“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.