An awful, red-eyed, scrambly fiend scared me--a real,
live, hairy devilkin on stilts. He ran at me across the rock. Was
that one of your pet scarabs, Mr. Beetle Man?"
"That was a tarantula, I suppose, from the description."
"They're deadly, aren't they?"
"Of course not. Unscientific nonsense. I'll go up and chase him
off."
"Flying from perils that you know not of to more familiar
dangers?" she taunted.
"Well, you see, with the tarantula out of the way, there's no
reason why you shouldn't--er--"
"Go, and leave you in peace? What do you think of that for
gallantry, Birdie?"
The gay-feathered inquisitor had come quite near.
"Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?" he queried, cocking his curious head.
"He says he doesn't like me one little, wee, teeny bit, and he
wishes I'd go home and stay there. And so I'm going, with my poor
little feelings all hurted and ruffled up like anything."
"Nothing of the sort," protested the badgered spectacle-wearer.
"Then why such unseemly haste to make my path clear?"
"I just thought that maybe you'd go back on the top of the rock,
where you came from, and--and be a voice again.
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