The stranger chewed and spat, chewed and spat. McCarthy marveled at their perfect synchronization. They both spat the same distance, too. He wasn't such a bad guy, if only he wouldn't be so stubborn! Strange--he was wearing a camera like the one old Ruddle had taken from him.
"O.K. You go back and get the note. I'll wait here." The stranger dropped to the ground and stretched out.
McCarthy turned and hurried back to the time machine before he could change his mind.
He was pleased to notice as he stepped down into the laboratory again, that the professor had rewon his gentle patch of white hair.
"Saaay, this is gettin' real complicated. How'd you make out with the wife?"
"The wife. The battle-axe. The ball and chain. The steady skirt," McCarthy clarified.
"I'm not married. I told you I considered it a barbarous custom entirely unworthy of a truly civilized man. Now stop babbling and give me that camera."
"But," McCarthy felt his way very carefully, "but, don't you remember takin' the camera from me, Professor Ruddle?"
"Not Ruddle--Roodles, _Roodles_. _Oo_ as is Gooseface. And how could I have taken the camera from you when you've just returned? You're dithering, McCarney--I don't like ditherers. Stop it!"
McCarthy shook his head, forbearing to correct the mispronunciation of his name. He began to feel a vague, gnawing wish that he had never started this combination merry-go-round and slap-happy fun-house.
"Look, prof, sit down." He spread a great hand against the little man's chest, forcing him into a chair. "We're gonna have another talk. I gotta bring you up to date."
Fifteen minutes later, he was winding up. "So this character says he'll wait until I get back with the note. If you want a wife, don't give me the note and he'll move the rock. I don't care one way or t'other, myself. I just want to get out of here!"
Professor Ruddle (Guggles? Roodles?) closed his eyes. "My," he gasped. Then he shuddered. "Married. To that--battle-axe! That st-steady skirt! _No!_ McCarney--or McCarthy--listen! You must go back. I'll give you a note--another check--here!" He tore a page from his notebook, filled it rapidly with desperate words. Then he made out another check.
McCarthy glanced at the slips. "'Nother bank," he remarked wonderingly. "This time The Southern Peanut Trust Company. I hope all these different checks are gonna be good."