Part 6

“Besides,” continued Owen, “McConnell was with us, and he would feel badly if he wasn’t counted in. He told me to-day his brother was going to give him money for a camera next Saturday, and it would be right to count him in as a—what do you call it?—charter member of the club. After that the others who came in would have to pay an initiation fee.”

“Yes,” Allan assented, “we must have McConnell.”

“Do you think your father would let us use the coach-house?”

“I’m sure he would,” Allan declared. “There are three rooms there he never uses, and—hello! there’s McConnell now.”

McConnell was on his wheel, and was riding with his hands in his pockets—a trick to which he was addicted. When he saw the boys he made so sudden a movement to extricate his hands and grasp the handle bars for a quick stop, that he had a narrow escape from a tumble in the gutter.

“McConnell,” said Owen, “if you think you can do that again, I’ll go and get my camera.”

“I hope you didn’t worry,” said McConnell, coolly. “I can stop and dismount with my hands in my pockets and not spill the machine either.”

“You ought to have joined the circus,” Allan said. “Or Buffalo Bill,” added Owen.

“Oh, say!” exclaimed McConnell, “did you hear that Buffalo Bill was going to be at Fitchville next month?”

“The Camera Club will have to go over,” said Owen.

“The Camera Club?” queried McConnell.

“Yes, McConnell; you didn’t know, did you, that you are a member of the Camera Club?”

“Am I? Without a camera?”

“Well, you’ll have one before the club gets ready to be a club.”

“I will have one soon,” said McConnell. “I hope next week. But what do you mean by the club?”

“We have been talking it over,” Allan said, “and Owen thinks we might have a club in our coach-house rooms. I got my money from the factory people to-day.”

“You did?” exclaimed McConnell; “without the plates?”

“But I got the plates again;” and Allan explained the situation to McConnell, how they had decided to use half the money in fitting up the rooms, and that Owen, McConnell, and Allan were to be charter members of the club.

McConnell did not conceal his delight over this news.

“Then I must have a camera!” he cried. “And are you going to get a new camera, Allan?”

“Yes, I think I’ll get a cartridge Kodak.”

“Then why not sell me your Wizard?”

“I want to sell it, and if you’d like it—”

“I would like it,” said McConnell. “I know what it can do.”

Allan mused a moment. “But I haven’t thought anything about what I should sell it for. It’s second-hand now.”

“Oh, it isn’t _very_ second-hand,” McConnell said.

“It is a fifteen-dollar camera,” said Allan. “Would ten dollars be too much?”

“I think that would be very fair,” said Owen.

“So do I,” added McConnell, “and that’s just what Bill has promised me.”

“Then we are all fixed!” laughed Owen. “Suppose the club goes and has a meeting?”

“I’ll agree to that,” said Allan, “if you fellows will go with me to Wincher’s while I get my cartridge camera. I can’t wait.”

“That’s all right,” said Owen, “we’ll have the first meeting of the club at Wincher’s; and besides, we want to see what he has that we can use for the club, don’t we?”

“Surely,” Allan assented, “and the club will be on hand to say what it wants.”

McConnell was immensely happy, and turned a handspring before getting on his wheel.

Allan knew that Wincher had a “four by five” cartridge Kodak in stock, and he went straight to the point as soon as he arrived at the store. Wincher put out the camera on the case, and Allan lifted it with affectionate eagerness. They opened the folding front, and Wincher reached for a film cartridge and showed Allan how it was placed in position by removing the sliding back of the box. It was all very pretty and ingenious and simple, and the boys were delighted. To make Allan’s satisfaction complete Wincher gave a cartridge with the camera for the twenty-five dollars.

“And now,” said Allan, “the club can do as it likes with the other twenty-five.”

“Don’t you think,” said Owen, “that we had better speak to your father first, and then make our plans?”

“If you like,” Allan said; “but I know it will be all right. And then we might look around the rooms and decide what we need.”

Dr. Hartel was much pleased with the plans for a club. He promised the boys several chairs, a box-scales, and other furnishings, which he had in mind, and gave them some advice as to rules which they must adopt as to the use and care of the dark-room. It was agreed that the rules should be written and posted in the rooms.

