“I think Fuller, or whatever his name is, was most unreasonable,” laughed Don. “Why, the world might be rid of insects by this time if he hadn’t been so cranky! Do toads eat mosquitoes, Joe?”
“I guess so. I know they eat flies, anyway. I saw one do it once. He stopped about a yard away and the fly didn’t even know he was about. Then—zip—out went Mr. Toad’s tongue, like you uncoiled the mainspring of a watch, and the fly was gone!”
“Flew away, probably,” suggested Martin.
“He did not, son! He was in Mr. Toad’s tummy.”
“You say the toad was a yard distant from the fly when the—when the shot was fired?” asked Don.
“Well, maybe a couple of feet,” Joe compromised. “It was a long way.”
“Take off another eighteen inches,” begged Bob earnestly. “I want to believe you, Joseph but two feet—” He shook his head sadly.
“Go to the dickens! It was two feet if it was an inch. Anyone will tell you that a toad’s tongue is remarkably long.”
“Nobody has to tell me, after that yarn,” replied Bob gravely. “All I’m wondering now is where the toad keeps his tongue when he’s not using it!”