[Illustration: JOEL CARROW DARTED FROM THE BARN, AND AFTER THE
SCAMPERING PIGS.]
Bob
The Photographer
_Or, A Hero in Spite of Himself_
BY
ARTHUR M. WINFIELD
AUTHOR OF “THE ROVER BOYS SERIES,” “THE PUTNAM
HALL SERIES,” ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
STITT PUBLISHING COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
BOOKS BY ARTHUR M. WINFIELD
_ROVER BOYS SERIES for young Americans_
_Price, per volume, 60 cents_
ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL
ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN
ROVER BOYS IN THE JUNGLE
ROVER BOYS OUT WEST
ROVER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES
ROVER BOYS IN THE MOUNTAINS
ROVER BOYS ON LAND AND SEA
ROVER BOYS IN CAMP
ROVER BOYS ON THE RIVER
_PUTNAM HALL SERIES_
_Price, per volume, 60 cents_
THE PUTNAM HALL CADETS
(Other volumes in preparation)
Copyright, 1902
BY A. WESSELS COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. BOB AND HIS TROUBLES, 9
II. BOB AT THE CLIFF, 22
III. BOB AT THE HALF-WAY HOUSE, 33
IV. BOB IS LEFT TO HIS FATE, 45
V. BOB MAKES HIS ESCAPE, 55
VI. BOB LEARNS SOMETHING, 72
VII. BOB AND THE ELEPHANT, 87
VIII. BOB OBTAINS A SITUATION, 101
IX. BOB HAS A LIVELY FIGHT, 116
X. BOB’S FIRST CUSTOMER, 125
XI. BOB ASSISTS A STRANGER, 138
XII. BOB’S QUEER EXPERIENCE, 148
XIII. BOB MAKES A TRUE FRIEND, 159
XIV. BOB MAKES A NEW MOVE, 170
XV. BOB BECOMES A TRAVELLING PHOTOGRAPHER, 178
XVI. BOB TAKES A DIVE OVERBOARD, 187
XVII. BOB MAKES A STRANGE CAPTURE, 195
XVIII. BOB SHOWS UP A SWINDLER, 202
XIX. BOB ON THE ROAD, 209
XX. BOB IN THE WOODS, 217
XXI. BOB TAKES A RISK, 224
XXII. BOB ON THE FREIGHT TRAIN, 231
XXIII. BOB FORMS A RESOLUTION, 238
XXIV. BOB STICKS UP FOR A FRIEND, 246
XXV. BOB AND FRANK STAND TOGETHER, 252
XXVI. BOB SHOWS HIS NERVE, 259
XXVII. BOB MAKES A FIND, 267
XXVIII. BOB MEETS OLD BLAKE, 273
XXIX. BOB HEARS INTERESTING NEWS, 280
XXX. BOB LEARNS SOMETHING OF THE PAST, 287
XXXI. BOB GOES IT ALONE, 295
XXXII. BOB BECOMES A PRISONER, 302
XXXIII. BOB AND HIS MOTHER--CONCLUSION, 313
INTRODUCTION
MY DEAR BOYS:
“Bob the Photographer” relates the adventures of a wide-awake lad who
suddenly finds himself thrown out on the world at large to make his way
and earn his own living.
Bob falls in with an amateur photographer, a “camera fiend,” and
becomes so interested in the art that he resolves to take up
photography for a living. He does so, and his pictures being good, he
obtains a situation with a railroad company, to make pictures along the
line, for use in the company’s guide books, and for other purposes.
This work leads him into a number of adventures, in many of which he
proves “a hero in spite of himself.”
My object in writing this tale was twofold. First, to let boys know
how they can get on in this world, no matter how humble the start,
providing they will do to the best of their ability whatever their
hands find to do. Success is deserved only when one “pitches in” with a
will, and when one “sticks at it” to the end.
My second object was to let my readers know something about
photography, providing they have not already mastered the first steps
in that art. During my leisure hours I have taken up “snap shotting”
myself, and have found that, and the work of developing and printing
the pictures, very interesting. All told, there is no cleaner or better
recreation, nor one better calculated to make the follower more patient.
Trusting the story will prove to your liking, I remain,
Affectionately and sincerely yours,
ARTHUR M. WINFIELD.
BOB THE PHOTOGRAPHER
CHAPTER I
BOB AND HIS TROUBLES
“Bob! I say, Bob! Where is that saw?”
“I left it in the barn, Mr. Carrow.”
