XX
On a warm Sunday, Kathlyn and Julius, poking around in Branton Hills’ suburbs, occasionally found an odd formation of fossilization, installing it amidst our Hall of Natural History’s displays. Shortly following such an installation, a famous savant on volcanic activity noting a most propitious rock formation amongst Julius’ groups, thought of cutting into it; for ordinary, most prosaic rocks may contain surprising information; and, upon arriving at Branton Hills’ railway station, ran across old Pat Ryan, czar of its trunk room.
“Ah, my man! I want to find a lapidary.”
“A what?”
“It isn’t a ‘what,’ it’s a lapidary.”
“Lapidary, is it? Lapidary, lapidary, lapi—lapi—la—. No, I”
Now this savant was in a hurry, and said, snappily:—
“But a city as big as Branton Hills has a lapidary, I trust!”
“Oh, Branton Hills has a lot of things. But, wait a bit! It ain’t a lavatory what you want, is it?”
[ 162 ]
