"I suppose it is. Most people think a whale is a fish, too, but for all that it is nothing of the kind. What are you doing, Charley?"
"Tossing up heads or tails for it," answered Charley, who had left the tent and gone to the large fire.
"Tossing up for what?"
"To determine the method and manner of my death," answered Charley, with profound gravity. "If I stay in the hut I shall die of suffocation in the smoke, and if I stay out here the sand flies will kill me. I can't quite make up my mind which death I prefer, so I'm tossing up for it."
"Good! there's a breeze," said Ned; "if it rises it'll relieve you of the necessity of choosing."
"How? By blowing the smoke away, and so giving the sand flies a fair field?"
"No; by blowing the sand flies away; they can't stand much of a breeze. It is coming up, too, and we shall get some sleep after all."
The breeze did indeed rise after a time, but the dawn was almost upon them before the boys really slept again, so severely were their skins irritated by their small enemies.
They had learned a lesson, however, and during the rest of their stay on the island they never neglected to make a smudge in front of the hut before attempting to sleep. It was not often that the sand flies appeared in such numbers as on this night, and hence it was not often necessary to fill the tent too full of smoke for comfort.