"Aren't you delighted, Mr.
Chatfield." The agent suddenly turned his big fat face towards the three young people, with such an expression of craven fear on it that the sardonic jest which Copplestone was about to voice died away on his lips.
Chatfield's creased cheeks and heavy jowl had become white as chalk; great beads of sweat rolled down them; his mouth opened and shut silently, and suddenly, as he raised his hands and wrung them, his knees began to quiver.

It was evident that the man was badly, terribly afraid--and as they watched him in amazed wonder his eyes began to search the shore and the cliffs as if he were some hunted animal seeking any hole or cranny in which to hide.

A sudden swelling of the light wind brought the steady throb of the oncoming engines to his ears and he turned on Vickers with a look that made the onlookers start.
"For goodness sake, Mr.Vickers!" he said in a queer, strained voice.
"For heaven's sake, let's get ourselves away! Mr.Vickers--it ain't safe for none of us.

We'd best to run, sir--let's get to the other side of the island.

There's caves there--places--let's hide till something comes from the other islands, or till these folks goes away--I tell you it's dangerous for us to stop here!" "We're not afraid, Chatfield," replied Vickers.