“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.”
“It’s funny,” laughed McConnell, “but Artie always gets 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.”