But they were enough. The beginning and the end, nestling coyly in the fog, were not necessary to inform the substitute engineer that Snailsdale Manor was proclaiming itself. It was at that moment that the throttle was pulled with desperate suddenness and Mr. Pylor Koyn went reeling into the arms of Clamordinevich Vociferinski just as he was reaching for his little black coffin. And it was in that same moment that Hink, the conductor, sprang out of his slumber and yawned sleepily.
“Snailsdale Manor! A-a-a-l-l out for Snailsdale Manor!”
And there you are. Out of the train strode A. Pylor Koyn carrying two suitcases. He was followed by C. Vociferinski, who was followed by Mrs. Gamer, who was followed by her adventurous daughter, Pocahontas Gamer.
Behind these, striding with arrowlike military carriage, followed Chester (alias Chesty) Marshall; and ambling leisurely behind him as if they really did not care where they were going or whether they got out or not, came the “two perfectly lovely fellows” of Hydome University, with whom it is the author’s pleasure to make you acquainted—Fuller Bullson and Raysor Rackette. Their manner suggested a willingness to follow, whether it be to the wilds of Africa or the North Pole; a kind of whimsical half interest in anything which might involve piquant adventures.
“I have a hunch that things are not what they seem,” said Raysor Rackette; “I heard there was a house here. The plot grows thicker.”
“Silence,” said Fuller Bullson, “’tis the fog that is thick, also, methinks, thine own head. Have you got the fishing tackle?”
“This is a different manner of Snailsdale Manor than I expected,” said Raysor; “I see no church. This is not my beloved Snailsdale; ’tis a plot.”
“All the better,” said Fuller Bullson.
“Diss iss not so motch villatch,” said Vociferinski.
“Right the first time, Trotsky,” said Fuller. “Feel around and you’ll find it; it’s just mislaid.”