CHAPTER XII.
HANTS.
“Help! Help!” The call was followed by a blood-curdling shriek that drowned the noise of tree frogs and whip-poor-wills.
Douglas and Nan both awoke with a start and Helen stirred in her sleep. Lewis, over at the men’s tent, made a mental note that he must go out with a gun early in the morning and try to shoot that screech owl. Bill, whose passion next to soldiering was base ball, muttered an unintelligible something about: “Ball two! Strike one! Rotten umpire!”
Oscar heard it, and remembering the terrible tales Josh had been telling, drew his blanket up close over his wool. “Walls don’t keep hants out no better’n canvas, but all the same I’d like to know they was somethin’ more substantiated around this nigger than jist a dog tent. I’s gonter git some cotton to stuff in my years ’ginst anudder night,” he said to himself.
“Help! Help!” again rang out. “The debble is got me! Gawd in Hebben help me!”
“Susan!” gasped the three older girls. They were out of their cots and into kimonos by the help of a flash light Helen had under her pillow, before the call came again. The three-quarter moon had set but the stars gave light enough for them to see the two young men in full tilt, coming to their assistance, rifles in hand and striped bath gowns flapping around bare legs.
“Help! My sweet Gawd, help!”
Miss Somerville had more fear of germs than anything else, so slept with her door wide open. Being a very thorough person in anything she undertook whether it was solitaire, knitting scarves, chaperoning or sleeping, Miss Somerville was now sleeping with all her might. She had pitched her—what would be called a snore in a plebeian person, but we will call it her breathing,—she had pitched her breathing in harmony with the tree frogs and katydids and was now hitting off a very pretty tune.