"Merely a head-rest, sir; merely an assistance toward composing the—ah—features."
"I can compose my feetur's without any darn nihilism machine back on me," said the captain; which he straightway did in a manner that froze the operator's veins.
"Has nothing pleasant occurred to you recently, sir. No—ah?"
"O Cap'n Kobbe," exclaimed his wife, with desperate fated mirth, "think o' how you shot the buoy this mornin' 'stead of a coot!"
The photographer, observing Mrs. Kobbe's face rather than his victim's, and seizing this as probably the opportune moment, transferred the captain's features to his camera.
We waited for the result. After some time our artist approached us with mincing steps and a hand thrust in his breast-pocket as if for possible recourse to defence.
In the type before us, even the gloom and wrath of the captain's countenance were lost sight of in the final skittish and disastrous arrangement, through the day's perils, of his hair.
"Ye see now what ye've done, don't ye?" said the captain to his wife.
Mrs. Kobbe came over and stood beside me.
"'T looks 'like somethin' 't the cat brought in, don't it?" said she, still gazing, pale with curiosity.