“You see,” said the Doctor, “when your new members come in there would be confusion if you did not have working rules and regulations.”

The boys had not thought much about the other members. “I wish there never would be any more,” said McConnell, “but just us.”

“But your new members will bring more funds and you can improve your outfit. However,” added the Doctor, “you must limit your membership.”

“Do you mean, The Hazenfield Camera Club Limited?” asked Allan.

“No,” laughed the Doctor, “that Limited means something different. I mean that you must decide now to have a certain number of members at the most—say, twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five!” exclaimed Allan. “Where could we put them?”

“Oh, they wouldn’t all be there at the same time. But you boys must plan all these things for yourselves. Find out how the best camera clubs are managed, and follow their example. Make yourselves at home in the coach-house, and call on me when you need help.”

The boys did immediately proceed to make themselves at home in the club rooms, which they surveyed with a pride greater than they ever had experienced before. The rooms, small as they were, seemed spacious and important, and gave the boys a grown-up and authoritative feeling.

“Do you want your camera now?” asked Allan, handing the Wizard to McConnell.

“But I haven’t the money yet,” faltered McConnell.

“What of that? I don’t need it. Whenever you are ready.”

McConnell murmured a “Thank you, Allan,” and gave the Wizard a friendly hug.

“And now,” said Owen, “before we go any further, I nominate for President of the club, Mr. Allan Hartel.”

“Hold on, Owen!” interposed Allan, “you are the oldest, you must be President.”

Owen ignored this interruption. “All those in favor will please say, Aye!” and Owen and McConnell roared a tremendous “Aye!”

“It’s carried unanimously!” exclaimed Owen.

“But, Owen—”

“And I move further,” went on Owen, “that Mr. Percy McConnell be Secretary. All in favor will please say, Aye!” and Allan now joined with Owen in a resounding affirmative vote. McConnell looked overpowered.

“Then you must be Treasurer, Owen,” declared Allan.

“Then elect me unanimously,” said Owen, “or there will be trouble!”

“All in favor—” Allan began.

“Aye!” shouted McConnell, Allan following after.

“All unanimously elected!” said Owen. “That’s good. Now we _are_ a club!”

X.

THE CAMERA CLUB.

“I DON’T think,” said Allan that afternoon, “that any club ever had more officers in proportion to its membership than this has.”

“Yes,” said Owen, “if we went into battle now the number of officers killed would be simply awful.”

“I suppose Mebley will want to come in,” said McConnell.

“And Varner,” added Allan.

“And May Pelwin,” Owen ventured.

“Will there be girls here?” asked McConnell, with perhaps a little of disappointment in his tone.

“Why not?” demanded Allan.

“Oh,” said McConnell, with a shrug of his shoulders, “I didn’t think they had girls in a club. I knew they had them in societies, and associations, and lodges, and circles,—but not in clubs.”

“Pshaw!” said Owen, “girls belong to everything nowadays.”

“I don’t suppose we need worry,” said Allan, “they may not think it is nice enough to join. We’ve got to fix this place up a good deal before many will want to join. Don’t you think we ought to paint it a little?”

“I think we ought to clean it a little anyway,” was Owen’s opinion, “clear out the dust from the front room. You’ve got the dark-room all right. Suppose we have another tap and sink, so that two of us can work at the same time if we want to?”

“Good idea,” assented Allan, “and an extra lamp. Then we will want another fixing-tray—a large one; another rack; and I was looking at that washing-box Wincher has; what do you say to that?”

“I have been thinking,” said Owen, “that we might have a gas meter put in and use these gas connections. Then we could run a line of pipe over the two sinks, and use gas in sliding-front red-glass boxes or something of that sort.”

Allan and McConnell both thought this was a capital idea. “And what do you think,” asked Allan, “of boxing in the head of the stairs, so as to keep out the light coming from the door in the daytime? We should have to do that anyhow to keep it warm here in winter.”

“That’s so,” said Owen.

Allan drew from his pocket a piece of paper covered with pencil lines. “This is what I really was thinking of doing here,” he said. The boys studied the diagram in which Allan had planned certain improvements in the dark-room, and had set off the smaller of the two rooms on the front for a printing room.

