“Tommy, you’re a sybarite,” said Bob, as he climbed onto the launch.
“I don’t know what that is,” grumbled Tom as he followed, “but if it’s something that likes a decent bed I’m it.”
They kept the fire going until bedtime and watched its flames leap and writhe in the purple darkness. Then the moon came up and dimmed the firelight and showed them the Vagabond floating quietly at anchor a little way off. Tom looked toward it longingly.
“Wish I was there,” he murmured. And, after a moment, “What’s a sybilite, Dan?” he asked. Bob laughed.
“A ‘sybilite,’ Tommy,” he said, “is a person who’d rather sleep on a launch than on the ground.”
“That’s me,” sighed Tom. “I thought, though, it was a fellow who told fortunes, or something like that.”
“Oh, no,” said Dan, “that’s a gypsyite.”
“Hope you choke,” muttered Tom. “I’m going to bed, although I don’t suppose I’ll be able to sleep any.”
“Only about twelve hours,” jeered Dan.
When they awoke in the morning it was to a gray, wet world. A fine mist was falling, everything outside the improvised tent was sopping and the other side of the river was shut from view.