fancied that he heard stealthy footsteps on the beach, and low, guttural
voices calling among the palms. Twice he aroused his friends and twice
they sat up and reviled him.

"If you put your bony finger into my ribs again," growled Mr. Stobell,
tenderly rubbing the afflicted part, "you and me won't talk alike. Like
a bar of iron it was."

"I thought I heard something," said Mr. Chalk. "I should have fired,
only I was afraid of scaring you."

"_Fired?_" repeated Mr. Stobell, thoughtfully. "_Fired?_ Was it the
barrel of that infernal pistol you shoved into my ribs just now?"

"I just touched you with it," admitted the other. "I'm sorry if I hurt
you."

Mr. Stobell, feeling in his pocket, struck a match and held it up.
"Full cock," he said, in a broken voice; "and he stirred me up with it.
And then _he_ talks of savages!"

He struck another match and lit the candle, and then, before Mr. Chalk
could guess his intentions, pressed him backwards and took the pistol
away. He raised the canvas and threw it out into the night, and then,
remembering the guns, threw them after it. This done he blew out the
candle, and in two minutes was fast asleep again.

An hour passed and Mr. Chalk, despite his fears, began to nod. Half
asleep, he lay down and drew his blanket about him, and then he sat up
suddenly wide awake as an unmistakable footstep sounded outside.