He beamed affectionately on his monster.

"What about stairs?" said Dodge.

"No stairs in the bush," said the Inventor, blowing a speck of dust
off his apparition; "all ground-floor houses. Anyhow, if there were stairs
we could carry him up and let him fall down afterwards,
or get flung down like any other canvasser."

"Ha! Let's see him walk," said Dodge.

The figure walked all right, stiff and erect.

"Now let's hear him yabber."

The Genius touched a spring, and instantly, in a queer, tin-whistly voice,
he began to sing, "Little Annie Rooney".

"Good!" said Dodge; "he'll do. We'll give you your price.
Leave him here to-night, and come in to-morrow. We'll send you off
to the back country with him. Ninemile would be a good place to start in.
Have a cigar?"

Mr. Dodge, much elated, sucked at his pipe, and blew through his nose
a cloud of nearly solid smoke, through which the Genius sidled out.
They could hear him sneezing and choking all the way down the stairs.

Ninemile is a quiet little place, sleepy beyond description.
When the mosquitoes in that town settle on anyone,