"I should hardly have expected to find that you were subject to silly nightmares, Desmond," observed Mr. Graham, who was beginning to shiver in the night air as he hung over the open fore-hatch.
"I don't think it was a nightmare, sir," protested Desmond. "A rat bit me."
In support of this assertion he held up a bare foot. There was blood oozing from a double puncture on the big toe.
Mr. Armitage examined the injury.
"You've knocked your toe against something, my boy," he said. "A nail perhaps. Wash your foot in lysol and fresh water and put some lint to it."
He glanced at his wristlet watch. It was half-past three.
"I don't suppose you fellows will get to sleep again," he remarked briskly; "so get dressed and have something to eat. We'll make a start and get under way as soon as possible. Come on, Graham, it's a bit draughty up there, and you look shivery. Let's get dressed."
The two Scoutmasters returned to the after-cabin.
"That lad Desmond wasn't dreaming, Graham," remarked Mr. Armitage quietly. "I didn't want to alarm him, but it was a bite right enough. We'll have to smoke that rat out as soon as it gets light enough."
Desmond's assertion was not lacking in supporting evidence. A few days previously Flemming had invested in a pair of shoes, and, having walked a good distance in them, had galled one of his heels. To relieve the sting and to soften the tough leather Flemming had rubbed Russian tallow on the heel of his stocking.