“See here,” she said briskly. “I want you to get your picture taken. I want it for a special reason. And I want you to go”—she felt in her pocket and pulled out a card—“I want you to go to this man.”
“I see,” he said, and took the card. “Friend of yours?”
“Certainly not!”
“Does he take good photographs?”
“I don’t know. You might read the card.”
He read it carefully. It merely stated that J. M. Booth of a certain number on Twenty-Second Street made excellent photographs very cheap, filled rush orders for soldiers, and gave them a special discount. He even turned it over, but the other side was blank.
“I don’t get it, I guess,” he said at last. “What’s the answer?”
“The more I see of army men the less imagination I find,” was her surprising reply. “I took that card last night to the—to an officer I know; and he was just like you. I hope you put more intelligence into your fighting than you do into other things. How many soldiers do you suppose have gone to that man?”
“Well, I’ll be one, anyhow.”
He rose gallantly to the occasion.