“I guess some of these mosquitoes haven’t seen that light,” he muttered, waving his hands about his head. “Suppose you run down and turn up the lamp, Dick.”
“I wouldn’t venture in there among all those angry mosquitoes for the world!” answered Dick. “They’d just simply tear me to pieces. I wish I had some pennyroyal.”
“I wish you had,” Roy agreed. “I’d borrow some. I wonder why mosquitoes always go for a fellow’s ankles.”
“They go for the biggest things they see,” explained Chub, “which, of course, are your feet. As they can’t bite through leather they tackle your ankles. They never trouble my ankles.”
“No, I suppose they go for your cheek,” retorted Roy. “What are you rubbing your ankles together for, if they don’t bite them?”
“Er—one of my feet is asleep.”
“So am I—almost,” said Dick, drowsily. “What time is it?”
“About half past eight,” said Roy. “What time do we have breakfast?”
“At eight, sharp,” answered Dick, yawning.
“That means getting up at seven,” murmured
