"He's frothin'!" Mr. Hicks yelled shrilly. "He's got hydrophoby! Look out for him everybody!"
"G-gg-ggg-ough!" gurgled Pinkey.
"Who bit you, feller?" the cook asked, soothingly.
"G-ggg-gg-ough!" was the agonized answer.
"We'll have to throw and hog-tie him." Mr. Hicks looked around to see if there was a rope handy.
"Don't let him snap at you," called Mr. Stott from a safe distance. "If it gets in your blood, you're goners."
The cook who, as Pinkey advanced shaking his head and making vehement gestures, had retreated, was suddenly enlightened:
"That ain't froth—it's plaster o' Paris—I bet you! Wait till I get a stick and poke it!"
Pinkey nodded.
"That's it!" Mr. Hicks cried, delightedly: "He's takin' a cast of his gooms—I told him about it."