It had been two weeks since Jack Ryder had returned to camp. Two
interminable weeks. They were the longest, the dullest, the
dreariest, the most irritatingly undelighting weeks that he had ever
lived through.

But bitterly he resented any aspersion from the long-suffering
Thatcher upon his disposition. He wanted it distinctly understood
that he was _not_ low-spirited. Not in the least. A man wasn't in
the dumps just because he wasn't--well, garrulous. Just because he
didn't go about whistling like a steam siren or exult like a cheer
leader when some one dug up the effigy of a Hathor-cow.... Just
because he objected when the natives twanged their fool strings all
night and wailed at the moon.

The moon was full now. Round and white it went sailing blandly over
the eternal monotony of desert.... Round and white, it lighted up
the eternal sameness of life.... He had never noticed it before, but
a moon was a poignantly depressing phenomenon.

He couldn't help it. A man couldn't make himself be a comedian. It
wasn't as if he wanted to be a grump. He would have been glad to be
glad. He wanted Thatcher to make him glad. He defied him to.

He didn't enjoy this flat, insipid taste of things, this dull grind,
this feeling of sameness and dullness that made nothing seem worth
while.... A feeling that he had been marooned on a desert island,
far from all stir and throb of life.

Suppose he did dig up a Hathor-cow? Suppose he dug up Hathor