“It is, especially outdoor work. Gallery work, though, is rather confining.”
“I would like to become a travelling photographer, taking houses and so, for people. Couldn’t a fellow make money that way?”
“I should think so, if he went at it the right way.”
After this, Bob was silent for a long while. He was revolving a great number of things in his mind. He loved to travel about, and the idea of combining business with pleasure just suited him. Besides, he was of an artistic turn, and pictures pleased him.
“Yes, I’ll become a photographer,” he said to himself. “And I’ll travel around, and not only try to make money, but also see if I can’t find out who I am, and where I came from. I won’t be Bob Alden, the nobody, any longer.”
At about sunset the two came to Fitt’s half-way road-house, an old-fashioned hotel. Half a dozen wagons were tied up beneath the shed, and the dining-room and parlor were both comfortably filled.
They met the proprietor of the place in the hall, and Frank at once made arrangements for a room for both with supper and breakfast. Their traps were taken up, and both took a wash and a brushing up previous to entering the dining-room.
“Did you see that dark-looking fellow standing by the door of the office?” questioned Frank, as they were arranging their toilet.
“The chap with the cut on his left cheek?”
“Yes. He is an enemy of mine, and I’m sorry he is here.”