"Keep your cash, my boy," said the man evidently having a better idea
of Ralph than at first. "Hold to all you've got. People are not as
free with their grub and beds down here as they are up in your country.
By the way, what's your name?"

"Ralph Granger. What might be yours?"

"Mine? Oh, my name is Quigg--Lemuel Quigg. I am a traveling
photographer."

"What is that?"

"Did I ever see such ignorance! Ralph, you are a curiosity. I take
pictures for a living. Usually I go by wagon. But I am bound for the
seacoast, so I hired this car to take me right through."

"There was a fellow up in our parts once as took pictures for two bits
apiece."

"Like these?" Mr. Quigg threw open one lid of a trunk, disclosing a
velvet lined show case filled with photographs of different sizes.

They would now be considered antiquated affairs, but to Ralph the
life-like attitudes and looks of the sitters seemed wonderful.

"Gracious, no!" he exclaimed. "That fellow only took little tintypes,
as we folks call them. These beat anything I ever saw."

"Well, suppose we get breakfast," said Quigg, turning to his oil stove.