"Oh, ho, glorious views around here," broke in Dave. "Going to stay long, Havens?"
Dugan took a searching look at the poet's smiling fare, sniffed audibly, and then lapsed into silence.
"Don't know exactly," said Havens, in reply to the question. "There's plenty of small game, an' fishin' is great. A feller gets sick of the village."
"Sick of it?" echoed Sanders. "Worse'n that—eh, Dugan?"
The latter nodded.
"I can't git away often enough," he said, sourly.
"Well, fellows," asked Bob, "what do you say to climbing the hill?"
"Count me out of it," said Dave, promptly.
"Oh, you won't find it hard," exclaimed Havens, reassuringly.
"I feel uncommonly sleepy," declared the poet, and he ambled leisurely toward a mossy bank.