“In short, you are not in, but out,” cried Polly, in a burst of laughter; for Bell had leaned too far to the right, and on bringing the other foot in, with its “swift but admirably steady” motion, she gave a sudden lurch, pulled the hammock entirely over herself and fell out head first on the other side, leaving her feet tangled in its meshes. “Shall we help her out, Meg? She doesn’t deserve it, after that pompous oration and attempt to show off her superior abilities. Nevertheless, she always accepts mercy more gracefully than justice. Heave ahoy, my hearties!”
Bell was extricated, and looked sufficiently ashamed.
“We are much obliged for the lesson,” said Margery, “but the method is open to criticism; so I think we’ll manage in our ordinary savage way. We may not be graceful or scientific, but we get in, which is the main point.”
The hammocks did not prove the easiest of nests, as the girls had imagined. In fact, to be perfectly candid about the matter, the wicked flea of California, which man pursueth but seldom catcheth, is apt, on many a summer night, to interfere shamelessly with slumber. On this particular night he was fairly rampant, perhaps because sweet humanity on which to feed was very scarce in that cañon.
“Good-night, girls!” called Jack, when matters seemed to be finally settled for sleep. “Bell, you must keep one eye open, for the coyotes will be stealing down the mountain in a jiffy, and yours is the first hammock in the path.”
“Of course,” moaned Bell,—“that’s why the girls gave me this one; they knew very well that one victim always slakes the animals’ thirst for blood. Well, let them come on. I shiver with terror, but my only hope is that I may be eaten in my sleep, if at all.”
“There was a young party named Bell,
Who slept out of doors for a spell;
When asked how she fared,
She said she was scared,
But otherwise doing quite well.
“How’s that?” asked Jack. “I shall be able to drive Bell off her own field, with a little practice.”
“Go to sleep!” roared Dr. Paul. “In your present condition of mind and body you are not fit for poetry!”
“That’s just the point, sir,” retorted Jack, slyly, “for, you remember, poets are not fit, but nascitur,—don’t you know?” and he retired under his blanket for protection.