This music—or near music—appeared to have a peculiar effect upon the Camera Chap. Although the tune was a rousing one, it evidently served as a lullaby in his case, for his eyelids began to droop, and his head rolled from side to side in a ludicrous manner. When the waiter came with what he had ordered, he was sprawled across the table, apparently fast asleep.
The waiter shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Here, young feller,” he growled, “here’s your drink. Wake up! This ain’t no lodging house. If you want to sleep, you’d better hire a room upstairs.”
The Camera Chap roused himself as though by a great effort, and stared stupidly at the glass which had been set before him. As soon as the waiter had gone, he lapsed once more into slumber.
“That fellow over there seems to be dead to the world,” remarked Patrolman Horgan, with a chuckle. “Must be worse than he looked when he came in. Whose deal is it now?”
Needless to say, Hawley was by no means as “dead to the world” as his appearance seemed to indicate. Seldom, in fact, had his brain been more active than it was at this minute. As he sprawled across the table, with his eyes closed, and his head resting on his outstretched arms, he was summoning all his ingenuity in an effort to solve the perplexing problem which confronted him.
“Everything is dead easy except the firing of the flash-light powder,” he mused. “I can get a dandy focus from here without moving an inch, and, with my camera held[Pg 45] beneath the table, Red Horgan wouldn’t even suspect that his picture had been taken—if it weren’t for that telltale flash. That’s the great difficulty. How the deuce am I going to fire the flash and get away with it?”
And then an inspiration came to him, and he began to groan. Usually he was not in the habit of groaning when he had an inspiration, but he had a good reason for doing so now. It was part of the plan which had just suggested itself to his resourceful mind. So he proceeded to groan loud enough to be heard by the group of pinochle players in the corner.
The waiter, hearing these sounds of anguish, once more stepped up to him, and shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Hey, young feller, brace up!” he growled. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? Are you sick, or is it just an ordinary jag?”
Hawley sat up, and clapped both hands to his head, one to each temple. The waiter and the others whose attention had been attracted by his groans could see that his face was distorted as though with great pain.
“Oh, my poor head!” groaned the Camera Chap. “It feels as though it would split in two. For the love of Pete, friend, if there’s any bromo seltzer in the house, bring me some in a hurry.”