In an instant there was an angry ejaculation, one hand was set at liberty, and several blows were struck at the obnoxious fly, which, finding the place dangerous, darted off, and the artist went loudly to sleep again. The boys exchanged glances, and Josh stole out one hand, pulled a hart’s-tongue fern up by the roots, and, with admirable aim, pitched it so that it fell right on the sleeper’s chest.
The artist sat up suddenly, staring about him, while the boys crouched perfectly motionless in their hiding-place.
“What’s that?” reached their ears, and they saw the sleeper feeling about till his hand came in contact with the dry fern root.
“Why, it must have been that,” he muttered aloud, and he turned it over and over.
Josh uttered a faint sound as if he were about to burst out laughing.
“It must have come from above, somewhere. If it was those boys—” The artist looked up suspiciously as he spoke, and then, with a start, he turned himself over on his hands and knees, to begin gazing wonderingly up at the cotton blossom hanging from the tree.
“Well,” he said, “I never felt it; it must have been one of those gusts which come down from the mountain.”
Will pressed his hands tightly over Josh’s mouth, for he could feel him heaving and swaying about as if he were about to explode.
“Blows up this valley sometimes,” continued the artist, “just like a hurricane.”
“Pouf!” went Josh, for Will’s efforts were all in vain.