CHAPTER VI.
STANARD’S DEFIANCE.
The Parson seemed about ready to devour that “fossil.” He seized it and plumped himself down in a chair with a thud. He paused just long enough to deposit his “Dana” upon the floor, and to draw up his learned trousers to the high-water mark, disclosing his pale, sea-green socks. And then with a preliminary “Ahem!” and several blinks he raised the precious relic and stared at it.
The two conspirators were watching him gleefully, occasionally exchanging sly glances. The Parson, all oblivious of this, surveyed one side of the fossil and then turned it over. He tapped it on the arm of his chair; he picked at it with his finger nail; he even tasted it, with scientific public-spiritedness and zeal. And then he cleared his throat solemnly and looked up.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “er—that is—ladies—this is a most interesting specimen we have here. I regret that with the brief analysis possible to me I cannot classify it as I should like. A microscopic examination would be undoubtedly essential for that. But some things I can say. This is evidently a fossil bone, a portion of the thigh bone, I should say, probably of some gigantic animal like the Ichthyosaurus. As you will notice from the compactness of the structure and the heaviness, it is much solidified, thus indicating a very remote age, probably the upper Cretaceous at the very least, or possibly the Silurian. I am not able to say positively because——”
The Parson stopped and gazed about him with a surprised and rather injured air. Really the rudeness of some people was amazing! Here were the two he was talking to actually leaning back in their chairs and giving vent to peals of laughter, what about he had no idea. This was really too much!
It was at least five minutes before either Mark or his companion could manage to stop long enough to explain to the puzzled geologist that he had been classifying a porcelain jug. And when they did and he realized it he sat back in his chair and gazed at them in utter consternation. He never said one word for at least a minute; he simply stared, while the idea slowly percolated through his mind. Grace Fuller, ever kind-hearted and considerate, had begun to fear that he was angry, and then suddenly the Boston scholar leaned back in his chair, opened his classic mouth, and forth therefrom came a roar of laughter that made the sentries away over by camp start in alarm.
“Ho, ho, ho!” shouted he. “Ho, ho! ha, ha! he, he! A jug! Yea, by Zeus, a jug! By the nine immortals, a jug!”
Mark stared at him in undisguised amazement. During all his acquaintance with that solemn scholar, he had never seen such an earthquake of a laugh as that. And evidently, too, the Parson was not used to it, for when he stopped he was so out of breath and red in the face that he could hardly move.
And that was the first, last, one and only time that Parson Stanard was ever known to laugh. It took a peculiar sort of a joke to move the Parson.
It took also quite an amount of sputtering and gasping to restore the gentleman’s throat and lungs to their ordinary normal condition. That spasm of hilarity which had plowed its way through him like a mighty ship through the waves had left little ripples and gurgles of laughter which bubbled forth occasionally for the next ten minutes at least. It passed, however, at last, to return no more, and Parson Stanard was the same, solemn and learned Parson as ever.