Barry Locke, half-back
sending out his stuff if he weren’t a top-notcher.”
“Where’s this Oniondig――where’s this college, Peaches?”
“Onondaga? Why, at Onondaga, New York, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess so. All right, I’ll be over. What time did you say?
Half-past seven? Yell to me when you go, will you? I might forget. Say,
you know those snails I got last week? Let me show you ’em now.”
“Never! Listen, Toby; I’ve seen――I mean I’ve smelled all I want to of
those snails. Too much is plenty!”
“They don’t smell now; honest!” declared Toby, earnestly, as he
proffered a flat box for inspection. Well, they didn’t――much. Peaches
looked and poked them about gingerly.
“What’s become of their little insides?” he inquired.
“Why, I cleaned them. You boil them and then you take a little hook
and――”
“Toby! Don’t tell me any more!” Peaches shivered violently. “I didn’t
know you were French, Toby!”
“French? How do you mean, French? What’s eating you?”
“I thought only the French――er――ate snails.”
“Who said anything about eating them?” demanded Toby, indignantly. “Of
course I didn’t eat them! I just cleaned them out and polished the
shells. Look at the markings on some of them, Peaches. Aren’t they
pretty?”
Peaches acknowledged that they weren’t unattractive and asked, “What
are you going to do with them now?”
Toby stared.
“Do with them?” he echoed.
“Do with them,” assented Peaches.
“Why, keep them, of course.”
“Keep them.” It occurred to Peaches that the conversation was becoming
rather idiotic. “Oh,” he murmured comprehendingly.
Toby nodded, evidently relieved that the idea had at last been grasped.
“Just keep them,” he said gently in the tone of one speaking to a
mental deficient. Peaches nodded now.
“I see,” he remarked approvingly. “Just――er――keep them.”
“Yes,” said Toby, patiently.
“Splendid! Well――” Peaches reached the other side of the door before
he was obliged to apply a handkerchief to his eyes. He hoped that Toby
wouldn’t think he was choking and come to his aid.
CHAPTER X
STATION W.L.L.O. BROADCASTS
Mill’s room was quite full at the appointed hour. Mr. and Mrs. Lyle
and Betty had come with Peaches and Toby. Mrs. Anderson, a plump,
good-natured lady, overflowed from her chair and, of course, Zo was
there, and Mill himself. The only absentee was Barry, but Peaches
explained that he would be along later.
Mill had changed the location of the radio set. It now stood close to
the high chiffonier and several feet from the wall. The table on which
it reposed was draped with a heavy cloth――loaned for this occasion
only by Mrs. Anderson――which fell to within a few inches of the floor.
As the cloth was gorgeously crimson, it added greatly to the scene
and set off beautifully the shining black panel of the receiver and
the wide-mouthed horn beside it. Of course the guests had to view the
apparatus at close range and have its mysteries explained to them, and
after that they retired expectantly to the half-circle of chairs and
Mill became busy at the dials.
“I hope we’ll get something to-night,” he announced. “I’ve been having
pretty good luck, but you never can tell.” Toby, who had inspected
the instrument with the others but had failed to show himself much
impressed, was here heard to utter a suspicious “Huh!” Mill ignored
it. “We’ll try for some music first,” he went on, both hands busy at
the little black knobs. Then, with startling suddenness, some one was
singing an Irish ballad! Mrs. Lyle gasped, “Gracious goodness!” and
Mr. Lyle beamed and rubbed his hands quite as though he were entirely
responsible for the miracle.
“W.D.J.K,” announced Mill, above the voice of the singer. “New York.
That’s a fellow named Burns singing. He’s pretty good.”
“Oh,” sighed Mrs. Lyle, “I thought it was John McGregor!”
“McCormack, Mamma,” Betty corrected gently.
“Yes, of course, dear. I meant――”
There was an orchestral selection after that, mysteriously picked out
of the air by the simple readjustment of the knobs, and then an almost
deafening shriek of static that made Mrs. Lyle jump and produced a
painful facial contortion from Toby, no longer a doubter. Mill put
the instrument through its paces very thoroughly for the benefit of
its eager audience and was patiently trying to pick up Cleveland when
Peaches interrupted:
“Say, Mill, it’s almost eight, and I told Toby you’d get that Onondaga
University lecture. You know, the one by Professor Brown about frogs.”
Mill looked blank for a moment. Then he said:
“Oh, yes, I remember. Was that at eight? All right. Let’s see.” He
consulted a sheet of paper. “W.L.L.O. That’s it. I’ll see if there’s
anything doing yet.” He manipulated the knobs of the dials again, at
first with no result. “That’s funny,” he muttered.
Mr. Lyle consulted his watch.
“Seven fifty-six,” he said. “Likely it isn’t time yet.”
“Oh, they don’t always start just on the minute,” said Peaches. “Do
they, Mill?”
“Not always.” Mill turned the knobs some more and then stood up and
leaned over the table. “Maybe the wiring’s loose,” he muttered. He said
something else, probably to himself, since it was not intelligible to
the audience, while leaning over the dark space behind the table. Then,
although it still lacked three minutes of being eight o’clock,――Mr.
Benjy set his watch every day by the station clock,――a rather
high-pitched voice suddenly broke into the expectant silence:
“Station W.L.L.O., Onondaga University Experimental Station, Onondaga,
New York, broadcasting. The first number on our program this evening
will be a paper read by Professor N. B. Brown, D.S., S.D., R.O.T.,
of the Department of Zoölogy, Onondaga University. Station W.L.L.O.,
broadcasting.”
