And now, chase along, sonny. I'm busy."
He turned to a large bowl in which he had been mixing the
contents of three or four bottles. And the boy saw his fingers
were fiery red.
"What's the matter?" demanded the youngster, in high excitement.
"That's blood, ain't it?"
"No," denied Higham. "Blood's light red. This is crimson.
Remember the time we run in that joke on Daddy Price, by dipping
his prize white leghorns in crimson dye, just before the Madison
Square Garden Poultry Show? Well, this is the same stuff."
"Do I remember it?" snickered the boy. "He was ragin', for fair.
Couldn't get it off, to save him. It stayed, that color, on 'em,
till they'd shed the last one of last year's crop of feathers.
Sure, I remember. Why wouldn't I? Didn't I git a dollar for
holdin' 'em for you? And another dollar for keepin' my mouth
shut? But what are you lottin' to do with the stuff, this time?
No chickens here; or--"
"Nope," assented Higham. "No chickens here. Hold on, a second!"
He stood, musing. Then he spoke.
"I was going to play a lone hand, on this," he said, presently.
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