“I’m very comfortable, thank you, Pophagan,” the colonel answered, with a sly wink at the boys.
“Don’t mean to say you haven’t looked at the thermometer?”
“What’s the use? I don’t look to a thermometer for information as to whether I’m comfortable or not.”
“No? Well, all of Ophir gits its temperature right from this here weather machine o’ mine. I want to tell you, Colonel Hawtrey, that we’re havin’ a spell o’ weather right this minute that ain’t been equaled since ninety-six. Whoosh! Jest take a look at that mercury and see how high she is.”
“You look, Pophagan,” laughed the colonel, “and report.”
The proprietor of the hotel lurched over to the thermometer and recoiled from it in amazement.
“Jumpin’ sand hills!” he exclaimed. “I’ll be dad-burned if this don’t beat all get-out. What d’ye think?” and he whirled on Colonel Hawtrey with popping eyes. “That there thermometer has gone down more’n thirty-five degrees in half an hour. Blamed remarkable, that’s what I call it. Dern nigh gives me a chill.”
Pophagan threw away the fan and put his handkerchief in his pocket.
“Reckon I better go and tell the perfesser an’ the chink afore they catch their death o’ cold tryin’ to be comfortable.”
With that he vanished through the hotel door. Colonel Hawtrey cast an amused glance after the lank, retreating form.