With The Photographer

"I want my photographer," I said. The photographer looked at me without enthusiasm. He was a thing man in a grey suit, with the dim eyes of a natural scientist. But there is no need to describe him. Everybody knows what a photographer is like. Sit there, he said, and wait.

I waited for an hour. I read the ladies companion for 1912, the girls' magazine impertinent thing in breaking in on the privacy of his man's scientific pursuit with a face like mine

After an hour photographer opened the inner door

Come on he said severely

I went into the studio

Sit down said the photographer

I sat in a

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beam of sunlight filtered through a sheet of factory cotton hung against a frosted window

The photographer rolled a machine into the middle of the room and crawled into it from behind

He was in only a second just time enough for one look at me and then he was out again tearing at the cotton sheet and the window panes with a hooked stick. Apparently frantic for light and air

Then he crawled back into the machine again and see a little black cloth over himself this time he was very quiet in there. I knew that he was praying an I kept still

When the photographer

To be continued...