“You unmitigated hayseed!” I growled. “See what money will do for a
man’s brains!”
There stood the morphine bottle with the stopple out, just as Tom had
left it.
I routed out another young M.D. who roomed on the floor above, and sent
him for old Doctor Gales, two squares away. Tom Hopkins has too much
money to be attended by rising young practitioners alone.
When Gales came we put Tom through as expensive a course of treatment
as the resources of the profession permit. After the more drastic
remedies we gave him citrate of caffeine in frequent doses and strong
coffee, and walked him up and down the floor between two of us. Old
Gales pinched him and slapped his face and worked hard for the big
check he could see in the distance. The young M.D. from the next floor
gave Tom a most hearty, rousing kick, and then apologized to me.
“Couldn’t help it,” he said. “I never kicked a millionaire before in my
life. I may never have another opportunity.”
“Now,” said Doctor Gales, after a couple of hours, “he’ll do. But keep
him awake for another hour. You can do that by talking to him and
shaking him up occasionally. When his pulse and respiration are normal
then let him sleep. I’ll leave him with you now.”
I was left alone with Tom, whom we had laid on a couch. He lay very
still, and his eyes were half closed. I began my work of keeping him
awake.
“Well, old man,” I said, “you’ve had a narrow squeak, but we’ve pulled
you through. When you were attending lectures, Tom, didn’t any of the
professors ever casually remark that m-o-r-p-h-i-a never spells
‘quinia,’ especially in four-grain doses? But I won’t pile it up on you
until you get on your feet. But you ought to have been a druggist, Tom;
you’re splendidly qualified to fill prescriptions.”
Tom looked at me with a faint and foolish smile.
“B’ly,” he murmured, “I feel jus’ like a hum’n bird flyin’ around a
jolly lot of most ’shpensive roses. Don’ bozzer me. Goin’ sleep now.”
And he went to sleep in two seconds. I shook him by the shoulder.
“Now, Tom,” I said, severely, “this won’t do. The big doctor said you
must stay awake for at least an hour. Open your eyes. You’re not
entirely safe yet, you know. Wake up.”
Tom Hopkins weighs one hundred and ninety-eight. He gave me another
somnolent grin, and fell into deeper slumber. I would have made him
move about, but I might as well have tried to make Cleopatra’s needle
waltz around the room with me. Tom’s breathing became stertorous, and
that, in connection with morphia poisoning, means danger.
Then I began to think. I could not rouse his body; I must strive to
excite his mind. “Make him angry,” was an idea that suggested itself.
“Good!” I thought; but how? There was not a joint in Tom’s armour. Dear
old fellow! He was good nature itself, and a gallant gentleman, fine
and true and clean as sunlight. He came from somewhere down South,
where they still have ideals and a code. New York had charmed, but had
not spoiled, him. He had that old-fashioned chivalrous reverence for
women, that—Eureka!—there was my idea! I worked the thing up for a
minute or two in my imagination. I chuckled to myself at the thought of
springing a thing like that on old Tom Hopkins. Then I took him by the
shoulder and shook him till his ears flopped. He opened his eyes
lazily. I assumed an expression of scorn and contempt, and pointed my
finger within two inches of his nose.
“Listen to me, Hopkins,” I said, in cutting and distinct tones, “you
and I have been good friends, but I want you to understand that in the
future my doors are closed against any man who acts as much like a
scoundrel as you have.”
Tom looked the least bit interested.
“What’s the matter, Billy?” he muttered, composedly. “Don’t your
clothes fit you?”
“If I were in your place,” I went on, “which, thank God, I am not, I
think I would be afraid to close my eyes. How about that girl you left
waiting for you down among those lonesome Southern pines—the girl that
you’ve forgotten since you came into your confounded money? Oh, I know
what I’m talking about. While you were a poor medical student she was
good enough for you. But now, since you are a millionaire, it’s
different. I wonder what she thinks of the performances of that
peculiar class of people which she has been taught to worship—the
Southern gentlemen? I’m sorry, Hopkins, that I was forced to speak
about these matters, but you’ve covered it up so well and played your
part so nicely that I would have sworn you were above such unmanly
tricks.”
Poor Tom. I could scarcely keep from laughing outright to see him
struggling against the effects of the opiate. He was distinctly angry,
and I didn’t blame him. Tom had a Southern temper. His eyes were open
now, and they showed a gleam or two of fire. But the drug still clouded
his mind and bound his tongue.
