Life became a misery to Begglely's friends. Nobody dared to
do anything for fear of being taken in the act. He took an
instantaneous photograph of his own father swearing at the
gardener, and snapped his youngest sister and her lover at the
exact moment of farewell at the garden gate. Nothing was sacred to
him. He Kodaked his aunt's funeral from behind, and showed the
chief mourner but one whispering a funny story into the ear of the
third cousin as they stood behind their hats beside the grave.
Public indignation was at its highest when a new comer to the
neighbourhood, a young fellow named Haynoth, suggested the getting
together of a party for a summer's tour in Turkey. Everybody took
up the idea with enthusiasm, and recommended Begglely as the
"party." We had great hopes from that tour. Our idea was that
Begglely would pull his button outside a harem or behind a sultana,
and that a Bashi Bazouk or a Janissary would do the rest for us.
We were, however, partly doomed to disappointment--I say, "partly,"
because, although Begglely returned alive, he came back entirely
cured of his photographic craze.
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