“When you get done talking to each other,” Case put in, sourly, “you might tell me something about the campfire and the men you took a snapshot at and got chased for your pains.”
Then Clay told the story and Alex added amusing frills by telling how Clay had tried to pull him back by the legs so he couldn’t take the snapshots he wanted.
“But I got the pictures,” the boy laughed, “just the same—eight of them. One of the fellows was continually throwing mountain grass or some other light stuff on the fire, and it was as good as a flashlight.”
“Will you let me see the pictures?” asked the stranger, showing great interest in the recital.
“You’ll have to wait until I get them in shape,” Alex laughed. “I don’t propose to take chances by having them out now. Would you know the men at the fire if you saw them again?”
“I’m not sure,” was the reply.
“What were you doing on the freight train?” asked Case, abruptly.
“Just stealing a ride,” was the slow, bashful reply.
“You got off here when it stopped?” asked Clay.
“It was still in motion when I got off.”