“Yes, sir,” replied Miggsy, throwing the films upon the desk. “Here they are, sir.” “But how about the prints, Mr. Miggles?” the younger Gale demanded anxiously. “You don’t mean to say that you left them behind?” “There wasn’t any prints,” the boy explained. “Neilson, our photo-engraver--I mean their photo-engraver--hadn’t made any. These negatives were all they had.” “You are quite sure of that?” the younger Gale demanded searchingly. “Yes, sir; I am quite sure. I was very careful to see that no copies were left behind.” The two Gales exchanged glances of congratulation. “I guess our friend Carroll will have to get a new front page for to-morrow’s issue,” the proprietor of the _Chronicle_ chuckled. “It gives me great joy, my son, to deprive our esteemed contemporary of its star feature.” His son grinned. “Yes; my only regret is that we cannot publish the pictures ourselves,” he said. “Of course, our friendship for the police department makes that quite impossible. It is too bad. It would be such a rattling good joke on that confounded Camera Chap if we could use his snapshots on the front page of to-morrow’s _Chronicle_.” The elder Gale smiled deprecatingly. “As you have said, my son, that is quite out of the question. As we run the administration organ, the pictures are useless to us for publication. But I have no doubt we shall be able to find other uses for them.” Then the proprietor of the _Chronicle_ dipped his hands into his trousers pocket, and produced a silver coin, which he extended toward Miggsy. “You have done well, my boy,” he said; “very well, indeed. Here is a half dollar for you.” Miggsy thought it was somewhat beneath the dignity of a reporter to receive a fifty-cent tip like a common office boy, but, not wishing to hurt the old gentleman’s feelings, he decided not to debate the point. “Thank you, sir,” he said, pocketing the coin. “When shall I start in to cover police?” As Mr. Gale appeared not to have heard the question, Miggsy took the liberty of repeating it. “When do I start in on the job?” he inquired. “Shall I go over to police headquarters now, sir? I’m ready.” To his great astonishment the proprietor of the _Chronicle_ stared at him coldly. “Ready for what, young man?” he inquired. “To cover police, sir.” A laugh from the younger Gale--a cruel, jeering laugh--brought a sudden chill to the boy’s heart. “You cover police! Why, you’re only a kid!” “A mere child,” chimed in the elder Gale, stroking his mutton-chop whiskers. “Come around again five or six years from now, and we may be able to find room for you on the reportorial staff of the _Chronicle_, my boy, but not before then.” “But you said that if I made good with them pictures I was to have the job, at fifteen dollars a week,” cried Miggsy, a choke in his voice. The proprietor of the _Chronicle_ turned inquiringly to his son. “Did I say that?” he asked. “Do you recall my saying anything to give this boy such a mistaken impression?”