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." Van Wyck recoiled and his under lip trembled. Bill laid a merciful hand upon his emaciated shoulder. "There isn't anything that I want to keep from you," he said. "I'll tell you the truth. For three days I've been planning to kill you. I lay awake last night and watched you. I thought: 'This thirst--this dreadful thirst'--_he_ would put an end to it!" Van Wyck shivered, and tears ran down his face and dampened his brittle red beard. His small blue eyes dilated with horror. Hot shame flushed red over his throat and ears. "But you wouldn't really eat me?" he moaned. "I don't know," replied Bill. "That's why I suggest the swim. It's six miles and we're atrociously weak; but anything to keep from thinking of _that_!" Bill knew that Van Wyck understood and sympathized. Van Wyck had a knife, which he kept hidden, but in his sleep he frequently took it out and felt the edge of it. Bill had been very much horrified, and he had not pretended to misunderstand the expression on Van Wyck's face. There was something brazen in Van Wyck's affrightment when he discovered that two could play the same sinister game. The sun was setting and a few gray wisps of clouds were fleeing like flakes of snow across the blue sky. A single gull careened and dipped far out in the tumbling black immensity of ocean. A great silence had fallen upon the atoll, and the stubborn struggle between the two men drew to an issue before the first wild rush of stars. Van Wyck felt unsafe in the presence of Bill Cullen, and he made no effort to conceal his fear. "Let's get away from here as quickly as possible," he pleaded. "You were right. Six or seven miles isn't a long swim. If we strip, we can make it." Bill extended his hand. It was like a dead thing, but Van Wyck seized it and wrung it warmly. His voice quivered. "It isn't a long swim, old fellow," he repeated. Bill made a grimace. "It might rain," he said. "It won't rain," responded Van Wyck.