It was long before he saw his way out of this difficulty, but by dint of persistent pondering he finally lit upon a plan.

He had brought with him a camera, several hundred plates, and a complete developing and printing outfit. He determined to set up as a professional photographer. His living would cost him nothing, as the Panchronicon was well stored with provisions. To judge by his surroundings, his privacy would probably be respected. Then, by setting up as a photographer he would at least earn a small amount of current coin and perhaps attract some rich and powerful backer by the novelty and excellence of his process. On this chance he relied for procuring the capital which was undoubtedly necessary for his purpose.

By noon of the next day he had begun operations, having taken two or three views of familiar scenes in the neighborhood, which he affixed as samples to a large cardboard sign on which he had printed, in large type:

---------------------------------------------------------------- | | | AMERICAN PHOTOGRAPHER | | | | THE ONLY ONE IN EXISTENCE | | | | _Step up and have your picture taken_ | | | ----------------------------------------------------------------

This sign he nailed to a tree near the road which he made his headquarters. He preferred to keep the location and nature of his abode a secret, and so spent his days under his tree or sitting in the porch of some neighboring house, for he was not long in making friends, and his marvellous tales made him very popular.

It was difficult for him to fix a price at first, not being acquainted with the coin of the realm, but he put his whole mind to the acquisition of reliable information on this point, and his native shrewdness brought him success.

He found that it was wisest for every reason to let it be believed that the pictures were produced by hand. The camera, he explained, was a mere aid to accuracy of observation and memory in reproduction of what he saw through it. Thus he was able to command much higher prices for the excellence and perfection of his work and, had he but known it, further avoided suspicion of witchcraft which would probably have attached to him had he let it be known that the camera really produced the picture.

In the course of his daily gossip with neighbors and with the customers, rustic and urban, who were attracted by his fame, he soon learned that "Good Queen Bess" ruled the land, and his speech gradually took on a tinge of the Elizabethan manner and vocabulary which, mingling with his native New England idioms, produced a very picturesque effect.

It was a warm night some weeks after Droop had "hung out his shingle" as a professional photographer that he sat in the main room of the Panchronicon, reading for perhaps the twentieth time Phoebe's famous book on Bacon and Shakespeare, which she had left behind. The other books on hand he found too dry, and he whiled away his idle hours with this invaluable historic work, feeling that its tone was in harmony with his recent experiences.

So to-night he was reading with the shutters tightly closed to prevent attracting the gaze of outsiders. No one had yet discovered his residence, and he had flattered himself that it would remain permanently a secret.

His surprise and consternation were great, therefore, when he was suddenly disturbed in his reading by a gentle knocking on the door at the foot of the stairs.

"Great Jonah!" he exclaimed, closing his book and c.o.c.king his head to listen. "Now, who--wonder ef it's Cousin Rebecca or Phoebe!"

The knock was repeated.

"Why, 'f course 'tis!" he said. "Couldn't be anybody else. Funny they never come back sooner!"

He laid his book upon the table and started down the stairs just as the knocking was heard for the third time.

"Comin'--comin'!" he cried. "Save the pieces!"

He threw open the door and started back in alarm as there entered a strange man wrapped in a black cloak, which he held so as to completely hide his features.

The new-comer sprang into the little hallway and hastily closed the door behind him.

"Close in the light, friend," he said.

Then, glancing about him, he ascended the stairs and entered the main room above.

Droop followed him closely, rubbing his hand through his hair in perplexity. This intrusion threatened to spoil his plans. It would never do to have the neighbors swarming around the Panchronicon.

The stranger threw off his cloak on entering the upper room and turned to face his host.

"I owe you sincere acknowledgment of thanks, good sir," he said, gravely.

He appeared to be about thirty-five years of age, a man of medium stature, dark of hair and eyes, with a pale, intellectual face and a close-clipped beard. His entire apparel was black, save for his well-starched ruff of moderate depth and the lace ruffles at his wrists.

"Wal, I dunno," Droop retorted. "Marry, an I hed known as thou wast not an acquaintance----"

"You would not have given me admittance?"

The calm, dark eyes gazed with disconcerting steadiness into Droop's face.

"Oh--well--I ain't sayin'----"

"I hope I have not intruded to your hurt or serious confusion, friend,"

said the stranger, glancing about him. "To tell the very truth, your hospitable shelter hath offered itself in the hour of need."

"What--doth it raineth--eh?"

"Oh, no!"

"What can I do fer ye? Take a seat," said Droop, as the stranger dropped into a chair. "Thou knowest, forsooth, that I don't take photygraphs at night--marry, no!"

"Are you, then, the new limner who makes pictures by aid of the box and gla.s.s?"

"Yea--that's what I am," said Droop.

"I was ignorant of the location of your dwelling. Indeed, it is pure accident--a trick of Fortune that hath brought me to your door to-night."

Droop seated himself and directed an interrogative gaze at his visitor.

"My name's Droop--Copernicus Droop," he said. "An' you----"

"My name is Francis Bacon, Master Droop--your servitor," he bowed slightly.

Droop started up stiff and straight in his chair.

"Francis Bacon!" he exclaimed. "What! Not the one as wrote Shakespeare?"

"Shakespeare--Shakespeare!" said the stranger, in a slow, puzzled tone.

"I do admit having made some humble essays in writing--certain modest commentaries upon human motives and relations--but, in good sooth, the t.i.tle you have named, Master Droop, is unknown to me.

Shakespeare--Shakespeare. Pray, sir, is it a homily or an essay?"

"Why, ye see, et's--as fur's I know it's a man--a sorter poet or genius or play-writin' man," said Droop, somewhat confused.

"A man--a poet--a genius?" Bacon repeated, gravely. "Then, prithee, friend, how meant you in saying you thought me him who had written Shakespeare? Can a man--a poet--be written?"

"Nay--verily--in good sooth--marry, no!" stuttered Droop. "What they mean is thet 'twas you wrote the things Shakespeare put his name to--you did, didn't you?"

"Ahem!" said the stranger, with dubious slowness. "A poet--a genius, you say? And I understand that I am reputed to have been the true author of--eh?"

"Yes, indeed--yea--la!" exclaimed Droop, now sadly confused.

"Might I ask the name of some work imputed to me, and which this--this Shake--eh----"