And yet, dash it, I knew they reminded me of something, you know; I knew they must.
"They remind me—" I began, and had to pause—idea balked, you know. "They remind me of—of—Jenkins, what do they remind me of?"
"Of him, sir," replied Jenkins promptly.
"Eh?"
"Old Memphis Tuffles, sir," explained Jenkins darkly. "I saw him once in a opera, and he was that red."
"By Jove!" I said thoughtfully, and fell to watching the little spider. It was dropping a life-line or something down to the pajamas.
"But they say he ain't always red," Jenkins continued mysteriously. "A lady as is in the palmistry and card-reading line in Forty-second Street told me he turned black whenever he got down to business. Do you suppose that's where they get the idea of what they call black magic, sir?"
I answered absently, for I was wondering whether the little spider was curious about the jolly red color there below him. And just then Jenkins' hand went out and swept at the little thread. The spider dropped and shot into a fold of the pajamas.
"I say! Look out!" I exclaimed as Jenkins made another clutch. "Don't mash the beast on the silk; you'll ruin it—the silk, I mean!"
"There it goes, sir!" said Jenkins eagerly. "Over by your hand."