He went off, and we heard his knife hacking away again, and the rustling of the boughs, as he laid them neatly together in the big, pine natural tent that was to be our home that night.
“Well,” said Gunson, “what do you think of real camping out?”
“Lovely,” said Esau. “Oh! I say!”
“What’s the matter?” I said. “Gnat sort of thing bit me on the side of the neck. Why, if there ain’t another.”
He gave his face a sharp smack, and I was engaged too, and directly after Gunson was smacking his hands and legs, for a cloud of mosquitoes had found us out, and were increasing in number every moment.
“This is intolerable,” cried Gunson. “Old friends. Haven’t been bitten for years. We shall have to shift our quarters.”
Just then the Chinaman came up, and took in the situation at a glance.
“Skittum,” he said, sharply. “I mudjums.”
Running to the fire, he took hold of the end of a branch, drew it out, gave it a wave to put out the flame, and then held it smoking low down by us on the side where the wind blew, with the result that a thick cloud of aromatic vapour was wafted by us, stinging our eyes a little, but making the vicious little insects turn their attention to the Indians, who started a burning branch as well, after which we could hear our enemies making their sharp, threatening hum all about us, but they rarely ventured to attack us through the smoke.
“I say,” cried Esau, “I hope there ain’t many of these things about. My! how the bites itch.”