“Diamon’s,” gloomed the Nigger.

“You’ve hit it, Doctor,” cut in Solomon.

There we were again, back to the old difficulty, only worse.  Idleness descended on us again.  We grew touchy on little things, as a misplaced plate, a shortage of firewood, too deep a draught at the nearly empty bucket.  The noise of bickering became as constant as the noise of the surf.  If we valued peace, we kept our mouths shut.  The way a man spat, or ate, or slept, or even breathed became a cause of irritation to every other member of the company.  We stood the outrage as long as we could; then we objected in a wild and ridiculous explosion which communicated its heat to the object of our wrath.  Then there was a fight.  It needed only liquor to complete the deplorable state of affairs.

Gradually the smaller things came to worry us more and more.  A certain harmless singer of the cricket or perhaps of the tree-toad variety used to chirp his innocent note a short distance from our cabin.  For all I know he had done so from the moment of our installation, but I had never noticed him before.  Now I caught myself listening for his irregular recurrence with every nerve on the quiver.  If he delayed by ever so little, it was an agony; yet when he did pipe up, his feeble strain struck to my heart cold and paralysing like a dagger.  And with every advancing minute of the night I became broader awake, more tense, fairly sweating with nervousness.  One night—­good God, was it only last week? ... it seems ages ago, another existence ... a state cut off from this by the wonder of a transmigration, at least ...  Last week!

I did not sleep at all.  The moon had risen, had mounted the heavens, and now was sailing overhead.  By the fretwork of its radiance through the chinks of our rudely-built cabin I had marked off the hours.  A thunderstorm rumbled and flashed, hull down over the horizon.  It was many miles distant, and yet I do not doubt that its electrical influence had dried the moisture of our equanimity, leaving us rattling husks for the winds of destiny to play upon.  Certainly I can remember no other time, in a rather wide experience, when I have felt myself more on edge, more choked with the restless, purposeless nervous energy that leaves a man’s tongue parched and his eyes staring.  And still that infernal cricket, or whatever it was, chirped.

I had thought myself alone in my vigil, but when finally I could stand it no longer, and kicked aside my covering with an oath of protest, I was surprised to hear it echoed from all about me.

“Damn that cricket!” I cried.

And the dead shadows stirred from the bunks, and the hollow-eyed victims of insomnia crept out to curse their tormentor.  We organised an expedition to hunt him down.  It was ridiculous enough, six strong men prowling for the life of one poor little insect.  We did not find him, however, though we succeeded in silencing him.  But no sooner were we back in our bunks than he began it again, and such was the turmoil of our nerves that day found us sitting wan about a fire, hugging our knees.