He would build a fire and warm himself, and he would eat nothing but fruit. It needed but a momentary inspection to convince him that the island contained an excess of fruit. And there was water! A tiny streamlet came out from the woods, between the boles of fabulously ancient trees, and ran down the smooth white beach.
Bill swam in and clambered up the beach. He sat down under a hotoo tree, an absurd horror of bones and wet, clinging sand. He was a living scarecrow come out of the sea with the wisdom and weariness of ancient ocean upon him. He could scarcely open and close his thick, black lips. His sunbaked skin was drawn painfully taut over his protruding ribs.
A steady surf was crashing on the beach, and he paused while he listened to the roar of the breakers. He reposed for a time; then he got up, and a peal of wild laughter came from between his swollen lips. He had won out! He had hoodwinked the cannibals and sharks! In that blazing crystal world of sunlight and water he came to life again.
The sun dried him. He gulped up gallons of water from the tiny streamlet. It was fresh and clear. He was genuinely elated. The wind swept in from the sea in great, steady gusts, and the flaffing breeze whistled through his hair and under his armpits. He shouted and danced in sheer joy. The cannibals, he assured himself, were on the other side of the island. It was a large island, and he could hide. The chances against him, he thought, were negligible.
He decided to look about for a hiding-place. He knew that in the vast forest of tangled vegetation he would have no difficulty in achieving utter concealment. He could hoard up fruits and coconuts and live unmolested for days.
But when he turned he saw something peering from between the boles of the distorted, antique trees that made him change his mind. He stood still in the center of the beach, and stared, and presently he saw black, hideous figures come forward into the clearing. Others appeared crawling toward him on their hands and knees. He realized then the absurdity of attempting any sort of concealment.
He stood stark still while the cannibals advanced toward him across the smooth, white sands. He began to envy Van Wyck. He knew too much about savages. He had that and his imagination to blame for the little hell that he endured. How could he guess that they did not want revenge? A savage considers everything an insult. He knew that he should not have landed upon their infernal island. He wanted to apologize to them, and to make them understand. He had no desire to lord it over them, and he admitted to himself that he had deliberately injured their sense of dignity.
At first he thought that they intended to make short work of him. They looked sinister. There were three dozen of them in the guard of honor that advanced toward him across the beach and he did not like their faces. Their faces were black and swollen and ugly and incredibly tattooed, and their cheeks were smeared with green and blue paint. One of them paraded a discarded panama hat. Bill could not imagine where he had obtained the hat. The wretch had probably repaid the owner by boiling him in oil. It was quite the thing twenty years ago to burn traders and missionaries in oil, although the custom has been outgrown among respectable savages. But the hat looked at least twenty years old. And one of the devils smoked a corncob pipe! They were tall, solemn-looking cusses, and Bill did not pretend to like them.
But when they got close to him they formed a circle, shutting him off from the sea, and he felt then that everything was worse than he had anticipated. When cannibals begin forming into rings it is customary to give up hope. They were grinning hideously and Bill could count the number of teeth in the rings which they wore about their necks.
Some of the leanest and tallest wore thirty or forty teeth. And Bill knew that a savage never wears more than one tooth from a single head. It is not considered decent. And each tooth means—but Bill never wept over spilt milk. He felt that his own head was in imminent danger, and the knowledge annoyed and frightened him. But he did not dare let on that he feared them, and he stood up very stiff and straight, and scowled into their narrow, bloodshot eyes.
They seemed to resent his hostility. It seemed to hurt them, and Bill was amazed at the hint of reproach in their glances. A cannibal is something of a gentleman, and he would not deliberately hurt a man’s feelings for the world. And Bill’s resentment somehow seemed an insult to their hospitality. Bill understood how they felt, and he realized that he had behaved like a boor. But his teeth were knocking together like billiard balls, and a stern front was necessary.
But he could not look his captors in the face. They came close to him, and then one of them stepped forward and patted him on the back. He spoke and Bill understood him. Bill knew nearly all of the Bantu languages, and the savage spoke a corruption of several.
“We thank our brother for the very fine gift,” he said. “We are indeed grateful!”
Although Bill could understand what the black devil said a reply was utterly beyond him. The grammatical construction of Bantu overwhelmed him. Bill kept his mouth shut and stared, pretending not to understand.
The spokesman turned and beckoned. A tall, lean youth with protruding yellow teeth came quickly forward. Save for a slight hint of pity in his small eyes his face bore no expression. He held in his right hand a large, round object which Bill did
