, do you know him?” questioned Ralph Maverick, in surprise.

“Indeed I do,” returned the beautiful girl, warmly. “He is the young gentleman who saved my life when I fell over the cliff.”

“You don’t say! I must shake hands with him myself. Why didn’t you introduce yourself?”

“Oh, I--I----”

“He brought my picture. He didn’t say anything about knowing you,” went on Ralph.

“Then you didn’t come to see me?” asked Grace, pouting slightly.

“Well, I’m glad I did see you,” stammered Bob. “But I have to attend to business, you see,” he went on, lamely. “I work for a photographer, and we are fearfully busy.”

“I’ve been looking for you ever since I got back from the seashore.”

“Yes, I heard you had gone,” said Bob.

“Come into the parlor, I want to talk to you. I thought sure you and Mr. Landes would call together.”

“He had to go on a trip for the house he represents. Otherwise, I imagine he would have been glad to come,” explained Bob.

He was taken into an elegant parlor, where he felt a good deal like a fish out of water. But Grace and her brother did all they could to make him feel at ease, and, before he left, he was quite at home.

“Papa wants to see you very much,” said Grace, during the course of conversation. “He is not at home to-night, but he will be to-morrow evening. Will you call, then?”

“I will, if I can.”

“Oh, that won’t do! You come sure, and I will make papa stay home, even if he has got another engagement.”

“He might not care to do that,” suggested Bob.

“Oh, he cares to do whatever I want him to,” returned the young lady.

When Bob left, he felt in particularly high spirits; why, he could not exactly state.

He returned to his boarding-house by way of a short cut through a number of back streets.

It was quite dark when he reached the steps of the boarding-house. As he was about to ascend, latch-key in hand, he noticed a man sitting on the curbstone, his head resting on his hands.

Approaching the man, Bob shook him by the shoulder.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

The man stared at him vacantly.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I asked what was the matter with you?” repeated Bob.

Instead of replying the man sprang to his feet, and caught Bob by the throat.

“I’ll show you,” he mumbled, with a hiccough. “Give me back my money, Jim Casco, d’ye hear?”