“A foine wan, sor, wit a bit stub av a tail. An' she's that intelligent, she kin jist about talk Frinch. Th' Thomahlians all called her th' Four-footed, an' if they kape on, they'll jist aboot make her th' Pope.”
Watson was still thick headed. “I don't understand!”
“Nor I laddie. But th' ould doc does. He's got a foine head for figgers; and' he's that scientific, he kin make iron oot o' rainbows.”
“Iron out of—what?”
“Rainbows, sor. Faith, 'tis meself thot's seen it. And he's been watchin' over ye ever since ye came. 'Twas hisself, lad, that put it into your head t' call him th' Jarados.”
“You don't mean to say that the professor put those impulses into my head!”
“Aye, laddie; you said it. He kin build up a man's thoughts just like you or me kin pile oop lumber. 'Tis that deep he is wit' th' calculations!”
Watson tried to think. There was just one superlative question now. He put it.
“I dinna know if he's th' Jarados,” was the reply. “But if so be not, then he's his twin brother, sure enough.”
“Is he a prisoner?”