name, that's a combination of Mosquitoville, Lonesomehurst and
Nutting Doon. It's in the mathematical center of the ghastliest
marsh anywhere between Here and Somewhere else. I think that's our
little summer resort, and I'm yours for the nine A. M. train
to-morrow."

Dismounting from that rather casual accommodation on the following
day, the two friends found Pearlington to consist of a windowed
packing-box inhabited by a hermit in a brass-buttoned blue. This
lonely official readily identified the subjects of Average Jones'
inquiry.

"I guess I know your friends, all right. The dago was tall and thin
and had white hair; almost snow-white. No, he wasn't old, neither.
He talked very soft and slow. Used to stay off in the reeds three
and four days at a time. No, ain't seen him for near a week; him
nor his boat nor the young fellow that was with him. Sort of
bugologists, or something, wasn't they."

"Have you any idea where we could find their camp?"

The railroad man laughed.

"Fine chance you got of finding anything in that swamp. There's ten
square miles of it, every square just like every other square, and a
hundred little islands, and a thousand creeks and rivers winding
through."

"You're right," agreed Average Jones. "It would take a month to
search it. You spoke of a boat."