“C-c-confound you,” he stammered, “I’ll s-smash you.”
He tried to rise from the couch. With all his size he was very weak
now. I thrust him back with one arm. He lay there glaring like a lion
in a trap.
“That will hold you for a while, you old loony,” I said to myself. I
got up and lit my pipe, for I was needing a smoke. I walked around a
bit, congratulating myself on my brilliant idea.
I heard a snore. I looked around. Tom was asleep again. I walked over
and punched him on the jaw. He looked at me as pleasant and ungrudging
as an idiot. I chewed my pipe and gave it to him hard.
“I want you to recover yourself and get out of my rooms as soon as you
can,” I said, insultingly. “I’ve told you what I think of you. If you
have any honour or honesty left you will think twice before you attempt
again to associate with gentlemen. She’s a poor girl, isn’t she?” I
sneered. “Somewhat too plain and unfashionable for us since we got our
money. Be ashamed to walk on Fifth Avenue with her, wouldn’t you?
Hopkins, you’re forty-seven times worse than a cad. Who cares for your
money? I don’t. I’ll bet that girl don’t. Perhaps if you didn’t have it
you’d be more of a man. As it is you’ve made a cur of yourself, and”—I
thought that quite dramatic—“perhaps broken a faithful heart.” (Old Tom
Hopkins breaking a faithful heart!) “Let me be rid of you as soon as
possible.”
I turned my back on Tom, and winked at myself in a mirror. I heard him
moving, and I turned again quickly. I didn’t want a hundred and
ninety-eight pounds falling on me from the rear. But Tom had only
turned partly over, and laid one arm across his face. He spoke a few
words rather more distinctly than before.
“I couldn’t have—talked this way—to you, Billy, even if I’d heard
people—lyin’ ’bout you. But jus’ soon’s I can s-stand up—I’ll break
your neck—don’ f’get it.”
I did feel a little ashamed then. But it was to save Tom. In the
morning, when I explained it, we would have a good laugh over it
together.
In about twenty minutes Tom dropped into a sound, easy slumber. I felt
his pulse, listened to his respiration, and let him sleep. Everything
was normal, and Tom was safe. I went into the other room and tumbled
into bed.
I found Tom up and dressed when I awoke the next morning. He was
entirely himself again with the exception of shaky nerves and a tongue
like a white-oak chip.
“What an idiot I was,” he said, thoughtfully. “I remember thinking that
quinine bottle looked queer while I was taking the dose. Have much
trouble in bringing me ’round?”
I told him no. His memory seemed bad about the entire affair. I
concluded that he had no recollection of my efforts to keep him awake,
and decided not to enlighten him. Some other time, I thought, when he
was feeling better, we would have some fun over it.
When Tom was ready to go he stopped, with the door open, and shook my
hand.
“Much obliged, old fellow,” he said, quietly, “for taking so much
trouble with me—and for what you said. I’m going down now to telegraph
to the little girl.”
X.
A GHOST OF A CHANCE
“Actually, a _hod_!” repeated Mrs. Kinsolving, pathetically.
Mrs. Bellamy Bellmore arched a sympathetic eyebrow. Thus she expressed
condolence and a generous amount of apparent surprise.
“Fancy her telling everywhere,” recapitulated Mrs. Kinsolving, “that
she saw a ghost in the apartment she occupied here—our choicest
guest-room—a ghost, carrying a hod on its shoulder—the ghost of an old
man in overalls, smoking a pipe and carrying a hod! The very absurdity
of the thing shows her malicious intent. There never was a Kinsolving
that carried a hod. Every one knows that Mr. Kinsolving’s father
accumulated his money by large building contracts, but he never worked
a day with his own hands. He had this house built from his own plans;
but—oh, a hod! Why need she have been so cruel and malicious?”
“It is really too bad,” murmured Mrs. Bellmore, with an approving
glance of her fine eyes about the vast chamber done in lilac and old
gold. “And it was in this room she saw it! Oh, no, I’m not afraid of
ghosts. Don’t have the least fear on my account. I’m glad you put me in
here. I think family ghosts so interesting! But, really, the story does
sound a little inconsistent. I should have expected something better
from Mrs. Fischer-Suympkins. Don’t they carry bricks in hods? Why
should a ghost bring bricks into a villa built of marble and stone? I’m
so sorry, but it makes me think that age is beginning to tell upon Mrs.
