"Madam," I said, firmly, "it is a dingue! It's a monodactyl! See! It
has but a single toe!"

"Bosh!" she retorted; "it's got four!"

"Four!" I repeated, blankly.

"Yes; one on each foot!"

"Of course," I said; "you didn't suppose a monodactyl meant a beast
with one leg and one toe!"

But she laughed hatefully and declared it was a woodchuck.

We squabbled for a while until I saw the significance of her attitude.
The unfortunate woman wished to find a dingue first and be accredited
with the discovery.

I lifted the dingue in both hands and shook the creature gently, until
the chiming ding-dong of its protestations filled our ears like sweet
bells jangled out of tune.

Pale with rage at this final proof of the dingue's identity, she
seized her camera and note-book.

"I haven't any time to waste over that musical woodchuck!" she
shouted, and bounced out of the tent.

"What have you discovered, dear?" cried Dorothy, running after her.