“Sporty,” said Dobbs, “you’re going to have your picture taken.”
“Am I?” Sporty peered again at Allan. “Must I put on my Sunday clothes?”
“No, Sporty,” said the detective, “no clothes will do. You’re just right.”
“You mean this way?” Sporty asked.
“Bathing tights are very becoming to your style of beauty, Sporty,” the detective went on with his pleasant grin. “Come over here,” and Sporty’s shining legs timidly carried him to where his father waited. “I want you with your arms folded, Sporty—you know,” and Dobbs struck an attitude to show what he meant. “There! that’s it!” cried the detective, when Sporty had folded his arms. “Now, don’t look so savage. I want you to look as innocent as if the judge was asking you if you had ever been convicted before.”
Allan adjusted the camera and pressed the trigger.
“Is it took yet?” asked Sporty.
“Yes,” said Allan.
“That was great!” exclaimed Dobbs. But Allan thought Sporty had not looked very happy. “We’ll have to take him again some time when he’s in the humor,” Allan suggested, “or when he isn’t looking.”
“That’s so,” Dobbs said; “good idea—when he doesn’t know it.” He looked after Sporty as the boy went back to his boat, which had drifted far out of her course. “I tell you, he’s one of the greatest boys you ever saw. He’s simply wonderful. You ought to see him do the cart-wheel. When can I see that picture?”