Allan and McConnell were commenting on the mountain goat, and McConnell was saying, “He has a Van Dyck beard, hasn’t he?” when Allan caught sight of a man over by the zebras, who was studying the finder of a hand camera, and thoughtfully puckering his mouth until his mustache looked more than ever like the bristles of a brush.
Allan left McConnell and ran toward the man.
“Queer birds.”
“Hello, Mr. Dobbs!”
“Well, I’ll be blowed!” exclaimed the man; “where did you come from?”
“You’re a nice detective,” laughed Allan; “here’s half of Hazenfield, and you haven’t seen us!”
Dobbs grinned. “I just got here.” Then he held up his camera. “I had to get one, and I sneaked up here to try it. The worst crook in the country would be perfectly safe to-day—I haven’t been able to see anything but this finder since ten o’clock. But what is the crowd doing here? why, there’s Major Mines, and Mr. Thornton—and Goodstone.”
“This is the club,” said Allan.
“The club?”