“What is it?” I said, as he came back.
“Worm-eater,” and he opened his hand.
“Why, it’s a slug,” I said. “Throw the nasty slimy thing away.”
“’Tisn’t slimy,” he said, as I looked on with disgust at him poking the long-shaped creamy creature with one finger, as it lay in the palm of his left hand. “You feel it. Quite cool and dry.”
“I’m not going to touch the nasty thing,” I cried. “And what do you mean by a worm-eater?”
“Mean he’s one. See how long and thin he is. That’s so that he can creep down the worm-holes and catch the worms and eat ’em.”
“Nonsense! Slugs live on lettuces and cabbages, and other green things.”
“These don’t,” said Mercer quietly; “they live on worms.”
“How do you know?”
“Because my father told me, and I’ve kept ’em in boxes and fed ’em with worms.”