"Not to me," said Miss Barrison, softly.
The professor looked at her. "Ah, child! Ever subtler, ever surer--the
Eternal Enigma is no enigma to you."
"What is the Sphyx?" I asked.
"Have you read De Soto? Or Goya?"
"Yes, both. I remember now that De Soto records the Syachas legend of
the Sphyx--something about a goddess--"
"Not a goddess," said Miss Barrison, her lips touched with a smile.
"Sometimes," said the professor, gently. "And Goya said:
"'_It has come to my ears while in the lands of the Syachas that the
Sphyx surely lives, as bolder and more curious men than I may, God
willing, prove to the world hereafter_.'"
"But what is the Sphyx?" I insisted.
"For centuries wise men and savants have asked each other that
question. I have answered it for myself; I am now to prove it, I
trust."
His face darkened, and again and again he stroked his heavy brow.
"If anything occurs," he said, taking my hand in his left and Miss
Barrison's hand in his right, "promise me to obey my wishes. Will
you?"
"Yes," we said, together.
"If I lose my life, or--or disappear, promise me on your honor to get
to the electric launch as soon as possible and make all speed
northward, placing my private papers, the reports of Miss Barrison,
and your own reports in the hands of the authorities in Bronx Park.
Don't attempt to aid me; don't delay to search for me. Do you
promise?"
"Yes," we breathed together.
He looked at us solemnly. "If you fail me, you betray me," he said.
We swore obedience.
"Then let us begin," he said, and he rose and went to the steel cage.
Unlocking the door, he flung it wide and stepped inside, leaving the
cage door open.
"The moment a single pie is disturbed," he said to me, "I shall close
the steel door from the inside, and you and Miss Barrison will then
dump the rosium oxide and the strontium into the tank, clap on the
lid, turn the nozzle of the hose on the cage, and spray it
thoroughly. Whatever is invisible in the cage will become visible and
of a faint rose color. And when the trapped creature becomes visible,
hold yourselves ready to aid me as long as I am able to give you
orders. After that either all will go well or all will go otherwise,
and you must run for the launch." He seated himself in the cage near
the open door.
I placed the steel tank near the cage, uncoiled the hose attachment,
unscrewed the top, and dumped in the salts of strontium. Miss Barrison
unwrapped the bottle of rosium oxide and loosened the cork. We
examined this pearl-and-pink powder and shook it up so that it might
run out quickly. Then Miss Barrison sat down, and presently became
absorbed in a stenographic report of the proceedings up to date.
When Miss Barrison finished her report she handed me the bundle of
papers. I stowed them away in my wallet, and we sat down together
beside the tank.
Inside the cage Professor Farrago was seated, his spectacled eyes
fixed on the row of pies. For a while, although realizing perfectly
that our quarry was transparent and invisible, we unconsciously
strained our eyes in quest of something stirring in the forest.
"I should think," said I, in a low voice, "that the odor of the pies
might draw at least one out of the odd dozen that came rubbing up
against my window last night."
"Hush! Listen!" she breathed. But we heard nothing save the snoring of
the overfed dog at our feet.
"He'll give us ample notice by butting into Miss Barrison's skirts," I
observed. "No need of our watching, professor."
The professor nodded. Presently he removed his spectacles and lay back
against the bars, closing his eyes.
At first the forest silence seemed cheerful there in the flecked
sunlight. The spotted wood-gnats gyrated merrily, chased by
dragon-flies; the shy wood-birds hopped from branch to twig, peering
at us in friendly inquiry; a lithe, gray squirrel, plumy tail
undulating, rambled serenely around the cage, sniffing at the pastry
within.
Suddenly, without apparent reason, the squirrel sprang to a
tree-trunk, hung a moment on the bark, quivering all over, then dashed
away into the jungle.
"Why did he act like that?" whispered Miss Barrison. And, after a
moment: "How still it is! Where have the birds gone?"
In the ominous silence the dog began to whimper in his sleep and his
hind legs kicked convulsively.
"He's dreaming--" I began.
The words were almost driven down my throat by the dog, who, without a
yelp of warning, hurled himself at Miss Barrison and alighted on my
chest, fore paws around my neck.
I cast him scornfully from me, but he scrambled back, digging like a
mole to get under us.
