“Mrs. Hall sent me that—ah—last June—I think it was in June,” explained Mr. Bangs, hurriedly. “But you SEE,” he added, waving an agitated hand toward the gray-shingled dwelling beneath the silver-leafs, “that CAN'T be the house, not if”—with a wave of the photograph in the other hand—“if THIS is.”
Mr. Pulcifer took the postcard and stared at it. His brows drew together in a frown.
“Say,” he said, turning toward his passenger, “is this the house you've been tryin' to find? This is a picture of the old Parker place over to Wellmouth Centre. I thought you told me you wanted to be took to Joshua Hall's house in East Wellmouth.”
“Joshua? Oh, no, I'm sure I never could have said Joshua. That isn't his name.”
“Then when I said 'Josh Hall' why didn't you say so?”
“Oh, good gracious! Did you say 'Josh?' Oh, dear, that explains it; I thought you said 'George.' My friend's name is George Hall. He is an entomologist at the New York Museum of Natural History. I—”
“Say,” broke in Raish, again, “is he a tall, bald-headed man with whiskers; red whiskers?”
“Yes—yes, he is.”
“Humph! Goes gallopin' round the fields chasin' bugs and grasshoppers like a young one?”
“Why—why, entomology is his profession, so naturally he—”