forefinger across his forehead, then flirting aside sundry drops
of moisture. "I can't recall such another muggy afternoon, and
if we were only back in what the scientists term the cyclone
belt--"

"We would be all at sea," quickly interposed the professor, the
fingers of one hand vigorously stirring his gray pompadour, while
the other was lifted in a deprecatory manner. "At sea, literally
as well as metaphorically, my dear Bruno; for, correctly
speaking, the ocean alone can give birth to the cyclone."

"Why can't you remember anything, boy?" sternly cut in the
roguish-eyed youngster, with admonitory forefinger, coming to the
front. "How many times have I told you never to say blue when
you mean green? Why don't you say Kansas zephyr? Or
windy-auger? Or twister? Or whirly-gust on a corkscrew
wiggle-waggle? Or--well, almost any other old thing that you
can't think of at the right time? W-h-e-w! Who mentioned
sitting on a snowdrift, and sucking at an icicle? Hot? Well,
now, if this isn't a genuine old cyclone breeder, then I wouldn't
ask a cent!"

Waldo Gillespie let his feet slip from beneath him, sitting down
with greater force than grace, back supported against a gnarled
juniper, loosening the clothes at his neck while using his other
hand to ply his crumpled hat as a fan.

Bruno laughed outright at this characteristic anticlimax, while
Professor Featherwit was obliged to smile, even while compelled
to correct.