My pulses throbbed with new joy, for here, at last, was a diversion. I lost no time in following my nose, first taking the precaution to point that useful organ in a bee-line with the disappearing company. Ultimately I joined them, to their surprise if not their pleasure.
“We’re late,” said one of them. “The show’s just beginning.”
I quickened my steps to a run, and was presently brought up with a round turn against a rope stretched across the foot of the hill. Several strange-looking balls were rolling from the crest toward us, and a man with a note-book was registering bets, all of which, however, were in small coin.
“What is it?” I inquired in a loud, clear voice which commanded instant attention.
“Porcupines,” answered a courteous gentleman in blue overalls, a hickory shirt, and one suspender. “Every afternoon at two, when it ain’t raining, they roll down that there hill.”
“You be n’t a detective, be you?” asked an agitated voice at my elbow. It was the postmaster.
“I am not,” I returned, with freezing dignity.
“All right,” continued the postmaster. “Here, bookie, ten to one on Salina Ann. Salina’s a high roller,” he explained, turning to me, “but she ain’t in this race.”
The Porcupines came in at our feet, a huge dark one rolling under the wire three lengths ahead. Dizzy, exhausted, and panting, he sat up straight for a moment, launched a playful quill at the bookmaker, and shambled off around the hillside.
Upon the crest of a distant hill, a single figure sat in monumental silence. It had two points at the top, and I wondered what it might be. At last I concluded that it was a rock.