“Open this and read it—quick, now! I found it in that rat’s nest. When I tell you my real name is Pat Ramsay, you’ll be able to guess why I came here—and whether my warning was well founded. Read the deed carefully, then see whether the place you’re going to buy corresponds with it. Quickly! I’ll hold this rascal engaged. Read and give it back to me. I must get back to town at once.”
With this rapid utterance, he turned abruptly from the girl and walked back to Hassayamp, halting the latter’s advance with upraised hand.
“Mr. Foster!” he said solemnly. “May I inquire, sir—ah, that is a very interesting creature on your collar, very interesting indeed!”
Hassayamp screwed his head to look at himself, but could see nothing.
“What is it?” he demanded nervously. “A beautiful little creature, peculiar to our deserts,” said Tompkins in bland accents. “Undoubtedly it has sought refuge from the sun under your shirt-collar. You know, of course, that the solpugid is really an insect, having tracheal tubes instead of the spider’s book lungs—”
“A spider!” exclaimed Hassayamp. “Git it off’m me, Puffesser, quick!”
“Not a spider at all, my dear sir, and quite harmless, I assure you, despite local superstition. Ah, there it goes about your collar—no wonder the dear little creatures are called wind-scorpions or vinegaroons—”
“A matavenado—wow! My gosh, git him off’m me!” Hassayamp let out a yell and began to claw at himself. “I’m a dead man—git him off’m me—”
Tompkins seized him and brushed vigorously at his back.
“There—he’s gone. Pay no more attention to the matter, I implore you. I was about to ask whether you ever indulge in spiritous liquors, Mr. Foster? In such case, I have in my pocket a small vial of medicinal whisky. I understand that it is the custom in the desert to offer a drink—”