Hervey Deyo stuttered; he would have flung out a denial. But the other scientists had gathered about.
“Oh, come, Deyo,” they urged him. “There’s a good chap. Imitate a bee for the Professor.”
Hervey bit his lips.
“How iss it?” encouraged Professor Schweeble. “Bzzzzzzz.”
“No,” cried Hervey Deyo, wildly. “Not like that. Like this. ‘Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz, bzzzzzzzzzz, bzzzzzrf!’ ”
“Ah, most droll,” said Professor Schweeble. “You have talent; you are a comedian. You should go on the stage.”
Hervey Deyo could not articulate. Professor Schweeble addressed him in the tone Hervey knew so well, for he employed it often; it was the tone of tolerance a scientist adopts to a layman.
“Have you ever taken an interest in birds, Doctor Deyo? There are some fine birds a clever fellow like you could learn to imitate.”
Hervey Deyo did not enjoy that dinner.
He was up at daybreak and he attacked his work with a cold and terrible energy. He stuffed a whole family of bobolinks (Dolichonyx Dryzivorus) and dissected snipe (Gallinago) by the dozen. He sat up till his eyes ached writing a masterly treatise on the habits and home life of the adult pelican (Pelecanus).