“Just the thing!” was Owen’s comment.

Yet, after much discussion, which occupied most of the following morning, the boys made radical changes in these plans. They finally decided to divide with a partition the room which had been used for developing, leaving access from the stairs to the front room without interference with the dark-room work; and by making the dark-room smaller several advantages seemed to be gained.

Unfortunately the estimates for these changes, from the plumber and carpenter, reached forty-five dollars. “Then we can do the carpentering ourselves,” said Allan. “That will make quite a difference.” Upon inquiry they found this would make ten dollars difference.

“And we will have the initiation fees,” said Owen. They had decided on an initiation fee of three dollars for new members, with monthly dues of fifty cents.

“We have four applications,” said McConnell. “That will make twelve dollars.”

“Then we are safe enough,” said Owen, “for there will be other new members as soon as we let it be known that we have a camera club with rooms here.”

The week following was a busy one for the boys. It was early September, and the weather was warm; so warm that the amateur carpenters in the coach-house found their work very arduous at times, and were not unhappy when they were compelled to wait occasionally in order to keep out of the way of the plumbers.

Before the work was finished there were three more applications for membership.

“Say!” cried McConnell, one afternoon, “guess who wants to be a member? Oh, you never will—Mr. Thornton!”

Mr. Thornton was the principal of the high school.

Allan dropped his hammer. “Mr. Thornton!”

“Yes. He says he thinks it is a good idea, and that he has been wanting a place where he could do his own developing if he wanted to.”

“Mr. Thornton boards at Mrs. Peckpole’s,” said Owen, “and you know what a crank _she_ is. Nobody could ever do any developing in _her_ house.”

“I never thought of men and women joining the club,” said Allan, a little perplexed.

McConnell was decidedly amused. “What will they think of us kids for officers?”

“We shall have to have a regular constitution with by-laws,” said Allan, “and then they can elect new officers.”

What actually happened was this: Within two weeks there were twenty applications for membership in the club. The applicants included Miss Manston, the Mayor’s daughter, Mrs. Creigh, the librarian, Mr. Austin, the Congregational clergyman, Mr. Goodstone of the bank, and Major Mines from the Ardmore Farm,—an aggregation that filled Allan with no little trepidation. When a constitution and by-laws had been drawn up, a thing happened that very much surprised Allan and his first associates; for on motion of Mr. Thornton all of the original officers were reëlected for a year. Allan could scarcely believe the vote, and Owen grew very red with embarrassment. As for McConnell, he seemed perfectly at home, and only chuckled with pleasure as he recorded the vote in his note-book.

The first formal meeting had been held in the larger of the two front rooms in the coach-house, and the fifteen members who attended did not find themselves greatly crowded. Under the new constitution two officers were added—a Vice-President and a Curator. Mrs. Creigh was elected Vice-President, and the office of Curator was bestowed upon Mr. Goodstone, who, it appeared after a while (the boys could not fancy, at first, what a curator was for), would supervise the buying of supplies for the club, and have authority over the club rooms. The funds from the increased membership enabled the club to complete in a satisfactory way the arrangement of the dark room and other quarters. One feature of the small room created by the dark-room partition was a series of lockers, each member thus being provided with a place in which to keep his personal implements and supplies.

Dr. Hartel refused to accept any rental for the rooms, but did not refuse an election as honorary member, and watched the progress of the club with great pride. When Edith read in the Hazenfield _Herald_ about the Camera Club election of officers, and saw Allan’s name at the head of the list, she laughed with pleasure.

It was at the first meeting that Mr. Austin had said, “We must have an outing. There will be but a few more weeks of good outing weather.”

The proposal met with favor. Mr. Goodstone suggested Saturday afternoons for weekly club “meets,” and the first meet took place on the following Saturday, when twelve of the members, young and old, went on a short tramp into the hills.

