“I feel like a white slaver,” said Pete.  He was unshaven and the black shadow of his beard contrasted sharply with the white set look in his face.  “It’s hell to live, isn’t it?  But the worst of it is, we must live.”

“Time’s up.”  Frank breathed these words on the long gust of his outgoing breath.  “Now, don’t go to pieces.  Remember, it must be done.”

One behind the other, they crawled through the narrow tunnel that they had cut into the underbrush — found the trail.

“Let’s swim across the lake,” Honey suggested; “I’m losing my nerve.”

“Good idea,” Billy said.  They plunged into the water.  Fifteen minutes later, they emerged on the other side, cool, composed, ready for anything.

The long trip back to the camp was taken almost in silence.  Once in a while, a mechanical “That’s a new bird, isn’t it?” came from Billy and, a perfunctory “Look at that color,” from Pete.  Frank walked ahead.  He towered above the others.  He kept his eyes to the front.  Ralph followed.  At intervals, he pulled himself up and peered into the sky or dropped and tried to pierce the untranslatable distance; all this with the quiet, furtive, prowling movements of some predatory beast.  Next came Honey, whistling under his breath and all the time whistling the same tune.  Billy and Pete, walking side by side, tailed the procession.  At times, those two caught themselves at the beginning of shuddering fits, but always by a supreme effort they managed to calm themselves.

They came finally to the point where the jungle-trail joined the sand-trail.

“There isn’t one in sight,” said Frank.

“They may have flown home,” Honey said doubtfully.

“They’re in the Clubhouse,” said Ralph.  And he burst suddenly into a
long, wild cry of triumph.  The cry was taken up in a faint shrill echo. 
 From the distance came shrieks — women’s voices — smothered.

“By God, we’ve got them,” said Frank again.

And then a strange thing happened.  Pete Murphy crooked his elbow up to his face and burst into hysterical weeping.

All this time, the men were moving swiftly towards the Clubhouse.  As they approached, the sound inside grew in volume from a hum of terrified whisperings accented by drumming wings, to a pandemonium of cries and sobs and wails.

“They’ll make a rush when we open the door, remember,” Ralph reminded them.  His eyes gleamed like a cat’s.

“Yes, but we can handle them,” said Frank.  “There isn’t much nerve left in them by this time.”

“I say, boys, I can’t stand this,” burst out Billy.  “Open the door and let them out.”

Billy’s words brought murmured echoes of approval from Pete and Honey.

“You’ve got to stand it,” Frank said in a tone of command.  He surveyed his mutinous crew with a stern look of authority.

“I can’t do it,” Honey admitted.

“I feel sick,” Pete groaned.