“It’s a good thing this isn’t a cocoanut tree,” remarked Joe. “You wouldn’t feel so jolly if one of those hit you.”
“I guess not. Well, I s’pose we might as well go in and tell Mr. Baker that we’re going to leave him. We can pack up to-day, and start West to-morrow. We’ll have to have the cameras sent on from New York. We can order them and a supply of film by telegraph. I guess we could telephone the message in. That will save a trip to town, and we haven’t much time,” added Joe.
“There you go! Off with a rush! Telephones and telegrams. Walking will be too slow for you! Everything bang-up! Let her go!” cried Blake, swinging his arms to indicate progress. “Good-bye, vacation!” he cried. “The strenuous life from now on!”
The two youths arose from the grass, and together they started for the house at which they were boarding.
They had gone only a few steps, however, when, from across the country road, and a short distance down it, came a hail.
“Who’s that?” asked Joe.
“I don’t know—listen!” suggested Blake. “Are they calling us?”
There was no doubt about it a moment later, for the boys heard a voice shouting:
“Hi there! Joe! Blake! Moving Picture Boys! You’re wanted!”
“Who is it? I can’t see,” murmured Joe.