Allan thought that nothing about the trip was so interesting, so truly picturesque, as the club itself; for it was a mixed company truly. The most serious-minded photographer in the group was Major Mines, whose hired man, Napoleon, a portly negro, carried an immense outfit, bristling with shining modern improvements, heavy with conveniences, and packed into the corners with things you might want. Some of the boys were always ready to help the Major get Napoleon and his outfit over a fence; and, indeed, such assistance was necessary if the Major was to make any progress. The Major made two pictures during the day, and for these he made elaborate preparations, choosing his view-point after long study on a plan of action he had laid out, and setting up his camera only after long wrestlings with the many improvements and conveniences that were stowed in his carrying case. His bald head remained under the focussing cloth for minutes at a time. Twice he hobbled down a field to break off discordant sprigs and branches. When he made the exposures his face was as tense and solemn as if he was giving the signal at an execution.

A little Miss Illwin also took her photography with great solemnity. Miss Illwin was very cautious, too. She did not believe in wasting plates. All the afternoon she debated about a good point of view. She scrutinized the spots selected by other members, and then shook her head. “The light doesn’t seem quite right,” she said. Miss Illwin had a small, dainty camera, and she studied the finder frequently, puckering her white forehead and shifting her eye-glasses in an earnest and tireless way. At last toward four o’clock she was discovered on the brow of a low hill overlooking a brook. For a long time she stood there in the sun, quite motionless, with her head under the focussing cloth. Then her head lifted, a plate-holder was placed in position, the exposure accomplished, and she turned and hurried after the nearest group of members.

“I made an exposure over there,” she said, with something like a sigh, “but I don’t see _why_ I did it. It would have been much better at the foot of the hill!”

Mr. Goodstone and Varner and Mebley were all very exact and painstaking, but they took as much pleasure in shooting at one thing as another. Miss Manston frequently asked Allan’s assistance here and at her house. Mrs. Creigh was enthusiastic over many things, and worked with much ardor under a heavy, satin-lined focussing cloth. Young Coggshall complained during the whole trip,—of the heat of the sun, of the stupidity of the landscapes, of the meanness of plate-holders, of the superiority of other landscapes, other times of the year, other kinds of plate-holders.

Mr. Austin was a very different companion. He watched Allan and the boys at work, encouraged Mrs. Creigh, gave a hand to Major Mines, assisted Mr. Goodstone in a tape-measuring experiment, led an expedition to a hillside farmhouse after a pail of milk, and joined McConnell in a camera duel, Owen standing by and dropping a handkerchief as a signal to fire.

In the suburbs of Hazenfield Mr. Austin found a group of barefooted youngsters, a subject entirely to his taste—no one excelled Mr. Austin in pictures of children—and while he was photographing the group strung along in the road, Allan caught both group and photographer, laughingly turning his head when he had done so to see whether any one had caught him in turn. This happened many times during the day, that the picture-makers were pictured. Indeed, Allan’s pictures were almost entirely of the club itself.

The same thing was true of the club’s trip along the river front, where shore and river offered so many interesting backgrounds to any theme the camera might select. On this day McConnell made a great success with a train coming through a cutting.

It was at Allan’s suggestion that the club decided to spend a Saturday at Central Park in New York, and this proved to be one of the most entertaining and successful trips of the club. In the first place nineteen members mustered in the morning, which was regarded as a large attendance; and Mr. Goodstone, who was kept at the bank in the morning, hunted up the party before the afternoon was far advanced.

“This puts me in mind of a Cook’s tourist party,” said Mr. Austin.

“With the Major ‘personally conducting’ us,” laughed Mrs. Creigh.

The fact is that while Owen, as treasurer, had attended to getting the tickets at the station, and Allan, after consultation with Mr. Thornton, had written to the office of the Park Board for permits for the club, the Major, by general consent, had been selected to lead the party in the park, he being most familiar with all the features of this beauty spot in the heart of Manhattan.

The lakes and bridges and grottoes of the park never were more ardently photographed than on the day when the Hazenfield Camera Club descended upon it. Even the big white bear at the Zoo, who always looked bored when he saw a camera, stared curiously at the Hazenfield party; the ostriches looked scornful, and the rhinoceros seemed likely to strangle himself in an effort to keep himself out of sight under water.

