Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (226 page)

The
little
man
asked,
in
a
rusty
voice
proceeding
from
deep
in
his throat:

"Have
you
tobacco?"

"If
I
had
it'd
be
no
use
to
you.
Do
you
realize
I
swam
here?" "You
swam?
From
where?"

There
was
silence
for
a
moment,
a
silence
broken
only
by
the breaking
of
the
surf
and
by
the
harsh
cry
of
birds,
as
Patterson,
more exhausted
than
he
had
first
supposed,
tried
idiotically
to
remember to
what
strange
port
the
yacht,
Seagull,
had
been
bound. He
said
at
length:

"I—we
were
on
our
way
to
Madeira.
The
Southern
Atlantic.
The yacht—a
petrol-boat—caught
fire.
And
so
I
swam
ashore."

"Petrol?"
the
man
replied,
puzzled.
"I
know
nothing
of
that. As
for
the
Southern
Atlantic,
I
myself
was
marooned
on
these shores
deliberate,
many
and
many
a
year
ago,
when
bound
for
Kingston,
Jamaica."

"Rather
out
of
your
course,
weren't
you?"

The
little
man
was
silent,
staring
reflectively
out
to
sea.
Patterson, naturally
observant,
was
immediately
struck
by
the
look
in
those small,
filmy
blue
eyes—a
singular,
fixed
immobility
of
regard,
at
once empty
and
menacing,
a
glassy,
almost
dead
expression
in
which
was reflected
all
the
vast
space
of
the
ocean
on
which
he
gazed,
and something
else,
too,
more
elusive,
harder
to
define,
some
curious
quality
of
concentration
that,
refusing
to
be
classified,
nevertheless
repelled.
He
asked:

"What's
your
name?"

"Heywood.
And
yours?"

"Patterson.
Are
you
alone
here?"

The
narrow
blue
eyes
shifted,
slipped
from
the
sea
to
Patterson's face,
and
then
dropped. "Alone?
No;
there
are
four
of
us." "And
were
they
also
marooned?"

As
he
uttered
this
last
word
he
was
conscious
that
it
reflected
the twentieth
century
even
less
than
did
the
costume
of
his
companion. Perhaps
he
was
still
light-headed
after
his
ordeal.
He
added
quickly:

"Were
they
also
bound
for
Jamaica?"

"No,"
Heywood
answered
briefly.

"And
how
long,"
Patterson
pursued
laboriously,
"have
you
been on
the
island?"

"That,"
said
his
companion,
after
a
pause,
"is
a
mighty
big
question. Best
wait
before
you
ask
it.
Or,
better
still,
ask
it,
not
of
me,
but of
the
Captain."

"You're
damned
uncivil.
Who's
the
Captain?"

"Another
castaway,
like
ourselves.
And
yet
not,
perhaps,
so
much alike.
Yonder,
behind
the
palms
on
the
cliff,
is
his
hut."

"I
wouldn't
mind
going
there.
Will
you
take
me?" "No,"
said
Heywood
in
a
surly
tone.

"Good
God!"
exclaimed
Patterson.
"I
shall
believe
you
if
you
tell me
they
marooned
you
for
your
ill-manners.
I've
swam
about
eight miles,
and
need
rest
and
sleep.
If
you've
a
hut,
then
take
me
to
it."

"The
Captain'll
bide
no
one
in
his
hut
but
himself
and
one
other person.
That
person
is
not
myself."

"Then
where
do
you
sleep?
In
the
trees,
like
the
baboons
I
hear chattering
on
the
hill?"

"No,"
Heywood
answered,
still
looking
out
to
sea.
"I've
a
comrade in
my
hut,
which
is
small,
since
I
built
it
for
myself.
A
comrade
who was
flung
ashore
here
when
a
great
ship
struck
an
iceberg."

"An
iceberg?"
Patterson's
attention
was
suddenly
arrested.
"An iceberg
in
these
regions?
Are
you
trying
to
make
a
fool
of
me,
or
have you
been
here
so
long
that
your
wits
are
going?
And,
by
the
way,
tell me
this:
how
do
you
try
to
attract
the
attention
of
passing
ships?
Do you
light
bonfires,
or
wave
flags?"

"No
ships
pass,"
said
Heywood.

There
was
another
silence.
It
was
almost
dark;
already
the
deep iris
of
the
sky
was
pierced
by
stars,
and
it
was
as
though
a
silver
veil had
been
dragged
across
the
glitter
of
the
ocean.
Behind
them,
on
the cliffs,
two
lights
winked
steadily;
Patterson
judged
these
to
proceed from
the
huts
mentioned
by
his
companion.
Then
came
the
sound of
soft
footsteps,
and
they
were
no
longer
two
shadows
there
on
the dusky
sands,
but
three.

"Hallo,
stranger!"
said
a
casual
voice.

Patterson
turned
abruptly
to
distinguish
in
the
grayness
a
sharp, pale
face
with
a
shock
of
tousled
hair.
A
young
man,
gaunt-looking and
eager,
clad
normally
enough
in
a
dark
sweater
and
trousers.

"And
this
is
a
hell
of
a
nice
island,
I
don't
think,"
the
stranger
pursued,
thrusting
his
hands
into
his
pockets.
He
had
a
strong
Cockney accent.
Patterson
was
enchanted
by
the
very
prosaicness
of
his
appearance;
he
brought
with
him
sanity;
walking
as
he
did
on
faery, moon-drenched
shores,
he
was
blessed,
being
the
essence
of
the
commonplace.

"Name
of
Judd.
Dicky
Judd.
I
suppose
you're
all
in.
Been
swimming,
ain't
you?"

"Yes.
And
this
fellow
Heywood
won't
take
me
to
his
hut.
Says
it's full.
Can
you
do
anything
about
it?"

"You
bet,"
said
Judd.
"Follow
me,
and
I'll
give
you
a
bite
of
supper and
a
doss
for
the
night.
This
way—the
path
up
the
cliff.
We'll
leave Heywood
to
the
moon.
Come
on."

Ten
minutes
later,
Patterson
was
eating
fried
fish
and
yams
in
a log-hut,
with
an
open
fireplace
and
two
hammocks
swung
near
the rude
doorway.
He
had
noticed,
as
they
climbed
the
slope
together,
a grander,
more
commodious
hut
built
a
few
hundred
yards
away amongst
some
shady
palms.
This,
he
surmised,
must
be
the
home of
the
elusive
Captain.
No
sound
came
from
it,
but
a
light
burned in
the
narrow
window.
As
he
ate
his
food
he
speedily
forgot
the
existence
of
these
fellow-castaways.
He
asked
instead,
gulping
down
water and
wishing
it
were
brandy: