Suddenly the net went down with a swoop, and the butterfly was out of sight.
“I got him! I got him! I have the little beauty! One of the rarest butterflies in this section of the country! It’s worth fifty dollars if it’s worth a cent! Oh, you little darling, I have you!” And the man went down on his hands and knees to get the prize from under the net.
“Well, wouldn’t that make you—” began Ned, as he eased up on his foot pressure, and shut off the power.
What he started to say he never finished, for Jerry cried out:
“If that isn’t Professor Uriah Snodgrass, I’ll drink a pint of gasolene!”
“Eh? What’s that? Were you calling me?” asked the little man in a mild voice, looking up sideways from his kneeling position on the ground. “Who wants Professor Snodgrass?” he inquired, peering through his spectacles.
Then he caught sight of the boys, who were alighting from the car. Over his face there came a smile of welcome. He got up, holding in a section of the net, carefully gathered up in his fingers, the red butterfly.
“Well of all the good luck!” cried the professor. “Here I meet my friends the motor boys again, when I least expect it. One moment, my dear boys, until I have put this specimen safely away, and I’ll be with you. Well, of all the strange and remarkable coincidences! I was just thinking of you, when I saw this butterfly dart out of the bushes, and of course, I took after it.”
“And nearly made an end to your collecting fad forever,” said Jerry.