Subsequent inquiry developed that none of the persons at the pool that night had been spared, although no two were attacked in the same place. Two days elapsed before Seth Bissett found a thin layer of the "dreadful" inside the lining of his favorite necktie, and in the meantime he had nearly hated himself to death. It was a week before Chuck Smith located a smear in the back of his watchcase, and during all that time he was haunted by a suspicion that he was no longer good company for man or beast. After changing his entire wardrobe several times in an effort to forget that fatal swim, Bob Beach found when he had occasion to use his purse a few days later that all his money, though honestly earned, had become badly tainted. Nobody seemed to be able to account for the mysterious attack. Some of the swimmers accused each other, only to arouse vigorous denial, and there was no proof. But Seth Bissett had his suspicions, and they were well founded. If Mrs. Cane had known of the pollution that swept over the swimming-hole that night, she would doubtless have supposed that Sube was attacked in common with the others; for he came home reeking of a loathsome odor that he was unable to account for. But, of course, Mrs. Cane heard little of the swimming-hole gossip. "What _have_ you been doing!" she exclaimed as Sube came into the room. "Never mind about that," growled his father. "Where are you going just about as fast as you can get there!" Sube looked from one of his parents to the other in utter surprise. "What have I done now?" he asked. "Heaven only knows!" Mr. Cane exploded. "But do get out of this room with it!" "With what?" asked the amazed boy, holding out his empty hands. "I ain't got an'thing." Mr. Cane mangled the air with gestures of futility while his wife laid aside her embroidery and stood up. "You've got something on you that doesn't smell very good. Come with--" "Doesn't smell very good!" repeated Mr. Cane sarcastically. "Of all the feeble language! I can describe it for you in one short word!" "Sam-u-el! Don't be vulgar! You run along to the bathroom, Sube. We'll try a little ammonia." "Ammonia!" jeered Mr. Cane. "Am-mo-nia! You'd better boil him in muriatic acid and bury him for three weeks! A little ammonia," he repeated as he stood up and opened another window. Then his curiosity got the better of him. "Sube," he called, "I want to ask you a few questions--but you needn't come back here! Stop right there where you are." A scowl of suspicion came over Sube's face as he halted and turned towards the author of his existence. "Where have you been this evening?" his father began. "Nowheres--jus' playin' round." "Round where? Round what?" "Jus' round here everyplace. I couldn't tell--" "Well, tell me one place." "Sir?--Why out in the back yard." "Where else?" "Why,--we went over in Bowers' back yard." A ray of light came over Mr. Cane's stern visage as he asked, "You weren't playing garbage-man, were you?"