At supper all sorts of conjectures were expressed as to the cause of the pest, its extent, and similar matters, but Rifle-Eye said nothing. Wilbur was so full of the news that he was hardly able to eat anything for the information he was just bursting to give. But he kept it in. Finally, when the men had all finished and pipes were lighted, the old Ranger spoke, in his slow, drawling way, and every one stopped to listen.
"There's five of ye," he said, "that's found beetle, isn't there?"
"Yes," answered the Supervisor, "five."
"And I venture to bet," he continued, "that you found a dead tree lyin' in the middle of the infected patch!"
"Yes," said several voices, "we did."
"An' you didn't find much beetle except just round that one tree?"
"Not a bit," said one or two. "What about it?"
"There's a kind o' disease called Cholera," began Rifle-Eye in a conversational tone, "that drifts around a city in a queer sort o' way. It never hits two places at the same time, but if it goes up a street, it sort o' picks one side, an' stops at one place for a while then goes travelin' on. It acts jest as if a man was walkin' around, an' he was the cholera spirit himself."
"Well?" queried the Supervisor sharply.
The old Ranger smiled tolerantly at his impatience.