“Are they poisonous?”
“No, indeed, but they do look a bit unhealthy, don’t they? Corpse-plant they’re called, too.”
“They sure do; look like mushrooms gone wrong. Indian-pipe, eh? Gee, I guess nobody but an Indian would want to smoke such a thing! Say, they smell nice, don’t they?”
“Nice?” repeated Nelson suspiciously. “Smell pretty bad, I suppose. By jove, they don’t though. Say, they’re real sweet! I never knew that they had any odor before. If it was stronger it would be mighty sweet, wouldn’t it? It’s—it’s what you might call illusive.”
“That’s a fine word,” said Tom lazily. “Ill-use-ive, of no use.” He tossed them aside and settled his hands under his head, staring drowsily up into the sun-flecked branches. “Good night; wake me in time for dinner.” He was really dropping off to sleep when Nelson called to him softly:
“Say, Tom, come over here.”
“What for?” asked Tom sleepily.
“I want you to see this beetle,” giggled Nelson. “He’s the craziest dub you ever saw. Come, look!”
“Beetle!” muttered Tom disgustedly. Nevertheless he found sufficient energy to wriggle along on his stomach to the other’s side. “Where’s your old bu-bu-beetle?” he asked.