“Well—yes—I think so—perhaps.” Professor Snodgrass was not quite certain about the matter, it seemed. “At any rate, I have him,” he went on.
“Who?” Jerry gasped. “The person who is responsible for your condition?”
“Oh, no—er—my condition? Oh, I see,” and for the first time the scientist seemed aware that he was greatly disheveled. “I—er—I do seem a bit mussed,” he admitted. That was putting it mildly.
“But I got him,” went on the professor. “Have you a strong box that you aren’t using?” he asked.
The latter, guessing what was coming, produced one that met the professor’s requirements. Then, sliding back the cover, he held his clenched hand over the box and dropped into it something that fell with a thud, like that an inert toad or frog might produce.
“There you are!” exclaimed the scientist, quickly slipping the cover into place. “The finest specimen of a one-spot lizard I have ever caught! I certainly am in luck!”
“One would hardly believe it to look at you,” said Jerry with a laugh. He and his chums were on terms of more or less familiarity with the professor.
The scientist had known the boys a number of years and had made several trips with them. To some his actions might seem grotesque when he was anxiously searching for some rare animal or insect, but the boys knew him well enough to think little of what, to others, might be absurdities. And no one would ever think the professor foolish when once they knew of his attainments. He had written many books, which were authorities on their special topics, and he had more honorary degrees from different schools of learning than he could recall, off-hand.
“You say you caught the lizard, but it looks more as though he had caught you,” laughed Jerry.