He sat down and wrote a hasty note to the director of the Museum,
and a few moments later we were speeding over in Leslie's car.
At the big building we had no trouble in finding the director and
presenting the note. He was a close friend of Kennedy's and more
than willing to aid him in any way.
"You will excuse me a moment?" he apologized. "I will get from the
South American exhibit just what he wants."
We waited several minutes in the office until finally he returned
carrying a gourd, incrusted on its hollow inside surface with a
kind of blackish substance.
"That is what he wants, I think," the director remarked, wrapping
it up carefully in a box. "I don't need to ask you to tell
Professor Kennedy to watch out how he handles the thing. He
understands all about it."
We thanked the director and hurried out into the car again,
carrying the package, after his warning, as though it were so much
dynamite.
Altogether, I don't suppose that we could have been gone more than
an hour.
We burst into the laboratory, but, to my surprise, I did not see
Kennedy at his table. I stopped short and looked around.
There he was over in the corner, sprawled out in a chair, a tank
of oxygen beside him, from which he was inhaling laboriously
copious draughts.
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