"If the moon was up, I'd like to go skating," added Hackett, boastfully, "and I wouldn't sleep all day to-morrow, either."
"I know what you mean," said Dave, with a good-natured grin, "and I suppose I ought to feel pretty badly about it."
"I advise you to stop writing poetry," continued Hackett; "then you won't need so much sleep."
"But then I don't write the kind that puts others to sleep," laughed Brandon, "and that ought to make the matter square."
"In that case, you are forgiven," exclaimed Sam Randall.
"How is Nat Wingate, 'Hatchet'?" asked Bob Somers, at this juncture.
"The doctor says he will have to keep out in the open air as much as possible," replied Hackett. "His lungs seem to be a little weak. Nat thinks of going to some lumber camp—and, by jingo—"
"What's the matter?"
"An idea just struck me," answered Hackett, "and a fine one, too."
"Let's hear it."