Its form was that of a gigantic frog, and from its throat sounded the terrific bellowing which rivaled thunder.
"Listen. There were three of these guys. One was a hell of a looking fellow: his face was piebald, with purple spots. His skin was bleached and withered, and one eye looked like a pearl collar button! They called him Professor, too, Professor Gurlone. Well, he takes out this damn cricket thing and it was sort of reddish purple but alive, and as long as your forearm. This professor guy says his son had taken an ordinary cricket and made it grow into the one he had. But the mine was what interested me. I kept my mouth shut and my ears open, and it's in the Matto Grosso. May be emeralds, diamonds, or gold. Boy, I'm heading for it, right now. The old guy's going back to-morrow, get me?"
"It's a lot of bunk," growled Durkin, who was stout and red of countenance.
"Yeh? Well, Otto Ulrich don't put fifty thousand into bunk."
Durkin whistled. "You mean the German loosened up that much?" he asked, and his eyes showed interest.
"Sure. He paid this Gurlone fifty thousand dollars—credit, of course."
"Well—maybe there's something in the mine story. But boy, you were drunk when you saw that cricket. No cricket ever grew that big. You always see things when you get too much rum in you."
"The hell you say," cried Maget. "I saw it, I tell you!"