“Felix Adelbert,” said Don: “Felix Adelbert McNutt--I mean McNatt!” “McNutt’s better,” laughed Bob. “It suits him perfectly. Remember the time--last spring, wasn’t it?--when he was raising toads and one of them got into bed with the chap who rooms with him--” “Rooms with the toad?” asked Martin incredulously. “No, with McNutt, you jay! What’s his name, Joe?” “McNutt’s?” asked Joe, with a wink at Martin. “Oh, you make me tired! Fuller, that’s the chap! Fuller crawled into bed one night and found a toad there ahead of him and told the hall master the next day. He said he didn’t mind having toads hopping around the room, but that having to share his bed with them was almost too much. And faculty agreed with him and McNutt had to get rid of his toads.” “What the dickens did he want with the things, anyway?” asked Don in disgust. “I wouldn’t touch one for anything!” “Oh, toads are all right,” answered Joe. “Quite harmless and friendly. McNutt was raising them, it seemed. He’d read somewhere that an able-bodied toad would eat seven million, three hundred and eighty thousand, nine hundred and thirty-three bugs a year. I’m not absolutely certain of the exact number, but it was something like that. Anyway, McNutt figured that if he could raise a few hundred toads he could sell them to farmers and get rich. He said he was trying to develop an improved strain of toads that would be particularly--er--insectivorous: I believe that’s the word.” “In justice to the gentleman,” said Bob, “it should be stated that it was the--the scientific interest of the thing rather than the pecuniary reward that attracted him. Science is McNutt’s long suit!” “I think Fuller, or whatever his name is, was most unreasonable,” laughed Don. “Why, the world might be rid of insects by this time if he hadn’t been so cranky! Do toads eat mosquitoes, Joe?” “I guess so. I know they eat flies, anyway. I saw one do it once. He stopped about a yard away and the fly didn’t even know he was about. Then--_zip_--out went Mr. Toad’s tongue, like you uncoiled the mainspring of a watch, and the fly was gone!” “Flew away, probably,” suggested Martin. “He did not, son! He was in Mr. Toad’s tummy.” “You say the toad was a yard distant from the fly when the--when the shot was fired?” asked Don. “Well, maybe a couple of feet,” Joe compromised. “It was a long way.” “Take off another eighteen inches,” begged Bob earnestly. “I want to believe you, Joseph but two feet--” He shook his head sadly. “Go to the dickens! It was two feet if it was an inch. Anyone will tell you that a toad’s tongue is remarkably long.” “Nobody has to tell me, after that yarn,” replied Bob gravely. “All I’m wondering now is where the toad keeps his tongue when he’s not using it!” “I told you he coils it up,” laughed Joe, “like a watch spring.”