In the place of the gay talk-fests that filled their evenings, they began to hold long pessimistic discussions about their future on the island in case rescue were indefinitely delayed.  Taciturn periods fell upon them.  Frank Merrill showed only a slight seriousness.  Billy Fairfax, however, wore a look permanently sobered.  Pete Murphy became subject at regular intervals to wild rhapsodical seizures when he raved, almost in impromptu verse, about the beauty of sea and sky.  These were followed by periods of an intense, bitter, black, Celtic melancholy.  Ralph Addington degenerated into what Honey described as “the human sourball.”  He spoke as seldom as possible and then only to snarl.  He showed a tendency to disobey the few orders that Frank Merrill, who still held his position of leader, laid upon them.  Once or twice he grazed a quarrel with Merrill.  Honey Smith developed an abnormality equal to Ralph Addington’s, but in the opposite direction.  His spirits never flagged; he brimmed with joy-in-life, vitality, and optimism.  It was as if he had some secret mental solace.

“Damn you and your sunny-side-up dope!” Ralph Addington growled at him again and again.  “Shut up, will you!”

One day Frank Merrill proposed a hike across the island.  Billy Fairfax who, at the head, had set a brisk pace for the file, suddenly dropped back to the rear and accosted Honey Smith who had lagged behind.  Honey was skipping stones over the lake from a pocketful of flat pebbles.

“Say, Honey,” Billy began.  The other four men were far ahead, but Billy kept his voice low.  Do you remember that dream you had about the big bird — the time we joshed you so?

“Sure do I,” Honey said cheerfully.  “Only remember one thing, Billy.  That wasn’t a dream any more than this is.”

“All right,” Billy exclaimed.  “You don’t have to show me.  A funny thing happened to me last night.  I’m not telling the others.  They won’t believe it and — well, my nerves are all on end.  I know I’d get mad if they began to jolly.  I was sleeping like the dickens — a sure-for-certain Rip Van Winkle — when all of a sudden — Did you ever have a pet cat, Honey?”

“Nope.”

“Well, I’ve had lots of them.  I like cats.  I had one once that used to wake me up at two minutes past seven every morning as regularly as two minutes past seven came — not an instant before, not an instant after.  He turned the trick by jumping up on the bed and looking steadily into my face.  Never touched me, you understand.  Well, l waked this morning just after sunrise with a feeling that Kilo was there staring at me.  Somebody was — " Billy paused.  He swallowed rapidly and wet his lips.  “But it wasn’t Kilo.”  Billy paused again.

“I’m listening, bo,” said Honey, shying another stone.

“It was a girl looking at me,” Billy said, simply as though it were something to be expected.  He paused.  Then, “Get that?  A girl!  She was bending over me — pretty close — I could almost touch her.  I can see her now as plainly as I see you.  She was blonde.  One of those pale-gold blondes with hair like honey and features cut with a chisel.  You know the type.  Some people think it’s cold.  It’s a kind of beauty that’s always appealed to me, though.”  He stopped.