Of course Allan photographed the elephants. All the members wanted to photograph the elephants, and Major Mines induced the keeper to make special display of the Princess; and the Princess, while not at all guilty of looking pleasant, at least turned an almost motionless profile to the bristling battery of cameras.

“Mercy!” cried Miss Manston, “I never should have supposed anything was so hard as photographing an elephant with so many people looking on!”

There were a great many onlookers, and many of them felt quite free to comment, not merely on the elephant and the camera, but on the photographers. Miss Illwin, with her head under the focussing cloth, was an object of much interest. Miss Illwin had a little loop stitched to her hat so that she could suspend it from a hook on the under side of the tripod after it had been set up. This left her free to study her ground glass without greater disturbance than the mussing of her hair, which did not seem to annoy her at all.

It was a balmy day, and the out-door cages were full of listless and sleepy lions, tigers, leopards, wild-cats; bison, zebras, camels, and deer roamed in the inclosures; the eagles screamed, and the monkeys were in their most talkative mood. Photographing through the bars was a delicate problem. The pelican and other queer birds strutted and squeaked and flapped their wings at the visitors and at each other. The children who peered between the bars of the cages, who laughed with the parrots, threw peanuts to the monkeys, or stared in awe at the dromedary, were a camera theme in themselves; and Mr. Austin often was seen to be picturing or talking to them, or slipping pennies into their hands on the outskirts of the crowd at the candy stall.

Allan and McConnell were commenting on the mountain goat, and McConnell was saying, “He has a Van Dyck beard, hasn’t he?” when Allan caught sight of a man over by the zebras, who was studying the finder of a hand camera, and thoughtfully puckering his mouth until his mustache looked more than ever like the bristles of a brush.

Allan left McConnell and ran toward the man.

“Hello, Mr. Dobbs!”

“Well, I’ll be blowed!” exclaimed the man; “where did you come from?”

“You’re a nice detective,” laughed Allan; “here’s half of Hazenfield, and you haven’t seen us!”

Dobbs grinned. “I just got here.” Then he held up his camera. “I had to get one, and I sneaked up here to try it. The worst crook in the country would be perfectly safe to-day—I haven’t been able to see anything but this finder since ten o’clock. But what is the crowd doing here? why, there’s Major Mines, and Mr. Thornton—and Goodstone.”

“This is the club,” said Allan.

“The club?”

“Yes; haven’t you heard of it?—the Hazenfield Camera Club.”

“Why, yes,” Dobbs said. “I did hear something about a club, but I thought it was only two or three of you boys.”

“It has grown since then.”

“Evidently—hello, McConnell! You’re in it too. Say, I want to be a member, if you’ll take me.”

“I don’t see why not,” laughed Allan, “now that you’re a photographer.”

“Well,” said Dobbs, moving the bristles of his mustache again, “I’m not much of a photographer yet. I’ve only had courage to push the button once. I was just going to take the zebra—thought Sporty might like to see it.”

“What kind of a camera is yours?” asked McConnell. “Just a plain Detective, I suppose,” interposed Allan, laughing.

“It’s a Dashaway,” said Dobbs. “I got it through a pard of mine here in New York. He says it’s a good one. Sporty and me’ll have great fun with it. What do I have to do to get into your club?”

“That’s easy,” McConnell said. “Three dollars initiation fee and fifty cents a month.”

“It’s too cheap,” said Dobbs. “How do you get initiated?—in the dark, of course.”

“Yes,” said Allan; “you have to sit on a tripod, focus a camera over your left shoulder, and recite the eiko-hydro developer backwards at the same time.”

“Or treat?” asked Dobbs.

“Or treat to a bottle of developer.”

“I’ll risk it,” said Dobbs, “if you’ll let me in.”

Mr. Thornton came up and recognized the detective. “Good afternoon, Mr. Dobbs; looking for the owner of a camera?”

“No,” returned Dobbs; “I’ve found him. This is mine, and I want to join your club if you’ll let me.”

“The more the merrier, Mr. Dobbs. You must join us to-day, anyhow. They are not fitting out the detective force with cameras, are they?”

“Not yet. There is no business about this. I am playing truant to-day.”

“I dare say you deserve a holiday,” said Mr. Thornton.