“Why, Pickle, what are you about?”
“I—I—nothing, uncle,” said the boy hastily. “Why, I believe, sir, you were going to sleep!”
“Oh, I am quite wide awake, uncle,” cried the boy.
“Humph, yes—now. You see, my boy, these hydras are most extraordinary things, and to-morrow morning in the bright sunshine we will get the microscope to work, and I’ll show you how they—”
Burr—burr—burr—hum—hum—hum—um—um.
Was that Uncle Paul talking in a low tone with his voice getting farther and farther away, or was it that big chafer spinning round and round the room? Now it nearly died out, and then it grew louder again and seemed to double into a duet, just as if the great stag beetle had whisked in at the casement and had joined in the nocturnal valse, the duet seeming to be intended to lull the naturalist and his nephew to sleep in the soft musky sweetness of that delightful summer’s night.
How long it lasted, who could say, but all at once there was a sudden start, and Uncle Paul’s hand came down with a thump upon the tablecloth after he had knocked over one of the candlesticks, making so much noise that, wide awake now, Rodd made a dash and stood the candlestick up again, before snatching the candle from where it lay singeing the lavender and red-check cotton table-cover and beginning to deposit a big spot of grease.
“Bless my heart, Pickle!” cried Uncle Paul. “I believe I was going to drop asleep.”
“I am afraid I was asleep, uncle,” replied the boy. “You were saying that hydras—that hydras—er—er—er—something about hydras.”
“Yes, yes, yes, but never mind. Perhaps we had better go to bed, and I’ll finish what I was saying in the morning. There, light the two flat candlesticks, and we will have a good long snooze. That’s right; put out the others. No, no; use the extinguisher! Don’t blow them out, or there will be such a smell.”