The water was like ice, and Bill shivered and stood on one foot. “Walk right in,” said Van Wyck. “The cannibals expect us!” His smile was ghastly and indescribable. The blue veins stood out on his scrawny neck, and his forehead was covered with globules of perspiration.
Bill was the first to go into deep water. Van Wyck stood with the icy current swirling about his ankles, and watched him wade out until he stood waist-deep. Bill turned and looked back reproachfully. “You’re coming, aren’t you?” Bill’s disdain and distrust of Van Wyck were forgotten in a momentary need for companionship.
As Van Wyck stood with the cold water numbing his toes he had an irrational desire to turn back and run wildly up the beach, and to stay on the island until thirst finished him off. The risk of the swim seemed suddenly displeasing to him. A mist passed rapidly before his eyes; he ran his fingers through his hair and gulped. But when he saw the pitiful, hurt expression on Bill’s face he put aside unworthy thoughts. “I’m coming, Bill,” he said.
He walked forward until the water eddied and swirled about his chin. His face was hideously drawn and his eyes bulged, but a forlorn ray of sunlight filtered through the clouds and played about his head, bringing out its latent manliness.
“It’s deep, out there,” said Bill.
They both lurched forward. The sudden loss of footing accentuated Bill’s weakness, and he went under. He felt that his arms and legs were incapable of sustaining him, and he wondered if Van Wyck would try to save him.
He came up and struck out, his mouth full of water. The salt burned his throat and he swallowed. The water went into his stomach. He shivered. The sun beat mercilessly down upon his naked body.
He swam boldly, with a brief sense of triumph. He had conquered his physical weakness. He knew that his strength might not last, but the thought that he had not depended upon Van Wyck gave him secret satisfaction.
He could see Van Wyck’s red head on the water several yards ahead of him. The little wretch had evidently made good use of his legs and arms. “Slow up, Van Wyck!” he shouted.
“I don’t dare to!” Van Wyck called back. “If I stop I might sink. And think how deep it is!”
Bill resented Van Wyck’s reminder. “If you don’t ease up,” he shouted, “you’ll surely go down. This isn’t an athletic contest!”
“It is,” cried Van Wyck. “It’s the greatest ever—even if there are headhunters at the goal. I advise you to talk to me. It keeps me from thinking. If I think I shall go down.”
But Bill did not feel like talking. The water was cold and he had no stomach for repartee. He felt the chill of the depths beneath in his nude limbs. He swallowed great quantities of sea water. He knew that he might suffer eventually, but he did not care. He wanted to reach the island. He had never shared Van Wyck’s dread of cannibals, and the thought of the island, with its crystal-clear springs and refreshing fruits, was a precious balm to him.
He wondered if Van Wyck would survive him. The latter was swimming with frightful rapidity, leaving him definitely in the lurch. Bill envied and pitied his little companion. Van Wyck might survive to view the island, with its green, welcome frondage—but would he ever reach it?
Bill had an uncomfortable suspicion that he might sink. His initial courage threatened to give out. A mounting hysteria surged through his brain. He closed his eyes and tried not to think. There was nothing before him but a limitless stretch of malachite sea. He was fascinated and horrified by his isolation. A cold, brilliant sun blinded his eyes and dried up the sap of life in him. The water seemed to thicken, and he had great difficulty in moving his arms and legs.
Bill never knew how he reached the island. For a starving, emaciated man to swim seven miles is tremendous, and deserves some reward. Like most valiant men, Bill was conscious of his own worth. When he sighted the island he said nothing, but he thought: “This is only just. I have paid the price, and I deserve this.”
He had also caught up with Van Wyck. The awful glare in the despairing eyes that Van Wyck turned upon him told of a fatigue immeasurable and a desire for water that had passed the bounds of sanity. Van Wyck’s eyes were living pools of liquid fire. His voice was hoarse and rasping, and he turned over and over in the water; and twice his head went under.
They were horribly near when they sighted the cannibals. Van Wyck saw them first. He was puffing and wailing, and he had been swimming on his back, and when he turned over and sighted them his face took on the aspect of an open wound. His mouth became an awful gash in a grotesque, streaked horror of countenance.
“Bill,” he called hoarsely. “It’s worse than we thought. There are hundreds of ’em!”
Fixing his frightened and horrified eyes on the shore, Bill trod water, and became suddenly very angry. The scene before him burned itself on his brain, and robbed him of his victory. He felt that the fates had taken an indecent advantage of him. His anger mounted, and flushed his neck and throat. “Damn their black hides!” he muttered.
A clamor and a stench arose from the rocks. The cannibals seemed to be recovering from a drinking-bout. They writhed in the sun like wounded snakes. Bill counted sixty or seventy. Their bodies were hideously tattooed, and they wore monstrous shell rings through their ears and noses. The women joined with the men in dancing and spitting venom. The hubbub was deafening. Ages of savagery
