The telegram had said they would come at noon and we were to wait for
them. Noon came and went; one o'clock; two o'clock; and like the Blue
Alsatian Mountains, we were still watching and waiting. There was no
sign of the Striped Beetle. The sun beat down mercilessly on the
glaring earth and we grew faint and dizzy straining our eyes up the
road. It was several degrees hotter than the day before. We ate our
dinner in squads, one squad eating while the other did sentinel duty.
We beguiled the time by singing "Wait for the Wagon", "Waiting at the
Church ", and every other song we knew on the subject. People looked at
us curiously as we sat in a row on a low stone wall. One man asked us
if we were waiting for the circus parade, because if we were we had our
dates mixed; the circus was not due until the next day. The afternoon
advanced; carful after carful of tourists came down the dusty road, but
none of them the ones we so eagerly awaited. Margery had refused to sit
there where everyone could see her, and stayed in her room, and we took
turns sitting with her.

"Are you sure we didn't dream that telegram?" asked Sahwah wearily, at
half past three.

Nyoda shook her head. "It's real, all right," she answered. "I have it
here in my coat pocket."

"Let me see it again," said Sahwah, "and see at what time it was sent."

Nyoda put her hand into her pocket. When she brought it out again she
held to the light, not the yellow telegraph form, but a queer, bluish
beetle-like thing. She stared at it with amazed eyes and we were all
too much astonished to speak.