Barty Crusoe and His Man Saturday Part 3

Barty was too joyful for anything.

"It is _just_ like Robinson Crusoe," he cried out. "Just--just--just!

He was _always_ finding things."

"That's the advantage of a Desert Island," answered the Good Wolf.

"You find everything when you have looked for it long enough to give you a beautiful appet.i.te. n.o.body could live on desert islands if they were not like that."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER THREE

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER THREE

When the Good Wolf made his remark about the convenience of desert islands, such a chattering broke out among the black monkeys in the high branches in the cocoanut tree that Barty threw his head back as far as he could to see what was happening.

"Why," he cried out the next instant, "they are all sitting together at the very top of the tree as if they were holding a meeting. I am sure they are talking to each other about something important."

"Perhaps they are talking about us," the Good Wolf said.

"I do think they are," laughed Barty. "They keep turning their heads to look down on us." Then he jumped up and stood on his feet and shouted out to them as he had shouted before. "h.e.l.lo!" he said. "I don't know whether you are the ones who played in the band at the Snow Feast, but will you be friends? Let us be friends."

They all chattered so fast at this that it seemed as if they had gone crazy.

"You can't understand what they say," said Barty, "but I believe they mean that they will."

"Ah, they'll be friends," the Good Wolf answered. "You see, there is something about you that _makes_ friends."

"Is there?" cried Barty, quite delighted. "I _am_ glad. I wonder what it is that does it?"

"Well, you're a jolly little chap," said the Good Wolf. "You've got such stout little legs, and you always seem to be enjoying yourself."

"I _am_ always enjoying myself," Barty answered. "I'm enjoying myself now 'normously. What shall we do next?"

The Good Wolf scratched behind his right ear, and Barty saw it was that thoughtful sort of scratch of his--the one he scratched when he was turning things over in his mind.

"Well," he said, after being quiet for a few moments, "Robinson Crusoe looked for a good many things that first day, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did," murmured Barty.

"Now what do you think we had better look for first?" the Good Wolf asked him.

"What do _you_ think?" said Barty.

"I want you to tell _me_," replied the Good Wolf. "It's _your_ desert island, you know, and you ought to take some of the responsibility."

Barty stood still and looked down at the ground, and the crowd of black monkeys at the top of the tree looked down at _him_ and stopped chattering as if they wanted to hear what he would say. After about a minute he looked up.

"We can't roast potatoes unless we have a fire, and we can't have a fire unless we have some matches, and we haven't any matches," he said.

The Good Wolf shook his head seriously.

"No, we haven't any matches," he answered.

"Do you think we should find any if we went to look for some?" Barty asked, feeling rather uncertain.

The Good Wolf got up and shook his fur coat thoroughly.

"There is no knowing _what_ one may find on a desert island," he remarked. "There is absolutely no knowing." Then he stopped a minute.

"Is that all you can think of just now?" he asked Barty. "Just look about you."

Barty looked about him on the gra.s.s and under the trees, but he saw nothing which made him think of anything new.

"Look _all_ about you," said the Good Wolf.

So he looked not only on the ground, but up into the tree tops and over them into the sky. It looked very blue and hot and beautiful, but far away he saw a rather small cloud of a very queer color--it was purplish-black and had ragged edges.

"It's a storm cloud," said the Good Wolf, looking serious, "and it's coming towards the island. Do you see the wind beginning to stir the tops of the trees?"

"Yes," said Barty, looking rather anxious himself. "On Robinson Crusoe's desert island there was a kind of storm they call a tropical storm--I don't know what 'tropical' means, but the storms were dreadful. Is there going to be one now?"

"There is," said the Good Wolf. "Tropical storms are storms in the hot countries, and they are not nice to be out in."

Barty gave a shout.

"Then it's a house we must find first," he said, "as quickly as ever we can. We can't stay in the forest because the wind roots up the trees and the lightning strikes them and they fall crashing and crashing. We must find a house or a place to hide in. Could we run back to the beach and dig a hole in the sand and creep into it?"

"The kind of storm that cloud is bringing here," answered the Good Wolf, "will lash the sea into waves like mountains, and they will roll in and cover the beach like a big tide."

"The tree tops are beginning to shake now and the monkeys are chattering as if they were frightened," said Barty. "It's very queer and exciting."

"We must get away from the trees," said the Good Wolf. "Are you frightened?"

"Yes, I am frightened," answered Barty, "but there isn't any time to cry. Shall we run as fast as ever we can and look about us everywhere while we are running?"

"Yes," answered the Good Wolf; "we had better run to a place where there will be nothing to fall on us. One to be ready, two to be steady, three and--away!" And off they both started as fast as they could, and left the monkeys chattering and screaming behind them.

There were trees everywhere except near the sh.o.r.e, so they ran back towards where the sea was.