Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (229 page)

Patterson
shuddered
in
the
blazing
sunlight.

"Do
you
really
think
we've
got
to
stick
this
until
we
die?"

Judd
flung
a
pebble
at
a
pearly
cloud
of
seagulls.

"Worse
than
that,
Patterson.
Worse
by
a
long
chalk.
I
told
you last
night
this
island
was
mirage,
magic.
Stands
to
reason
it
is,
floating round
the
world
picking
survivors
from
shipwrecks
in
all
the
Seven Seas.
Well,
there's
something
worse
than
that—much
worse—and
I'm going
to
tell
you
what
it
is.
There's
no
death
on
this
island.
Death forgets
us.
We're
here
for
all
eternity."

Patterson
laughed
nervously.

"You
should
be
in
Bedlam,
Judd.
I
suppose
a
few
years'
desert-island
does
that
to
one.
But
look
here,
now
I've
come
to
join
you,
we'll get
away
somehow,
I
promise
you
that."

Judd
slipped
on
his
trousers.

"You
don't
believe
me,
and
small
blame
to
you.
I
was
like
that once.
But
it's
true.
I
swear
to
God
it
is.
There's
no
death
here.
For the
animals
and
birds,
yes,
or
we
should
starve.
But
not
for
us.
We're here
for
all
eternity,
and
you
may
as
well
make
the
best
of
it."

Patterson,
trying
to
dress
himself,
found
that
his
hands
were
trembling.
Yet
he
tried
to
be
reasonable.

"Look
here,
Judd,
what
put
this
crazy
idea
into
your
head?"

"Do
you
know,"
Judd
replied,
"how
long
Heywood's
been
here? Of
course
you
don't;
I'll
tell
you.
He
was
marooned
in
eighteen twenty-five.
It's
nineteen
thirty-two
now,
isn't
it?
Add
that
up
for yourself.
As
for
the
Captain,
he's
had
a
longer
spell.
He
was
a
pirate, one
of
those
Spanish
Main
fellows
I
read
about
when
I
was
a
kid. His
crew
mutinied
in
July,
seventeen
ninety-five.
Another
sum
for
you, if
you're
quick
at
figures."

"Very
interesting,"
Patterson
commented
idiotically.

"Don't
you
imagine,"
Judd
continued,
"that
we
haven't
all
of
us tried
to
escape
in
the
past.
We've
built
rafts
and
boats—they've
always been
chucked
back
here
on
the
beach
by
mysterious
tidal
waves
or tempests.
Then
we've
tried
to
kill
ourselves
and
one
another—we've been
wounded
and
lain
sick
for
weeks
with
mosquitoes
battening
on our
wounds,
and
our
wounds
have
festered,
but
we've
pulled
through. Now
we
don't
do
that
any
more.
Too
much
pain
for
nothing.
You always
pull
through
in
the
end.
We've
tried
to
drown,
and
swallowed quarts
of
water,
but
always
we've
been
flung
back
on
the
sands
here. Death's
not
for
us—we've
jolly
well
found
that
out.
And
so
we
make the
best
of
it.
It's
all
right
after
a
time.
You
live
for
eating
and
sleeping,
and
you
blooming
well
don't
think.
Sometimes
you
go
mad,
but in
the
long
run
you
get
sane
again.
And
you
kowtow
to
the
Captain, who's
got
twice
the
guts
of
anyone.
And,
oh,
yes,
your
clothes
last
just as
you
last.
Funny,
isn't
it?"