went out and shot Renshaw till he was quite dead, would you tennis
players drop him and talk about somebody else?"

"Oh, but who would shoot Renshaw?" he said indignantly.

"Never mind," I said, "supposing someone did?"

"Well, then, there would be his brother," he replied.

I had forgotten that.

"Well, we won't argue about how many of them there are," I said. "Suppose
someone killed the lot, should we hear less of Renshaw?"

"Never," he replied emphatically. "Renshaw will always be a name
wherever tennis is spoken of."

I dread to think what the result might have been had his answer been
other than it was.

The next year he dropped tennis completely and became an ardent amateur
photographer, whereupon all his friends implored him to return to tennis,
and sought to interest him in talk about services and returns and
volleys, and in anecdotes concerning Renshaw. But he would not heed
them.

Whatever he saw, wherever he went, he took. He took his friends, and
made them his enemies. He took babies, and brought despair to fond
mothers' hearts. He took young wives, and cast a shadow on the home.
Once there was a young man who loved not wisely, so his friends thought,
but the more they talked against her the more he clung to her. Then a
happy idea occurred to the father. He got Begglely to photograph her in
seven different positions.

When her lover saw the first, he said--

"What an awful looking thing! Who did it?"

When Begglely showed him the second, he said--

"But, my dear fellow, it's not a bit like her. You've made her look an
ugly old woman."

At the third he said--

"Whatever have you done to her feet? They can't be that size, you know.
It isn't in nature!"

At the fourth he exclaimed--

"But, heavens, man! Look at the shape you've made her. Where on earth
did you get the idea from?"

At the first glimpse of the fifth he staggered.

"Great Scott!" he cried with a shudder, "what a ghastly expression you've
got into it! It isn't human!"

Begglely was growing offended, but the father, who was standing by, came
to his defence.

"It's nothing to do with Begglely," exclaimed the old gentleman suavely.
"It can't be _his_ fault. What is a photographer? Simply an instrument
in the hands of science. He arranges his apparatus, and whatever is in
front of it comes into it."

"No," continued the old gentleman, laying a constrained hand upon
Begglely, who was about to resume the exh