insects feeding on the sweet stuff, and which seemed to intoxicate them. In an instant the flies were pulled to the top of the flower shaft by a contraction of the hairs, and then they went tumbling down the tube into the miniature pond below, where they were drowned after a brief struggle. Their crawling back was prevented by spines growing with points down, as the wires in some rat-traps are fastened.
Meanwhile the cover of the plant closed down.
"Why, it's a regular fly-trap, isn't it?" remarked Adams, much surprised.
"It is," replied the professor. "The plant lives off the insects it captures. It absorbs them, digests them, and, when it is hungry again, catches more."
"Where'd you get such an uncanny thing?" asked Adams, moving away from the plant as if he feared it might take a sample bite out of him.
"A friend sent it to me from Brazil."
"But you're not going to keep it, I hope."
"I certainly am," rejoined Professor Jonkin.
"Maybe you're going to train it to come to the table and eat like a human being," suggested Adams, with a laugh that nettled the professor.
"I wouldn't have to train it much to induce it to be polite," snapped back the owner of the pitcher plant.
And then, seeing that his jokes were not relished, Adams assumed an interest he did not feel, and listened bo a long dissertation on botany in general and carnivorous plants in particular.
He would much rather have been eating some of the queer hybrid fruits the professor raised. He pleaded an engagement when he saw an opening in the talk, and went away.
It was some months after that before he saw the professor again. The botanist was busy in his conservatory in the mean time, and the gardener he hired to do rough work noticed that his master spent much time in that part of the glass house where the pitcher plant was growing.
For Professor Jonkin had become so much interested in his latest acquisition that he seemed to think of nothing else. His plan for increasing strawberries to the size of peaches was abandoned for a time, as was his pet scheme of raising apples without any core.
The gardener wondered what there was about the South American blossoms to require such close attention.
One day he thought he would find out, and he started to enter that part of the conservatory where the pitcher plant was growing. Professor Jonkin halted him before he had stepped inside and sternly bade him never to appear there again.
As the gardener, crestfallen, moved away after a glimpse into the forbidden region he muttered:
"My, that plant has certainly grown! And I wonder what the professor was doing so close to it. Looked as if he was feeding the thing."
As the days went by the conduct of Professor Jonkin became more and more curious. He scarcely left the southern end of the conservatory, save at night, when he entered his house to sleep.
He was a bachelor, and had no family cares to trouble him, so he could spend all his time among his plants. But hitherto he had divided his attention among his many experiments in the floral kingdom.
Now he was always with his mysterious pitcher plant. He even had his meals sent into the green-house.
"Be you keepin" boarders?" asked the butcher boy of the gardener one day, pausing on his return to the store, his empty basket on his arm.
"No. Why?"
"The professor is orderin' so much meat lately. I thought you had company."
"No, there's only us two. Mr. Adams used to come to dinner once in a while, but not lately."
"Then you an' the professor must have big appetites."
"What makes you think so?"
"The number of beefsteaks you eat."
"Number of beefsteaks? Why, my lad. the professor and I are both vegetarians."
"What's them?"
"We neither of us eat a bit of meat. We don't, believe it's healthy."
"Then what becomes of the three big
