Abel—[Suddenly, in a piteous voice.] Gee, I wisht I was back home again!
Butler—You’ll get back. We both will. [He closes his eyes. After a pause—weakly.] When I close my eyes, everything gets to rocking under me, like I was in that open boat again. I won’t forget these four days in a hurry. Up and down—— Nothing but sun and water. [They are both silent, leaning with closed eyes against the bole of the tree, panting exhaustedly. A murmur of men’s voices comes from the right, rear, and gradually get nearer.]
Abel—[Opening his eyes with a start.] Butts! I hear ’em comin’!
Butler—[Listening, wide-eyed, for a moment.] Yes, it’s them. [He gets to his feet weakly.] Come, let’s get out of this. [Abel staggers to his feet. They both move to the left. Butler shades his eyes with his hands and looks toward the beach.] Look! They’re dragging along that box of junk with ’em, the damn fools! [Warningly.] They’re crazy as hell. Don’t give ’em no chance to pick on you, d’you hear? They’d stop at nothing when they’re this way. [There is a scuffling of heavy footsteps in the sand, and Captain Bartlett appears, followed by Horne, who in turn is followed by Cates and Jimmy Kanaka. Bartlett is a tall, huge-framed figure of a man, dressed in a blue double-breasted coat, pants of the same material, and rubber sea-boots turned down from the knees. In spite of the ravages of hunger and thirst there is still a suggestion of immense strength in his heavy-muscled body. His head is massive, thickly covered with tangled, iron-grey hair. His face is large, bony, and leather-tanned, with a long aquiline nose and a gash of a mouth shadowed by a bristling grey mustache. His broad jaw sticks out at an angle of implacable stubbornness. Bushy grey brows overhang the obsessed glare of his sombre dark eyes. Silas Horne is a thin, parrot-nosed, angular old man, his lean face marked by a life-time of crass lusts and mean cruelty. He is dressed in grey cotton trousers, and a singlet torn open across his hairy chest. The exposed skin of his arms and shoulders and chest has been blistered and seared by the sun. A cap is on his head. Cates is squat and broad-chested, with thick, stumpy legs and arms. His square, stupid face, with its greedy pig’s eyes, is terribly pock-marked. He is gross and bestial, an unintelligent brute. He is dressed in dungaree pants and a dirty white sailor’s blouse, and wears a brown cap. Jimmy Kanaka is a tall, sinewy, bronzed young Islander. He wears only a loin cloth and a leather belt with a sheath-knife. The last two are staggering beneath the weight of a heavy inlaid chest. The eyes of the three white men are wild. They pant exhaustedly, their legs trembling with weakness beneath them. Their lips are puffed and cracked, their voices muffled by their swollen tongues. But there is a mad air of happiness, of excitement, about their scorched faces.]
Bartlett—[In a crooning, monotonous voice.] It’s heavy, I know, heavy—that chest. Up, bullies! Up with her! [He flings himself in the shade, resting his back against the tree, and points to the sand at his feet.] Put ’er there, bullies—there where I kin see!
Horne—[Echoing his words mechanically.] Put’er there!
Cates—[In thick, stupid tones.] Aye-aye, sir! Down she goes, Jimmy! [They set the chest down.]
Bartlett—Sit down, lads, sit down. Ye’ve earned your spell of rest. [The three men throw themselves on the sand in attitudes of spent weariness. Bartlett’s eyes are fixed gloatingly on the chest. There is a silence suddenly broken by Cates, who leaps to a kneeling position with a choked cry.]
Cates—[His eyes staring at the Captain with fierce insistence.] I want a drink—water! [The others are startled into a rigid, dazzed attention. Horne’s lips move painfully in a soundless repetition of the word. There is a pause. Then Bartlett strikes the side of his head with his fist, as if to drive this obsession from his brain. Butler and Abel stand looking at them with frightened eyes.]
Bartlett—[Having regained control over himself, in a determined voice, deep-toned and menacing.] If ye speak that word ever again, Ben Cates—if ye say it once again—ye’ll be food for the sharks! Ye hear?