Fischer-Suympkins.”
“This house,” continued Mrs. Kinsolving, “was built upon the site of an
old one used by the family during the Revolution. There wouldn’t be
anything strange in its having a ghost. And there was a Captain
Kinsolving who fought in General Greene’s army, though we’ve never been
able to secure any papers to vouch for it. If there is to be a family
ghost, why couldn’t it have been his, instead of a bricklayer’s?”
“The ghost of a Revolutionary ancestor wouldn’t be a bad idea,” agreed
Mrs. Bellmore; “but you know how arbitrary and inconsiderate ghosts can
be. Maybe, like love, they are ‘engendered in the eye.’ One advantage
of those who see ghosts is that their stories can’t be disproved. By a
spiteful eye, a Revolutionary knapsack might easily be construed to be
a hod. Dear Mrs. Kinsolving, think no more of it. I am sure it was a
knapsack.”
“But she told everybody!” mourned Mrs. Kinsolving, inconsolable. “She
insisted upon the details. There is the pipe. And how are you going to
get out of the overalls?”
“Shan’t get into them,” said Mrs. Bellmore, with a prettily suppressed
yawn; “too stiff and wrinkly. Is that you, Felice? Prepare my bath,
please. Do you dine at seven at Clifftop, Mrs. Kinsolving? So kind of
you to run in for a chat before dinner! I love those little touches of
informality with a guest. They give such a home flavour to a visit. So
sorry; I must be dressing. I am so indolent I always postpone it until
the last moment.”
Mrs. Fischer-Suympkins had been the first large plum that the
Kinsolvings had drawn from the social pie. For a long time, the pie
itself had been out of reach on a top shelf. But the purse and the
pursuit had at last lowered it. Mrs. Fischer-Suympkins was the
heliograph of the smart society parading corps. The glitter of her wit
and actions passed along the line, transmitting whatever was latest and
most daring in the game of peep-show. Formerly, her fame and leadership
had been secure enough not to need the support of such artifices as
handing around live frogs for favours at a cotillon. But, now, these
things were necessary to the holding of her throne. Beside, middle age
had come to preside, incongruous, at her capers. The sensational papers
had cut her space from a page to two columns. Her wit developed a
sting; her manners became more rough and inconsiderate, as if she felt
the royal necessity of establishing her autocracy by scorning the
conventionalities that bound lesser potentates.
To some pressure at the command of the Kinsolvings, she had yielded so
far as to honour their house by her presence, for an evening and night.
She had her revenge upon her hostess by relating, with grim enjoyment
and sarcastic humour, her story of the vision carrying the hod. To that
lady, in raptures at having penetrated thus far toward the coveted
inner circle, the result came as a crushing disappointment. Everybody
either sympathized or laughed, and there was little to choose between
the two modes of expression.
But, later on, Mrs. Kinsolving’s hopes and spirits were revived by the
capture of a second and greater prize.
Mrs. Bellamy Bellmore had accepted an invitation to visit at Clifftop,
and would remain for three days. Mrs. Bellmore was one of the younger
matrons, whose beauty, descent, and wealth gave her a reserved seat in
the holy of holies that required no strenuous bolstering. She was
generous enough thus to give Mrs. Kinsolving the accolade that was so
poignantly desired; and, at the same time, she thought how much it
would please Terence. Perhaps it would end by solving him.
Terence was Mrs. Kinsolving’s son, aged twenty-nine, quite good-looking
enough, and with two or three attractive and mysterious traits. For
one, he was very devoted to his mother, and that was sufficiently odd
to deserve notice. For others, he talked so little that it was
irritating, and he seemed either very shy or very deep. Terence
interested Mrs. Bellmore, because she was not sure which it was. She
intended to study him a little longer, unless she forgot the matter. If
he was only shy, she would abandon him, for shyness is a bore. If he
was deep, she would also abandon him, for depth is precarious.
On the afternoon of the third day of her visit, Terence hunted up Mrs.
Bellmore, and found her in a nook actually looking at an album.
“It’s so good of you,” said he, “to come down here and retrieve the day
for us. I suppose you have heard that Mrs. Fischer-Suympkins scuttled
the ship before she left. She knocked a whole plank out of the bottom
with a hod. My mother is grieving herself ill about it. Can’t you
manage to see a ghost for us while you are here, Mrs. Bellmore—a
bang-up, swell ghost, with a coronet on his head and a cheque book
under his arm?”
