awled out of bed and was kneeling there? Decidedly
there were five kneeling. No: there was George, plain enough, in his
berth, and not able to move. Then who was the stranger? Wrong again:
there was no stranger. He knew all these men--they were his mates.
Was it--Bill? No, Bill was dead and buried: none of these was Bill, or
like Bill. Try again--One, two, three, four, five--and us two sick men,
seven. The Gaffer, David Faed, Dan Cooney--have I counted Dan twice?
No, that's Dan, yonder to the right, and only one of him. Five men
kneeling, and two on their backs: that makes seven every time. Dear
God--suppose--"

The Gaffer ceased, and in the act of rising from his knees, caught sight
of Long Ede's face. While the others fetched their breakfast-cans, he
stepped over, and bent and whispered--

"Tell me. Ye've seen what?"

"Seen?" Long Ede echoed.

"Ay, seen what? Speak low--was it the sun?"

"The s--" But this time the echo died on his lips, and his face grew
full of awe uncomprehending. It frightened the Gaffer.

"Ye'll be the better of a snatch of sleep," said he; and was turning to
go, when Long Ede stirred a hand under the edge of his rugs.

"Seven . . . count . . ." he whispered.

"Lord have mercy upon us!" the Gaffer muttered to his beard as he moved
away. "Long Ede; gone crazed!"

And yet, though an hour or two ago this had been the worst that could
befall, the Gaffer felt unusually cheerful. As for the others, they
were like different men, all that day and through the three days that
followed. Even Lashman ceased to complain, and, unless their eyes
played them a trick, had taken a turn for the better. "I declare, if I
don't feel like pitching to sing!" the Snipe announced on the second
evening, as much to his own wonder as to theirs. "Then why in thunder
don't you strike up?" answered Dan Cooney, and fetched his concertina.
The Snipe struck up, then and there--"Villikins and his Dinah"!
What is more, the Gaffer looked up from his "Paradise Lost," and joined
in the chorus.

By the end of the second day, Long Ede was up and active again. He went
about with a dazed look in his eyes. He was counting, counting to
himself, always counting. The Gaffer watched him furtively.

Since his recovery, though his lips moved frequently, Long Ede had
scarcely uttered a word. But towards noon on the fourth day he said an
extraordinary thing.

"There's that sleeping-bag I took with me the other