I sat for two hundred and nineteen pictures that forenoon and I posed for every hero in history, from William the Conqueror down to Doctor Cook, with both feet in a slushy little snowbank representing nearly-the-North-pole.
But when she tried to coax me to climb up on a limb of a tree and stay there till she got a picture of me looking like an owl I swore softly in three languages, fell over the back fence, and ran for my life.
When I rubbershoed it back that afternoon friend wife was busy developing her crimes.
The proper and up-to-date caper in connection with taking snap-shots these days is to buy a developing outfit and upset the household from pit to dome while you are squeezing out pictures of every dearly beloved friend that crosses your pathway.
Friend wife selected a spare room on the top floor of Uncle Peter's home where she could await developments.
A half hour later ghostly noises began to come from that room and mysterious whisperings fell out of the window and bumped over the lawn.
When I reached the front door I found that the gardener had left, the waitress was leaving, and the cook was telephoning for a policeman.
"Where is Mrs. Henry?" I asked Mary, the cook.