“Button up, or you'll turn to be a Sorry-cus—tomer, old man,” came the swift retort, with a portentous frown. “But, joking aside, why not? With such hunting and fishing, I'd be willing to sign a contract for a round year in this region.”
“To say nothing of exploration, and such discoveries as naturally attend upon—”
“Then you really mean it all, uncle Phaeton?”
Leaning back far enough to pluck a handful of green leaves, which fairly well served the purpose of a napkin, Professor Featherwit brought forth pipe and pouch, maintaining silence until the fragrant tobacco was well alight. Then he gave a vigorous nod of his head, to utter:
“It has been the dearest dream of my life for more years gone by than you would readily credit, my lads; or, in fact, than I would be wholly willing to confess. And it was with an eye single to this very adventure that I laboured to devise and perfect yonder machine.”
“A marvel in itself, uncle Phaeton. Only for that, where would we have been, yesterday?” seriously spoke the elder Gillespie.
“I know where we wouldn't have been: inside that blessed cy-nado!”
“Nor here, where you can catch brook trout in your clothes without the trouble of taking them off, youngster.”
“And where you'll catch a precious hiding, without you let up harping on that old string; it's way out of tune already, old man.”
“Tit for tat. Excuse us, please, uncle Phaeton. We're like colts in fresh pasture, this morning,” brightly apologised Bruno, for both.