Mr. Thimblefinger drew his watch from his pocket with as much dignity as he could assume, and held his head gravely on one side. “It is now—let me see—ahem!—it is now precisely thirteen minutes and eleven seconds after one o’clock.”
“Is that the jug in the spring?” asked Sweetest Susan, pointing to the huge black shadow that was now wobbling and wavering more slowly.
Mr. Thimblefinger shaded his eyes with his hand and examined the shadow critically. “Yes, that is the jug—the light hurts my eyes—yes, certainly, that is the jug.”
Presently a volume of white vapor shot out from the shadow. It was larger than the largest comet, and almost as brilliant.
“What is that?” asked Sweetest Susan.
Mr. Thimblefinger felt almost as thoughtful as a sure-enough man of science.
“That,” said he, “is an emanation—an exhalation, you might say—that we frequently witness in our atmosphere.”
“A which?” asked Buster John.
“Well,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, clearing his throat, “it’s—er—an emanation.”
“Huh!” cried Drusilla, “’t ain’t no kind er nation. It’s des de milk leakin’ out’n dat jug. I done tol’ Aunt ’Cindy ’bout dat leakin’ jug.”