A thin film of color mounted to his cheeks.
“I—I—beg your pardon,” he stammered. “I—I—d-didn’t know—”
“Don’t be a goose!” she adjured him. “It’s only me.”
“Yes, that’s the trouble.” He closed his eyes again, and began to murmur.
“What does he say?” asked Mr. Brewster, lowering his head and almost falling over backward as his astonished ears were greeted by the slowly intoned rhythm:—
“Scarab, tarantula, doodle-bug, flea.”
“Delirious!” exclaimed the magnate. “Clean off his head! How does one find a doctor in this town?”
“No need, dad,” his daughter reassured him. “It’s just a—a sort of game.”
“Game! Did you hear what he said?”
“Well, a kind of password. It’s all right, Dad. It is, really.”