“A rest!” howled the Dutch boy. “Dis don’t peen no rest. I bet me your life dot vos annudder flea der small uf mein pack on! Und I vos pitten all ofer in more as zwei tozen places alretty yet! Murter!”
Hans’ companions laughed heartily as the fat Dutch lad made a frantic effort to reach over his shoulder and scratch the itching spot on his back.
They were reclining beneath the shade of a large tree that stood near the flat, sandy beach, watching the surf roll in and shoot up in snowy spouts around a distant rocky point.
“Haw! haw! haw!” laughed Ephraim Gallup. “Gol darned ef yeou don’t make me lawf! What’s a little squint of a flea amaount to?”
“Oh, vot vos der madder mit you?” snorted Hans. “Suppose you mind mine business, aindt it.”
Then the fat fellow got his back against the tree and scratched it in that manner, making up a face that was expressive of mingled feelings of intense agony and acute satisfaction.
“You chaps make me tired!” grumbled Diamond, in a rather surly manner. “You are all the time quarreling. I’d wish you’d drop it and give us a rest.”
“Is that so!” came sarcastically from the Yankee lad, as he stiffened up. “Wal, I want tew know! Who be yeou, anyhow?”
“I’ll mighty soon show you, if you want to know!” grated Jack, giving the boy from Vermont a savage glare.
Ephraim spat on his hands.