Then it was that Jerry understood Frank's strategy. The bed-clothes
began to heave; they had piled them all atop Dave as he lay on the
floor. Frank began on the chorus. A wriggling leg emerged from
beneath the comforts. Jerry joined in, his voice a villainous
imitation of Frank's discords. Another leg came to view.

They began to repeat the chorus, further off key than before. One
line was all they were suffered to torture. A catapult of boy,
bedclothes and pillows bounded from the floor and sent Frank
spinning into the bed, while Jerry barely saved himself from a spill
on the floor.

"You will yowl like a lot of bob-tailed tomcats, will yuh!" yelled
Dave, dancing up and down on one foot--he had stubbed his toe
against one of his shoes in his charge across the room.

"You will snore away like six buzz-saws on circus day, huh?" snorted
Frank, neatly catching Dave in the pit of the stomach with a pillow
caught up from the floor.

For a second it looked like a free-for-all, but Jerry had no time to
waste.

"Get your clothes on--hustle. We're going back to Lost Island."

"Suppose my mother won't let me?"

"Suppose you tell her we've got to go and get our boat? She'll let
you go all right. You just want to get back to bed, that's all
that's worrying you. Hustle, Dave. We can't lose a minute."