“I expected to pay about fifty cents an hour,” admitted Allan. “And an hour was all we wanted.”
“Well, I’ll be losin’ money,” said the man; “but call it seventy-five cents.”
The boys finally agreed to these terms and were soon afloat with the dory, the man pulling at the oars and asking questions about the cameras.
“Sakes alive!” he said, “but there’s been camera cranks around here. It must be lots of fun, though.” There was a strong tide and the man had to bend hard at the oars while Allan and McConnell adjusted their cameras and peeped at the war-ships with the aid of their finders.
It was rather a misty morning. There was a peculiar silvery light on the water and the ships looked queerly on the shadow side next the shore. The Gloucester was dainty and trim. To make the glimpse of her more entertaining, a message arrived on a launch, and within five minutes the anchor had been lifted and she steamed away, evidently toward the Brooklyn Yard. The Brooklyn, with the shot-hole in her smoke-stack (carefully pointed out by the man of the dory), floated quietly at her moorings. There was bustle on the Oregon—and it was washday, evidently.
“I wonder,” said Allan, resentfully, “why they always have their wash out when a fellow wants to make pictures?”
The man of the dory laughed. He couldn’t explain it, he said.
“How near do you want to get?” he asked. “I want a good full-length picture,” said Allan. “I think we are far enough away from her now if you will pull south a little ways.”
When they had pulled south for a short distance Allan found that the three hundred feet of the Oregon required a long range, and the man swung the bow again to the east.
They had made several shots from their seats; but Allan now stood on the forward seat, the man slowing down again as Allan got the range.