“Boy, but that smells good!” Westy exclaimed, in the process of washing up.
“Now, that’s what I’d call an instance of mental ‘telegraphy,’” Artie remarked, smiling through the folds of a face-towel.
“You mean mental telepathy,” said the ever-serious Westy.
“You go to the head of the class for that,” laughed Artie. “Whatever you call it, it smells good.”
“Let’s snap into it! I’m as hungry as the proverbial grizzly,” Westy said, walking toward the door.
“You’ve got nothing on me and I’ll be right with you, Wes.”
They descended the stairs and found Uncle Jeb already awaiting them. He led them to a table at the far corner of the room where the steaming food was being placed by a little wizened-looking man, whose agile step and manner belied somewhat the immobile expression of his face.
Indeed, he was an unusual looking man; swarthy skin with “the smallest eyes.” As Artie remarked, “You’d almost wonder how he could see out of them.”
“Evidently, no one could say they were the windows of his soul,” said Westy. “They’re not big enough for a fellow to tell whether he’s looking your way or not.”
“Maybe he hasn’t any soul,” put in Artie, who afterward had good cause to remember this jesting remark.