“That’s just the point!” cried Caleb, “He wouldn’t. His pizen an’ his temper was otherwise engaged. He’d sunk his fangs into one en’my. An’ it ain’t cobra natur’ to let go, once he’s got his grip. I found that out by askin’ one of the keepers. The man with the mop was as safe in that cage, just then, as he’d a’ been in a Meth’dist Conf’rence. The Cobra had just one idee. An’ that idee was already on the job.
“Now, maybe you’re wonderin’ what this long yarn has to do with Blacarda. It has ev’rything to do with him. He’s the King Cobra sort, if ever any man was. An’ in his case, I’m the man with the mop. Blacarda’s fitted out with a whole lot of fancy venom. An’ he’d like nothin’ better’n to get his fangs in me. I can’t say I exac’ly blame him. But I ain’t hankerin’ to get bit. So I throws into his cage a little snake called ‘Steeloid’. An he nabs it. So long’s he’s got his teeth in that, he ain’t got the bigness of mind to bite anything else. When Steeloid’s over, I’ll toss him another little snake, an’ so on to the end of the chapter. He’ll keep gnawin’ away, with the idee he’s hurtin’ me terr’ble. An’ I’ll go ’bout my winder-washin’ bus’ness meanwhile; knowin’ he’s too much took up with his little snake to do me any hurt. Why, son, ’twas one of my men that put Blacarda up to this scheme of gettin’ a Special Session called so he could knock my Steeloid Comp’ny out.”
Caine made no reply; but watched Caleb mop the perspiration of unwonted verbosity from his forehead. At last he asked, with his bantering smile:
“Have you read me, by any chance?”
“Have I read my A. B. C.?” retorted Caleb in fine contempt.
“But—”
“I’m not buyin’ a red can’py an’ givin’ two-dollar character readin’s,” said Conover brusquely, “Ever in the Adirondacks? Anything to do there?”
“Plenty—for the man who can appreciate its glories,” retorted Caine with pleasant insolence, “Very little for a man of your type, I should fancy. Why?”
“I hoped maybe you could put me on to some of the pointers,” answered Caleb. “It’s the first vacation I ever had. An’ I want all the fun out of it I can get. But I’m blest if I know where the fun comes in.”
“A ward-heeler would probably regard a Corot in much the same way,” observed Caine, still inwardly smarting at the Fighter’s good natured contempt, “But surely Miss Shevlin must have told you in some of her letters the sort of life they lead there—something of her amusements? You can probably get a better idea of it all from her letters than from anything I could tell you. Doesn’t she—?”