“That was a naughty old lady, Terence,” said Mrs. Bellmore, “to tell
such stories. Perhaps you gave her too much supper. Your mother doesn’t
really take it seriously, does she?”
“I think she does,” answered Terence. “One would think every brick in
the hod had dropped on her. It’s a good mammy, and I don’t like to see
her worried. It’s to be hoped that the ghost belongs to the
hod-carriers’ union, and will go out on a strike. If he doesn’t, there
will be no peace in this family.”
“I’m sleeping in the ghost-chamber,” said Mrs. Bellmore, pensively.
“But it’s so nice I wouldn’t change it, even if I were afraid, which
I’m not. It wouldn’t do for me to submit a counter story of a
desirable, aristocratic shade, would it? I would do so, with pleasure,
but it seems to me it would be too obviously an antidote for the other
narrative to be effective.”
“True,” said Terence, running two fingers thoughtfully into his crisp,
brown hair; “that would never do. How would it work to see the same
ghost again, minus the overalls, and have gold bricks in the hod? That
would elevate the spectre from degrading toil to a financial plane.
Don’t you think that would be respectable enough?”
“There was an ancestor who fought against the Britishers, wasn’t there?
Your mother said something to that effect.”
“I believe so; one of those old chaps in raglan vests and golf
trousers. I don’t care a continental for a Continental, myself. But the
mother has set her heart on pomp and heraldry and pyrotechnics, and I
want her to be happy.”
“You are a good boy, Terence,” said Mrs. Bellmore, sweeping her silks
close to one side of her, “not to beat your mother. Sit here by me, and
let’s look at the album, just as people used to do twenty years ago.
Now, tell me about every one of them. Who is this tall, dignified
gentleman leaning against the horizon, with one arm on the Corinthian
column?”
“That old chap with the big feet?” inquired Terence, craning his neck.
“That’s great-uncle O’Brannigan. He used to keep a rathskeller on the
Bowery.”
“I asked you to sit down, Terence. If you are not going to amuse, or
obey, me, I shall report in the morning that I saw a ghost wearing an
apron and carrying schooners of beer. Now, that is better. To be shy,
at your age, Terence, is a thing that you should blush to acknowledge.”
At breakfast on the last morning of her visit, Mrs. Bellmore startled
and entranced every one present by announcing positively that she had
seen the ghost.
“Did it have a—a—a—?” Mrs. Kinsolving, in her suspense and agitation,
could not bring out the word.
“No, indeed—far from it.”
There was a chorus of questions from others at the table. “Weren’t you
frightened?” “What did it do?” “How did it look?” “How was it dressed?”
“Did it say anything?” “Didn’t you scream?”
“I’ll try to answer everything at once,” said Mrs. Bellmore,
heroically, “although I’m frightfully hungry. Something awakened me—I’m
not sure whether it was a noise or a touch—and there stood the phantom.
I never burn a light at night, so the room was quite dark, but I saw it
plainly. I wasn’t dreaming. It was a tall man, all misty white from
head to foot. It wore the full dress of the old Colonial days—powdered
hair, baggy coat skirts, lace ruffles, and a sword. It looked
intangible and luminous in the dark, and moved without a sound. Yes, I
was a little frightened at first—or startled, I should say. It was the
first ghost I had ever seen. No, it didn’t say anything. I didn’t
scream. I raised up on my elbow, and then it glided silently away, and
disappeared when it reached the door.”
Mrs. Kinsolving was in the seventh heaven. “The description is that of
Captain Kinsolving, of General Greene’s army, one of our ancestors,”
she said, in a voice that trembled with pride and relief. “I really
think I must apologize for our ghostly relative, Mrs. Bellmore. I am
afraid he must have badly disturbed your rest.”
Terence sent a smile of pleased congratulation toward his mother.
Attainment was Mrs. Kinsolving’s, at last, and he loved to see her
happy.
“I suppose I ought to be ashamed to confess,” said Mrs. Bellmore, who
was now enjoying her breakfast, “that I wasn’t very much disturbed. I
presume it would have been the customary thing to scream and faint, and
have all of you running about in picturesque costumes. But, after the
first alarm was over, I really couldn’t work myself up to a panic. The
ghost retired from the stage quietly and peacefully, after doing its
little turn, and I went to sleep again.”
