There was an awkward moment when we advanced into the firelight, and before I introduced them. A silence followed my very lame speech, in the chill of which Gerald lit a cigarette, and we took our seats, slightly beyond the main circle. Nobody made room for us, and when Katherine produced her contributions to the supper I feared at first they were going to be refused. We seemed to have dissipated the romantic atmosphere of the gathering, nor was anything said about the Dales taking a vow of secrecy, which was, nevertheless, one of the rules of the club. I could see Sam Geoghegan, a boy whom I had never liked, but who was the biggest boy there, whispering to his right-hand neighbour, and I knew he was talking about us. However, as supper progressed, the atmosphere thawed somewhat, and I began to hope things would turn out all right. Willie Breen, who had been fumbling in his pocket, now produced a small bottle filled with some bright red liquid and held it up to the light, gazing at it in silence. Suddenly, when everybody’s attention was fixed on him, his face stiffened into an expression of suppressed agony, and he gasped for breath, drawing his hand across his forehead. “What’s the matter, Billy? Stomach bad?” asked Sam. But Willie’s eyes were closed. “If I fall down,” he sighed in a whisper, “an’ a deadly pallor creeps over me, force open my teeth with a knife, and pour a single drop of this blood-red liquid down my throat――――” “How can you pour a drop?” interrupted Sam. “Unless it is too late,” said Willie, “you will see the colour slowly come back to my cheeks and suffuse them with the glow of life, until at last, when you don’t expect it, I’ll open my eyes and say, ‘Where am I?’” “_Does_ he have fits?” Katherine whispered. “No: it’s only ‘Monte Cristo,’” I told her. Katherine looked at him wonderingly, but Willie had already his mouth crammed with bread and sardines, the sardines she herself had brought. Most of the boys now lit cigarettes, which Gerald had given them. From the darkness below, the sound of the sea rose up, weird and melancholy, full of an inexpressible loneliness. The warm, ruddy light of the fire flitted across fresh young faces. A dim fragrance seemed to be blown down from the woods, and to mingle with the saltness of the sea. Sam Geoghegan said suddenly, “I’m a socialist.” This announcement fell rather flat. The beauty of the night had cast a vague spell upon the other members of the club, and they were content to be silent. “Do you mean like the chaps who were round last week with the cart?” somebody asked indifferently, after a long pause. “They gave one of the wee books they had with them to my father,” said Sam. “What is it?” asked Willie Breen. “What’s what?” “A socialist.” “It’s not an ‘it,’ it’s a man. It means that everybody ought to get the same chance. There should be no privileges nor private property nor anythin’.”