They fell to thinking.

A sort of undefined longing crept upon them.

This took dim shape, presently--it was budding homesickness.

Even Finn the Red-Handed was dreaming of his doorsteps and empty hogsheads.

But they were all ashamed of their weakness, and none was brave enough to speak his thought.
For some time, now, the boys had been dully conscious of a peculiar sound in the distance, just as one sometimes is of the ticking of a clock which he takes no distinct note of.