For a while the conversation turned to Ferry Hill and the fellows there, but as each of the three evinced an inclination to fall asleep in the middle of a sentence, the talk wasn’t very brilliant or interesting. Finally, Roy dropped his feet with a thud from the railing and stood up. “There,” he said, calmly. “Eh? What?” asked Chub, with a start. “They’ve completed the circuit.” “Circuit? What circuit? Who’s completed--” “The mosquitoes have completed the circuit of my ankles. They have been around both and I am now going to bed. I’ve done my duty by them.” Roy stood on one foot and rubbed busily with the other. “How nice,” murmured Chub. “Something accomplished, something done to earn a night’s repose. That’s me too. Let us go quietly and leave Dick to slumber peacefully on.” “‘The yawning youth, scarce half awake, essays His lazy limbs and dozy head to raise,’” observed Dick. “Hello! I thought you were asleep!” said Chub. “I was until some noisy brute awoke me,” complained Dick. “Where’d you get the poetry?” Roy asked. “That? I don’t just recall,” replied Dick sleepily. “I think I composed it myself. It was either I or Dryden.” They stumbled down the steps to the lower deck, Chub begging them to go softly so as not to attract the attention of the mosquitoes in the after cabin, and sought their beds. Chub had the bedroom and the others shared the living-room, Roy using a cot and Dick the window-seat. “Is everything all right for the night?” yawned Roy. “I think so,” replied Chub from across the little passage. “I don’t know just what you do on a house-boat when you go to bed.” “You lock the front door, fix the furnace, and turn down the gas in the front hall,” murmured Dick. Sleepy as they were, slumber didn’t come to them at once. It was all rather new as yet. “How’s your divan, Dickums?” asked Chub. “Fine! I like a hard bed. How’s yours?” “Great! Good-night.” “Good-night. Oh, I say!” “Well?” “Got any mosquitoes where you are?” “Have I. Plenty! Want some?” “No, thanks.” A few minutes later, “For goodness’ sake, you fellows,” called Chub, “what’s all that squeaking in there?” “It’s my bed,” answered Roy. “It squeaks every time I turn over.” “Well, don’t turn over then,” grumbled Chub. And finally, just when Dick and Roy were on the borderland of slumber, Chub’s voice floated across again. “Say, Dick!” “What?” “Did you let the cat in?” Then there was peace and silence save for the contented, humming of the mosquitoes. CHAPTER VIII DRIVEN TO COVER The next day after breakfast was over the _Slow Poke_ took up her journey again. It had been decided that the proper thing to do was to get up the river to the neighborhood of Peekskill where, according to Roy, there was fishing to be had. “Besides,” said Chub, “we want to get away from all these towns. Civilization is wearying. I pine for the virgin forest.”