“Humph! I don’t believe it. I’ve looked all over, and I can’t find it.”
“I left it on the peg where it belongs,” returned the boy, his eyes
flashing at the manner in which he had been addressed.
“I don’t believe a word on it!” growled Joel Carrow. “You are always
leavin’ things layin’ round loose. Go an’ git it, an’ be quick about
it, or you’ll git your hide tanned well, mind that!”
Bob Alden stood for a moment irresolute, and then folded his arms and
unflinchingly faced the man before him.
“If the saw isn’t where I put it, I don’t know where it is,” he said.
“What’s that?” roared the farmer. “Don’t talk back to me! Be off with
you, and bring it quick.”
Still the boy did not budge. Joel Carrow gazed at him in amazement,
then made a rush and seized the youth by the arm.
“See here, what’s got into you this mornin’?” he snarled. “Ain’t you
a-goin’ to obey me?”
“No, I’m not,” answered Bob, coolly and firmly.
“You ain’t?” gasped Joel Carrow, scarcely believing he had heard aright.
It was the first time that Bob had stood up for himself, and the mean,
miserly farmer for whom he worked could not fully comprehend the turn
of affairs.
“No, I am not,” repeated the youth. “Let go of my arm.”
“Oh, I’ll let go!” snarled Joel Carrow, in a rage. “Take that!” and
with his disengaged hand he aimed a blow at Bob’s head. The youth
ducked, and the fist of the farmer came in sharp and painful contact
with a corner of the pig-sty he was repairing. With a howl of pain he
let go his hold on the boy and placed his wounded hand to his mouth,
and then swung it in the air. The youth lost no time in retreating
several paces.
“I’ll fix you!” cried Joel Carrow. “You’re a good-for-nothin’ lazy
whelp!”
“Thank you!” returned Bob, with increased coolness. “And you are the
meanest man in the State.”
“Shut up!”
“I won’t. I’ve stood your abuse long enough, and now I intend to speak
my mind. I’ve worked for you nearly a year now, and in that time you
have treated me worse than a dog.”
“I’ve treated you better’n yer deserve,” muttered Joel Carrow, not
knowing what else to say.
“You promised to give me ten dollars a month and my board, and you have
never yet paid me a full month’s wages, always deducting something for
this or that I couldn’t help; and the food you gave me wasn’t fit for a
pig.”
With a snarl Joel Carrow sprang toward Bob. The youth had told the
plain truth, and it was evident the farmer knew it only too well.
Bob retreated, and his miserly employer followed him into the
barn-yard. He had almost succeeded in catching the youth, when he
tripped over a pitchfork and fell headlong into a puddle of water. His
face was covered with mud, so was his blue jean shirt, and he was a
sight to behold.
Bob gazed for a second in silence, and then burst into a peal of
laughter.
“Hold up, till I take a snap shot of you!” sang out a voice from the
fence behind the barn.
Bob looked in the direction, and beheld a young man seated on the top
rail of the fence. The newcomer held a camera on his lap, and the lens
was pointed toward Joel Carrow.
Before the farmer could rise from the puddle, there was a click, and
the amateur photographer had taken his picture.
Bob gazed with interest at the young man. He had seen the fellow
before, and knew him to be the son of a wealthy merchant of New York.
“I was going to take a picture of still life around the barn,”
explained the newcomer. “But this suits me better.”
“Go on about yer business,” snarled Joel Carrow.
“What are you chasing that boy for?”
“None o’ yer business, Frank Landes. Clear out, afore I set the dogs on
you!”
“I must say you are in a very amiable mood this morning, Carrow,”
laughed Frank Landes, without shifting his position.
“Are yer goin’?”
“Not just yet. I saw you try to strike the boy, and I’m curious to know
what it’s all about.”
“You have no right on my place.”
“That’s true, Carrow, in one way, but not in another.”
“What do you mean?” returned the farmer, uneasily.
“I came down to tell you that the last consignment of eggs you sent our
firm weren’t strictly fresh, and unless you do better in the future,
Mr. Dale says he will get his eggs elsewhere.”
“Them eggs were strictly fresh when they left here,” grumbled Joel
Carrow.
“That’s not so,” put in Bob. “The eggs were taken from those we had
stored all winter, and----”
“Shut up!” interrupted the farmer, red with rage.
“I won’t. I said it wasn’t a fair way to do when you shipped them.”
“If yer don’t keep quiet, I’ll wring yer neck!”
