“What is this?” he cried. “A—a hundred and ten degrees Fahrenheit? Mirabile dictu! There must be something wrong with the thermometer.”
In spite of the professor’s guess that there was something wrong, the perspiration began to bead his brow. Taking his book under one arm, he allowed a hand to grope for a handkerchief in the tail pocket of his long black coat.
“Who says there’s anything wrong with that there thermometer?” growled a voice. “Why, the hull town gits its temperature from that machine! Whenever it says the weather’s so and so, you can gamble your spurs that’s what it is.”
Pophagan, proprietor of the hotel, shoved out upon the veranda.
“But look, Mr. Pophagan,” quavered the professor, dabbing at his bald head with his handkerchief and beginning to loosen his collar. “It’s one hundred and ten—in the shade!”
“That’s right,” whispered Pophagan faintly, staring at the instrument. “Sufferin’ sinners, but it’s hot. Hadn’t noticed it before. Hottest early December I ever seen in Ophir.”
“There are some new spots on the sun,” remarked the professor, unbuttoning his vest and fanning himself with his book, “and they always have the effect of disarranging the seasons. Mercy! I feel as though I was suffocating.”
Pophagan threw off his hat and jerked off his coat.
“It come on sudden,” he panted. “I’m allers subject to heat spells like this. Purty nigh got done up oncet with a sunstroke in the Harqua Halas.”
“Merriwell,” queried the professor, in alarm, “you are not light-headed, are you? You don’t feel as though you were going to succumb to this excess of solar caloric?”