“But ought you to carry them without any covering? I’m sure light will get in and fog the plates when the sun shines like this.”
“It’s December sun,” said Austin testily. “And what’s the use of calling the slides ‘dark’ if they let in the light?”
“I don’t know; but surely you remember last week, that waster you got—”
“If you’re going to begin by talking about wasters—!”
“Oh, never mind, dear!” cried Frances hastily, remembering that Austin’s “wasters”, as he called his spoilt plates, were sore points. The glory of his few photographic successes could hardly, as yet, be said to atone for the bitterness of almost universal failure.
Austin had pulled three dark slides from under one arm, a tripod from under the other, and had held towards Frances the racked-out camera he had hugged to his breast.
“If you’ll carry this tricky thing I’ll be awfully obliged,” he said piteously. “I’m in mortal fear of dropping it and smashing my lens.”
“All right!” agreed Frances. “Wrap the slides in the dark cloth and I’ll take them also. That’s the way. Now, let’s run.”
So Austin shouldered the tripod, and off they went. Down the carriage-drive to the gate, and then along the road overlooking the village till they reached the desired spot. Here they cried a halt, and Austin set up his tripod.
“No cap on the lens!” exclaimed Frances in dismay.