The next few days, though, we certainly began to be worried and to think there might be something in what Jibby had more than hinted to us. He did some mighty queer things, and we watched him do them. He would stand with his nose in the air and sniff. He would stand with his nose up and sniff four or five times, and then turn his head just an inch and sniff four or five times more, and then turn his head again and sniff again, and so on. Sometimes he would pull a blade of grass and sniff at one end of it and then turn it around and sniff at the other end, and keep this up five minutes at a time. Then he began sniffing the old Mississippi River. He would lie in a skiff with his head over the edge and his nose close to the water and sniff. Then he would get on the seat and row a distance and lie down and sniff again. A few minutes later, we caught him with fish scales, sniffing them one after another--a bass scale and a perch scale and a piece of channel catfish skin and a piece of mud catfish tail, and so on. Then, while we watched him, he put them one at a time in a pail of water, and sniffed at the water. He kept changing them in the water, first one and then the other, and he sniffed each time. It seemed plain enough to us that he was giving his nose some good exercise. About eleven o’clock, on the fishing-prize day, Wampus’s Uncle Oscar came up to the island. He brought the jointed fishing-rod and the reel with him, so we could see what the prize was going to be, and I got him off alone and asked him what he thought about noses. I asked him if he thought Jibby Jones could really smell fish when they were under water, and if a person could exercise a nose and get it so it could smell things other noses could not smell. “Why, yes, George,” he said slowly. “I do think a nose can be trained quite a little if a person goes about it right. That stands to reason. But I don’t take any stock in this idea that a person can smell fish under water. Does Jibby say he can?” “Well, no,” I had to admit. “He hasn’t said so out and out; he just hinted it, as you might say. I’ll tell you one thing, though: he’s got Wampus frightened. And there was the way he smelled that bee and knew it was the pilot bee.” “What’s that?” Uncle Oscar asked. “Tell me about that.” When I had told him, he laughed. “You boys want to look out for your Jibby Jones,” he said. “He’s a bright one. He may look a little queer, but some of the brightest men in the world have been the queerest lookers; their looks were out of a rut and their brains were out of a rut, too. Tell me one thing, George; can Jibby see as well as he says he can smell?” “No, of course not,” I said. “I mean, he sees things we don’t take the trouble to see, sometimes, but his eyes can’t see very far. That is why he has to wear glasses. He’s near-sighted.”