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.

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

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.

CHAPTER II
BOB AT THE CLIFF

Toward the middle of the afternoon, Bob and Frank Landes came to a picturesque mountain stream, flanked on one side by sloping hills and on the other by a jagged cliff fifty or sixty feet in height.

“I want to get one or two views here,” said Frank Landes. “Let us get over the stream and under the cliff.”

They crossed the bridge and walked along the base of the cliff for a distance of several hundred feet.

“Now straighten out that tripod and I’ll put some plates in the camera,” went on the young man.

He had explained the workings of the different parts of his instrument to Bob, and the youth lost no time in complying with his request.

The tripod was set up, and the young man was just about to place the camera upon it, when there came a terrible scream from overhead.

“What’s up?” queried Frank Landes.

“My gracious!” burst out Bob. “Look there!”

The young man looked to the spot indicated.

The sight presented was enough to chill the blood of both. A young girl had fallen over the edge of the cliff, and now hung suspended in mid-air, her dress caught in some scraggy rocks and bushes.

“She’ll be killed!” ejaculated Frank Landes.

“We must save her!” returned Bob. “I wonder if I can’t climb up to her and keep her from falling.”

“Help! help!” cried the girl, in tones of deepest agony, as she caught hold of one of the bushes with her right hand.

“Hold fast till I climb up to you!” shouted Bob.

He caught up the tripod and began to ascend the face of the cliff as best he could.

“What are you going to do?” asked Frank Landes.

“Save the girl,” returned Bob, resolutely.

In a few minutes the fearless youth had reached a ledge some ten feet below the spot where the girl hung. He tried to go up higher, but found it was impossible to do so.

“Oh, help me! Help me, please!” cried the girl, as soon as she caught sight of Bob.

“I will,” he said.

Taking the tripod he braced it as firmly as he could on the ledge upon which he was standing. Then, by the aid of some bushes he managed to balance himself upon the top.

By reaching out he could now grasp the girl’s arm.

“Let go and I will land you safely on the ledge,” said Bob.

“I am afraid. The fall has made me dizzy,” cried the girl. “Besides, my dress is caught.”

“Then wait till I crawl up a little higher.”

Bob had hardly spoken when there was a sudden crack. One of the legs of the tripod had broken, and with a wild cry, the boy lost his balance and went over the ledge!

Frank Landes gave a cry of horror, and the girl above a shrill shriek of added fear.

As Bob plunged over the ledge, he threw out both of his hands, and one of them caught in some of the bushes growing below.

The bushes were torn from their roots, but Bob’s progress downward was somewhat stayed, and, when his other hand caught a bit of projecting rock, he held fast.

“Hold hard!” shouted Landes. “I forgot, I’ve got a bit of rope with me.”

He clambered up the cliff until he reached the ledge. Then he lowered one end of the rope and Bob grasped it.

“Can you pull me up?” asked the youth.

“I can, if you will help by holding on to the bushes,” returned Landes.

He began to pull up slowly and with great care, and soon Bob’s hands grasped the edge of the ledge, and he drew himself up to a place of safety.

In the mean time the girl above was growing weaker, and she gave a low moan.

“I can’t hold on any longer,” she gasped. “My head is awfully dizzy.”

“Hold for just a minute longer,” shouted Bob. “Frank, let me climb up on your shoulders.”

Landes agreed. In an instant Bob was up on the young man’s shoulders. By this time the bushes to which the girl clung had partly loosened themselves, and the girl now hung within reach of Bob’s sturdy arms.

“Steady below!” he shouted to Landes. “Now, hold out your hand and jump. You will come down all right,” he added to the fair one.

The girl hesitated, but after one look into Bob’s truthful eyes, she grew confident, and, letting go her hold, allowed herself to drop into his outstretched arms.

Landes collapsed under the combined weight. But Bob expected this, and, as he and the girl came down, he took good care that neither should go over the edge of the ledge.

“Oh, thank you for that!” cried the girl, and with these words she fainted in Bob’s arms.

“Why it’s Grace Maverick,” cried Frank Landes, in intense surprise.

“And who is she?” queried Bob, gazing at the beautiful form in rather a helpless way.

“She is the daughter of Gregory Maverick, the president of the T. W. & L. Railroad which runs through Stampton.”

“Well, what shall I do now?” queried Bob, more awed than ever, now he knew who his fair burden was.

“Let me help you down to the brook with her,” replied Landes. “Come this way, there is quite a good path.”

Between them they carried the girl from the narrow ledge to a grassy slope at the base of the cliff. Then Bob took off his cap, filled it with water, and dashed some of it into Grace Maverick’s face.

With something like a gasp the girl came to her senses. She gazed around for a moment, and then sat up.

“Where—where am I?” she stammered, in bewilderment.

“You are safe, Miss Maverick,” returned Frank Landes, politely.

“Oh, Mr. Landes, is it you? I remember it all! And where is the boy who saved me?”

“Here he is. His name is Bob Alden.”

Landes turned to the youth, and Bob shuffled forward, blushing furiously. Grace Maverick grasped his hands within her own.

