"Shucks! It's only bullfrogs," thought the Tennessee Shad; but at this moment perceiving the three in clear silhouette against the faint moonlight, he instantly discarded that explanation. The three wanderers into the night were clothed in helmets, from which voluminous folds of cheesecloth descended to the waists, while each had his trousers rolled up well above the knees. The conversation continued, to his growing mystification.
"They're awake, all right. I can hear them coming!"
"You're the boss, Skippy. What's the order?"
"Twenty paces apart. Greaser, you shake the bell, slowly. Snorky, you stand here, and, mind you, no slapping or moving. Everything scientific."
"All right, but get a move on. Ouch, I've got two already."
"Red leg or blue leg?"
"Blue, darn it!"
"Fine! I'll count a hundred slowly. Start up, Greaser."
The low, harsh, grating sounds of a rusty bell slowly agitated began to be heard, punctuating the droning count: "Five, six, seven!"
"For the love of Willie Keeler, what is it!" said the Shad, more and more bewildered, as he rubbed one leg against the other and shook his head to protect himself from the many insects. "It must be a secret society and this is the initiation."