_The Wharf--goods, boxes, and bales scattered about--a camera on stand,_ R. Scudder, R., Dora, L., George _and_ Paul _discovered;_ Dora _being photographed by_ Scudder, _who is arranging photographic apparatus,_ George _and_ Paul _looking on at back._ _Scud._ Just turn your face a leetle this way--fix your--let's see--look here. _Dora._ So? _Scud._ That's right. [_Puts his head under the darkening apron._] It's such a long time since I did this sort of thing, and this old machine has got so dirty and stiff, I'm afraid it won't operate. That's about right. Now don't stir. _Paul._ Ugh! she look as though she war gwine to have a tooth drawed!_ _Scud._ I've got four plates ready, in case we miss the first shot. One of them is prepared with a self-developing liquid that I've invented. I hope it will turn out better than most of my notions. Now fix yourself. Are you ready? _Dora._ Ready! _Scud._ Fire!--one, two, three. [Scudder _takes out watch._] _Paul._ Now it's cooking, laws mussey, I feel it all inside, as if it was at a lottery. _Scud._ So! [_Throws down apron._] That's enough. [_With-draws slide, turns and sees_ Paul.] What! what are you doing there, you young varmint! Ain't you took them bags to the house yet? _Paul._ Now, it ain't no use trying to get mad, Mas'r Scudder. I'm gwine! I only come back to find Wahnotee; whar is dat ign'ant Ingiun? _Scud._ You'll find him scenting round the rum store, hitched up by the nose. [_Exit into room,_ R. _Paul._ [_Calling at door._] Say, Mas'r Scudder, take me in dat telescope? _Scud._ [_Inside room._] Get out, you cub! clar out! _Paul._ You got four of dem dishes ready. Gosh, wouldn't I like to hab myself took! What's de charge, Mas'r Scudder? [_Runs off, R. U. E. _Enter_ Scudder, _from room,_ R. _Scud._ Job had none of them critters on his plantation, else he'd never ha' stood through so many chapters. Well, that has come out clear, ain't it? [_Shows plate._] _Dora._ O, beautiful! Look, Mr. Peyton. _George._ [_Looking._] Yes, very fine! _Scud._ The apparatus can't mistake. When I travelled round with this machine, the homely folks used to sing out, "Hillo, mister, this ain't like me!" "Ma'am," says I, "the apparatus can't mistake." "But, mister, that ain't my nose." "Ma'am, your nose drawed it. The machine can't err--you may mistake your phiz but the apparatus don't." "But, sir, it ain't agreeable." "No, ma'am, the truth seldom is." _Enter_ Pete, L. U. E., _puffing._ _Pete._ Mas'r Scudder! Mas'r Scudder! _Scud._ Hillo! what are you blowing about like a steamboat with one wheel for?