He
tried to rise, but the hands that pressed him back were firm and
quick.
"Lie still!" bade their owner.
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."
Still undecided, Mr. Brewster stared at the injured man.
"I don't know--" he began, when the eyes opened again.
"Feeling better?" inquired Polly briskly.
"Yes. The charm works perfectly."
"Anything I can do, or get, for you, my boy?" inquired Mr.
Brewster, stepping forward.
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