“It cost me seventy dollars. But it was not your fault, Bob, so don’t worry. I have another at home, even better than this.”
“Perhaps the lens isn’t injured.”
They made a hunt, and found the lens crushed in the soft dirt. There was a tiny scratch upon it, but this, Frank thought, could be remedied.
Without further delay they struck out for Stampton, which they expected to reach by the middle of the afternoon.
At twelve o’clock they found themselves near a moss-covered cottage, in the door-way of which an old man sat smoking. Frank hailed him.
“What are the chances of our getting dinner here, friend, if we pay for it?”
“The chances is mighty good,” returned the old man. “Mary!”
A middle-aged woman came to the door.
“What is it, pop?”