Nearly all listened, politely accepted Mrs. Bellmore’s story as a
made-up affair, charitably offered as an offset to the unkind vision
seen by Mrs. Fischer-Suympkins. But one or two present perceived that
her assertions bore the genuine stamp of her own convictions. Truth and
candour seemed to attend upon every word. Even a scoffer at ghosts—if
he were very observant—would have been forced to admit that she had, at
least in a very vivid dream, been honestly aware of the weird visitor.’
Soon Mrs. Bellmore’s maid was packing. In two hours the auto would come
to convey her to the station. As Terence was strolling upon the east
piazza, Mrs. Bellmore came up to him, with a confidential sparkle in
her eye.
“I didn’t wish to tell the others all of it,” she said, “but I will
tell you. In a way, I think you should be held responsible. Can you
guess in what manner that ghost awakened me last night?”
“Rattled chains,” suggested Terence, after some thought, “or groaned?
They usually do one or the other.”
“Do you happen to know,” continued Mrs. Bellmore, with sudden
irrelevancy, “if I resemble any one of the female relatives of your
restless ancestor, Captain Kinsolving?”
“Don’t think so,” said Terence, with an extremely puzzled air. “Never
heard of any of them being noted beauties.”
“Then, why,” said Mrs. Bellmore, looking the young man gravely in the
eye, “should that ghost have kissed me, as I’m sure it did?”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Terence, in wide-eyed amazement; “you don’t mean
that, Mrs. Bellmore! Did he actually kiss you?”
“I said _it_,” corrected Mrs. Bellmore. “I hope the impersonal pronoun
is correctly used.”
“But why did you say I was responsible?”
“Because you are the only living male relative of the ghost.”
“I see. ‘Unto the third and fourth generation.’ But, seriously, did
he—did it—how do you—?”
“Know? How does any one know? I was asleep, and that is what awakened
me, I’m almost certain.”
“Almost?”
“Well, I awoke just as—oh, can’t you understand what I mean? When
anything arouses you suddenly, you are not positive whether you
dreamed, or—and yet you know that— Dear me, Terence, must I dissect the
most elementary sensations in order to accommodate your extremely
practical intelligence?”
“But, about kissing ghosts, you know,” said Terence, humbly, “I require
the most primary instruction. I never kissed a ghost. Is it—is it—?”
“The sensation,” said Mrs. Bellmore, with deliberate, but slightly
smiling, emphasis, “since you are seeking instruction, is a mingling of
the material and the spiritual.”
“Of course,” said Terence, suddenly growing serious, “it was a dream or
some kind of an hallucination. Nobody believes in spirits, these days.
If you told the tale out of kindness of heart, Mrs. Bellmore, I can’t
express how grateful I am to you. It has made my mother supremely
happy. That Revolutionary ancestor was a stunning idea.”
Mrs. Bellmore sighed. “The usual fate of ghost-seers is mine,” she
said, resignedly. “My privileged encounter with a spirit is attributed
to lobster salad or mendacity. Well, I have, at least, one memory left
from the wreck—a kiss from the unseen world. Was Captain Kinsolving a
very brave man, do you know, Terence?”
“He was licked at Yorktown, I believe,” said Terence, reflecting. “They
say he skedaddled with his company, after the first battle there.”
“I thought he must have been timid,” said Mrs. Bellmore, absently. “He
might have had another.”
“Another battle?” asked Terence, dully.
“What else could I mean? I must go and get ready now; the auto will be
here in an hour. I’ve enjoyed Clifftop immensely. Such a lovely
morning, isn’t it, Terence?”
On her way to the station, Mrs. Bellmore took from her bag a silk
handkerchief, and looked at it with a little peculiar smile. Then she
tied it in several very hard knots, and threw it, at a convenient
moment, over the edge of the cliff along which the road ran.
In his room, Terence was giving some directions to his man, Brooks.
“Have this stuff done up in a parcel,” he said, “and ship it to the
address on that card.”
The card was that of a New York costumer. The “stuff” was a gentleman’s
costume of the days of ’76, made of white satin, with silver buckles,
white silk stockings, and white kid shoes. A powdered wig and a sword
completed the dress.
