IV.AN ILL-KEPT SECRET.
THE visit of the factory superintendent gave a new excitement to further work on the negatives.
“We certainly shall have to be very careful of them now,” said Allan.
“Yes,” said McConnell, “they are worth $16.66 apiece—oh, yes, and a fraction!”
“Just to think!” Edith exclaimed, “that this strange thing should happen on the very first night you have your camera.”
Owen was holding the third negative between his eyes and the lamp. “This is quite good,” he said.
“Yes,” Allan remarked. “And you deserve all the credit. We’ll have to share the prize money.”
“No, no!” Owen answered to this. “You could have done it all without me. It was simple enough.”
“It is simple enough when you know how, isn’t it?” laughed the Doctor. “Well, Allan, we’ll have to leave you with your prize plates. Mind you wash them carefully. If they are to be used as evidence they shouldn’t have any questionable spots on them anywhere. To be sure a flaw could be distinguished from a genuine light impression, unless it was a discoloration in the emulsion. That’s the reason the negatives themselves are better evidence than the prints from the negatives. The negatives could be tinkered so as to show fire in every window, I suppose. But the negatives themselves would show that this had been done. So many tricks can be done in photography that I don’t suppose that a photograph in itself could even be offered as proof. But it is pretty good corroborative evidence when you have the negative.”
“That is what this would be, isn’t it?” asked Edith, “corroborative evidence?”
“I presume so, if the matter goes so far. They probably can prove by eye-witnesses that the fire started on the east side of the wing, at least I should think so; but the camera will be a first-rate supplementary witness. We can testify that it was absolutely impartial.”
“Good fellow,” murmured Edith, patting the camera as if it were her dog Sandy.
After the Doctor and Edith had gone Owen and Allan stood the three plates in a bucket and placed the bucket under the tap.
“That’s as good a washing-box as any,” Owen said, “when you have only three plates.”
While the water overflowed from the bucket into the sink the three boys sat on some boxes that werestored in the room, and talked of the fire, and the camera, and picture-making, and Owen related some of the things that happened to him.
“The first pictures I ever made,” he said, “were of a railroad train. I took one of the train coming up the track, and one when it was going by. I got them both on the one plate, and it was the worst smash-up you ever saw.”
“I suppose every one makes doubles,” suggested Allan.
“Oh, yes, they say that even big photographers do it sometimes. And itisrough! You see you only make one mistake and lose two pictures.”
“It doesn’t seem fair, does it?” mused McConnell, rather sleepily. McConnell usually went to bed at nine.
When the plates had been immersed in the flowing water for half an hour, Owen stood them on a near-by shelf, resting them against the wall. “They’ll be dry in the morning.”
“And then we can make proofs,” said Allan.
Under these circumstances it is not surprising that Allan was up early the next morning and out to the dark-room to look at his plates. To his great disappointment they were not yet dry. The upper floor of the stable was left without ventilation, and the surfaces of the plates were still moist save for a space of half an inch around the edges.
When Allan consulted his father, Dr. Hartel advised him to open the windows and to place the plates in a current of air. Having done this, Allan started out at once to get the materials for his developing outfit. In view of the fifty dollars that was to come from the plates, Allan thought that he might spend a little morethan he first had intended to spend on his dark-room. He determined to divide the money with Owen, but even with twenty-five dollars he could, if he chose, buy a fine new camera and still have money left.
On his way to Owen, who was going with him to the Hazenfield stationers’ where they sold “amateur photographic outfits,” Allan met Cheney, who had seen him at the fire with the camera. Allan did not like Cheney; the truth is, that Cheney did not have a very good reputation in Hazenfield. He had been expelled from the high school, and was what is known as a suspicious and troublesome boy.
“What were you trying to do?” demanded Cheney, “photographing in the dark?”
“The fire wasn’t dark,” returned Allan.
“You don’t mean to say that you tried to photograph the fire!”
“Of course I do.”
“Did you get it?”
“Of course I did.”
“Well,” said Cheney, as if he did not believe the assertion, “I’d like to see ’em.”
“They’re not mine to show, now,” said Allan, with a pride that he could not conceal, even from Cheney. “I sold them.”
“Sold ’em!” exclaimed Cheney. “To who?”
“To the factory people. There’s something about the factory being set afire, and beside that there’s some insurance trouble about where the fire started, and they’ve given me fifty dollars for the plates.”
Cheney gave a long whistle. “Golly!” he cried. “You’re right in it, ain’t yer! Fifty dollars! I didn’t suppose any picture could ever be worth as much as that.”
“You see,” said Allan, “they can use the pictures as proof if there’s any trouble.”
“Proof of what?” Cheney demanded incredulously.
“Proof of which side of the wing the fire started.”
Cheney smiled as if this idea was very amusing. “I hope you get it,” he said, as Allan went on.
Allan felt rather sorry to have said anything to Cheney about the sale of the plates. When he came to think the thing over he could see that the factory people, while they had not said so, might not wish to have the matter known. Allan felt, too, as if he had been boasting, even though Cheney had drawn him into the confession.
He made up his mind not to say a word to any one else, and determined to ask Owen and McConnell not to speak about it. When Owen heard from Allan about his meeting with Cheney and how sorry he was that he had said anything to Cheney, he himself agreed with Allan.
“I shan’t mention it,” Owen assured Allan. “I haven’t mentioned it to any one but mother. She wondered where I had been, of course. I think you had better speak to McConnell.”