Joel Carrow made another dive for the youth. Bob escaped to the barn,
but before he could go farther the farmer caught him by the collar,
pulled him backward, and threw him down.
“I’ll fix yer!” he foamed, as he caught up a heavy stick, and hauled
back ready to strike Bob on the head.
“Don’t you dare strike me, Joel Carrow!”
“Yer can’t worry me, Bob Alden. Let this be a lesson to you.”
Joel Carrow’s hand was about to descend, but the blow never reached its
mark.
“Not so fast!” sang out the voice of Frank Landes, and the next instant
the farmer was hurled backward, and the stick was wrenched from his
grasp.
Taking advantage of the interruption, Bob Alden sprang quickly to his
feet.
“I owe you one for that,” he said to Frank Landes.
“No, you don’t,” returned Landes. “If I am not mistaken, it was you
saved me from that wild bull the day I was taking pictures over in
Sarding’s meadow.”
Bob smiled. He remembered the incident well, in which he had played the
part of a hero.
During this time Joel Carrow was muttering a number of nasty things
under his breath. He now strode over to where Frank Landes stood, the
stick still in his hand.
“You ain’t got no right ter interfere in this fashion,” he began,
savagely.
“No?” returned Landes, with just the faintest show of a smile playing
around the corners of his mouth.
“No, yer ain’t. I won’t stand it.”
“What do you propose to do about it?”
“I’ll--I’ll have yer arrested.”
At this even Bob was compelled to laugh. The laugh enraged the miserly
farmer still more, and his eyes blazed furiously.
“It ain’t no laughin’ matter.”
“You have no right to hit the boy,” returned Frank Landes, sternly.
“What do you know about it?”
“If I hadn’t stepped in you would have nearly killed him.”
“He deserves it,” howled Carrow. “He’s the imp’s own.”
“What’s the row?”
“As I said afore, it’s none o’ your business.”
“He said I hadn’t put the saw where it belonged,” explained Bob. “I
placed it on the peg in this barn, and just because it wasn’t there, he
told me he was going to tan my hide for me.”
“And I presume you objected to the tanning process, eh?”
“I did.”
“I don’t wonder. Carrow, you are a big brute.”
“What!”
“I’ve said it, and I’ll stick to it. You are a brute and ought to go to
jail.”
“Take care, Landes, I ain’t standin’ everything,” snarled the farmer.
“Is this boy anything to you?”
“I hired him ter work on the farm, but he ain’t wuth his salt.”
“He works me half to death,” put in Bob. “He makes me get up at four
o’clock every morning, Sundays included, and I don’t have five minutes
to myself till it’s time to knock off, generally nine or ten o’clock at
night.”
“I wouldn’t stay if I were you,” replied Frank Landes.
“I don’t intend to. I’m going to leave to-day.”
It was a sudden resolution on Bob’s part, but the youth meant it.
“Leave!” ejaculated Joel Carrow, in sudden alarm.
“Yes, leave.”
“Yer month ain’t up.”
“I don’t care.”
“I won’t pay yer a cent.”
“I don’t care for that, either. I’m going, and that’s all there is to
it.”
“You ought to pay the boy what is coming to him,” put in Frank Landes.
“Not a cent,” returned the farmer, decidedly.
“You had better, Carrow. If you don’t, I’ll help him take his case to
the nearest justice and testify as to how you’ve been treating him.”
“You villain!”
“Softly, sir. You had no more right to hit that boy than you had to hit
me. The best thing you can do is to settle up with him.”
Joel Carrow breathed hard. He wanted to say something sharp, to tear
somebody to pieces, but he didn’t dare to make a move, and there was
really nothing to say.
Frank Landes turned to Bob.
“How much does he owe you?” he asked.
“Five dollars on this month, and three on last.”
“Then, Carrow, pay the boy eight dollars and let him go.”
The coolness of the suggestion amazed the farmer. He stared at the
young man and staggered up against a feed box.
“Pay--him--eight--dollars?” he said, with painful slowness.
“Either that, or I will take him to the nearest justice without further
delay. You will find going to law much more expensive.”
Joel Carrow gave a groan. Then he brought forth a well-worn pocket-book
and with trembling fingers counted out eight greasy bills.
“Now you are acting sensibly,” said Landes, as Bob took the money.
“Will you go with me?” he asked, turning to the youth.
“Where to?”
“I am bound to Stampton, on a camera tour. I will pay your way if you
care to go.”
