Stroth chuckled. “My first snapshot by searchlight looks as if it were going to be a success.”
“And do you mean to say,” I cried, “that last night——”
“Too good a chance to lose,” said he, with continued mirth. “And I got on deck just about the right minute, didn’t I?” Whereupon he withdrew the plate from its bath, and held it up between me and the red glow of the developing lamp.
And there, unmistakable, I saw depicted the punt, the hydroplane shunting from its course, Pawlinson’s arms not yet lowered from the hurl he had given me, and I myself just striking the water, a bit of spray fouling a line or two.
“Remarkable!” said I, not without a touch of wrath, for the picture brought back the moment.
“It’ll be one of my best!” cried Stroth enthusiastically, “and, right this minute, I wouldn’t take fifty dollars for it. It’s great!”
He stepped a bit to one side, and bathed the plate, preparatory to the “fixing bath.” But just as he slipped the negative into the “hypo” there came a cheery, but decided, rapping at the dark-room door.
“Dad, oh, daddy!” came through the panel, in a voice of bell-like, girlish clearness.
With a bound almost feline, Stroth sprang forward, whispering sharply:
“I forgot the lock!”