by Richard Connell (1893-1949)
“OFF THERE to the right–somewhere–is a large island,” said Whitney.”It’s rather a mystery–” “What island is it?” Rainsford asked. “The old charts call it `Ship-Trap Island,”‘ Whitney replied.” Asuggestive name, isn’t it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. Idon’t know why. Some superstition–” “Can’t see it,” remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the danktropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blacknessin upon the yacht. “You’ve good eyes,” said Whitney, with a laugh,” and I’ve seen you pickoff a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, buteven you can’t see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night.” “Nor four yards,” admitted Rainsford. “Ugh! It’s like moist black velvet.” “It will be light enough in Rio,” promised Whitney. “We should make itin a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey’s. We shouldhave some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting.” “The best sport in the world,” agreed Rainsford. “For the hunter,” amended Whitney. “Not for the jaguar.” “Don’t talk rot, Whitney,” said Rainsford. “You’re a big-game hunter,not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?” “Perhaps the jaguar does,” observed Whitney. “Bah! They’ve no understanding.” “Even so, I rather think they understand one thing–fear. The fear ofpain and the fear of death.” “Nonsense,” laughed Rainsford. “This hot weather is making you soft,Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes–the huntersand the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we’vepassed that island yet?” “I can’t tell in the dark. I hope so.” “Why? ” asked Rainsford. “The place has a reputation–a bad one.”