“There must be a whole lot about photography,” observed old Runnell. “Those men that are in the business take fine pictures without half trying, while on the other hand I’ve been out with amateurs, as they called themselves, and they’d take picture after picture, but none of ’em seemed to amount to much. Some would be crooked, some wouldn’t be sharp and clear enough, and some would be printed too light or too dark.” “Well, I just guess there is a good deal about it,” came from Bart. “I have a cousin who is learning the business in Boston, and he writes that I can’t imagine how many details there are. First one must have the right light and shade and the proper focus, and then, after the picture is taken, the plate has got to be developed just so, to bring out the negative to its best point, and then one must take great care in printing the paper. He tells me that sometimes a single drop of a certain kind of chemical will spoil everything.” “Reckon, lad, it’s a good bit like hunting, after all,” said old Runnell. “Some folks think they can put a gun over their shoulder, run to the forest, and shoot down jest what they want to. Well, they can’t at all—you know that already. They have got to learn to shoot straight, and keep cool, and have lots of patience, and then they have got to learn about the habits of their game.” “And some folks never become good hunters any more than they can become good photographers,” said Joe. “I guess one has got to have a strong fancy for it, in the first place.” “Yes, and a strong fancy for anything that he really wants to succeed in,” said Joel Runnell. When they went into a temporary camp for dinner Harry took a picture of the group, and then Joe took another, with Harry in the middle, holding a coffee pot in his hand. Nearly every young hunter had something—a gun, or a hatchet, or some kitchen utensil, and this photograph caused a great deal of laughter when it was shown around after they got home. By moving slowly along the shore, and making a close examination of every sheet and drift of snow, Joel Runnell at last found the tracks of three persons who had come from the lake. The tracks were those made by three pairs of boots or shoes of good size. “Those must be the tramps’ tracks,” declared Joe. “Teddy was right; they came almost directly across from the opposite shore.” “And now the question is, How far have they gone since they crossed the lake?” put in Harry. “That’s the worst of it,” said Fred. “For all we know, they may be miles and miles away from here by this time.” “Tramps are great for stealing rides on freight trains,” ventured Bart. “How far is the railroad from this point?” “At least four miles,” answered Joel Runnell, “and a very rough road at that. The nearest station is six miles. They couldn’t very well board a freight train that was moving.”