They are all on a deserted island which, from the stunted shrubs and bleak outlook, is probably in the neighbourhood of Tristan da Cunha. McVittie and Price are pretending to be tremendously brave and contented over a meal of roasted berries.
“These are really delicious,” says McVittie.
“Capital,” says Price. “Have some more.”
“No thanks. My doctor, you know. He won’t let me enjoy myself.”
“A glass of this delicious rock-water, then. Most stimulating.”
“No, my dear fellow. I’ve done magnificently. Not another sup.”
But it is really only pretend. The brave fellows are concealing their anxiety for fear of alarming Emily Jane and her mother who are resting in the bivouac near by. Actually they are full of apprehension.
“Price,” says McVittie at last, leaning forward mysteriously.
“McVittie?” He leans forward too; their long noses almost touch.
“I’m uneasy.” A hoarse whisper.