The Most Dangerous Game

by Richard Connell

“The best sport in the world,” agreed Rainsford. “For the hunter,” amended Whitney.

realist. The world is made up of two classes—the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters.

Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing—with wave lengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil.

He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato. “Pistol shot,” muttered Rainsford, swimming on.

But there was one small trait of the general’s that made Rainsford uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly.

Rainsford expressed his surprise. “Is there big game on this island?” The general nodded. “The biggest.” “Really?” “Oh, it isn’t here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island.”

There is no greater bore than perfection.”