“What’s that, Patsy?”
Patsy Garvan—for it was the trusted young assistant of that name who had come in—bent closely over the paper and studied the grass for a moment.
“I should say it is salt meadow grass,” he answered.
“Why do you think so?”
“It is coarse, and there is a color to it you don’t see in any other kind. If you’ll let me taste it, I can tell you.”
Nick Carter laughed and drew several whiffs of smoke from his cigar before he spoke again.
“That’s just what I did, Patsy,” he said, at last. “Put your tongue to it and let me know what you think.”
Patsy lifted the paper and put out his tongue.
“I should say so,” was his remark, as he replaced the paper and its contents on the table. “Gee! You couldn’t fool me on that. Where did you get it?”
“Never mind about that, Patsy. Where do you suppose this grass and mud came from?”