“Oh, it isn’t that, but I must have looked so disagreeable at that particular moment.  At least I must have done so if my looks were anything like my feelings.”

“No, if I remember rightly you were smiling at the instant I pressed the button.  You know you were saying something about fearing you would break the camera, and a smile usually goes with that remark.”

Roy looked up quickly.  The stranger was an odd one.  He had a queer way of putting things.  Roy began to be interested.

“Have you taken many pictures around here?”

“Quite a number.  It’s a very pretty place.”

“Isn’t it?”

“That bridge quite adds to the attractiveness of the landscape.  In fact that is the reason I am here.  I was coming through on the train and as we crossed, the prospect of this little valley was so tempting that I decided to stop off and explore.  I am very glad I did now, for it gave me the added pleasure of meeting you.”

“That sounds as though you were talking to a girl,” said Roy.

“Does it?  Well, as I am particularly fond of boys I suppose I may be allowed to say the same sort of things to them.”

“You’re fond of boys?  That’s queer.  I didn’t know any one liked boys except their mothers and now and then a girl or two.”

Roy laughed a little as he added this last, and the stranger joined in heartily.

“You’re very frank,” he remarked; “but that’s what boys usually are, and it’s one of the reasons I like them.  They generally say right out just what they think.”

“What’s another reason?”

The man with the camera hesitated an instant before replying.  Then he said: 

“Well, I’m going to be frank, too.  Another reason I like boys is because I find them useful to me.”

“Useful to you?” repeated Roy, perplexed.

“Yes, as a matter of study.  You see, I write about them sometimes.”

“Why, are you an author?”

Roy turned full around on the log as he put the question, his face all aglow with animation.

“I suppose that’s what I must call myself even if I’m not a particularly famous one.”

“Please tell me the names of some of your books.  Perhaps I’ve read them.”

The young man smiled at his companion’s eagerness and mentioned a story which had been Roy’s Christmas present two years before.

“Did you write that?” he exclaimed.  “Why, then you are Mr. Charles Keeler!”

“Yes, I am Mr. Keeler.  I suppose you are disappointed in me.  Most people are when they see the people who write books they have read.”

“That was a splendid story,” Roy drew in a long breath before he made this reply.  He was still looking at Mr. Keeler as if he could not yet quite comprehend the thing.  “I’m awfully glad to meet you and I’d like to shake hands.”

“With the greatest of pleasure.  I’m very glad you liked my book; I know you wouldn’t say so if you didn’t.  That’s where boys are superior to grown people.  They are almost always sincere in the expression of their opinions.”