"I just said you had to make it stay up in the air. Then when the
mosquitos get tired of staying up in the ambient atmosphere,
they'll come crawling down the rope and fall off where you cut it."

"I guess your dome needs repacking all right!" laughed Tommy.

"And then, when they come to the place where the rope has been cut
off, they'll take a tumble for themselves, and you stand under the
line and beat their heads off with an axe."

"Poor child!" laughed Tommy.

"If you leave it to me," George declared with a grin, "that story
about how to kill mosquitos came out of Noah's ark on crutches."

The sun was setting over the great wilderness to the west, and the
boys hastened to pile more wood on the fire. The forest was alive
with the cries of birds, and the undergrowth showed curious eyes
peering out at the intruders.

"This beats little old Chicago," cried George, bringing out a great
skillet of ham. "When we live in the city, we've got to eat in the
house and smell dishwater. When you live out doors, you've got a
dining room about a thousand miles square."

"And when you live in Chicago," Tommy continued, "you can't get
fresh fish right out of the brooks. When you want a fish here, all
you've got to do is to run out to the river, grab one in your arms,
and bring him in!"