"That reminds me," said William, "of a little story about Perry Chumly,
who--"

"For the sake of science, William," I interrupted, laying a hand on his
arm, "I must beg you not to relate it. The comet will in a few minutes
be behind the roof of yonder lodging house. We really have no time for
the story."

"No," said Ben, "time presses; and, anyhow, I've heard it before."

"This Perry Chumly," resumed William, "believed himself a born
astronomer, and always kept a bit of smoked glass. He was particularly
great on solar eclipses. I have known him to sit up all night looking
out for one."

Ben had now got the spectroscope trained skyward to suit him, and in
order to exclude all irrelevant light had let down the window-blind on
the tube of it. The spectrum of the comet came out beautifully--a long
bar of color crossed with a lovely ruling of thin dark and bright lines,
the sight of which elicited from us an exclamation of satisfaction.

"One day," continued William from his seat at another window, "some one
told Perry Chumly there would be an eclipse of the sun that afternoon at
three o'clock. Now Perry had recently read a story about some men who in
exploring a deep cañon in the mountains had looked up from the bottom
and seen the stars shining at midday. It occurred to him that this
knowledge might be so utilized as to give him a fine view of the
eclipse, and enable him at the same time to see what the stars would
appear to think about it."