"Vun of dem is cameing!" whispered Professor Soupnoodle; "remember Metz und strike for der Fatherland!" "Kluck-gurgle-kluck-gurgle-gurgle!" Gee whiz! the horror of that bitter moment. Uncle William removed a short prayer from his mind, and the Dutch Professor started to sing "Die Wacht am Rhine." But just then Professor Glueface smacked his lips and put the bottle down. "Fine!" he said; "I feel better now." Then the rest of the committee knew that it was a false alarm originating in the thirst of the Professor. But just then the gloom in front of them began to take form and shape, and they knew this was no false alarm. "Zwei!" whispered Professor Soupnoodle. "Great Scott!" exclaimed Dr. Glueface, "my idea is right--the Jersey mosquito has a language! I can catch a word now and then. It is something like Sanscrit, only slangier!" They listened and watched. Approaching them through the gloom could be seen two beautiful specimens of the Kings of the Jersey jungles. "It is a male und a female," whispered the Dutch Professor. "I can tell it because he vears someding like a Pajama hat, und she holds vun ving up like a skirt." The committee clutched their repeating rifles closer and prepared for the worst. "They are engaged to be married," Professor Glueface whispered; "he has just told her that he knows where to get good board and lodging in a Harlem flat. She calls him Percy. Her name is Evaline. Hss-s-s-sh!" The warning was too late. The Scourges of the Swamp had discovered the cage and drew nearer. "He laughs at us," whispered Professor Glueface; "now he is telling her that the cage is only made of steel and it is a cinch. He has gone to get his drill. What is to be done?" "In the interests of science," Uncle William whispered, "let us sneak out and run for the police with all our hearts." And this they did while Percy was getting his drill ready. Time, for the first 100 yards, nine seconds flat; for the rest of the distance about ten seconds on the average. The committee has not yet reported whether or not there is malaria in a mosquito's bite, because they didn't wait to let him bite them. Stung! CHAPTER V JOHN HENRY ON STREET CAR ETIQUETTE "Ding!" "Naw, we don't take no transfers, needer! Aw, chase yerself!" [Illustration: "Naw, we don't take no transfers, needer!"] "Ding, ding!" For my part I haven't been able to figure it out, but Uncle Peter is the lad who has made a profound study of that street car proposition known as the End-Seat Hog. * * * * * * I'm going to pass you out a talk he handed me a few evenings ago on that subject. Pipe! Suffering crumpets, John! I don't know anything about this end seat business, and the more I try to find out the more complex becomes the problem.