But the photographer was not a man to be trifled with. His hand flew to his hip pocket, in the manner of a mining-camp desperado, and withdrew a neat fan of samples of his craft.
“I am sure,” he blandly ventured, “after a glance through these, I should number you among my patrons.”
With a view to scattering the photographer’s examples upon the waves, Eliphalet Cardomay snatched them from the extended hand; but before he had accomplished his intention he abruptly checked himself. The top photograph had caught his eye. It depicted a knock-kneed individual dressed in a close-fitting striped garment, shivering upon the steps of a bathing-machine.
“Ha!” exclaimed Eliphalet, surveying the image at the length of his arm. “Ha!”
“Most amusing, is it not?” volunteered the photographic artist, with an accompanying smile usually employed as a pattern for his more serious sitters.
Eliphalet regarded him with one eyebrow raised high above its fellow.
“Amusing! Appropriate, if you like, but amusing—no—it is contemptible.” And so saying, he slapped the photographs into the astonished artist’s hand and, throwing back his head, stalked off, past the line of melancholy fishers in the direction of his dressing-room.
Upon the stripped stage were assembled the various members of his company; for the most part they had composed themselves in little groups and were talking in animated whispers.
Out of the medley of subdued tongues occasional fragments of speech were audible.
“But these juveniles are not like they were in our day, Kitterson.”