The moon shone with unutterable
calm. The crickets and the tree frogs performed their interminable
duet, apparently unconscious that they were attacking it in
different keys--a fact that, after a while, began to infuriate
Mr Pickering. Mosquitoes added their reedy tenor to the concert.
A twig on which he was standing snapped with a report like a pistol.
The moon went on shining.
Away in the distance a dog began to howl. An automobile passed in
the road. For a few moments Mr Pickering was able to occupy
himself pleasantly with speculations as to its make; and then he
became aware that something was walking down the back of his neck
just beyond the point where his fingers could reach it. Discomfort
enveloped Mr Pickering. At various times by day he had seen
long-winged black creatures with slim waists and unpleasant faces.
Could it be one of these? Or a caterpillar? Or--and the maddening
thing was that he did not dare to slap at it, for who knew what
desperate characters the sound might not attract?
Well, it wasn't stinging him; that was something.
A second howling dog joined the first one. A wave of sadness was
apparently afflicting the canine population of the district to-night.
Mr Pickering's vitality began to ebb. He was ageing, and
imagination slackened its grip.
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