“I’ll jump at the chance,” returned Bob, quickly. “I would like----”
“Joel! Joel Carrow! Where are you?” came in the shrill voice of the
farmer’s wife. “Here you are leavin’ the pig-sty wide open an’ all the
pigs running into the garden! Mercy sakes! one of ’em’s in the dairy!
Come quick, you big fool, an’ tend to ’em, or I’ll be out there with a
broom!”
Mrs. Carrow’s angry voice was coming nearer, and without stopping to
parley longer with the others, Joel Carrow darted from the barn, and
after the scampering pigs who were scattering in all directions.
“Now is your chance to get away,” said Frank Landes, hurriedly. “I
presume you have a better suit of clothes than that.”
Bob shook his head.
“This is my best and only one.”
“And your shoes?”
“The same, and also the hat. But I have a few things up in my room,”
and running up the ladder to the part of the loft called his room Bob
soon reappeared with a small bundle tied up in a piece of old table
oil-cloth.
“Here are all my duds,” he laughed. “Ain’t quite a trunk full, is it?
Now I’m ready to----”
A wild cry from outside reached their ears, and both ran to the
door-way and then out into the barn-yard.
“By Jove! that’s rich!” cried Frank Landes. “I must take another
picture by all means!”
He hurried for his camera, and meanwhile Bob stood by the corn-crib
laughing merrily.
Joel Carrow and his wife had cornered two of the frisky porkers and
were doing their best to catch them. The pigs began to squeal, and
suddenly one of them darted under Mrs. Carrow’s foot just as she raised
it to step out of the way. She fell down, and Joel Carrow went with
her, while both pigs flew over a log and went crashing into the glass
top of a hothouse bed.
The farmer rose up and went after the pigs. He was so mad he did not
notice the hot-bed frame, and before he knew what he was doing, he,
too, was smashing glass at the rate of a dozen panes a second.
“Joel! you good-for-nothing man!” shrieked Mrs. Carrow. “Come out o’
thet!”
Mrs. Carrow arose, madder than a hornet. Near at hand was a broom, and,
picking it up, she went after her husband.
“We had better get out before they see us,” said Bob. “I’ve got my fill
of the place.”
“Come on, then.”
Frank Landes leaped the fence and Bob quickly followed. In a few
minutes the two were on a country road and out of sight of the Carrow
farm.
As they walked along the two became thoroughly acquainted. There was
something in Bob Alden’s composition that pleased Frank Landes, and he
became thoroughly interested in the youth.
“And you say you are an orphan, Bob?” he said.
“So far as I know,” returned the youth. “Old Thompson, of Windham,
brought me up, and he said he never knew where I came from.”
“Where did he get you?”
“He never told me. I intended to ask him once, but before I could get
the chance he was killed over to the flour mill. Then I had to shift
for myself, for his relatives came in and cleared out the house and
wouldn’t have nothing to do with me.”
“That was hard luck.”
“It wasn’t as hard as falling in with Joel Carrow,” answered Bob. “Gee
Christopher! but he was a hard one to get along with. If I had stayed
there another month I would have committed suicide.”
“Well, as I said before, I will take you to Stampton with me if you
wish to go, and I’ll pay expenses on the way. But what will you do when
you get there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Finding work is no easy job in a city.”
“I reckon I’ll fall on my feet. I generally do. I would like to learn
to take pictures,” concluded the boy.
More talk followed, and they hurried along until it was past noon.
“About dinner-time,” said Frank Landes, consulting his watch. “Let us
see if we can’t get dinner at that farm-house just beyond.”
They walked to the farm-house, and, after some talk, the farmer’s wife
agreed to furnish them with a meal for twenty cents each--a price
which Landes promptly paid.
“By jinks! this is what I call a spread,” cried Bob, as he surveyed the
fairly well-filled table. “I never struck such a table at Carrow’s.”
“Well, fill up, Bob,” laughed Landes. “The price is the same.”
And Bob did fill up, much to the amusement of the woman who had served
the meal, a fat, jolly person.
After the meal Landes lit a cigar and sat down on the stoop to enjoy
it. He offered Bob one, but the youth shook his head and munched an
apple instead.
The cigar finished, Frank Landes arose and stretched himself.
“Well, Bob, we might as well be on our way.”
“I’m ready whenever you are, Mr. Landes.”
Landes took up his camera and satchel, and Bob his bundle, and both
started on again.