“I’d sure like to, Puffesser,” said Hassayamp, blinking, “but we aint got a bug in the house. If you was to go up to Garcia’s, you might have some luck.”
Tompkins waved his hand, and strode off beside Miss Gilman, who seemed rather red in the face.
Neither of them broke the silence. They passed down the street, came to the fast-disappearing rows of ancient buildings, relics of boom days, and presently were walking along the open desert, following the white road that went straight as a die across the horizon. The silence became oppressive, until suddenly Tompkins chuckled and spoke in his natural voice. It was a drawling, rather whimsical voice, and drew a swift glance from the girl.
“Our friend Hassayamp is a human phonograph,” he said.
“You’ll go too far one of these days,” said Miss Gilman. Tompkins stopped short and stared at her.
“Eh? Just what do you mean?”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the girl sharply, yet with a laugh in her eyes. “That red hair and your natural voice and the shape of your head don’t go with your assumed character, Mr. Tompkins. Take off those glasses and let me see what you look like. And stop fidgeting with that pipe in your pocket. Take it out and smoke. I’d like you to.”
Tompkins broke into a laugh, reached up and removed the goggles, and met the curious regard of Miss Gilman.
“What do you wear them for?” she demanded. “You look better without ’em.”
“Protection,” he drawled, bringing forth his pipe. “You’re an observant young woman, but I trust fervently that you’ll keep your observations to yourself. I look very much like another man, and do not care to be recognized for him—or mistaken for him.”