“Oh, forget it!” said Phil. “Whoever heard of a calculating, sober-minded, creepy bug coming out on a night like this and scaring you away before you’re right settled down. Bugs have more sense than that, Jim.”
Langford curled himself up in small compass, covered his head over with the blankets and dozed off again.
Phil rose, took his twenty-two rifle from his pack and set it alongside the bed. He put a light to the lamp, got into bed again and turned the light down to a peep. He lay quietly watching the hole in the corner of the roof over by the foot of the bed.
The lamplight reflected suddenly from two tiny beads at the edge of the hole. Phil reached cautiously for his rifle, raised it, aimed carefully and fired. Something fell on the floor with a thud.
Jim sprang up in alarm.
“Good heavens, man!––what’s up?” he cried.
“Oh, go to sleep!” answered Phil. “I’ve just shot one of your bugs.”
“Shoot away then,” retorted Jim, “but please remember they’re not my bugs.”
In a few minutes more, Phil shot again, and another victim thumped to the floor. Half a dozen times this happened at intervals, until Jim––unable to get any sleep––grew faintly interested in the sport and volunteered to take a turn while Phil crept under the blankets for warmth.
It was only when morning began to dawn that the two got down to an honest hour’s slumber.