A giant, as large as a soft-shell crab, seemed to be meditating an assault upon Jones's ear.
Another, grizzled and shiny with age or moonbeams I could not tell which--pushed long, tentative feelers into Wallace's cap.

I saw black spots darting over the roof.

It was not a dream; the cave was alive with tarantulas! Not improbably my strong impression that the spider on my knee deliberately winked at me was the result of memory, enlivening imagination.

But it sufficed to bring to mind, in one rapid, consoling flash, the irrevocable law of destiny--that the deeds of the wicked return unto them again.
I slipped back into my sleeping-bag, with a keen consciousness of its nature, and carefully pulled the flap in place, which almost hermetically sealed me up.
"Hey! Jones! Wallace! Frank! Jim!" I yelled, from the depths of my safe refuge.
Wondering cries gave me glad assurance that they had awakened from their dreams.
"The cave's alive with tarantulas!" I cried, trying to hide my unholy glee.
"I'll be durned if it ain't!" ejaculated Frank.
"Shore it beats hell!" added Jim, with a shake of his blanket.
"Look out, Jones, there's one on your pillow!" shouted Wallace.
Whack! A sharp blow proclaimed the opening of hostilities.
Memory stamped indelibly every word of that incident; but innate delicacy prevents the repetition of all save the old warrior's concluding remarks: "! ! ! place I was ever in! Tarantulas by the million--centipedes, scorpions, bats! Rattlesnakes, too, I'll swear.
Look out, Wallace! there, under your blanket!" From the shuffling sounds which wafted sweetly into my bed, I gathered that my long friend from California must have gone through motions creditable to a contortionist.

An ensuing explosion from Jones proclaimed to the listening world that Wallace had thrown a tarantula upon him.