While, from their remarks about myself, I judged that I had
changed and grown wild as much as the rest of them. In this and in a hundred other little ways the change showed, ways
difficult to define in detail, but all proving--not the coarsening
effect of leading the primitive life, but, let us say, the more direct
and unvarnished methods that became prevalent. For all day long we
were in the bath of the elements--wind, water, sun--and just as the
body became insensible to cold and shed unnecessary clothing, the mind
grew straightforward and shed many of the disguises required by the
conventions of civilisation. And in each, according to temperament and character, there stirred the
life-instincts that were natural, untamed, and, in a sense--savage. III

So it came about that I stayed with our island party, putting off
my second exploring trip from day to day, and I think that this
far-fetched instinct to watch Sangree was really the cause of my
postponement. For another ten days the life of the Camp pursued its even and
delightful way, blessed by perfect summer weather, a good harvest
of fish, fine winds for sailing, and calm, starry nights. Maloney’s
selfish prayer had been favourably received. Nothing came to disturb
or perplex. There was not even the prowling of night animals to vex
the rest of Mrs. Maloney; for in previous camps it had often been her
peculiar affliction that she heard the porcupines scratching against
the canvas, or the squirrels dropping fir-cones in the early morning
with a sound of miniature thunder upon the roof of her tent. But on
this island there was not even a squirrel or a mouse. I think two toads
and a small and harmless snake were the only living creatures that had
been discovered during the whole of the first fortnight. And these two
toads in all probability were not two toads, but one toad. Then, suddenly, came the terror that changed the whole aspect of the
place--the devastating terror. It came, at first, gently, but from the very start it made me realise
the unpleasant loneliness of our situation, our remote isolation in
this wilderness of sea and rock, and how the islands in this tideless
Baltic ocean lay about us like the advance guard of a vast besieging
army. Its entry, as I say, was gentle, hardly noticeable, in fact,
to most of us: singularly undramatic it certainly was. But, then, in
actual life this is often the way the dreadful climaxes move upon us,
leaving the heart undisturbed almost to the last minute, and then
overwhelming it with a sudden rush of horror. For it was the custom at
breakfast to listen patiently while each in turn related the trivial
adventures of the night--how they slept, whether the wind shook their
tent, whether the spider on the ridge pole had moved, whether they had
heard the toad, and so forth--and on this particular morning Joan, in
the middle of a little pause, made a truly novel announcement:

“In the night I heard the howling of a dog,” she said, and then flushed
up to the roots of her hair when we burst out laughing. For the idea
of there being a dog on this forsaken island that was only able to
support a snake and two toads was distinctly ludicrous, and I remember
Maloney, half-way through his burnt porridge, capping the announcement
by declaring that he had heard a “Baltic turtle” in the lagoon, and his
wife’s expression of frantic alarm before the laughter undeceived her. But the next morning Joan repeated the story with additional and
convincing detail. “Sounds of whining and growling woke me,” she said, “and I distinctly
heard sniffing under my tent, and the scratching of paws.”

“Oh, Timothy! Can it be a porcupine?” exclaimed the Bo’sun’s Mate with
distress, forgetting that Sweden was not Canada. But the girl’s voice had sounded to me in quite another key, and
looking up I saw that her father and Sangree were staring at her hard. They, too, understood that she was in earnest, and had been struck by
the serious note in her voice. “Rubbish, Joan! You are always dreaming something or other wild,” her
father said a little impatiently. “There’s not an animal of any size on the whole island,” added Sangree
with a puzzled expression. He never took his eyes from her face. “But there’s nothing to prevent one swimming over,” I put in briskly,
for somehow a sense of uneasiness that was not pleasant had woven
itself into the talk and pauses. “A deer, for instance, might easily
land in the night and take a look round----”

“Or a bear!” gasped the Bo’sun’s Mate, with a look so portentous that
we all welcomed the laugh. But Joan did not laugh. Instead, she sprang up and called to us to
follow. “There,” she said, pointing to the ground by her tent on the side
farthest from her mother’s; “there are the marks close to my head. You
can see for yourselves.”

We saw plainly. The moss and lichen--for earth there was hardly
any--had been scratched up by paws. An animal about the size of a large
dog it must have been, to judge by the marks. We stood and stared in a
row. “Close to my head,” repeated the girl, looking round at us. Her face,
I noticed, was very pale, and her lip seemed to quiver for an instant. Then she gave a sudden gulp--and burst into a flood of tears. The whole thing had come about in the brief space of a few minutes, and
with a curious sense of inevitableness, moreover, as though it had all
been carefully planned from all time and nothing could have stopped it. It had all been rehearsed before--had actually happened before, as the
strange feeling sometimes has it; it seemed like the opening movement
in some ominous drama, and that I knew exactly what would happen next. Something of great moment was impending. For this sinister sensation of coming disaster made itself felt from
the very beginning, and an atmosphere of gloom and dismay pervaded the
entire Camp from that moment forward. I drew Sangree to one side and moved away, while Maloney took the
distressed girl into her tent, and his wife followed them, energetic
and greatly flustered. For thus, in undramatic fashion, it was that the terror I have
spoken of first attempted the invasion of our Camp, and, trivial and
unimportant though it seemed, every little detail of this opening scene
is photographed upon my mind with merciless accuracy and precision. It happened exactly as described. This was exactly the language used. I see it written before me in black and white. I see, too, the faces
of all concerned with the sudden ugly signature of alarm where before
had been peace. The terror had stretched out, so to speak, a first
tentative feeler towards us and had touched the hearts of each with a
horrid directness. And from this moment the Camp changed. Sangree in particular was visibly upset. He could not bear to see the
girl distressed, and to hear her actually cry was almost more than he
could stand.