And it was here, under this angry dawn, as we stood in the shelter of the stockade from the pouring rain, weary yet so strangely excited—­it was here, out of this confusion of voices and explanations, that—­very stealthily—­the ghost of something horrible slipped in and stood among us.  It made all our explanations seem childish and untrue; the false relation was instantly exposed.  Eyes exchanged quick, anxious glances, questioning, expressive of dismay.  There was a sense of wonder, of poignant distress, and of trepidation.  Alarm stood waiting at our elbows.  We shivered.

Then, suddenly, as we looked into each other’s faces, came the long, unwelcome pause in which this new arrival established itself in our hearts.

And, without further speech, or attempt at explanation, Maloney moved off abruptly to mix the porridge for an early breakfast; Sangree to clean the fish; myself to chop wood and tend the fire; Joan and her mother to change their wet garments; and, most significant of all, to prepare her mother’s tent for its future complement of two.

Each went to his duty, but hurriedly, awkwardly, silently; and this new arrival, this shape of terror and distress stalked, viewless, by the side of each.

“If only I could have traced that dog,” I think was the thought in the minds of all.

But in Camp, where every one realises how important the individual contribution is to the comfort and well-being of all, the mind speedily recovers tone and pulls itself together.

During the day, a day of heavy and ceaseless rain, we kept more or less to our tents, and though there were signs of mysterious conferences between the three members of the Maloney family, I think that most of us slept a good deal and stayed alone with his thoughts.  Certainly, I did, because when Maloney came to say that his wife invited us all to a special “tea” in her tent, he had to shake me awake before I realised that he was there at all.

And by supper-time we were more or less even-minded again, and almost jolly.  I only noticed that there was an undercurrent of what is best described as “jumpiness,” and that the merest snapping of a twig, or plop of a fish in the lagoon, was sufficient to make us start and look over our shoulders.  Pauses were rare in our talk, and the fire was never for one instant allowed to get low.  The wind and rain had ceased, but the dripping of the branches still kept up an excellent imitation of a downpour.  In particular, Maloney was vigilant and alert, telling us a series of tales in which the wholesome humorous element was especially strong.  He lingered, too, behind with me after Sangree had gone to bed, and while I mixed myself a glass of hot Swedish punch, he did a thing I had never known him do before—­he mixed one for himself, and then asked me to light him over to his tent.  We said nothing on the way, but I felt that he was glad of my companionship.