CHAPTER VII.
AN ENEMY IN THE CAMP.
The three tired boys went to sleep easily enough, and the snoring insidetheir hut gave fair promise of a late waking the next day. But beforelong Jack became restless in his sleep, and began to toss about a gooddeal. Charley seemed to catch his restlessness, and presently he sat upin the bunk and began to slap himself. This thoroughly aroused him, andas Jack and Ned were tossing about uneasily he had no scruple inspeaking to them.
"I say, fellows, we're attacked."
"What's the matter?" muttered Ned, at the same time beginning to rubhimself vigorously, first on one part of the body, then on another.
"Mosquitoes," said Jack, violently rubbing his scalp.
"Worse than mosquitoes," said Charley; "they feel more like yellowjackets or hornets, I should say; and they're inside our clothes too."
"Whew!" exclaimed Ned, leaping out of the bunk, "I didn't think ofthat."
"What is it?" asked both the other boys in a breath.
"A swarm of sand-flies."
"Sand-flies! what are they?" asked Jack.
"Wait, and I'll show you," replied Ned, going out and stirring up thefire so as to make a light. Meantime the boys rubbed and writhed andturned themselves about in something like agony, for, though theysuffered no severe pain at any one spot, their whole bodies seemed to becovered with red pepper. Every inch of their skins was inflamed, and themore they rubbed the worse the irritation became.
When Ned had made a bright light, he showed his companions what theirtormentors were. Jack and Charley saw some very minute flyinginsects--true flies indeed--not much larger than the points of pins.There were millions of the creatures. The whole air seemed full of themindeed, and wherever one rested for a moment upon the skin of itsvictim, there was at once a pricking sensation, followed by theintolerable burning and irritation already mentioned.
Charley was at first incredulous. "You don't mean to tell me," he said,"that those little gnats have done all this."
"Yes, I do," answered Ned, "and more than that, I have known them tokill a horse, tormenting him to death in a few hours. They'll get undera horse's hair by millions and literally cover him, until you can seethe hair move with them. But they are not gnats."
"But, see here, Ned," said Jack; "when I barely touch one of thecreatures, it not only kills him but distributes him pretty evenly overthe surrounding surface. They haven't strength enough to hang together."
"Yes, I know," replied Ned; "what of that?"
"Why, how can such things bite so? and especially how can they forcetheir way through our blankets and clothes? I should think they'd tearthemselves to pieces in the attempt."
"So should I, if I didn't know better; but as a matter of fact they domanage to get through without dulling their teeth, as we have proof."
"Have the creatures teeth?" asked Charley.
"No, of course not; but they have a sort of rasping apparatus which isjust as bad. They have an acrid kind of saliva too, which they put intothe wounds they make, and that is what smarts so. But come, this won'tdo. We must make a good smudge."
"What's a smudge?" asked Jack.
"I'll show you presently," answered Ned, while he began to build a smallfire immediately in front of the tent. When it had burned a little, hesmothered it with damp leaves and moss, so that it gave off a densecloud of smoke which quickly filled the hut.
"Now the tent will soon be clear of them," said Ned.
"Sand-flies object to smoke, I suppose," said Jack.
"Very much indeed," answered Ned, "and it is customary here on the coastto have a pair of smudge boxes in front of every house."
"I don't blame them for objecting," grumbled Charley, coughing andwiping his smoke-inflamed eyes; "I can't say that I find smoke the mostdelightful atmosphere myself. But what is a 'smudge box,' Ned?"
"Simply a shallow box of earth set upon a post, to build a smudge upon."
"I say, Ned," asked Jack, "what do you mean by saying that sand-fliesaren't gnats?"
"Simply that they aren't," said Ned.
"What are they, then?"
"Flies."
"Well, what is a small fly but a gnat?"
"And what is a gnat but a small fly?" added Charley.
"The two are not at all the same thing," answered Ned. "That is apopular mistake. I have heard people say they could stand mosquitoes,but couldn't endure gnats; and yet the mosquito is a gnat, and whatthese people call gnats are not gnats at all, but simply small flies."
"What constitutes the exact difference?"
"The shape of the body. All flies are two-winged insects, and gnats areflies in that sense, of course; but gnats are those flies that have longbodies behind their wings, to balance themselves with. Mosquitoes areour best example of them. These sand flies, you see, have very shortbodies."
"Yes, but very long bills, I fancy," said Charley.
"Well," said Jack, "all that is news to me."
"I suppose it is. Most people think a whale is a fish, too, but for allthat it is nothing of the kind. What are you doing, Charley?"
"Tossing up heads or tails for it," answered Charley, who had left thetent and gone to the large fire.
"Tossing up for what?"
"To determine the method and manner of my death," answered Charley, withprofound gravity. "If I stay in the hut I shall die of suffocation inthe smoke, and if I stay out here the sand flies will kill me. I can'tquite make up my mind which death I prefer, so I'm tossing up for it."
"Good! there's a breeze," said Ned; "if it rises it'll relieve you ofthe necessity of choosing."
"How? By blowing the smoke away, and so giving the sand flies a fairfield?"
"No; by blowing the sand flies away; they can't stand much of a breeze.It is coming up, too, and we shall get some sleep after all."
The breeze did indeed rise after a time, but the dawn was almost uponthem before the boys really slept again, so severely were their skinsirritated by their small enemies.
They had learned a lesson, however, and during the rest of their stay onthe island they never neglected to make a smudge in front of the hutbefore attempting to sleep. It was not often that the sand fliesappeared in such numbers as on this night, and hence it was not oftennecessary to fill the tent too full of smoke for comfort.
The Wreck of the Red Bird: A Story of the Carolina Coast Page 8