They swarmed everywhere--under the stove, about the beds, in the lockers, between the sofa cushions, amongst the moss round the walls, and inside the boots and mittens (when empty) of the men.

And they became so accustomed to having missiles thrown at them, that they acquired to perfection that art which Buzzby described as "keeping one's weather-eye open." You couldn't hit one if you tried.

If your hand moved towards an object with which you intended to deal swift destruction, the intruder paused, and turned his sharp eyes towards you, as if to say, "What! going to try it again ?--come, then, here's a chance for you." But when you threw, at best you could only hit the empty space it had occupied the moment before.

Or, if you seized a stick, and rushed at the enemy in wrath, it grinned fiercely, showed its long white teeth, and then vanished with a fling of its tail that could be construed into nothing but an expression of contempt.
At last an expedient was hit upon for destroying these disagreeable inmates.

Small bows and arrows were made, the latter having heavy, blunt heads, and with these the men slaughtered hundreds.