"Shucks! It's only bullfrogs," thought the Tennessee Shad; but at this moment perceiving the three in clear silhouette against the faint moonlight, he instantly discarded that explanation. The three wanderers into the night were clothed in helmets, from which voluminous folds of cheesecloth descended to the waists, while each had his trousers rolled up well above the knees. The conversation continued, to his growing mystification. "They're awake, all right. I can hear them coming!" "You're the boss, Skippy. What's the order?" "Twenty paces apart. Greaser, you shake the bell, slowly. Snorky, you stand here, and, mind you, no slapping or moving. Everything scientific." "All right, but get a move on. Ouch, I've got two already." "Red leg or blue leg?" "Blue, darn it!" "Fine! I'll count a hundred slowly. Start up, Greaser." The low, harsh, grating sounds of a rusty bell slowly agitated began to be heard, punctuating the droning count: "Five, six, seven!" "For the love of Willie Keeler, what is it!" said the Shad, more and more bewildered, as he rubbed one leg against the other and shook his head to protect himself from the many insects. "It must be a secret society and this is the initiation." "Skippy?" "Hello!" "The bell's no good at all." "Twenty-nine, thirty--remember your oath." "Say! Count a little faster; I can't hold out much longer." "Red leg or blue?" "Both, darn it!" "Any difference?" The reply was too blasphemous to be set down here. The Tennessee Shad, too, was paying dearly the price of his curiosity; so, being convinced that he had stumbled upon a secret initiation, he decided to get some enjoyment out of the situation. Presently, trumpeting his mouth with his hands, he emitted a long, wailing sound: "Ugh, wugh, guggle, guggle!" "Good lord! What was that?" "Did you hear it?" "It's a night owl that's all; fifty-six, fifty-seven--" "Oonah, woonah, WOO, HOO!" "Night owls nothing; it's ghosts!" "There ain't no ghosts, you chicken-livered--" But at this moment the Tennessee Shad, smarting from head to foot, let out an ear-splitting screech and the three experimenters in mosquitology disappeared at top speed. The Tennessee Shad, satisfied, emerged, examined with curiosity a discarded helmet smeared with citronella-soaked cheesecloth, and picked up a rusty dinner bell. This last stuck in the crop of his imagination. "Secret-society stuff," he said to himself as he slapped his way out of the marsh. "But why the bell? Darn mysterious, that bell. . . ." CHAPTER XVI EXPERIMENTS IN FRAGRANCE