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 moustache. 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 driver’s 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 children.’ 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.

He was elated. The payment was amazing, but he was more thrilled that the newspaper would use his photos. He followed the secretary’s directions to a little room with a counter and a teller’s window, and got his twenty bucks. Then he went home in a taxi.