“Only seventy-five,” he announced, then reached for the newspaper Merry had dropped and tore off a piece of it. “It ought to be more than that,” he added.
Taking a match from his pocket he fired the scrap of paper and held it close to the bulb of the thermometer.
“What’s that for?” demanded Ballard.
“Warming things up,” answered Clancy. “Beginning with the thermometer. Gee, look at the mercury climb! Eighty-five, ninety, ninety-five——”
“Here!” interposed Merry. “Don’t you know that’s the town’s official thermometer? You might as well tinker with the weather bureau, Clan. Everybody in Ophir swears by that instrument.”
“I’ll have ’em swearing at it before long,” was Clancy’s calm rejoinder. “A hundred and fifteen,” he added, as he dropped the charred paper. “That’s going some.”
Just as he was backing away from the thermometer, Woo Sing, the Chinese roustabout, came blandly out on the veranda. He looked cool and comfortable in his roomy silk kimono.
“Velly fine day, Missul Melly,” he grinned.
“Pretty hot, Sing,” answered Merry, pretending to mop his face with a handkerchief.
“You callee hot?” demurred Woo Sing. “Goodness glacious! Me allee samee cool as cucumber.”