“Oh, how can I thank you!” she cried, impulsively. “If it hadn’t been for you, I would have been killed.”

“Mr. Landes did his share,” said Bob, generously.

“Nonsense,” put in Frank. “Bob is the hero.”

“I am thankful to both,” said the girl. “Where are the others?”

“What others?”

“My friends. There were four of us on the cliff, and a savage dog scared us. I ran near the edge, and stumbled.”

“I’ll go up and look for your friends,” said Landes, and, without waiting, he made off.

“And your name is Bob Alden?” questioned Grace Maverick.

Bob nodded.

“Mine is Grace Maverick. I am awfully glad to know you. Do you belong around here?”

“I don’t belong anywhere just now.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“I worked for a farmer over in Shellville, but he treated me so meanly I left. I am bound for Stampton.”

“To get work?”

“If I can.”

“Well, when you get there you must call on me. Mr. Landes will tell you where I live.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t forget. I want my papa to see you. He says he likes to see heroes, and you are one.”

“No, I’m not! I’m only a plain country boy,” said Bob. “Anybody could do what I did.”

“Perhaps they could, but they wouldn’t all have the nerve to try. Oh, here comes Mr. Landes now, and he has found my teacher!”

Frank now returned with an elderly lady, who at once proceeded to take Grace in charge, scolding her for going so close to the edge of the cliff.

“Here is the young man who saved me,” said Grace, pointing to Bob.

The elderly teacher gave the youth one stare, and then shrugged her shoulders.

“You must have nothing to do with such common people, Grace,” she said, lowly, but still loud enough for Bob to hear. “Come with me at once.”

“He is a noble boy,” protested the girl. “Good-bye, Bob Alden, I shall expect to see you in Stampton. Good-bye, Mr. Landes.”

The teacher hurried Grace away. Bob and Frank both tipped their caps, and then the youth turned to the young man.

“Christopher! Isn’t the old lady a sour one?”

“Rather,” returned Frank. “But, Bob, you’re in luck.”

“How so?”

“It’s a good stroke for you,” went on Frank. “It ought to be worth a good deal to you.”

“What ought?”

“Saving Grace’s life. Such a thing isn’t done every day.”

“Pooh! You’re as bad as she was.”

“Why, what did she say?”

Bob told him. Frank caught his hand. “Let me congratulate you. You’re all right.”

“Give it to me plainer, please.”

“Can’t you see? You call on Grace. See old Maverick. He takes an interest in you and rewards you handsomely.”

“But he won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t call.”

Frank stared at Bob in amazement.

“Won’t call?” he gasped.

“That’s it. I’d feel worse than a cat in a strange garret. I’m not used to high-toned society.”

“But look what it might be worth to you.”

“I don’t want anything for doing a nice girl like her a little service.”

“Well you’re the queerest!”

“Maybe I am. But, say, I’m downright sorry I broke the three-legged thing.”

“Don’t bother your head about that. It’s worth a dozen tripods to be a hero.”

“If you don’t shut down on that talk, I’ll leave you at once,” burst out Bob. “I’m not a hero, never was, and am not likely to be. Here’s a bit of strong string. Let me see if I can’t splice the broken leg of your machine.”

Frank said no more, and, sitting down, Bob took the tripod and speedily mended the split leg.

This done, the two proceeded to take several pictures of the spot, including one of the place where the thrilling scene recorded had occurred.

“I’ll give you a copy of it,” said Frank. “And perhaps I’ll send one to Miss Maverick.”

Bob was very much interested in the taking of the pictures, and asked innumerable questions.

“We’ll stop at Fitt’s Half-way House to-night,” said Frank. “And then I’ll show you how to develop the plates. You have to do it in a dark room.”

“How can you see to show me, then?” asked Bob, and Frank laughed.

“We use a red light,” said the young man. “It is the only light that doesn’t affect the plates.”

“Do you know, I would like to become a photographer,” burst out Bob. “It must be an interesting business.”

“It is, especially outdoor work. Gallery work, though, is rather confining.”

“I would like to become a travelling photographer, taking houses and so, for people. Couldn’t a fellow make money that way?”

“I should think so, if he went at it the right way.”

After this, Bob was silent for a long while. He was revolving a great number of things in his mind. He loved to travel about, and the idea of combining business with pleasure just suited him. Besides, he was of an artistic turn, and pictures pleased him.

“Yes, I’ll become a photographer,” he said to himself. “And I’ll travel around, and not only try to make money, but also see if I can’t find out who I am, and where I came from. I won’t be Bob Alden, the nobody, any longer.”

At about sunset the two came to Fitt’s half-way road-house, an old-fashioned hotel. Half a dozen wagons were tied up beneath the shed, and the dining-room and parlor were both comfortably filled.

They met the proprietor of the place in the hall, and Frank at once made arrangements for a room for both with supper and breakfast. Their traps were taken up, and both took a wash and a brushing up previous to entering the dining-room.

“Did you see that dark-looking fellow standing by the door of the office?” questioned Frank, as they were arranging their toilet.

“The chap with the cut on his left cheek?”

“Yes. He is an enemy of mine, and I’m sorry he is here.”