LORD LOAM (stung somehow to the quick). Oh, did you? I knew you at once, Ernest; I knew you by the way you ran.
(ERNEST smiles forgivingly.)
CRICHTON (venturing forward at last). My lord, I am glad.
ERNEST (with upraised finger). But you are also idling, Crichton.
(Making himself comfortable on the ground.) We mustn"t waste time. To work, to work.
CRICHTON (after contemplating him without rancour). Yes, sir.
(He gets a pot from the hut and hangs it on a tripod over the fire, which is now burning brightly.)
TREHERNE. Ernest, you be a little more civil. Crichton, let me help.
(He is soon busy helping CRICHTON to add to the strength of the hut.)
LORD LOAM (gazing at the pot as ladies are said to gaze on precious stones). Is that--but I suppose I"m dreaming again. (Timidly.) It isn"t by any chance a pot on top of a fire, is it?
LADY MARY. Indeed, it is, dearest. It is our supper.
LORD LOAM. I have been dreaming of a pot on a fire for two days.
(Quivering.) There "s nothing in it, is there?
ERNEST. Sniff, uncle. (LORD LOAM sniffs.)
LORD LOAM (reverently). It smells of onions!
(There is a sudden diversion.)
CATHERINE. Father, you have boots!
LADY MARY. So he has.
LORD LOAM. Of course I have.
ERNEST (with greedy cunning). You are actually wearing boots, uncle.
It"s very unsafe, you know, in this climate.
LORD LOAM. Is it?
ERNEST. We have all abandoned them, you observe. The blood, the arteries, you know.
LORD LOAM. I hadn"t a notion.
(He holds out his feet, and ERNEST kneels.)
ERNEST. O Lord, yes.
(In another moment those boots will be his.)
LADY MARY (quickly). Father, he is trying to get your boots from you.
There is nothing in the world we wouldn"t give for boots.
ERNEST (rising haughtily, a proud spirit misunderstood). I only wanted the loan of them.
AGATHA (running her fingers along them lovingly). If you lend them to any one, it will be to us, won"t it, father.
LORD LOAM. Certainly, my child.
ERNEST. Oh, very well. (He is leaving these selfish ones.) I don"t want your old boots. (He gives his uncle a last chance.) You don"t think you could spare me one boot?
LORD LOAM (tartly). I do not.
ERNEST. Quite so. Well, all I can say is I"m sorry for you.
(He departs to recline elsewhere.)
LADY MARY. Father, we thought we should never see you again.
LORD LOAM. I was washed ash.o.r.e, my dear, clinging to a hencoop. How awful that first night was.
LADY MARY. Poor father.
LORD LOAM. When I woke, I wept. Then I began to feel extremely hungry.
There was a large turtle on the beach. I remembered from the Swiss Family Robinson that if you turn a turtle over he is helpless. My dears, I crawled towards him, I flung myself upon him--(here he pauses to rub his leg)--the nasty, spiteful brute.
LADY MARY. You didn"t turn him over?
LORD LOAM (vindictively, though he is a kindly man). Mary, the senseless thing wouldn"t wait; I found that none of them would wait.
CATHERINE. We should have been as badly off if Crichton hadn"t--
LADY MARY (quickly). Don"t praise Crichton.
LORD LOAM. And then those beastly monkeys, I always understood that if you flung stones at them they would retaliate by flinging cocoa-nuts at you. Would you believe it, I flung a hundred stones, and not one monkey had sufficient intelligence to grasp my meaning. How I longed for Crichton.
LADY MARY (wincing). For us also, father?
LORD LOAM. For you also. I tried for hours to make a fire. The authors say that when wrecked on an island you can obtain a light by rubbing two pieces of stick together. (With feeling.) The liars!
LADY MARY. And all this time you thought there was no one on the island but yourself?
LORD LOAM. I thought so until this morning. I was searching the pools for little fishes, which I caught in my hat, when suddenly I saw before me--on the sand--
CATHERINE. What?
LORD LOAM. A hairpin.