“I shall,” said Allan. “Big McConnell would be just the one to spread the thing everywhere.”
“Let us go around to McConnell’s now,” suggested Owen, “and tell him about it.”
They found McConnell sitting in a swing in his yard reading a book. “McConnell is always reading,” said Owen.
“Hello!” called Allan. “What are you reading, McConnell? I’ll bet it is about an Indian, a detective, or a princess.”
“Wrong,” replied McConnell. “It’s about a farmer’s boy.”
“And what does he get to be?” Owen asked.
“I don’t know yet,” McConnell returned. “Maybe a farmer!” he added, laughing.
Allan then spoke about the fire and the pictures.
“I tell you,” said McConnell, “I haven’t said anything to anybody but the folks at home, and Billy Basset, and the butcher, and—yes, and Mr. Hanford.”
“In that case,” said Owen, “I guess we might as well tell the rest of the town.”
“What do you mean?” McConnell was mystified.
“Only that I thought that maybe we should keep quiet about selling the pictures.”
“I see,” McConnell assented, “until you get the money.”
“Oh, I mean anyway,” said Allan. “Perhaps the factory folks may not want everybody to know, and everybody would know if they heard that they had bought the plates.”
“That settles it!” exclaimed McConnell, “I’ll be quiet. I won’t even tell the postman, and I always tell him everything. Have you printed the proofs yet?”
“No; the plates aren’t dry yet, somehow. We are going down to get the dark-room things, and we shall get some proof paper.”
“I’ll go with you,” McConnell said, pushing his book under the porch seat.
Little Artie, McConnell’s younger brother, came running around the house. “Take my picture taken,” he cried to Allan, who was carrying the camera.
“McConnell was sitting in a swing.”
“McConnell was sitting in a swing.”
“McConnell was sitting in a swing.”
“It’s funny,” laughed McConnell, “but Artie alwaysgets it that way. He has heard us say ‘get your picture taken,’ and he always says ‘take my picture taken,’ or ‘take your picture taken.’”
Artie repeated his request, peering into the finder of Allan’s box. “All right,” said Allan.
“Wait a minute,” called McConnell, “wait till I put him on my wheel.” Artie was lifted up. “Now,” said McConnell.
Artie started when he heard the click of the shutter. “Did you take my picture taken?” he asked.
“Yes,” Allan laughed, “I took your picture taken.”
“Then let me see it,” demanded Artie.
“Not yet, Artie,—to-morrow.”
Artie then went back to a box of sand in which he had been playing.
It took Allan nearly an hour to complete his purchases. He had the advantage of Owen’s advice, in the choice of trays, for instance. Owen had tried lacquered tin, glass, and pressed paper, but liked rubber best. These cost more, but as he only required three, two to be used in developing and a larger one, capable of holding four plates, for “fixing,” Allan felt that he could afford it,—especially with his share of the fifty dollars to come.
Certainly it was great fun to buy these utensils, and the shining glass graduate,—Dr. Hartel had promised Allan a second, large, graduate, as well as a hydrometer and some stopper bottles; the brass-hinged printing frames, the “hypo” and developing chemicals, and the dark-room lamp.
“Artie was lifted up.”
“Artie was lifted up.”
“Artie was lifted up.”
At first Allan had thought of building a dark-room light-box, with red cover glass, in which an ordinary small lamp could be placed; but in view of the probable usefulness of the portable lamp on certain expeditions which he had in mind, he decided to get an ordinary dark-room lamp, and it was a pretty affair. Dr. Hartel had urged Allan to prepare his own developer, at least until he had learned how developers were made up and what properties they had.
All these points had to be talked over, and Mr. Wincher, the stationer, who was an amateur photographer himself, and had on that account come to sell photographic supplies as a department in his store, was patient throughout the selection and offered plenty of advice too.
“Photographers are great fellows for giving advice,” laughed the stationer.
“I’ll need quite a supply of advice, too,” returned Allan.
Owen and Mr. Wincher did not always agree as to what was best to do. When they agreed on any point Allan was likely to accept their decision. When they did not agree, Allan made the best use he could of their judgment. The truth is that Allan had been reading so much about photography lately that he had made up his mind on a great many points. Dr. Hartel had told him that he must experiment on his own account. “What you will learn from these experiments,” he said, “may be worth more to you than the pictures. You must try and learn something from each experiment. This is the only way you will ever reallyknowa thing. We act on the best advice we can get to begin with; then we prove to ourselves that what has been said is true or not true—or, maybe, that it is partly true and partly not true. An Englishman once said that he would like photography better if it weren’t for the pictures. He was taking a scientific view of the matter. He liked the chemical fun better than the picture fun. I think you will not like the picture fun any the less for taking an interest in the chemistry, and the better your chemistry the more you are likely to find to enjoy in your pictures. But chemistry will give you many disappointments. In any case, you will have disappointments—and they will do you good.”
As the boys were all eager to see proofs of the fire negatives, they hurried back to the stable with their bundles, McConnell asking leave to carry the camera.
“There is one thing I like about this sort of printing,” said Owen, “and that is that you don’t have tohave ink. I always get mussed up so with my ink press.”
“But when you get the thing started,” said McConnell, “you can print quicker on the printing press.”
“I believe you can get mussed up in photography, if you want to,” suggested Allan.