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“‘Scuse me, suh.”

The amateur aspirant for the robe of Munchausen paused from lighting a fresh cigarette and lifted his eyes, and was aware of an anthracite-colored face risen, like some new kind of crayoned full moon, above the white skyline of the side fence.

“‘Scuse me, suh, fur interruptin’,” repeated the voice belonging to the apparition, “but I couldn’t he’p frum overhearin’ whut you wuz tellin’ the boys yere. An’ I got sort of interested myse’f.”

“It’s Judge Priest’s Jeff, Uncle Dwight,” explained the oldest nephew. “Jeff makes us fluttermills out of corn-stalks, and he learned us–taught us, I mean–to call a brickbat an alley-apple, and he can make his ears wiggle just like a rabbit and everything. Don’t you, Jeff?–I mean, can’t you, Jeff?”

“Ah, I see,” said the fabulist with a wink aside for Jeff’s benefit. “I am indeed delighted to make the acquaintance of one thus gifted, even under the present informal circumstances. In what way, if any, may I be of service to you, Judge Priest’s Jeff?”

“That air thing you named the whiffletit–near ez I made out you said, boss, that fust you tolled him up to whar you wanted him wid cheese an’ ‘en you jest natchelly laffed him to death?”

“Such are the correct facts accurately repeated, Judge Priest’s Jeff,” gravely assented this affable faunalist.

“Yas, suh,” said Jeff. “D’ye s’pose now, boss, it would he’p any ef they wuz a whole passel of folks to do the laffin’ ‘stid of jes’ one?”

“Beyond the peradventure of a doubt. Concerted action on the part of many, guffawing merrily in chorus, assuredly would hasten the death of the ill-starred victim, if you get what I mean, Judge Priest’s most estimable Jeff?”

“Yas, suh,” said Jeff. “Thanky, suh.” He did not exactly smile his thanks, but the mask of his melancholy crinkled round the edges and raised slightly. One who knew Jeff, and more particularly one who had been cognizant of his depressed state during the past fortnight, would have said that a heartening thought suddenly had come to him, lightening and lifting in ever so small a degree the funereal mantlings. He made as though to withdraw from sight. A gesture from the visiting naturalist detained him.

“One moment,” said Uncle Dwight. “Might I, a comparative stranger, be pardoned for inquiring into the motives underlying the interest you have evinced in my perhaps poorly expressed but veracious narration?”

The wraith of Jeff’s grin took on flesh visibly. It was a pleasure–even to one beset by grievous perplexities–it was a pleasure to hear such noble big words fall thus trippingly from human lips. His answer, tho, was in a measure evasive, not to say cryptic.

“I wuz jes’ stedyin’, tha’s all, suh,” he fenced. He ducked from view, then bobbed his head up again.

“‘Scuse me, suh, but they is one mo’ thing I craves to ast you.”

“Proceed, I pray you. Our aim is to please and instruct.”

“Well, suh, I jes’ wanted to ast you ef you ever run acrost one of these yere whiffletits w’ich played on the jazzin’-valve?”

“Prithee?”

“Naw, suh, not the prith–prith–whut you jes’ said. I mentioned the jazzin’-valve–whut some folks calls the saxophone. D’ye reckin they mout’ ‘a’ been a whiffletit onct ‘at played on one?”

“Oh, the saxophone! Well, as to that I could not with certainty speak. But, mark you, the whiffletit is a creature of infinite resources–versatile, abounding in quaint conceits and whimsies, and, having withal a wide repertoire. Sometimes its repertoire is twice as wide as it is, thus producing a peculiar effect when the whiffletit is viewed from behind. On second thought, I have no doubt that in the privacy of its subterranean fireside the whiffletit wiles away the tedium of the long winter evenings by playing on the saxophone.”

“Come on over, Jeff, and Uncle Dwight will tell us some more,” urged the hospitable oldest nephew.

But Jeff had vanished. He wished to be alone for the working out of a project as yet vague and formless, but having a most definite object to be attained. Stimulated by hope new-born, he was now a sort of twelfth carbon-copy of the regular Jeff–faint, perhaps, and blurry, but recognizable. Through the clouds which encompassed him the faint promise of a rift was apparent.