But the poor victim found it difficult to lie awake and suffer without
occupation of any kind; he therefore arose and cut from a neighbouring
hedge a light reed which was long enough to reach from his own hammock
to that of his friend. With the delicate end of this, while reclining
at his ease, he gently tickled Rais Ali's nose.

After making several sleepy efforts to kill the supposed insect that
troubled him, and giving vent to three or four violent sneezes, the
interpreter awoke, and, growling something in Arabic, opened his eyes,
which act enabled him to observe that his neighbour was awake and
smiling at him.

"Ha! yous not be for sleep, hey? Mos' troubelzum brutes dem muskitoes."

"Och! it's little I mind 'em," said Flaggan.

"W'y you no for sleep, den?" demanded Rais.

"'Cos I likes to meditate, young man, specially w'en I've got sitch a
splendid subjic' of contemplation before me as a slumberin' Moor! Won't
ye go in for a little moor slumberin', eh?"

Rais turned his back on his friend with an indignant growl. He was
evidently indisposed for jesting.

In a few seconds, being indifferent to real mosquitoes, the Moor was
again sound asleep. It was soon clear, however, that he was not
indifferent to Ted's artificial insect. Being unable now to reach his
nose, the restless son of Erin thrust the feathery point of the reed
into his friend's ear. The result was that Rais Ali gave himself a
sounding slap on the side of the head, to Ted's inexpressible delight.
When Rais indicated that he was "off" again, he received another touch,
which resulted in a second slap and a savage growl, as the unfortunate
man sat up and yawned.

"They seems wuss than ornar," said Flaggan gravely.

"Wuss? I nebber know'd noting wusser," replied Rais, with a look of
sleepy exasperation. "Beats ebberyting. Been five-an'-twenty 'eer in
de kontry, an' _nebber_ seed de like."

"_Seed_ the like!" echoed the seaman. "Did ye saw 'em when ye was
aslape?"

"Feel um, then," replied the other sulkily; "yoos too purtikler."

"Suppose we goes an' has a whiff?" suggested Flaggan, leaping to the
ground. "It's a fine night entirely, tho' a dark 'un. Come, I'll trate
ye to a taste o' me cavendish, which is better than growlin' in yer
hammock at the muskaities, poor things, as don't know no better."

Feeling that the advice was good, or perhaps tempted by the offer of a
"taste" of his friend's peculiarly good tobacco, the interpr