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 head-hunters 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.