Mary Ann and Gilligan came tearing up again, as breathless as before. "Hey, what are you two doing back so soon?" the Skipper demanded. "You didn't even get the sandwiches! What's the big idea?"

"Yes, what sent you racing back this time?" Mr. Howell quipped. "Are the sea turtles doing a can-can on the beach? Are we in for a typhoon this evening, hmmm?"

"Ship!" the pair chorused, pointing wildly down the trail. "There's a ship!"

The castaways jumped to attention. "What?"

Mary Ann and Gilligan were barely coherent, their faces alight. It was hard to tell which of them was saying what.

"We saw a ship, out there!"

"On the sea!"

"A big cruise ship!"

"It wasn't that far out!"

"Maybe we could signal it!"

"Come on!" The young pair turned and dashed down the trail in a flash of Oxford whites.

The other castaways looked at one another for just one moment. Then, galvanized, they charged down the trail after the sprinting twosome. "We're saved! We're saved!"

Mary Ann and Gilligan raced along, stealing a glance backward every now and then to make sure they were still followed. When they reached the spot where Gilligan had fallen on the bush, they moved carefully off to the side. They looked at one another and nodded as their friends came pounding down the trail.

The Professor was first. "Down there, Professor!" Gilligan shouted, pointing just past the bush. The Professor shot past and vanished into the lush foliage. His shout of surprise was drowned out by the excited shouts of the other castaways. "This way! This way!" called Gilligan and Mary Ann.

Ginger was next, her white skirts flying. She ran remarkably quickly for a woman in high heels. "This way, Ginger!" Gilligan called, and she flew past. He and Mary Ann winced as they heard her cry of dismay. "Sorry about your hairdo, Ginger," Gilligan murmured, as he watched her disappear.

Then came the Howells. He was faster, waving his cricket bat in the air. "Ahoy, out there! This is Thurston Howell the Third! Come ashore and I'll let you join the tournament! Faster, Lovey, faster!" They hurried past, and Gilligan grimaced as he awaited the inevitable.

"Egad! What the--!"

"Thurston! Eeek!"

Gilligan sighed, his face pained. "I really didn't want to let Mrs. Howell go," he said unhappily. "But I was afraid she wouldn't follow us!"

And last came the Skipper, puffing up the trail like a giant white meringue. He was so winded that he stopped just at the bush to catch his breath, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. "Gilligan! Puff! Puff! I saw the sea through the trees- puff puff- back there! I didn't see any—"

Gilligan took a brave breath. "Time to cast off, Skipper!" And with that he threw himself at the Skipper's ample stern, knocking the big man off balance so that he went careering past the bush.

"Gilligan, what in the---aaaaaah!"

Mary Ann, who'd grabbed Gilligan's arm so that he wouldn't fall too, peered past him. "Is that how you saved him from the runaway depth charge?"

"Pretty much. Good thing the Skipper makes a big target." Gilligan stepped forward and parted the curtain of green leaves so that Mary Ann could see too.

The land sloped down sharply before them, coated with a thick, brown, shimmering substance like chocolate pudding. At the bottom of the incline was a wide, deep pool of thick mud, in which five slimy, brown, bedraggled shapes were crawling and wailing. The biggest shape looked up at the pristine pair in their snowy garb and shook a huge fist. "Gilligan!"

"Oops! Sorry Skipper!" Gilligan's voice was at its most innocent. "I guess there wasn't any ship out there after all!"

Ginger was on her knees, squeezing mud out of the long brown hank of sludge that was her hair. "Oh! I'll kill him! I'll kill him!"

The dripping brown shape beside her struggled to its feet only to slip down again. "You'll have to wait your turn! Gilligan, you cataclysmic catastrophe!"

Gilligan looked at Mary Ann and smiled. "I think the Professor's mad."

Mrs. Howell was trying to see out of a mud-covered lace veil and not having very much luck. Her husband used his mud-coated cricket bat as a prop and tried to stand. "Heavens! My beautiful Oxford whites! Ruined! I've been positively marinated!"

Gilligan touched Mary Ann's arm. "Get ready. I'll be way out in front, so you'll have to keep up on your own."

"You can count on me," she whispered.

"Okay. Hey Skipper!" he called jovially. "You know what you look like? The Creature from the Black Lagoon! Only fatter!" He clapped his hands and laughed merrily.

The Skipper did look rather like the Creature from the Black Lagoon as he towered up out of the mud pool, big arms flexing and hands clenching. "Just wait 'til you see what you look like after I've dunked you in here!"

"Oh yeah?" Gilligan challenged.

"Yeah!" answered the filthy five.

"You've got to catch me first!" Laughing, Gilligan took off at top speed.

"After him!" The mud-covered castaways clawed their way up the slope like giant amphibians escaping from the primeval ooze and stampeded down the trail after him. Mary Ann, barely noticed in all the excitement, brought up the rear.

