I made a hurried examination of the tent and its surroundings, but the measurements of the night remained the same.  There were deep hollows formed in the sand, I now noticed for the first time, basin-shaped and of various depths and sizes, varying from that of a teacup to a large bowl.  The wind, no doubt, was responsible for these miniature craters, just as it was for lifting the paddle and tossing it towards the water.  The rent in the canoe was the only thing that seemed quite inexplicable; and, after all, it was conceivable that a sharp point had caught it when we landed.  The examination I made of the shore did not assist this theory, but all the same I clung to it with that diminishing portion of my intelligence which I called my “reason.”  An explanation of some kind was an absolute necessity, just as some working explanation of the universe is necessary—­however absurd—­to the happiness of every individual who seeks to do his duty in the world and face the problems of life.  The simile seemed to me at the time an exact parallel.

I at once set the pitch melting, and presently the Swede joined me at the work, though under the best conditions in the world the canoe could not be safe for traveling till the following day.  I drew his attention casually to the hollows in the sand.

“Yes,” he said, “I know.  They’re all over the island.  But you can explain them, no doubt!”

“Wind, of course,” I answered without hesitation.  “Have you never watched those little whirlwinds in the street that twist and twirl everything into a circle?  This sand’s loose enough to yield, that’s all.”

He made no reply, and we worked on in silence for a bit.  I watched him surreptitiously all the time, and I had an idea he was watching me.  He seemed, too, to be always listening attentively to something I could not hear, or perhaps for something that he expected to hear, for he kept turning about and staring into the bushes, and up into the sky, and out across the water where it was visible through the openings among the willows.  Sometimes he even put his hand to his ear and held it there for several minutes.  He said nothing to me, however, about it, and I asked no questions.  And meanwhile, as he mended that torn canoe with the skill and address of a red Indian, I was glad to notice his absorption in the work, for there was a vague dread in my heart that he would speak of the changed aspect of the willows.  And, if he had noticed that, my imagination could no longer be held a sufficient explanation of it.

At length, after a long pause, he began to talk.

“Queer thing,” he added in a hurried sort of voice, as though he wanted to say something and get it over.  “Queer thing, I mean, about that otter last night.”

I had expected something so totally different that he caught me with surprise, and I looked up sharply.

“Shows how lonely this place is.  Otters are awfully shy things—­”