"Listen, you. Listen by the door again." They talked in whispers. Nothing; there was nothing to be heard. They crept back to the fire, and stood there warming themselves, keeping their eyes on the latch. It did not move. After a while Cooney slipped off to his hammock; Faed to his bunk, alongside Lashman's. The Gaffer had picked up his book again. The Snipe laid a couple of logs on the blaze, and remained beside it, cowering, with his arms stretched out as if to embrace it. His shapeless shadow wavered up and down on the bunks behind him; and, across the fire, he still stared at the latch. Suddenly the sick man's voice quavered out-- "It's not him they want--it's Bill! They're after Bill, out there! That was Bill trying to get in. . . . Why didn't yer open? It was Bill, I tell yer!" At the first word the Snipe had wheeled right-about-face, and stood now, pointing, and shaking like a man with ague. "Matey . . . for the love of God . . ." "I won't hush. There's something wrong here to-night. I can't sleep. It's Bill, I tell yer. See his poor hammock up there shaking. . . ." Cooney tumbled out with an oath and a thud. "Hush it, you white-livered swine! Hush it, or by--" His hand went behind him to his knife-sheath. "Dan Cooney"--the Gaffer closed his book and leaned out--"go back to your bed." "I won't, Sir. Not unless--" "Go back." "Flesh and blood--" "Go back." And for the third time that night Cooney went back. The Gaffer leaned a little farther over the ledge, and addressed the sick man. "George, I went to Bill's grave not six hours agone. The snow on it wasn't even disturbed. Neither beast nor man, but only God, can break up the hard earth he lies under. I tell you that, and you may lay to it. Now go to sleep."