CHAPTER XI
IN THE BIG TIMBER
Of course it was Mr. Dennison himself. Frank could easily have guessed as much from the manner in which the other behaved, even had he not spoken of the building as "my house."
The first thing Frank settled in his mind was that their visitor of the preceding night had been Aaron Dennison. The white, close-cropped beard told him that. Then he saw that the old gentleman held a stout cane in his hand, which he had half raised as though sorely tempted to make strenuous use of it upon the backs of these two ambitious amateur photographers.
Frank knew how to talk, and use soothing language. His chums always said he would make a good lawyer. Apparently he might go a long time before running across a better opportunity for smoothing the "ruffled feathers" of an angry man than was now offered to him.
"I hope you'll excuse us, Mr. Dennison, for entering your grounds to take a picture of your house," he started to say. "We didn't mean any harm, and will go away at once, sir."
The man looked sternly at Frank, but the boy noticed with a feeling of relief that the half upraised stick was slowly lowered. Apparently something influenced Aaron Dennison to decide not to take the law into his own hands, and use that heavy cane on these rash intruders.
"How did you get in here?" he demanded abruptly.