With that, he laid down his pencil and paper, and again examined the bones, handling them with reverence, and muttering what he supposed to be their names.
For some time a fierce conflict had been raging in George’s mind—curiosity battling with wounded vanity. Which would triumph?
While Marmaduke mumbled, George took mental notes. Soon a broad grin spread over the latter’s face, and he said, “Look here, boys; Marmaduke has named five thigh-bones, and thirty-one ribs! I know, for I’ve kept count. Now, the skeleton of a common man has no business with so many thighs and ribs; and Marmaduke isn’t supposed to know the name of a bone as soon as he sees it. Now, I’ve studied into the matter, and I ought to know something about it. I’m just going to see them for myself.”
Curiosity had triumphed!
This disconcerted poor Marmaduke. He made room for George, and sat down beside Charles. A look of dismay appeared in his face, and he pondered deeply. “Boys,” he said, “did you ever hear that anybody was ever murdered in this neighborhood?”
“Never!” shouted all four in a breath.
“I don’t care; it is a skeleton!” doggedly. “I know as much about it as he does,” glaring at George, “and I will stick to it, it was a skeleton.”
“Whatever it was it’s not a skeleton now!” roared George.
Do not take alarm, gentle reader: this history is not the register of any squabbles among savants: the writer is too tender-hearted to inflict such a punishment on you.