“And I wonder if the mosquitoes will allow me to take a short siesta,” murmured Dave. “This is certainly a capital place to study insects at first hand, eh, fellows? Really, since seeing so many of varied kinds, I’m becoming interested in the creatures.”
“And I know that a good many of varied kinds have paid such keen attention to my face and hands that they must have been greatly interested in me,” chuckled Sam. “Gracious—I can’t keep my eyes from blinking!”
“Lazy thing,” drawled Don, in muffled tones.
Under the influence of the heat, the soft lulling notes of the running water, and fatigue, due to several hours in the saddle, the three lads were soon in a pleasantly somnolent state which made the things about them assume a curiously vague and unreal appearance. Probably but for the mosquitoes and the occasional visitation of other six-legged creatures, all would have quickly dropped off into a deep slumber, though, as it was, none lost consciousness for more than a few minutes at a time.
It was the usually active and alert Sam Randall who finally became aware of the fact that a series of sounds in the underbrush might mean something worth investigating.
“Hello! What’s that?” he murmured.
Sitting up the lad listened attentively, while his companions, their faces partly covered with handkerchiefs, lay drowsily regarding him.
“It’s mighty queer,” mused the Rambler. “Some wild inhabitants of the woods are evidently bound in this direction—the sounds are growing louder,—Dave—I say, Dave!” he reached over and touched the stout lad’s shoulder. “Wake up.”
“Lemme be,” protested the historian.
“If I do, something else may not,” returned Sam, rather grimly. “Visitors are on the way—don’t you hear them coming?”