"Ugh, wugh, guggle, guggle!"
"Good lord! What was that?"
"Did you hear it?"
"It's a night owl that's all; fifty-six, fifty-seven—"
"Oonah, woonah, WOO, HOO!"
"Night owls nothing; it's ghosts!"
"There ain't no ghosts, you chicken-livered—"
But at this moment the Tennessee Shad, smarting from head to foot, let out an ear-splitting screech and the three experimenters in mosquitology disappeared at top speed. The Tennessee Shad, satisfied, emerged, examined with curiosity a discarded helmet smeared with citronella-soaked cheesecloth, and picked up a rusty dinner bell. This last stuck in the crop of his imagination.
"Secret-society stuff," he said to himself as he slapped his way out of the marsh. "But why the bell? Darn mysterious, that bell. . . ."