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He printed all the shots he had taken, took them out into the light, and laid them out on the dining room table. He was pleased: they were vivid, active pictures that clearly showed a sequence of events. When he heard his parents moving about upstairs he called his mother. She had been a journalist before she married, and she still wrote books and magazine articles. "What do you think?" he asked her.
She studied them thoughtfully with her one eye. After a while she said: "I think they're good. You should take them to a newspaper."
"Really?" he said. He began to feel excited. "Which paper?"
"They're all conservative, unfortunately. Maybe the Buffalo Sentinel. The editor is Peter Hoyle--he's been there since God was a boy. He knows your father well; he'll probably see you."
"When should I show him the photos?"
"Now. The march is hot news. It will be in all tomorrow's papers. They need the pictures tonight."
Woody was energized. "All right," he said. He picked up the glossy sheets and shuffled them into a neat stack. His mother produced a cardboard folder from Papa's study. Woody kissed her and left the house.
He caught a bus downtown.
The front entrance of the Sentinel office was closed, and he suffered a moment of dismay, but he reasoned that reporters must be able to get in and out today if they were to produce a Monday morning paper, and sure enough he found a side entrance. "I have some photographs for Mr. Hoyle," he said to a man sitting inside the door, and he was directed upstairs.
He found the editor's office, a secretary took his name, and a minute later he was shaking hands with Peter Hoyle. The editor was a tall, imposing man with white hair and a black mustache. He appeared to be finishing a meeting with a younger colleague. He spoke loudly, as if shouting over the noise of a printing press. "The hit-and-run-drivers story is fine, but the intro stinks, Jack," he said with a dismissive hand on the man's shoulder, moving him to the door. "Put a new nose on it. Move the mayor's statement to later and start with crippled c
hildren." Jack left, and Hoyle turned to Woody. "What have you got, kid?" he said without preamble.
"I was at the march today."
"You mean the riot."
"It wasn't a riot until the factory guards started hitting women with their clubs."
"I hear the marchers tried to break into the factory, and the guards repelled them."
"It's not true, sir, and the photos prove it."
"Show me."
Woody had arranged them in order while sitting on the bus. He put the first down on the editor's desk. "It started peacefully."
Hoyle pushed the photograph aside. "That's nothing," he said.
Woody brought out a picture taken at the factory. "The guards were waiting at the gate. You can see their nightsticks." His next picture had been taken when the shoving started. "The marchers were at least ten yards from the gate, so there was no need for the guards to try to move them back. It was a deliberate provocation."
"Okay," said Hoyle, and he did not push the pictures aside.
Woody brought out his best shot: a guard using a truncheon to beat a woman. "I saw this whole incident," Woody said. "All the woman did was tell him to stop shoving her, and he hit her like this."
"Good picture," said Hoyle. "Any more?"
"One," said Woody. "Most of the marchers ran away as soon as the fighting began, but a few fought back." He showed Hoyle the photograph of two demonstrators kicking a guard on the ground. "These men retaliated against the guard who hit the woman."
"You did a good job, young Dewar," said Hoyle. He sat at his desk and pulled a form from a tray. "Twenty bucks okay?"
"You mean you're going to print my photographs?"
"I assume that's why you brought them here."
"Yes, sir, thank you, twenty dollars is okay, I mean fine. I mean plenty."
Hoyle scribbled on the form and signed it. "Take this to the cashier. My secretary will tell you where to go."
The phone on the desk rang. The editor picked it up and barked: "Hoyle." Woody gathered he was dismissed, and left the room.
