“There! I have him!” yelled the scientist, making a sudden dive forward, sliding on his face, and clutching his hand deep into the grass.
As it happened there was a little puddle of water at that point, and the professor, in the excess of his zeal, pitched right into it.
“Oh! Oh my! Oh dear! Phew! Wow! Help! Save me!” he exclaimed a moment later, as he tried to get out of the slough.
The boys hurried to his aid, but the mud was soft and the professor had gone head first into the ooze, which held fast to him as though it was quicksand.
“Get him by the heels and yank him out or he’ll smother!” cried Jerry.
The other boys followed his advice, and, in a little while the bug-collector was pulled from his uncomfortable and dangerous position. As he rolled about in the grass to get rid of some of the mud, he kept his right hand tightly closed.
“What’s the matter, are your fingers hurt?” asked Bob.
“No sir, my fingers are not hurt!” snapped the professor, with the faintest tinge of impatience, which might be excused on the part of a man who has just dived into a mud hole. “My fingers are not hurt in the least. What I have here is one of the rarest specimens of the Mexican mosquito I have ever seen. I would go ten miles to get one.”
“I guess you’re welcome to ’em,” commented Jerry. “We don’t want any.”