CHAPTER XVIII
JOE DIGBY MISSING
"Merritt! Merritt, wake up!"
The boy sleepily opened his eyes and saw bending over him the pale features of Rob, whose voice quivered with suppressed excitement as he shook the other's shoulder.
"I didn't hear reveille blow yet. What's up? Have I overslept?" murmured the young corporal.
"No, it's not six-thirty yet—barely after half past four, in fact. But young Digby—he had the night watch, you know—and was to have been relieved at three o'clock. Well, Ernest Thompson, his relief, roused out at that hour, but not a trace of Digby was to be found!"
"What!" The sleepy boy was drowsy no longer. "Digby gone?"
"Hush! We don't know yet. Don't wake any of the others. Thompson and I have skirmished around ever since it began to get light, and we have not been able to find a trace of him."
Merritt was out of his cot while his leader was still speaking, and ten minutes later, during which time the boys exchanged excited questions and answers, he was in his uniform and outside the tent.
The sun was just poking his rim above the western horizon and the chilly damp of early dawn lay over the island. The sea, as calm almost as a lake, lay sullen and gray, scarcely heaving. Behind the sleeping camp a few shreds of mist—the ghosts of the vapors of the night were arising like smoke among the dim trees. At the further end of the assemblage of tents, and beyond the smoldering fire, stood a silent figure, that of Ernest Thompson.