Joe’s father paused a moment and then said:
“But, son, tell me something of yourself. I’ve been doing all the talking, it seems. Are you really in this queer business of taking moving pictures?”
“That’s what I am, Dad—Blake and I. We’ve been in it some time, and we’re doing well. We hope to be in it some time longer, too. If it hadn’t been for these pictures I might never have found you.”
“That’s so, Joe. After this I’ll never pass a moving picture theatre without thinking what it has done for me. It gave me back my boy!”
“Now I think you have talked enough, Mr. Duncan,” said one of the women, coming up. “You had a much harder time of it than we did, and you must quiet down. You must have swallowed a lot of salt water.”
“I guess I did—enough to preserve about a barrel of pickles,” he admitted, with a smile. “I would be glad of a little rest. But you won’t leave me; will you, Joe?”
“No indeed, Dad. I’ve had enough trouble finding you to lose you now. But you get a good rest. Blake and I have a lot to do yet. I want to get these latest films in shape to send off for development. I hope they came out good.”
“I don’t see how they could—with the weather conditions what they were,” remarked C. C. Piper, joining the group.
“Now that isn’t a nice thing to say,” Miss Lee reminded him. “Why can’t you be cheerful?”
“Why, I’m not at all gloomy. I only said——”