"The transparent creatures!" whispered Miss Barrison. "Look! See that
pie move!"
I sprang to my feet just as the professor, jamming on his spectacles,
leaned forward and slammed the cage door.
"I've got one!" he shouted, frantically. "There's one in the cage!
Turn on that hose!"
"Wait a second," said Miss Barrison, calmly, uncorking the bottle and
pouring a pearly stream of rosium oxide into the tank. "Quick! It's
fizzing! Screw on the top!"
In a second I had screwed the top fast, seized the hose, and directed
a hissing cloud of vapor through the cage bars.
For a moment nothing was heard save the whistling rush of the perfumed
spray escaping; a delicious odor of roses filled the air. Then,
slowly, there in the sunshine, a misty something grew in the cage--a
glistening, pearl-tinted phantom, imperceptibly taking shape in
space--vague at first as a shred of lake vapor, then lengthening,
rounding into flowing form, clearer, clearer.
"The Sphyx!" gasped the professor. "In the name of Heaven, play that
hose!"
As he spoke the treacherous hose burst. A showery pillar of
rose-colored vapor enveloped everything. Through the thickening fog
for one brief instant a human form appeared like magic--a woman's
form, flawless, exquisite as a statue, pure as marble. Then the
swimming vapor buried it, cage, pies, and all.
We ran frantically around, the cage in the obscurity, appealing for
instructions and feeling for the bars. Once the professor's muffled
voice was heard demanding the wearing apparel, and I groped about and
found it and stuffed it through the bars of the cage.
"Do you need help?" I shouted. There was no response. Staring around
through the thickening vapor of rosium rolling in clouds from the
overturned tank, I heard Miss Barrison's voice calling:
"I can't move! A transparent lady is holding me!"
Blindly I rushed about, arms outstretched, and the next moment struck
the door of the cage so hard that the impact almost knocked me
senseless. Clutching it to steady myself, it suddenly flew open. A
rush of partly visible creatures passed me like a burst of pink
flames, and in the midst, borne swiftly away on the crest of the
outrush, the professor passed like a bolt shot from a catapult; and
his last cry came wafted back to me from the forest as I swayed there,
drunk with the stupefying perfume: "Don't worry! I'm all right!"
I staggered out into the clearer air towards a figure seen dimly
through swirling vapor.
"Are you hurt?" I stammered, clasping Miss Barrison in my arms.
"No--oh no," she said, wringing her hands. "But the professor! I saw
him! I could not scream; I could not move! _They_ had him!"
"I saw him too," I groaned. "There was not one trace of terror on his
face. He was actually smiling."
Overcome at the sublime courage of the man, we wept in each other's
arms.
* * * * *
True to our promise to Professor Farrago, we made the best of our way
northward; and it was not a difficult journey by any means, the voyage
in the launch across Okeechobee being perfectly simple and the trail
to the nearest railroad station but a few easy miles from the
landing-place.
Shocking as had been our experience, dreadful as was the calamity
which had not only robbed me of a life-long friend, but had also
bereaved the entire scientific world, I could not seem to feel that
desperate and hopeless grief which the natural decease of a close
friend might warrant. No; there remained a vague expectancy which so
dominated my sorrow that at moments I became hopeful--nay, sanguine,
that I should one day again behold my beloved superior in the flesh.
There was something so happy in his last smile, something so artlessly
pleased, that I was certain no fear of impending dissolution worried
him as he disappeared into the uncharted depth of the unknown
Everglades.
I think Miss Barrison agreed with me, too. She appeared to be more or
less dazed, which was, of course, quite natural; and during our return
voyage across Okeechobee and through the lagoons and forests beyond
she was very silent.
When we reached the railroad at Portulacca, a thrifty lemon-growing
ranch on the Volusia and Chinkapin Railway, the first thing I did was
to present my dog to the station-agent--but I was obliged to give him
five dollars before he consented to accept the dog.
However, Miss Barrison interviewed the station-master's wife, a
kindly, pitiful soul, who promised to be a good mistress to the
creature. We both felt better after that was off our minds; we felt
better still when the north-bound train rolled leisurely into the
white glare of Portulacca, and presently rolled out again, quite as
leisurely, bound, thank Heaven, for that abused aggregation of sinful
boroughs called New York.
