“You are artists, then?” inquired Redfern.
The others nodded.
“But sometimes I amuse myself with the camera,” said one.
“Say—you ought to take one of our house-boat,” put in Joe, eagerly. “That will make up for the picture you got of me.”
“House-boat?”
Then explanations followed, and before they parted the strangers promised to visit the “Gray Gull” that afternoon.
Joe Preston had been pretty badly shaken up, and, as his head still ached, it was decided to return.
“Makes me feel like a number one dunce, too,” he remarked, sheepishly. “Guess maybe I deserved it for chasing butterflies. Isn’t that so, Redfern?”
“Well, hardly,” responded the ex-tutor. “I was glad to note that none of you made any effort to wantonly hurt the little creatures. That I would consider indefensible; though some boys are inclined to be thoughtless about such matters.”
“Never saw such a trap in my life,” said Bob. “Who would ever expect to find such a place, all overgrown with weeds?”