“This is too much, too much. Where am I at?”—and Bill Vanderhook clenched his fists and glared ferociously.
But, hist!—what is it these two are doing? What new conspiracy is hatching against the master of the house? Why do they sit so close, with heads bent in such juxtaposition? Why are they so silent, so absorbed?
“Aha! aha! a book!” It is a book they are poring over; a great leather book. A hand of each is under it. The other two are slowly turning leaves. Aha! they search for something. This is no ordinary book. They search,—and for what?
So intent are these two, this gay Gnani and his giddy Mate, that they have neither heard nor sensed the intrusion.
Bill Vanderhook listens.
What he hears chills his blood,—congeals it. He hears the frozen pellets rattle through his veins.
“Oh, my Llama Lonnie, it is not here.”
“Yes, my Goo-goo Eyes, it is, it is.”
“I don’t believe it, my Llama,” whispered Imogene.