Except for one young man whom I encountered in the smoker, we had the
train to ourselves, a circumstance which, curiously enough, appeared
to increase Miss Barrison's depression, and my own as a natural
sequence. The circumstances of the taking off of Professor Farrago
appeared to engross her thoughts so completely that it made me uneasy
during our trip out from Little Sprite--in fact it was growing plainer
to me every hour that in her brief acquaintance with that
distinguished scientist she had become personally attached to him to
an extent that began to worry me. Her personal indignation at the
caged Sphyx flared out at unexpected intervals, and there could be no
doubt that her unhappiness and resentment were becoming morbid.
I spent an hour or two in the smoking compartment, tenanted only by a
single passenger and myself. He was an agreeable young man, although,
in the natural acquaintanceship that we struck up, I regretted to
learn that he was a writer of popular fiction, returning from Fort
Worth, where he had been for the sole purpose of composing a poem on
Florida.
I have always, in common with other mentally balanced savants,
despised writers of fiction. All scientists harbor a natural antipathy
to romance in any form, and that antipathy becomes a deep horror if
fiction dares to deal flippantly with the exact sciences, or if some
degraded intellect assumes the warrantless liberty of using natural
history as the vehicle for silly tales.
Never but once had I been tempted to romance in any form; never but
once had sentiment interfered with a passionless transfer of
scientific notes to the sanctuary of the unvarnished note-book or the
cloister of the juiceless monograph. Nor have I the slightest approach
to that superficial and doubtful quality known as literary skill.
Once, however, as I sat alone in the middle of the floor, classifying
my isopods, I was not only astonished but totally unprepared to find
myself repeating aloud a verse that I myself had unconsciously
fashioned:
"An isopod
Is a work of God."
Never before in all my life had I made a rhyme; and it worried me for
weeks, ringing in my brain day and night, confusing me, interfering
with my thoughts.
I said as much to the young man, who only laughed good-naturedly and
replied that it was the Creator's purpose to limit certain intellects,
nobody knows why, and that it was apparent that mine had not escaped.
"There's one thing, however," he said, "that might be of some interest
to you and come within the circumscribed scope of your intelligence."
"And what is that?" I asked, tartly.
"A scientific experience of mine," he said, with a careless laugh.
"It's so much stranger than fiction that even Professor Bruce
Stoddard, of Columbia, hesitated to credit it."
I looked at the young fellow suspiciously. His bland smile disarmed
me, but I did not invite him to relate his experience, although he
apparently needed only that encouragement to begin.
"Now, if I could tell it exactly as it occurred," he observed, "and a
stenographer could take it down, word for word, exactly as I relate
it--"
"It would give me great pleasure to do so," said a quiet voice at the
door. We rose at once, removing the cigars from our lips; but Miss
Barrison bade us continue smoking, and at a gesture from her we
resumed our seats after she had installed herself by the window.
"Really," she said, looking coldly at me, "I couldn't endure the
solitude any longer. Isn't there anything to do on this tiresome
train?"
"If you had your pad and pencil," I began, maliciously, "you might
take down a matter of interest--"
She looked frankly at the young man, who laughed in that pleasant,
good-tempered manner of his, and offered to tell us of his alleged
scientific experience if we thought it might amuse us sufficiently to
vary the dull monotony of the journey north.
"Is it fiction?" I asked, point-blank.
"It is absolute truth," he replied.
I rose and went off to find pad and pencil. When I returned Miss
Barrison was laughing at a story which the young man had just
finished.
"But," he ended, gravely, "I have practically decided to renounce
fiction as a means of livelihood and confine myself to simple,
uninteresting statistics and facts."
"I am very glad to hear you say that," I exclaimed, warmly. He bowed,
looked at Miss Barrison, and asked her when he might begin his story.
"Whenever you are ready," replied Miss Barrison, smiling in a manner
which I had not observed since the disappearance of Professor Farrago.
I'll admit that the young fellow was superficially attractive.
"Well, then," he began, modestly, "having no technical ability
concerning the affair in question, and having no knowledge of either
comparative anatomy or zoology, I am perhaps unfitted to tell this
story. But the story is true; the episode occurred under my own
eyes--within a few hours' sail of the Battery. And as I was one of the
first persons to verify what has long been a theory among scientists,
and, moreover, as the result of Professor Holroyd's discovery is to
be placed on exhibition in Madison Square Garden on the 20th of next
month, I have decided to tell you, as simply as I am able, exactly
what occurred.
