Cutting and Whatmough were forced to
climb on to the shelf and the brazier was pushed out of the room. One by
one we rolled up in our rugs, made pillows out of a pair of boots or a
cocoa tin, cursed each other for taking up so much space, and at last
all were jammed together like sardines. It was like the family in the
drawing: If father says turn, we all turn.
We did not rest well. Thirteen people in a room which would comfortably
hold three was a little too close packing. There was a lot of grumbling
coming from one corner, and after a while a light was struck.
"Good lord," said somebody, "my pillow's crawling!"
Bugs were cascading down the walls. Stajitch jumped to his feet, and
began stamping hard. "Rivers of them," he yelled.
Cutting and Whatmough were groaning about the heat, so we opened the
door. Immediately all the dogs of the village, half wolves, hurled
themselves at the lighted space. Stajitch slammed it just in time; had
they burst in, lying down as we were, we should have been unable to
protect ourselves.
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