“Phwat’s that, sor?”
“I say it’s no colder.”
“Well, I’m shure it is!”
“Nonsense!” declared Gaston. “The thermometer will not agree with your statement. But I think myself that one feels the cold of the northern frigid zone more than that of the south.”
“Well, sor,” cried Barney, not to be outdone in an argument, “what’s that but being a bit colder!”
“You may be colder,” laughed the professor, “but the weather is not.”
“Shure, thin, phwy is it that I am so much colder?” protested Barney.
“A peculiar state of affairs which gives two different colds. The atmosphere at the South Pole is a trifle more mild. It is a volcanic region, and perhaps that may account for it. It is true that the Arctic cold is more penetrating. Yet the thermometer averages the same.”
Barney did not attempt to argue the subject further.
He was satisfied, and now turned his attention to Pomp. For several days he had been itching for an opportunity to get square with the darky for the result of the last practical joke.