"I first told the story on April 1, 1903, to the editors of the _North
American Review_, _The Popular Science Monthly_, the _Scientific
American_, _Nature_, _Outing_, and the _Fossiliferous Magazine_. All
these gentlemen rejected it; some curtly informing me that fiction had
no place in their columns. When I attempted to explain that it was not
fiction, the editors of these periodicals either maintained a
contemptuous silence, or bluntly notified me that my literary services
and opinions were not desired. But finally, when several publishers
offered to take the story as fiction, I cut short all negotiations and
decided to publish it myself. Where I am known at all, it is my
misfortune to be known as a writer of fiction. This makes it
impossible for me to receive a hearing from a scientific audience. I
regret it bitterly, because now, when it is too late, I am prepared to
prove certain scientific matters of interest, and to produce the
proofs. In this case, however, I am fortunate, for nobody can dispute
the existence of a thing when the bodily proof is exhibited as
evidence.
"This is the story; and if I tell it as I write fiction, it is because
I do not know how to tell it otherwise.
"I was walking along the beach below Pine Inlet, on the south shore of
Long Island. The railroad and telegraph station is at West Oyster Bay.
Everybody who has travelled on the Long Island Railroad knows the
station, but few, perhaps, know Pine Inlet. Duck-shooters, of course,
are familiar with it; but as there are no hotels there, and nothing
to see except salt meadow, salt creek, and a strip of dune and sand,
the summer-squatting public may probably be unaware of its existence.
The local name for the place is Pine Inlet; the maps give its name as
Sand Point, I believe, but anybody at West Oyster Bay can direct you
to it. Captain McPeek, who keeps the West Oyster Bay House, drives
duck-shooters there in winter. It lies five miles southeast from West
Oyster Bay.
"I had walked over that afternoon from Captain McPeek's. There was a
reason for my going to Pine Inlet--it embarrasses me to explain it,
but the truth is I meditated writing an ode to the ocean. It was out
of the question to write it in West Oyster Bay, with the whistle of
locomotives in my ears. I knew that Pine Inlet was one of the
loneliest places on the Atlantic coast; it is out of sight of
everything except leagues of gray ocean. Rarely one might make out
fishing-smacks drifting across the horizon. Summer squatters never
visited it; sportsmen shunned it, except in winter. Therefore, as I
was about to do a bit of poetry, I thought that Pine Inlet was the
spot for the deed. So I went there.
"As I was strolling along the beach, biting my pencil reflectively,
tremendously impressed by the solitude and the solemn thunder of the
surf, a thought occurred to me--how unpleasant it would be if I
suddenly stumbled on a summer boarder. As this joyless impossibility
flitted across my mind, I rounded a bleak sand-dune.
"A girl stood directly in my path.
"She stared at me as though I had just crawled up out of the sea to
bite her. I don't know what my own expression resembled, but I have
been given to understand it was idiotic.
"Now I perceived, after a few moments, that the young lady was
frightened, and I knew I ought to say something civil. So I said, 'Are
there many mosquitoes here?'
"'No,' she replied, with a slight quiver in her voice; 'I have only
seen one, and it was biting somebody else.'
"The conversation seemed so futile, and the young lady appeared to be
more nervous than before. I had an impulse to say, 'Do not run; I have
breakfasted,' for she seemed to be meditating a flight into the
breakers. What I did say was: 'I did not know anybody was here. I do
not intend to intrude. I come from Captain McPeek's, and I am writing
an ode to the ocean.' After I had said this it seemed to ring in my
ears like, 'I come from Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful
James.'
"I glanced timidly at her.
"'She's thinking of the same thing,' said I to myself.
"However, the young lady seemed to be a trifle reassured. I noticed
she drew a sigh of relief and looked at my shoes. She looked so long
that it made me suspicious, and I also examined my shoes. They seemed
to be in a fair state of repair.
"'I--I am sorry,' she said, 'but would you mind not walking on the
beach?'
"This was sudden. I had intended to retire and leave the beach to her,
but I did not fancy being driven away so abruptly.