There was a pause.
“Much more distinct,” said Mr. Benjy, looking around for confirmation.
Mrs. Lyle nodded. “Different,” she whispered. “Sounds almost as if――”
Toby was leaning forward and gazing absorbedly at the horn, seeking
enlightenment on the care of Antonio. Betty, her eyes dancing, was
looking questioningly at Peaches’ impassive countenance. After a brief
moment a deeper voice came to them, somewhat muffled but very distinct.
Toby’s intent frown indicated almost painful effort.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” began the unseen lecturer, “I shall speak to
you this evening, very briefly, on the subject of ‘The Care and Feeding
of Batrachians.’ Batrachians, as most of you know, are frogs, toads,
snakes, and similar insects of a zoöphagous nature.”
“What’s he mean――‘insects’?” demanded Toby, in a hoarse and protesting
whisper.
Peaches said, “S-sh!” and frowned him into silence. The voice of the
professor possessed quite a different tone than those who had preceded
him. It was no clearer, but it gave the impression of coming from a
point much nearer than Onondaga, New York. The professor did not seem
used to public addresses, either, for he hesitated frequently and
frequently repeated himself.
“The domestication of the frog is a simple matter and is becoming more
and more popular. Indeed, it would seem that the day is not far distant
when every family will have its pet frog or toad. The frog is capable
of being trained into a useful household member. It is affectionate and
faithful, responding readily to kind treatment. Efforts now being made
by the American Frog Fanciers’ Association to produce a breed of very
large frogs to take the place of watch-dogs promise to be successful.
The deep-bass challenge of a watch-frog will, I think, strike terror to
the heart of any midnight marauder.”
Toby’s face was a study now. He turned puzzled, searching glances
on the other members of the audience, but nowhere could he discern
anything save ready acceptance of the professor’s surprising
statements. Perhaps Mr. Benjy looked a trifle startled, but certainly
not incredulous. Mrs. Anderson beamed contentedly, Mrs. Lyle listened
with flattering attention, and Betty, with lowered head, seemed
completely absorbed in the subject. Peaches and Zo wore expressions of
polite interest and Mill――well, Toby couldn’t see Mill’s face, as the
latter was increasingly busy with the instrument.
“The feeding of the frog while in captivity,” continued the professor,
“is a matter of great moment and one little understood by the
amateur frog-owner. Experiments conducted by the Onondaga University
Experimental Station, under my direction, have recently thrown much
light on this subject. While the frog in his natural environment
is a carnivorous mammal, once placed in captivity he soon becomes
herbivorous, thriving on a vegetable diet. With a little training the
domesticated frog will, in fact, eat almost anything. Here at the
station we have found that a breakfast of corn-flakes, with a small
amount of milk and sugar, a luncheon of pickled beets or raw onions――”
Toby was in a pathetic state of protest. He made all sorts of strange
noises in his throat and would doubtless have exploded had it not been
for the stern gaze of Peaches.
“――and a dinner of sauer-kraut, with perhaps a small portion of
hard-boiled egg, have proved very satisfactory. A firm in New York
is now putting on the market a ‘frog biscuit’ which I can heartily
recommend.”
“He’s crazy;” protested Toby, hoarsely. “He――he――”
“Shut up!” warned Peaches, and Mrs. Lyle shook her head in gentle
deprecation. Betty fumbled for her handkerchief. Toby glared and
muttered beneath his breath, and shuffled his feet rebelliously.
“The frog,” the professor was continuing, now seeming more en rapport
with his subject, “should be provided with a warm bed, free from
drafts. Nothing is better than the frog-kennel which may now be
procured from any enterprising dealer in frog-supplies. This should be
lined with cotton batting, while a few thicknesses of some soft woolen
material should be provided for the frog to draw over him on cold
nights.”
“Huh! Just a lot of lies!” shrieked Toby. “He doesn’t know what he’s
talking about! Listen a minute――”
But no one seemed able to listen. Peaches was holding his head in his
hands, Zo was frankly weeping,――or something,――and Betty was snuffling
into her handkerchief. Even Mr. Benjy seemed strangely affected. Queer
sounds mingled with the speech proceeding from the direction of the
radio, sounds of suppressed sobs, sighs, chokes! Mill was leaning his
head against a dial, his shoulders shaking. Toby stared, open-mouthed,
from one to another, and while he was still striving to understand what
it all meant the professor gave utterance to what was to prove the last
verbal straw.
“For this,” declared the professor, “we have the word of no less an
authority on the domestication of the frog than Mr. Tobias Theocritus
Nott, the eminent――”
There was a roar from Toby, the crash of an overturned chair, and then
bedlam!
“_Look out for the radio!_” shrieked Mill, stretching protective arms
about the instrument.
Toby was almost lost to view under the folds of the red cloth, but not
for long. Breathing stertorously, he emerged, dragging behind him in
his remorseless grasp the disheveled form of Barry――Barry helpless
with laughter and holding in one hand a crushed megaphone and in the
other a crumpled sheet of paper!
“Huh!” said Toby when the audience had calmed down once more, “I
knew there was something mighty funny about it! Feeding a frog with
sauer-kraut and――and all that piffle! Huh! Any fellow would know that
was perfectly crazy!” He gazed scornfully about him, encountered
the streaming eyes of Peaches, and gave a grudging chuckle. “Well,
I ain’t saying you didn’t fool me just at first,” he acknowledged,
“but――shucks!――it didn’t take me long to find out! Say, who made up all
that stuff? I’ll bet it was you, Peaches. Gee! you were ignorant! Why,