We were anchored a hundred feet off land from
Pilot Cove, on the uninhabited north shore. The mosquitoes had
adventured on the deep. We lay half asleep.
"On the middle rafter," murmured the Football Man, "is one old fellow
giving signals."
"A quartette is singing drinking-songs on my nose," muttered the Glee
Club Man.
"We won't need to cook," I suggested somnolently. "We can run up and
down on deck with our mouths open and get enough for breakfast."
The fourth member opened one eye. "Boys," he breathed, "we won't be
able to go on to-morrow unless we give up having any more biscuits."
After a time some one murmured, "Why?"
"We'll have to use all the lard on the mast. They're so mad because
they can't get at us that they're biting the mast. It's already swelled
up as big as a barrel. We'll never be able to get the mainsail up. Any
of you boys got any vaseline? Perhaps a little fly-dope--"
But we snored vigorously in unison. The Indians say that when Kitch'
Manitou had created men he was dissatisfied, and so brought women into
being. At once love-making began, and then, as now, the couples sought
solitude for their exchanges of vows, their sighings to the moon, their
claspings of hands. Marriages ensued. The situation remained unchanged.
Life was one perpetual honeymoon. I suppose the novelty was fresh and
the sexes had not yet realized they would not part as abruptly as they
had been brought together. The villages were deserted, while the woods
and bushes were populous with wedded and unwedded lovers.
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