"'Dear me!' she cried; 'you don't understand. I do not--I would not
think for a moment of asking you to leave Pine Inlet. I merely
ventured to request you to walk on the dunes. I am so afraid that your
footprints may obliterate the impressions that my father is studying.'
"'Oh!' said I, looking about me as though I had been caught in the
middle of a flower-bed; 'really I did not notice any impressions.
Impressions of what?'
"'I don't know,' she said, smiling a little at my awkward pose. 'If
you step this way in a straight line you can do no damage.'
"I did as she bade me. I suppose my movements resembled the gait of a
wet peacock. Possibly they recalled the delicate manoeuvres of the
kangaroo. Anyway, she laughed.
"This seriously annoyed me. I had been at a disadvantage; I walk well
enough when let alone.
"'You can scarcely expect,' said I, 'that a man absorbed in his own
ideas could notice impressions on the sand. I trust I have obliterated
nothing.'
"As I said this I looked back at the long line of footprints
stretching away in prospective across the sand. They were my own. How
large they looked! Was that what she was laughing at?
"'I wish to explain,' she said, gravely, looking at the point of her
parasol. 'I am very sorry to be obliged to warn you--to ask you to
forego the pleasure of strolling on a beach that does not belong to
me. Perhaps,' she continued, in sudden alarm, 'perhaps this beach
belongs to you?'
"'The beach? Oh no,' I said.
"'But--but you were going to write poems about it?'
"'Only one--and that does not necessitate owning the beach. I have
observed,' said I, frankly, 'that the people who own nothing write
many poems about it.'
"She looked at me seriously.
"'I write many poems,' I added.
"She laughed doubtfully.
"'Would you rather I went away?' I asked, politely. 'My family is
respectable,' I added; and I told her my name.
"'Oh! Then you wrote _Culled Cowslips_ and _Faded Fig-Leaves_ and you
imitate Maeterlinck, and you--Oh, I know lots of people that you
know;' she cried, with every symptom of relief; 'and you know my
brother.'
"'I am the author,' said I, coldly, 'of _Culled Cowslips_, but _Faded
Fig-Leaves_ was an earlier work, which I no longer recognize, and I
should be grateful to you if you would be kind enough to deny that I
ever imitated Maeterlinck. Possibly,' I added, 'he imitates me.'
"She was very quiet, and I saw she was sorry.
"'Never mind,' I said, magnanimously, 'you probably are not familiar
with modern literature. If I knew your name I should ask permission to
present myself.'
"'Why, I am Daisy Holroyd,' she said.
"'What! Jack Holroyd's little sister?'
"'Little?' she cried.
"'I didn't mean that,' said I. 'You know that your brother and I were
great friends in Paris--'
"'I know,' she said, significantly.
"'Ahem! Of course,' I said, 'Jack and I were inseparable--'
"'Except when shut in separate cells,' said Miss Holroyd, coldly.
"This unfeeling allusion to the unfortunate termination of a
Latin-Quarter celebration hurt me.
"'The police,' said I, 'were too officious.'
"'So Jack says,' replied Miss Holroyd, demurely.
"We had unconsciously moved on along the sand-hills, side by side, as
we spoke.
"'To think,' I repeated, 'that I should meet Jack's little--'
"'Please,' she said, 'you are only three years my senior.'
"She opened the sunshade and tipped it over one shoulder. It was
white, and had spots and posies on it.
"'Jack sends us every new book you write,' she observed. 'I do not
approve of some things you write.'
"'Modern school,' I mumbled.
"'That is no excuse,' she said, severely; 'Anthony Trollope didn't do
it.'
"The foam spume from the breakers was drifting across the dunes, and
the little tip-up snipe ran along the beach and teetered and whistled
and spread their white-barred wings for a low, straight flight across
the shingle, only to tip and run and sail on again. The salt sea-wind
whistled and curled through the crested waves, blowing in perfumed
puffs across thickets of sweet bay and cedar. As we passed through the
crackling juicy-stemmed marsh-weed myriads of fiddler crabs raised
their fore-claws in warning and backed away, rustling, through the
reeds, aggressive, protesting.
"'Like millions of pygmy Ajaxes defying the lightning,' I said.
"Miss Holroyd laughed.
