The man with the sandy beard was well in advance, and had his camera pointed.
Click!—the scene of battle was snapped.
The “Count” and “Duke” turned abruptly at the sight and began to flee.
Perhaps neither had ever before sprinted in a livelier fashion, and in a moment their forms were lost to view behind the intervening trees.
“Gee whiz! They ought to enter for the next marathon,” gasped Jack. “Mighty lucky you happened along.”
“Well, boys, you’re having what might be styled a fierce day. We seem to have frightened those tramps pretty badly; perhaps they thought this camera was a new sort of a blunderbuss.”
“Big scrap?” inquired the dark-haired artist.
“Yes, sir; you see it was this way,” and Jack soon acquainted their rescuers with all the facts.
“I declare,” remarked the sandy-bearded artist, with a smile, “if I stick by you boys a little longer, I’ll get some remarkable snapshots. By the way, this is the artist friend I was telling you about.”
The boys nodded, and surveyed Norman Redfern’s friend with interest. He was a clear-cut, smooth-faced and solidly built young fellow of about twenty-five.