And he looked with longing eyes at the substantial oblong of wood and black morocco, and duplicate lenses like a pair of spectacles, which the doctor had set between them on one of the fussy little walnut tables.
CHAPTER V.
THE GLASS EYE
Dr. Baumgartner produced a seasoned meerschaum, carved in the likeness of a most ferocious face, and put a pinch of dark tobacco through the turban into the bowl. “You see,” said he, “I must have my smoke like you! I can’t do without it either, though what is your misfortune is my own fault. So you are also a photographer!” he added, as the fumes of a mixture containing latakia spiced the morning air.
“I am only a beginner,” responded Pocket, “but a very keen one.”
“You don’t merely press the button and let them do the rest?” suggested the doctor, smiling less coldly under the influence of his pipe.
“Rather not! I develop, print, tone, and all the rest of it; that’s half the fun.”
“Plates or films?” inquired Baumgartner, with an approving nod.
“Only plates, I’m afraid; you see, the apparatus is an old one of my father’s.”
And honest Pocket was beginning to blush for it, when the other made a gesture more eloquent and far more foreign than his speech.
“It’s none the worse for that,” said he. “So far we have much in common, for I always use plates myself. But what we put upon our plates, there’s the difference, eh?”