"'Now I never imagined that authors were clever except in print,' she
said.
"She was a most extraordinary girl.
"'I suppose,' she observed, after a moment's silence--'I suppose I am
taking you to my father.'
"'Delighted!' I mumbled. 'H'm! I had the honor of meeting Professor
Holroyd in Paris.'
"'Yes; he bailed you and Jack out,' said Miss Holroyd, serenely.
"The silence was too painful to last.
"'Captain McPeek is an interesting man,' I said. I spoke more loudly
than I intended. I may have been nervous.
"'Yes,' said Daisy Holroyd, 'but he has a most singular hotel clerk.'
"'You mean Mr. Frisby?'
"'I do.'
"'Yes,' I admitted, 'Mr. Frisby is queer. He was once a bill-poster.'
"'I know it!' exclaimed Daisy Holroyd, with some heat. 'He ruins
landscapes whenever he has an opportunity. Do you know that he has a
passion for bill-posting? He has; he posts bills for the pure pleasure
of it, just as you play golf, or tennis, or squash.'
"'But he's a hotel clerk now,' I said; 'nobody employs him to post
bills.'
"'I know it! He does it all by himself for the pure pleasure of it.
Papa has engaged him to come down here for two weeks, and I dread it,'
said the girl.
"What Professor Holroyd might want of Frisby I had not the faintest
notion. I suppose Miss Holroyd noticed the bewilderment in my face,
for she laughed and nodded her head twice.
"'Not only Mr. Frisby, but Captain McPeek also,' she said.
"'You don't mean to say that Captain McPeek is going to close his
hotel!' I exclaimed.
"My trunk was there. It contained guarantees of my respectability.
"'Oh no; his wife will keep it open,' replied the girl. 'Look! you can
see papa now. He's digging.'
"'Where?' I blurted out.
"I remembered Professor Holroyd as a prim, spectacled gentleman, with
close-cut, snowy beard and a clerical allure. The man I saw digging
wore green goggles, a jersey, a battered sou'wester, and hip-boots of
rubber. He was delving in the muck of the salt meadow, his face
streaming with perspiration, his boots and jersey splashed with
unpleasant-looking mud. He glanced up as we approached, shading his
eyes with a sunburned hand.
"'Papa, dear,' said Miss Holroyd, 'here is Jack's friend, whom you
bailed out of Mazas.'
"The introduction was startling. I turned crimson with mortification.
The professor was very decent about it; he called me by name at once.
Then he looked at his spade. It was clear he considered me a nuisance
and wished to go on with his digging.
"'I suppose,' he said, 'you are still writing?'
"'A little,' I replied, trying not to speak sarcastically. My output
had rivalled that of 'The Duchess'--in quantity, I mean.
"'I seldom read--fiction,' he said, looking restlessly at the hole in
the ground.
"Miss Holroyd came to my rescue.
"'That was a charming story you wrote last,' she said. 'Papa should
read it--you should, papa; it's all about a fossil.'
"We both looked narrowly at Miss Holroyd. Her smile was guileless.
"'Fossils!' repeated the professor. 'Do you care for fossils?'
"'Very much,' said I.
"Now I am not perfectly sure what my object was in lying. I looked at
Daisy Holroyd's dark-fringed eyes. They were very grave.
"'Fossils,' said I, 'are my hobby.'
"I think Miss Holroyd winced a little at this. I did not care. I went
on:
"'I have seldom had the opportunity to study the subject, but, as a
boy, I collected flint arrow-heads--"
"'Flint arrow-heads!' said the professor coldly.
"'Yes; they were the nearest things to fossils obtainable,' I replied,
marvelling at my own mendacity.
"The professor looked into the hole. I also looked. I could see
nothing in it. 'He's digging for fossils,' thought I to myself.
"'Perhaps,' said the professor, cautiously, 'you might wish to aid me
in a little research--that is to say, if you have an inclination for
fossils.' The double-entendre was not lost upon me.
"'I have read all your books so eagerly,' said I, 'that to join you,
to be of service to you in any research, however difficult and
trying, would be an honor and a privilege that I never dared to hope
for.'
"'That,' thought I to myself, 'will do its own work.'
"But the professor was still suspicious. How could he help it, when he
remembered Jack's escapades, in which my name was always blended!
