"
Everybody laughed, except the Capitalist, who was a little hard of
hearing, and the Scarabee, whose life was too earnest for demonstrations
of that kind. He had his eyes fixed on the volume, however, with eager
interest.
--The p'int 's carried,--said the Member of the Haouse.
Will you let me look at that book a single minute?--said the Scarabee. I
passed it to him, wondering what in the world he wanted of Paradise Lost.
Dermestes lardarius,--he said, pointing to a place where the edge of one
side of the outer cover had been slightly tasted by some insect.--Very
fond of leather while they 're in the larva state.
--Damage the goods as bad as mice,--said the Salesman.
--Eat half the binding off Folio 67,--said the Register of Deeds.
Something did, anyhow, and it was n't mice. Found the shelf covered with
little hairy cases belonging to something or other that had no business
there.
Skins of the Dermestes lardaraus,--said the Scarabee,--you can always
tell them by those brown hairy coats. That 's the name to give them.
--What good does it do to give 'em a name after they 've eat the binding
off my folios?--asked the Register of Deeds.
The Scarabee had too much respect for science to answer such a question
as that; and the book, having served its purposes, was passed back to the
Lady.
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