“A play?” cried Mr. Meldron.
A man came around the corner of the house, carrying a box-like arrangement on a tripod. At the sight of it the farmer who had brought Larry to the lonely house cried out:
“Lay low, fellers! There’s their cannon.”
“Cannon!” exclaimed Larry, who now understood it all. “That’s no cannon. It’s a moving-picture camera.”
“Moving-picture camera!” gasped the constable.
“You’ve guessed it,” said the man on the porch, “and now, if you’re through trying to rescue some one who doesn’t need to be rescued, perhaps you’ll be good enough to stand aside so we can go on with our acting, and make some reels of film.”
“Acting!” cried Mr. Meldron. “They’re actors instead of tramps!”
“That’s it,” came in a chorus from the ragged men, and one of them took off his false beard and waved it gaily at the group of puzzled and chagrined farmers.
“We’ve come on a wild-goose chase,” murmured Larry, “though I can’t blame Mr. Meldron for being suspicious of what he saw. They were only making a moving-picture play, after all.”
“Perhaps you’ll explain why you came near spoiling our act?” suggested the man, evidently the manager.