Johnny might be supposed to have been deliberating listlessly
as to whether he'd camp out on account of the heat, or turn in.
But he broke the silence with a clout at a mosquito on the nape of his neck,
and a bad word.

"I wish you wouldn't swear so much, Johnny," she said wearily --
"at least not to-night."

He looked at her blankly.

"Why -- why to-night? What's the matter with you to-night, Mary?
What's to-night more than any other night to you? I see no harm --
can't a man swear when a mosquito sticks him?"

"I -- I was only thinking of the boys, Johnny."

"The boys! Why, they're both on the hay in the shed." He stared
at her again, shifted uneasily, crossed the other leg tightly, frowned,
blinked, and reached for the matches. "You look a bit off-colour, Mary.
It's the heat that makes us all a bit ratty at times.
Better put that by and have a swill o' oatmeal and water, and turn in."

"It's too hot to go to bed. I couldn't sleep. I'm all right.
I'll -- I'll just finish this. Just reach me a drink from the water-bag --
the pannikin's on the hob there, by your boot."

He scratched his head helplessly, and reached for the drink.
When he sat down again, he felt strangely restless. "Like a hen that
didn't know where to lay," he put it. He couldn't settle down or keep still,
and didn't seem to enjoy his pipe somehow. He rubbed his head again.