“I guess he doesn’t stay in this part of the country long—nor, in fact anywhere more than a couple of nights,” replied Pete, and, as he spoke he looked beyond the gaudily decorated vehicle of the medicine vendor and caught a glimpse of another wagon drawn alongside the road. It was one with something like a three inch quick-firing gun projecting from the covered top, and Pete whispered to his brothers:
“There’s Duodecimo Donaldby’s rig if I’ve got my eyesight left. I wonder if he’s shooting rain-making bombs for a living now, or curing sick horses?”
“We’ll soon know,” said Cap. “The professor is nearly through.”
The crowd having exhausted the entertaining features of the medicine man’s little effort, and the sale of the remedies and soaps being about at an end, Mr. Clatter announced that he was through for the evening. The people began to disperse, and soon Cap, with his two brothers and Whistle-Breeches were seated inside the snug little wagon, enjoying a cup of tea and some cakes which the professor set before them.
“I’m glad you boys came,” he said, as he looked in the tiny teapot to see how much of the beverage remained. “I want to have a talk with you—but hold on, I was almost forgetting an old friend.”
He stepped to the window of his vehicle, poked out his head, and gave a call which was at once answered. Presently some one was heard approaching, and, as the door opened the head of the character known to our friends as the “rain-maker,” was thrust inside.
“Welcome to the Smith boys!” he called.
“Enter!” invited Mr. Clatter.
“Yes, come in and talk over old times, Mr. Donaldby,” added Pete.
“Hush! Not that name!” exclaimed the weather prophet, with a warning finger laid athwart his lips. “Not that name or by a shattered cirrus-nimbus cloud you’ll have the authorities about my ears!”