"Something light will do," he was saying. "A runabout, perhaps." He came forward rubbing his hands, followed by a thin man in overalls. "Mr. Peck says," he began,—"this is Mr. Peck of Peck and Peck,—says that the place we are looking for is about seven miles from the town. It's clearing, isn't it?"
"It is not," I returned savagely. ""And we don't want a runabout, Mr. Peck. What we require is an hermetically sealed diving suit. I suppose there isn't a machine to be had?" Mr. Peck gazed at me in silence: machine to him meant other things than motors. "Automobile," I supplemented. His face cleared.
"None but private affairs. I can give you a good buggy with a rubber apron. Mike, is the doctor's horse in?"
I am still uncertain as to whether the raw-boned roan we took out that night over the mountains was the doctor's horse or not. If it was, the doctor may be a good doctor, but he doesn't know anything about a horse. And furthermore, I hope he didn't need the beast that miserable evening.
