‘But altogether,’ he went on, ‘it was a rum business. Well, I knew that what I had to do was to hold on ahead till we got to a creek about 100 yards wide that ran from the lagoon, inland. If I could get there first I was safe; I was a good swimmer, and in those days old Synge couldn’t swim more than a few strokes. Still, if murder-madness could make a man run half as fast again, it could probably make him swim. However, it was the only chance. That was a ghastly run, and a ghostly one, too. The moon was full, and the sea gleamed in silver and black ridges, and that blessed sand shone in the bright moonlight like burnished plate, and we two white figures fled over it like disembodied spirits, with the whole of Nature--sea, sky, and land--looking on and mocking at what was meant to be as grim a tragedy as ever came about. And yet all the time, you know, I couldn’t help seeing the comic side--the only two white men on the island--sworn pals, you beggars! sworn pals--and the one chasing the other for dear life, and no mortal reason--it appealed to me very much, that is, as much as the discomfort of the blamed thing would allow. All things come to an end, and so did that run. I must have made record time, but it seemed like a couple of hours. I never got more than about two yards away--it varied from that to about two inches--and I can tell you I was all out at the end of that half mile, when we came to the creek. There wasn’t time or space to dive, and I went in plum bang--anyhow. I could see or feel the whirr of the kriss in the air as he came after me. When I came up and struck out, he was a yard or so behind, swimming desperately for me, with the kriss still in his hand. “Good Lord!” I thought, “it’s all over now; the beggar can swim, and I’m about done.” Quick as lightning I turned on my back and kicked out with all my might, and, as luck would have it, I caught him on the head with my foot, and down he went. I twisted round and drew myself out on to the bank--phew! I _was_ done. In a minute or so he came to the surface panting and gasping, and turned himself round and round, looking for me, with that wolfish glare still in his eyes, and the kriss still grasped firm. When he saw me, I sang out from the bank, “Drop it, old man, the game’s up.” He gave that hideous cry again, and tried to swim ashore, but in a stroke or two he threw up his hands and went down. I lay still, trying to get my wind, and watching for him to come up again. In a minute he did, almost black in the face, but still with that murderous light in his eyes and the kriss in his hand. I called out--“Synge, dear old chap, easy on, that’ll do,” but just as I sang out he went down the third time, and this time he stayed there.’