"There's a piece about him in the _Tribune_."
Pete picked up the county paper, which happened to be lying on the
floor. He read aloud, in a sing-song drawl--
"'We are greatly honoured by the presence amongst us of Professor Adam
Chawner, the eminent surgeon and pathologist----'"
"How's that?" demanded Dan.
"Surgeon an' path--ologist."
"What's path--ologist?"
Pete expectorated a contempt for ignorance which he was too polite to
put into words. Then he said suavely--
"A pathologist is a kind o' pathfinder. Comes from the Greek, I
reckon: _path--logus_--skilled in finding noo paths to knowledge.
See!"
"If you ain't a walkin' dictionary!"
"It comes nateral to me," Pete admitted modestly. He continued--
"'The Professor, instead of taking a well-earned holiday in our land
of roses and sunshine, proposes to study at first hand the micrococci
of a deadly disease which, we are given to understand, is peculiar to
this part of California....'"
"Never heard of a deadly disease peculiar to these parts," said Jimmie
thoughtfully,--"always exceptin' Annie-dominie."
"'Peculiar to this part of California,'" continued Pete, "'and likely,
given certain conditions, to develop into an epidemic as terrible and
mysterious as the sleeping sickness.'"
"Sleepin' sickness? What's that?"
"Dan, yer ignorance is disgraceful. Sleepin' sickness is common as
hives amongst the cannibals. After a square meal o' missionary, the
critters fall asleep, and they don't never wake up neither. Serve 'em
right, too."
"Go on, Pete."