“Wonder if this isn't a portion of the glorious climate, broken loose from its native California, and drifting up this way on a lark?” “If so, said lark must be roasted to a turn,” declared the third (and last) member of that little party, drawing a curved forefinger across his forehead, then flirting aside sundry drops of moisture. “I can't recall such another muggy afternoon, and if we were only back in what the scientists term the cyclone belt--”…
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