Doubtless he was satisfied that my influence on Jack was evil. The
contrary was the case, too.
"'Fossils,' he said, worrying the edge of the excavation with his
spade--'fossils are not things to be lightly considered.'
"'No, indeed!' I protested.
"'Fossils are the most interesting as well as puzzling things in the
world,' said he.
"'They are!' I cried, enthusiastically.
"'But I am not looking for fossils,' observed the professor, mildly.
"This was a facer. I looked at Daisy Holroyd. She bit her lip and
fixed her eyes on the sea. Her eyes were wonderful eyes.
"'Did you think I was digging for fossils in a salt meadow?' queried
the professor. 'You can have read very little about the subject. I am
digging for something quite different.'
"I was silent. I knew that my face was flushed. I longed to say,
'Well, what the devil are you digging for?' but I only stared into the
hole as though hypnotized.
"'Captain McPeek and Frisby ought to be here,' he said, looking first
at Daisy and then across the meadows.
"I ached to ask him why he had subpoenaed Captain McPeek and Frisby.
"'They are coming,' said Daisy, shading her eyes. 'Do you see the
speck on the meadows?'
"'It may be a mud-hen,' said the professor.
"'Miss Holroyd is right,' I said. 'A wagon and team and two men are
coming from the north. There's a dog beside the wagon--it's that
miserable yellow dog of Frisby's.'
"'Good gracious!' cried the professor, 'you don't mean to tell me that
you see all that at such a distance?'
"'Why not?' I said.
"'I see nothing,' he insisted.
"'You will see that I'm right, presently,' I laughed.
"The professor removed his blue goggles and rubbed them, glancing
obliquely at me.
"'Haven't you heard what extraordinary eyesight duck-shooters have?'
said his daughter, looking back at her father. 'Jack says that he can
tell exactly what kind of a duck is flying before most people could
see anything at all in the sky.'
"'It's true,' I said; 'it comes to anybody, I fancy, who has had
practice.'
"The professor regarded me with a new interest. There was inspiration
in his eyes. He turned towards the ocean. For a long time he stared at
the tossing waves on the beach, then he looked far out to where the
horizon met the sea.
"'Are there any ducks out there?' he asked, at last.
"'Yes,' said I, scanning the sea, 'there are.'
"He produced a pair of binoculars from his coat-tail pocket, adjusted
them, and raised them to his eyes.
"'H'm! What sort of ducks?'
"I looked more carefully, holding both hands over my forehead.
"'Surf-ducks and widgeon. There is one bufflehead among them--no, two;
the rest are coots,' I replied.
"'This,' cried the professor, 'is most astonishing. I have good eyes,
but I can't see a blessed thing without these binoculars!'
"'It's not extraordinary,' said I; 'the surf-ducks and coots any
novice might recognize; the widgeon and buffleheads I should not have
been able to name unless they had risen from the water. It is easy to
tell any duck when it is flying, even though it looks no bigger than a
black pin-point.'
"But the professor insisted that it was marvellous, and he said that I
might render him invaluable service if I would consent to come and
camp at Pine Inlet for a few weeks.
"I looked at his daughter, but she turned her back. Her back was
beautifully moulded. Her gown fitted also.
"'Camp out here?' I repeated, pretending to be unpleasantly surprised.
"'I do not think he would care to,' said Miss Holroyd, without
turning.
"I had not expected that.
"'Above all things,' said I, in a clear, pleasant voice, 'I like to
camp out.'
"She said nothing.
"'It is not exactly camping,' said the professor. 'Come, you shall see
our conservatory. Daisy, come, dear! You must put on a heavier frock;
it is getting towards sundown.'
"At that moment, over a near dune, two horses' heads appeared,
followed by two human heads, then a wagon, then a yellow dog.
"I turned triumphantly to the professor.
"'You are the very man I want,' he muttered--'the very man--the very
man.'
"I looked at Daisy Holroyd. She returned my glance with a defiant
little smile.
"'Waal,' said Captain McPeek, driving up, 'here we be! Git out,
Frisby.'
"Frisby, fat, nervous, and sentimental, hopped out of the cart.
"'Come,' said the professor, impatiently moving across the dunes. I
walked with Daisy Holroyd. McPeek and Frisby followed. The yellow dog
walked by himself.