"And I'm going to make a sketch," declared Dave.
Dick Travers accompanied him inside and walked to the drawing-room, while the other went up-stairs for his painting materials.
The "official photographer's" eyes glowed with pride, as his gaze rested upon a pair of moose antlers.
"And to think I brought him down," he muttered, for about the fiftieth time. "Gee!" and he straightened himself up with a thrill of pride.
"Say, what are you doing in there?" called Tommy Clifton, suddenly appearing in the doorway.
"Did you see my handkerchief laying around anywhere?" stammered Dick.
"No! But I see those horns," gurgled Tommy, with a sly wink.
"That will do, Tommy. If you practice a bit, maybe you'll bring down something, too. Hello—I hear Tom Sanders' sweet voice outside."
Dave Brandon came down-stairs at this moment, with his paint box, easel, canvas and a huge white umbrella.
"Look at the fat peddler," snickered Clifton, as they walked out on the porch.