“I wish you had,” Roy agreed. “I’d borrow some. I wonder why mosquitoes always go for a fellow’s ankles.”
“They go for the biggest things they see,” explained Chub, “which, of course, are your feet. As they can’t bite through leather they tackle your ankles. They never trouble my ankles.”
“No, I suppose they go for your cheek,” retorted Roy. “What are you rubbing your ankles together for, if they don’t bite them?”
“Er—one of my feet is asleep.”
“So am I—almost,” said Dick, drowsily. “What time is it?”
“About half past eight,” said Roy. “What time do we have breakfast?”
“At eight, sharp,” answered Dick, yawning.
“That means getting up at seven,” murmured Chub. “Then I must go to bed at once or I shan’t have half enough sleep.”
“Being on the river certainly does make a fellow sleepy,” laughed Roy. “I suppose we’ll get used to it after a day or two, though.”
“Like the mosquitoes,” said Dick. “I wish I could believe that tale of Chub’s; it would help me to bear my present troubles with more—more—”