On Gilligan ran, his white costume flashing through the trees. He looked behind him to see his furious pursuers and grinned to see that they were all there and making more speed than he would have given them credit for, even with a covering of mud. Careful not to get too far ahead, he veered off down a fork in the trail and led them out of the leafy jungle, back to the broad cricket field. Ahead was the high hill, covered with a rumpled quilt of green, and beyond it the grey-green heights and sharp, mist-veiled summits of the island's mountains. He could hear them all right behind him.

"Where is he?"

"There he is! I see white up ahead!"

"He won't be white for long! Come on!"

Gilligan laughed and sprinted for the hill.

The castaways pounded out of the jungle and charged across the grass, shouting and waving. The Skipper was leading the way this time. "Gilligan! By the time I'm done with you you'll need a tsunami to wash the mud off!"

"That's the idea, Skipper," Gilligan murmured.

Mr. Howell was brandishing his mud-encrusted cricket bat like a battle axe. "Gilligan! You're in for a dunking you won't forget, by George!"

The women had hiked up their long, muddy skirts and were flapping along like mud-hens. "My beautiful garden party!" Mrs. Howell cried. "My splendid recital! It took me so long to memorize that poem!"

"A mud-bath is one thing, but not with my clothes on!" shouted Ginger. "Gilligan!"

"Gilligan! You're going to look like the mammoth from the La Brea Tar Pits: complete with tar!" shouted the slim slime-covered figure that ran behind her.

Mary Ann hurried along behind the Professor, clutching her white straw hat to her head. She saw a flash of white shoot up into the hill as Gilligan began his ascent. Turning, she flashed a brief look behind her. The trees still stood and the ground was still dry land, but time was running out. "Run, Gilligan," she whispered. "For all our sakes!"

Gilligan sped up the hill, sneakers fairly flying over the grass. He kept his eyes on the mountain ahead, desperate to reach it, but still had to turn and make certain he was not going too fast. Yes, good – they were stumbling up the hill now, still shouting, and Mary Ann's dainty form was fluttering like a white butterfly behind them. He turned and raced up still further.

"Come back here!"

"You won't get away!

The ground was steep and the grass still slippery from the recent rains, and when Gilligan slipped and nearly fell sprawling, a fierce cheer rose behind him. But he threw out his hands and pushed off the ground again, charging up still higher as he glanced back and saw that his pursuers had gained on him. He couldn't risk another such mistake. If they caught him, he was finished. So were they.

Mary Ann's heart had leapt into her mouth when she saw Gilligan go down. She knew her friends would never actually hurt him, but the last thing any of them needed now was a trip back the mudhole. They had to keep moving. She darted ahead, outdistancing the pack, determined that if Gilligan should fall again she would be there to help him - or to shield him - if need be.

The slope was starting to tell on the castaways. They were getting tired, staggering and slipping and groaning. When Gilligan turned again, he saw with horror that they had actually stopped.

"Hey! What's the matter?" he shouted. There was a flurry of white and Mary Ann raced up beside him. "They're too tired, Gilligan! They can't run anymore!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," the Skipper wheezed. "…not worth it. Got to come down…sometime."

"They've got to run more!" It was time for desperate measures. Gilligan shouted down at the slimy band. "Hey! You know what?"

"What?" came a weary chorus.

"I knew all along there wasn't any ship there!"

Mary Ann stared at Gilligan, aghast.

"And I knew the mud-hole was there too!" he taunted. "That'll teach you! Ha ha! And you always say my name will be mud!"

Gilligan saw five pairs of eyes in five muddy faces slowly turn up at him. Gilligan took Mary Ann's hand. "That did it. Now, Mary Ann. As fast as you can!"

They turned and fled up the hill as a war-cry rose behind them that made the wail of the Marubi sound like a Sunday school choir. Up and up they ran, hearts pounding, their white figures brilliant against the emerald green. At last they reached the top of the hill, and as they crested it Gilligan gave a deep groan of dismay.

Mary Ann saw why. The mountain beyond was a nearly sheer wall of hardened lava, crusted over with green bush. There was no way they could even reach it, much less climb it. The only shelter in sight was a small stand of bush and palm trees that clung to the summit of the hill. They had come to the end of the line.

Mary Ann and Gilligan turned to face their pursuers. And over the wild roar of the chase came another roar: the deep, surging roar of water. The young pair's eyes grew wide and they clutched each other instinctively, faces drawn with horror.

The mud-covered Skipper was the first to reach them. When he saw their expressions, he blinked in surprise. Then, in spite of himself, he began to laugh. "Oh, for heaven's sake, you two! What's with those faces? What do I look like, King Kong? Come on, now. You're not in any danger!"

"Oh no?" Mary's face was as white as her sweater. She pointed behind them to the jungle, and the sea.

The castaways turned. Mrs. Howell peered curiously at the vasty deep, lifting her muddy veil with her dripping brown glove. "Thurston dear, what's that great mountain doing just offshore? Why is the top of it all white? Why is it coming towards us?"

"That's not a mountain, Mrs. Howell," whispered Gilligan. "That's a wave."