“I mean the—the entomological sort,” said Patty, “and I’m in dead earnest. Who knows anything about the bookworms that really destroy books?”
“I do,” announced Kenneth, “but nothing would induce me to tell. Theirs is a secret history, and not to be made known to a curious world.”
“Pooh!” said Roger, “that’s all bluff. Patty, he doesn’t really know anything about the beasts. Now, I do. A bookworm is a grub.”
“No,” said Philip, “the book is the bookworm’s grub. And pretty dry fodder he must often find it.”
“I know what you’re going to do, Patty,” said Kenneth, in an aggrieved voice; “you’re going to set up a pair of pet bookworms in place of Darby and Juliet. Please understand that I am distinctly offended, and I prophesy that your new pets won’t be half as interesting as the goldfish.”
“Wrong again, Ken,” returned Patty; “no new pets could ever be so dear to my heart as those sweet, lovely goldfish. But, if you people don’t tell me about bookworms, I’ll have to look in the Encyclopædia; and, if there’s anything I do hate, it’s that. Christine, aren’t you up on bookworms?”
“No,” said Christine, in a shy whisper. She couldn’t yet become accustomed to the quick repartee and merry nonsense of these Northern young people.
“I used to have a pet bookworm,” began Roger, “but he got into a cook-book and died of dyspepsia.”
“Tell us what it’s all about, Patty?” said Mr. Hepworth, seeing she was really serious in her questioning.
“Why, it’s a puzzle,—a sort of conundrum. This is it. Suppose a history in three volumes is placed upon a bookshelf. Suppose each volume contains just one hundred pages. And suppose a bookworm, starting at page one of volume one, bores right straight through the books, covers and all, to the last page of volume three. How many leaves does he go through, not counting fly-leaves, or covers?”