"That's a Greek camera, Chris," Charley said with a wink at Walter. "You can't expect it to take American colors. I tell you what to do. Just write at the bottom of each picture: Pants, yellow; coat, scarlet; cap, purple."
"Golly! I nebber thought ob dat," exclaimed the little darkey, brightening. "But it hain't like habbing de colors show," he added, mournfully.
The three were making their way back to the hotel when their progress was arrested by piercing screams coming from the rear of a large Greek restaurant.
The boys hesitated and looked at each other.
"Sounds as though someone was hurt pretty bad," Charley commented, "but I guess we had better go along about our business. We are likely to get ourselves into trouble if we meddle with things in this section," but as he spoke the screams rang out afresh. The chums looked at each other; there was no need for words between them.
"Well, it's foolish, but here goes," Charley exclaimed.
A narrow alley led into the rear of the building and down it has hastened followed by his two companions.
A minute's walk brought them to the scene of the screams.
In a little back yard stood a small Greek boy about thirteen years of age. He was clad only in short trousers and his bare back and legs were covered with angry welts. Above him towered a dark, scowling Greek, who was swinging a heavy cowhide whip, while at each descent of the cruel, stinging lash the lad's screams rose in piteous protests. Clustered around was some dozen men and boys looking on with unconcern.
Charley caught the Greek's arm as it rose for another blow. "Stop that, you big brute," he cried, trembling with anger. "You have no right to beat a little fellow like that, no matter what he has done. If you hit him another blow, I'll have you arrested."