moment, there was a confusion of tongues and Lizzie was shipped aboard
my canoe. In the excitement of the chase Josef, stern man, had faced
about to manipulate his landing-net; Aristophe also slewed around and,
sitting on the gunwale, became stern paddler. I was in the middle
screwed anyhow, watching the frog fishing and enjoying the enjoyment of
the men. Poor chaps, it was the only bit of personal play they got out
of our month of play. Aristophe, the Tin Lizzie, was quite mad with the
excitement even from his very second fiddle standpoint of paddler to
Josef's frogging. His enormous gray eyes snapped, his teeth showed white
and gold around his pipe--which he nearly bit off--and he even used
language.

"_Tiens! Encore un!_" hissed the Lizzie in a blood-curdling whisper as a
new pair of pop eyes lifted from the edge of a rotten log.

And Josef, who had always seen the frog first, fired a guttural
sentence, full of contempt, full of friendliness, for he sized up the
Lizzie, his virtues and his limitations, accurately. And then the boat
was pushed and pulled in the shallow water till Josef and the net were
within range. With, that came the slow approach of the net to the smile,
the swift tap on the eatable legs, and headlong into his finish leaped
M. Crapaud. Which is rot his correct name, Josef tells me, in these
parts, but M. Guarron. And that, being translated, means Mr.
Very-Big-Bull-Frog.

Business had prospered to fourteen or fifteen head of frogs, and we
calculated that the other boat might have a dozen when, facing towards
Aristophe, I saw his dull, fresh face suddenly change. My pulse missed a
beat at that expression. It was adequate to an earthquake or sudden
death. How the fatuous doll-like features could have been made to