Bill’s clothes were in tatters, and he found no satisfaction in contemplating the leanness of his wrists and ankles. Whenever he held up his wrists for inspection they shook so violently that he let himself be guided by sentiment and wept. His ankles were no wider than broomsticks, and when he tried to walk he could hear them crack. He didn’t want to turn them, so he sat down and talked to Van Wyck. He made an effort to be agreeable.
“I’ll concede that the cannibals may eat us,” he said. “There is always that risk. But I don’t see why they should; and it’s only a six-mile swim. If we stay here I can’t trust myself.”
Van Wyck recoiled and his under lip trembled. Bill laid a merciful hand upon his emaciated shoulder. “There isn’t anything that I want to keep from you,” he said. “I’ll tell you the truth. For three days I’ve been planning to kill you. I lay awake last night and watched you. I thought: ‘This thirst—this dreadful thirst’—he would put an end to it!”
Van Wyck shivered, and tears ran down his face and dampened his brittle red beard. His small blue eyes dilated with horror. Hot shame flushed red over his throat and ears. “But you wouldn’t really eat me?” he moaned.
“I don’t know,” replied Bill. “That’s why I suggest the swim. It’s six miles and we’re atrociously weak; but anything to keep from thinking of that!”
Bill knew that Van Wyck understood and sympathized. Van Wyck had a knife, which he kept hidden, but in his sleep he frequently took it out and felt the edge of it. Bill had been very much horrified, and he had not pretended to misunderstand the expression on Van Wyck’s face. There was something brazen in Van Wyck’s affrightment when he discovered that two could play the same sinister game.
The sun was setting and a few gray wisps of clouds were fleeing like flakes of snow across the blue sky. A single gull careened and dipped far out in the tumbling black immensity of ocean. A great silence had fallen upon the atoll, and the stubborn struggle between the two men drew to an issue before the first wild rush of stars. Van Wyck felt unsafe in the presence of Bill Cullen, and he made no effort to conceal his fear.
“Let’s get away from here as quickly as possible,” he pleaded. “You were right. Six or seven miles isn’t a long swim. If we strip, we can make it.”
Bill extended his hand. It was like a dead thing, but Van Wyck seized it and wrung it warmly. His voice quivered. “It isn’t a long swim, old fellow,” he repeated.
Bill made a grimace. “It might rain,” he said.
“It won’t rain,” responded Van Wyck.
That settled it. They spent the evening getting ready. They hid their anguish in a bustle of preparation. Bill scurried about and secured three clams. The unfortunate bivalves were devoured with immoderate ferocity. Even their stiff, rubber-like necks afforded grist for the mill of Van Wyck’s teeth. It grieved Bill to see the shells go to waste. They sat down and congratulated themselves for the first time in a week. The clams seemed to make their situation less hopeless, but they did not on that account decide to remain on the island. Their thirst was abnormal and monstrous. It was not a thing to be talked about.
They managed to get some sleep; but they awoke with their throats on fire. The game that they had played was over. But they avoided the thought of their new plan as much as possible, since they did not want the possibility of fatal consequences to look them in the face.
A chill in the atmosphere generally preceded the customary heat of the day; and the coldness now seemed unusually severe. They got together a few sticks and built a fire. The sun had not yet risen, but the island was immersed in the ghostly gray light of early dawning. They saw everything vividly. The boulders on the beach seemed alive. A light wind furred the steel-gray sea with tiny ripples.
“We mustn’t waste time,” said Van Wyck. It was obvious that his dread of Bill had grown in the night. Bill’s threat had taken complete possession of his shriveled, selfish little brain. His teeth chattered over the fire and he planned a thousand assaults on the man beside him. His fingers clutched frantically at the knife which he kept hidden; but he lacked the stomach for malicious manslaughter. He feared that his cowardice might betray him into a false or dangerous move, and he endeavored to conquer his hysteria with loud boasts.
“It was all poppycock, our worrying about the cannibals,” he announced. “The thing for us to do is to put on a bold front. They’ll make gods of us!”
In the present condition of his mind these words produced a curious effect on Bill. He waved his arms wildly, and swore at the sky. “Yes,” he shouted, “they’ll do that. But sometimes they’re not satisfied with a living man. They’re headhunters, you know. They have a way of removing the skull from a man’s head, and drying it up, and worshiping it. They have a predilection for red hair and beards. When they find both on one head they go wild.”
Bill looked directly at Van Wyck. The latter could scarcely stand. He was swaying hysterically back and forth and running his fingers through his bristling red beard. “Perhaps I could shave it off before we start,” he wailed.
“With what?” demanded Bill.
“With the clam shells,” cried Van Wyck, dejectedly seeking to grasp some straw that would save his head.
“I refuse to permit it,” said Bill. “It’s time we started. It wouldn’t be pleasant to swim in the full glare of the sun.”
They stripped and rolled their clothes into neat, round balls. Somehow it did not seem right to abandon them helter-skelter on the beach. They had a vague idea
