The spectacle of half a dozen strange men invading a
house in the midnight hour armed with big pistols which they shot
off recklessly was hardly reassuring, however sugary our speech,
and it was not to be wondered at if the tenants bolted through
windows and down fire-escapes wherever we went. But as no one was
murdered, things calmed down after a while, though months after I
found the recollection of our visits hanging over a Stanton Street
block like a nightmare. We got some good pictures; but very soon
the slum and the awkward hours palled upon the amateurs. I found
myself alone just when I needed help most. I had made out by the
flashlight possibilities my companions little dreamed of.
[Illustration: "The tenants bolted through the windows"]
I hired a professional photographer next whom I found in dire straits.
He was even less willing to get up at 2 A.M. than my friends who
had a good excuse. He had none, for I paid him well. He repaid me
by trying to sell my photographs behind my back. I had to replevin
the negatives to get them away from him.
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