In the main, his experience inside Windmuller’s place was similar to what had happened at Dutch Louie’s. Once more he affected a bad headache, and called upon the waiter to bring him a dose of bromo seltzer; and when the white powder was placed before him, he made the same use of it as he had done in the former instance. Greatly to the relief of his two companions, he emerged from the place unscathed, and laughingly assured him that he had succeeded in snapshotting Patrolman Harrington, and had reason to believe that the negative would be a fairly good one. Compared with this exploit, the taking of a flash-light picture of the policeman who was slumbering in a lumber yard at the northern end of the town was not a difficult matter. Hawley succeeded in getting a first-class snapshot of this sleeping beauty, and although the bluecoat was awakened by the setting off of the flash-light powder, and, bellowing with rage, chased the Camera Chap through the piles of lumber, the latter managed to reach the automobile in time to make a safe get-away. Although he now had four snapshots of delinquent policemen, and Carroll again pleaded that these were quite sufficient for their purpose, the Camera Chap was firm in his determination not to give up the hunt until the _Bulletin’s_ collection consisted of at least six negatives. Parsons had reached his limit. He was unable to suggest where any more members of the force whom he knew to be chronic shirkers might be found that night; but even this fact could not discourage Hawley. He declared confidently that if they rode around town a bit, and kept their eyes open, they were likely to pick up a couple of random snapshots to complete their night’s work. So, while the citizens of Oldham slept peacefully on, in utter ignorance of this enterprising effort that was being made to reform conditions in their town--and incidentally to increase the circulation of the _Bulletin_--the big touring car traversed the highways and byways in search of more blue-coated victims of this relentless photographic crusade. This search was not unproductive. As the Camera Chap and his friends rode through Main Street, they suddenly encountered the most sensational and the most shameful spectacle of the night--a man in the uniform of a captain of police so merry that he could scarcely stand. “That’s Captain Alf Callman--the worst grafter and the biggest bully of the department, barring Chief Hodgins,” exclaimed Parsons excitedly, as he brought the car to a stop. “Don’t fail to get a good picture of him, Mr. Hawley. This is a rare piece of luck. If ever there was a rascal who deserved to be held up to public scorn and ridicule, it’s that brute there.” “Yes, Frank,” said Carroll, a scowl upon his face, “we want his picture, by all means. A few weeks ago he beat up a crippled boy unmercifully for selling _Bulletins_ outside police headquarters.”