Soon Harry began:
"I'll tell you what they are, Paul; they're frogs. Nothing but
frogs. Did you see 'em? The little black devils! And Lord, how
they smell!"
"That," I answered, "is the effect of--"
"To the deuce with your mineralogy or anthromorphism or whatever
you call it. I don't care what makes 'em smell. I only know they
do--as Kipling says of the oonts--'most awful vile.' And there
the beggars sit, and here we sit!"
"If we could only see--" I began.
"And what good would that do us? Could we fight? No. They'd
smother us in a minute. Say, wasn't there a king in that cave the
other day?"
"Yes; on a golden throne. An ugly little devil--the ugliest of
all."
"Sure; that why he's got the job. Did he say anything?"
"Not a word; merely stuck out his arm and out we went."
"Why the deuce don't they talk?"
I explained my theory at some length, with many and various
scientific digressions. Harry listened politely.
"I don't know what you mean," said he when I had finished, "but I
believe you. Anyway, it's all a stupendous joke. In the first
place, we shouldn't be here at all. And, secondly, why should
they want us to stay?"
"How should I know? Ask the king.
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