Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (224 page)

When
Time Stood Still

Reprinted by permission of Harold
Ober,
agent.

No
Skips Pass

By LADY ELEANOR SMITH

"I
AM
GLAD," THOUGHT PATTERSON, "THAT I'VE ALWAYS BEEN A DAMNED

good
swimmer
.
.
."
and
he
continued
to
plow
his
way
grimly
through the
churning,
tumbled
argent
of
the
breakers.
It
seemed
hours,
although
it
was
actually
moments,
since
the
yacht
had
disappeared in
one
brief
flash
of
huge
and
bluish
flame;
now
the
seas
tossed, untroubled,
as
though
the
yacht
had
never
been;
and
the
boat
containing
his
comrades
had
vanished,
too,
he
noticed,
glancing
over
his shoulder—had
vanished
with
such
swiftness
as
to
make
him
think that
it
must
have
been
smudged
by
some
gigantic
sponge
from
the flat,
greenish
expanse
of
the
ocean.
The
strange
part
was
that
he
was able,
as
he
swam,
to
think
with
a
complete,
detached
coherence;
he was
conscious
of
no
panic;
on
the
contrary,
as
he
strove
with
all
his might
to
gain
the
strip
of
land
dancing
before
his
eyes,
his
mind worked
with
a
calm
and
resolute
competence.

"I
always
thought
we'd
have
a
fire
with
all
that
petrol
about.
.
.
. Curse
all
motor-yachts
...
I
wonder
if
the
others
have
been drowned?
.
.
.
Good
job
I
gave
the
boat
a
miss.
.
.
."

He
was
not
even
conscious
of
much
regret
as
he
thought
of
the probable
fate
of
his
comrades—his
employer,
his
employer's
son, the
members
of
the
crew.
Already,
as
he
swam
on
and
on
through gently
lapping
waves,
the
yacht
and
those
who
belonged
to
it
had become
part
of
the
past,
remote
and
half-forgotten.
The
present and
the
future
lay
ahead,
where
a
long
line
of
sand
shimmered like
silver
before
his
eyes.
Yet
it
was
funny,
he
mused;
there
had
been no
sign
of
land
seen
from
aboard
the
yacht,
and
it
was
not
until the
actual
panic
of
the
fire
that
he
had
noticed
the
dim
shape
of this
island,
"near
enough
to
swim
to,"
as
he
had
cried
to
the
others, but
they
swarmed
into
the
boat,
taking
no
notice
of
his
cries.
And so
he
had
embarked
alone
upon
this
perilous
adventure.

He
was
a
strong
swimmer,
but
he
was
growing
tired.
Were
his limbs
suddenly
heavier,
or
had
the
sea
become
less
buoyant?
He clenched
his
teeth,
striking
out
desperately,
then
floated
for
a
while, lying
on
his
back,
the
huge
arch
of
the
sky
towering
a
million
miles above
him
like
some
gigantic
bowl,
all
fierce
hydrangea-blue.
When
he turned
to
swim
again,
he
was
refreshed,
but
more
sensible
of
the terrors
of
his
situation.
And
yet,
was
it
his
fancy,
or
had
the
shores of
the
island
loomed
nearer
during
the
moments
of
this
brief
rest? At
first
he
believed
himself
to
be
suffering
from
hallucination,
then, as
he
looked
again,
he
realized
that
he
was
making
remarkable
progress.
.
.
.
He
was
now
so
near
that
the
beach
glittered
like
snow in
the
tropical
sunshine
before
his
eyes,
and
the
sands
dazzled
him, yet
he
could
perceive,
lapping
against
them,
a
line
of
softly
creaming
surf,
and
above
the
sands
there
blazed
the
vivid
jewel-green
of dense
foliage.
The
gulls
wheeled
bright-winged
against
the
brighter silver
of
sea
and
sand.
Then
he
was
prepared
to
swear
that
his
ears distinguished,
sounding
from
the
shore,
a
harsh
and
murmurous
cry that
might
have
been—for
he
was
very
weary—something
in
the nature
of
a
welcome
for
the
creature
trying
so
desperately
to
gain this
sparkling
and
gaudy
sanctuary.