“And look about, Brooks,” added Terence, a little anxiously, “for a
silk handkerchief with my initials in one corner. I must have dropped
it somewhere.”
It was a month later when Mrs. Bellmore and one or two others of the
smart crowd were making up a list of names for a coaching trip through
the Catskills. Mrs. Bellmore looked over the list for a final
censoring. The name of Terence Kinsolving was there. Mrs. Bellmore ran
her prohibitive pencil lightly through the name.
“Too shy!” she murmured, sweetly, in explanation.
XI.
JIMMY HAYES AND MURIEL
I
Supper was over, and there had fallen upon the camp the silence that
accompanies the rolling of corn-husk cigarettes. The water hole shone
from the dark earth like a patch of fallen sky. Coyotes yelped. Dull
thumps indicated the rocking-horse movements of the hobbled ponies as
they moved to fresh grass. A half-troop of the Frontier Battalion of
Texas Rangers were distributed about the fire.
A well-known sound—the fluttering and scraping of chaparral against
wooden stirrups—came from the thick brush above the camp. The rangers
listened cautiously. They heard a loud and cheerful voice call out
reassuringly:
“Brace up, Muriel, old girl, we’re ’most there now! Been a long ride
for ye, ain’t it, ye old antediluvian handful of animated carpet-tacks?
Hey, now, quit a tryin’ to kiss me! Don’t hold on to my neck so
tight—this here paint hoss ain’t any too shore-footed, let me tell ye.
He’s liable to dump us both off if we don’t watch out.”
Two minutes of waiting brought a tired “paint” pony single-footing into
camp. A gangling youth of twenty lolled in the saddle. Of the “Muriel”
whom he had been addressing, nothing was to be seen.
“Hi, fellows!” shouted the rider cheerfully. “This here’s a letter fer
Lieutenant Manning.”
He dismounted, unsaddled, dropped the coils of his stake-rope, and got
his hobbles from the saddle-horn. While Lieutenant Manning, in command,
was reading the letter, the newcomer, rubbed solicitously at some dried
mud in the loops of the hobbles, showing a consideration for the
forelegs of his mount.
“Boys,” said the lieutenant, waving his hand to the rangers, “this is
Mr. James Hayes. He’s a new member of the company. Captain McLean sends
him down from El Paso. The boys will see that you have some supper,
Hayes, as soon as you get your pony hobbled.”
The recruit was received cordially by the rangers. Still, they observed
him shrewdly and with suspended judgment. Picking a comrade on the
border is done with ten times the care and discretion with which a girl
chooses a sweetheart. On your “side-kicker’s” nerve, loyalty, aim, and
coolness your own life may depend many times.
After a hearty supper Hayes joined the smokers about the fire. His
appearance did not settle all the questions in the minds of his brother
rangers. They saw simply a loose, lank youth with tow-coloured,
sun-burned hair and a berry-brown, ingenuous face that wore a
quizzical, good-natured smile.
“Fellows,” said the new ranger, “I’m goin’ to interduce to you a lady
friend of mine. Ain’t ever heard anybody call her a beauty, but you’ll
all admit she’s got some fine points about her. Come along, Muriel!”
He held open the front of his blue flannel shirt. Out of it crawled a
horned frog. A bright red ribbon was tied jauntily around its spiky
neck. It crawled to its owner’s knee and sat there, motionless.
“This here Muriel,” said Hayes, with an oratorical wave of his hand,
“has got qualities. She never talks back, she always stays at home, and
she’s satisfied with one red dress for every day and Sunday, too.”
“Look at that blame insect!” said one of the rangers with a grin. “I’ve
seen plenty of them horny frogs, but I never knew anybody to have one
for a side-partner. Does the blame thing know you from anybody else?”
“Take it over there and see,” said Hayes.
The stumpy little lizard known as the horned frog is harmless. He has
the hideousness of the prehistoric monsters whose reduced descendant he
is, but he is gentler than the dove.
The ranger took Muriel from Hayes’s knee and went back to his seat on a
roll of blankets. The captive twisted and clawed and struggled
vigorously in his hand. After holding it for a moment or two, the
ranger set it upon the ground. Awkwardly, but swiftly the frog worked
its four oddly moving legs until it stopped close by Hayes’s foot.
“Well, dang my hide!” said the other ranger. “The little cuss knows
you. Never thought them insects had that much sense!”