"It's just possible, though," temporised a more law-abiding member, "that if no one owns up they'll punish everybody--I mean everybody who's under the screen now." "Ah!" observed Day, "in that case something would have to be done about it." The evening wore on, and the invalids retired to their hammocks. Windsails, having concluded the few simple preliminaries to which he was accustomed, turned into his. "Fuggy beast!" whispered one of the watchful partners of this unholy alliance. "He doesn't even take his socks off!" One by one the law-abiding occupants of the hammocks dropped off to sleep; but, as the sound of their even breathing swelled and the minutes passed, the wakefulness of the conspirators increased. Would Windsails ever start snoring? What was Day doing? Did it hurt much to be cut down? Supposing he died ... broke his neck? Then, faint at first, gathering volume and strength every moment, began the rumbling, stertorous eruption of sound that proclaimed the reception of Windsails into the arms of Morpheus. If he died, would it be murder? ... Accessories before the fact.... Of course, as long as one kept one's eyes tightly shut.... What was Day doing? Why didn't he get it over? Keeping everyone on tenterhooks---- There was a soft, almost noiseless chuckle. That was Day. Of course the situation would appeal to him; he knew no one dared open his eyes. Crash! Then utter silence. Ten throbbing seconds passed--twenty. Still no sound. He must be dead!--no need to pretend any longer. Half a dozen heads emerged from blankets--craned; jaws dropped, hearts beat suffocatingly. But the huddled figure on the deck made no movement; it remained in the light of the police-lantern a confused heap of blankets and muffled humanity that presently emitted a groan--and then another. No one dared move; blanched faces stared down over the edges of the canvas hammocks; visions of disgrace, expulsion--worse, the felon's dock and hangman's noose, came clustering out of the shadows. And then Day snored. It was not a loud snore; nothing overdone or inartistic. Just the heavy, regular breathing of an innocent and tired boy asleep. That fellow had nerves of steel! Endurance, pent in frailer vessels, had just reached its limits when the huddled figure on the deck stirred, rolled out of its blankets, and, with another groan, rose to his feet. Day's solitary breathing became a chorus of snores, impassioned in their realism. Windsails stood motionless, contemplating a massive bollard adjoining the ruins of his bed. "That's what winded me," he said with the air of one who had solved a problem of some complexity. He must have come in contact with it as he fell. Then, slowly and deliberately he bent down, picked up the severed hammock lanyard and scrutinised it in the lantern light. In silence he made the end fast to the beam again, readjusted his blankets, and climbed ponderously into the hammock.