The Unspeakable Perk Part 15

"Spanish-American War? That isn't what I'm talking about. I'm speaking of Walter Reed and his fellow scientists, who went down there and fought the mosquitoes."

The girl's lip curled.

"So that's your idea of heroism! Scrubby p.e.c.k.e.rs into the lives of helpless bugs!"

"Have you the faintest idea what you are talking about?"

His voice had abruptly hardened. There was an edge to it; such an edge as she had faintly heard on the previous night, when Carroll had pressed him too hard. She was startled.

"Perhaps I haven't," she admitted.

"Then it's time you learned. Three American doctors went down into that pesthole of a Cuban city to offer their lives for a theory. Not for a tangible fact like the flag, or for glory and fame as in battle, but for a theory that might or might not be true. There wasn't a day or a night that their lives weren't at stake. Carroll let himself be bitten by infected mosquitoes on a final test, and grazed death by a hair's breadth. Lazear was bitten at his work, and died in the agony of yellow-fever convulsions, a martyr and a hero if ever there was one.

Because of them, Havana is safe and livable now. We were able to build the Panama Ca.n.a.l because of their work, their--what did you call it?--scrubby peeking into the lives of--"

"Don't!" cried the girl. "I--I'm ashamed. I didn't know."

"How should you?" he said, in a changed tone. "We Americans set up monuments to our destroyers, not to our preservers, of life. n.o.body knows about Walter Reed and James Carroll and Jesse Lazear--not even the American Government, which they officially served--except a few doctors and dried-up entomologists like myself. Forgive me. I didn't mean to deliver a lecture."

There was a long pause, which she broke with an effort.

"Mr. Beetle Man?"

"Yes, Voice?"

"I--I'm beginning to think you rather more man than beetle at times."

"Well, you see, you touched me on a point of fanaticism," he apologized.

"Do you mind standing up again for examination? No," she decided, as he stepped out and stood with his eyes lowered obstinately. "You don't seem changed to outward view. You still remind me," with a ripple of irrepressible laughter, "of a near-sighted frog. It's those ridiculous gla.s.ses. Why do you wear them?"

"To keep the sun out of my eyes."

"And the moon at night, I suppose. They're not for purposes of disguise?"

"Disguise! What makes you say that?" he asked quickly.

"Don't bark. They'd be most effective. And they certainly give your face a truly weird expression, in addition to its other detriments."

"If you don't like my face, consider my figure," he suggested optimistically. "What's the matter with that?"

"Stumpy," she p.r.o.nounced. "You're all in a chunk. It does look like a practical sort of a chunk, though."

"Don't you like it?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, well enough of its kind." She lifted her voice and chanted:--

"He was stubby and square, But SHE didn't much care.

"There's a verse in return for yours. Mine's adapted, though.

Examination's over. Wait. Don't sit down. Now, tell me your opinion of me."

"Very musical."

"I'm not musical at all."

"Oh, I'm considering you as a VOICE."

"I'm tired of being just a voice. Look up here. Do," she pleaded. "Turn upon me those lucent goggles."

When orbs like thine the soul disclose, Tee-deedle-deedle-dee.

Don't be afraid. One brief fleeting glance ere we part."

"No," he returned positively. "Once is enough."

"On behalf of my poor traduced features, I thank you humbly. Did they prove as bad as you feared?"

"Worse. I've hardly forgotten yet what you look like. Your kind of face is bad for business."

"What is business?"

"Haven't I told you? I'm a scientist."

"Well, I'm a specimen. No beetle that crawls or creeps or hobbles, or does whatever beetles are supposed to do, shows any greater variation from type--I heard a man say that in a lecture once--than I do. Can't I interest you in my case, O learned one? The proper study of mankind is--"

"Woman. Yes, I know all about that. But I'm a groundling."

"Mr. Beetle Man," she said, in a tremulous voice, "the rock is moving."

"I don't feel it. Though it might be a touch of earthquake. We have 'em often."

"Not your rock. The tarantula rock, I mean."

"Nonsense! A hundred tarantulas couldn't stir it."

"Well, it seems to be moving, and that's just as bad. I'm tired and I'm lonely. Oh, please, Professor Scarab, have I got to fall on your neck again to introduce a little human companionship into this conversation?"

"Caesar! No! My shoulder's still lame. What do you want, anyway?"

"I want to know about you and your work. ALL about you."

"Humph! Well, at present I'm making some microscopical studies of insects. That's the reason for these gla.s.ses. The light is so harsh in these lat.i.tudes that it affects the vision a trifle, and every trifle counts in microscopy."

"Does the microscope add charm to the beetle?"

"Some day I'll show you, if you like. Just now it's the flea, the national bird of Caracuna."

"The wicked flea?"