We took our guns and cartridges, and plunged down from the cliff to the marsh. As we did so there rose about me a brown cloud, which in a moment I realized was composed of mosquitoes—a crazy, savage, bloodthirsty mob. They beset me on all sides,—they were in my hair, my eyes, nose, ears, mouth, neck. I brushed frantically at them, but a drowning man might as well try to brush back the water as it closes in.
"Where's the bottle?" I gasped.
"What bottle?" said Jonathan, innocently. Jonathan is human.
"The tar and sweet oil. Quick!"
"Oh! I thought you preferred the mosquitoes." Yes, Jonathan is human.
"Never mind what you thought!" and I snatched greedily at the blessed little bottle.
I poured the horrid stuff on my face, my neck, my hands, I out-Jonathaned Jonathan; then I took a deep breath of relief as the mosquito mob withdrew to a respectful distance. Jonathan reached for the bottle.
"Oh, I can just as well carry it," I said, and tucked it into one of my hunting-coat pockets.
Jonathan chuckled gently, but I did not care. Nothing should part me from that little bottle of ill-smelling stuff.
We started on again, out across the marsh. Enough light had come to show us the gray-green level, full of mists and little glimmers of water, and dotted with low haycocks, their dull, tawny yellow showing softly in the faint dawn light.