Bill studied regretfully the thing that Van Wyck had become. It was not the lack of water that gave him discomfort. His sorrow lay in the fact that Van Wyck did not possess a capacity for blind enthusiasm.
"It's only six miles," he urged.
"There are cannibals on that island," replied Van Wyck. "It's down on the chart."
Van Wyck was a little wild and he imagined that cannibals tore themselves to pieces over their ceremonies. Bill knew that cannibals were decent and clean and orderly; but there was no explaining that to Van Wyck. He dealt with him in another fashion.
"You're as weak and flabby and spineless as a jelly-fish with rheumatism," said Bill. "You're so unsavory that the cannibals wouldn't eat you. Why don't you kill yourself now, and be done with it? 'Twould be a good way to economize on food!"
Van Wyck scowled and sat down upon the beach. His eyes narrowed. "We are safer here," he said. His lips were swollen and cracked and he spoke in a thin, small voice. He assured Bill that he could survive without luxuries. He said that two men could go three days on one pint of water, and that in three or four days anything might happen.
Nothing did happen. The three days went by like great white birds at sea, and the merciless glare of the sun made life a perfect misery. Bill looked grim. He squatted on the sands and watched the pale blue water foaming and bubbling in the lagoon, and his eyes glittered. Once he turned to Van Wyck and laughed. "It has green eyes," he said. "I saw it watching us on the beach. It plays with the moon and its tentacles are long and gelatinous!"
Sea water affects some men like hashish. That morning Bill had crawled to the lagoon on his hands and knees and swallowed more salt than was good for him. Van Wyck had warned him that it wasn't done, but Bill was of the disbelieving sort.
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."