The Tale of Little Pig Robinson (7 page)

“Bother the cat! Get the pig back! The apple sauce will be wasted!” shrieked the cook,
dancing about and brandishing a knife and fork.

The davits were swung out, the boats were let down with a swish and a splash, all the
sailors tumbled in, and rowed frantically. And most of them were glad to row frantically back to the “Pound
of Candles”. For every boat leaked badly, thanks to the cat.

Chapter Eight

R
obinson
rowed away from the “Pound of Candles”. He tugged steadily at the oars. They were heavy for him. The sun had
set, but I understand that in the tropics — I have never been there — there is a phosphorescent light upon
the sea. When Robinson lifted his oars, the sparkling water dripped from the blades like diamonds. And
presently the moon began to rise above the horizon — rising like half a great silver plate.

Robinson rested on his oars and gazed at the ship, motionless in the moonlight, on a sea without a ripple.

It was at this moment — he being a quarter of a mile away — that the two sailors came on deck, and thought his boat was a swimming beetle.

Robinson was too far away to see or hear the
uproar on board the “Pound of Candles”; but he did presently perceive that three boats were starting in
pursuit. Involuntarily he commenced to squeal, and rowed frantically. But before he had time to exhaust
himself by racing, the ship’s boats turned back. Then Robinson remembered the cat’s work with the gimlet,
and he knew that the boats were leaking. For the rest of the night he rowed quietly, without haste. He was
not inclined to sleep, and the air was pleasantly cool. Next day it was hot, but Robinson slept soundly
under the sail cloth, which the cat had been careful to send with him, in case he wished to rig up a
tent.

The ship receded from view — you know the sea is not really flat. First he could not
see the hull, then he could not see the deck, then only part of the
masts, then nothing at all.

Robinson had been steering his course by the ship. Having lost sight of this direction
sign, he turned round to consult his compass — when bump, bump, the boat touched a sandbank. Fortunately it
did not stick.

Robinson stood up in the boat, working one oar backwards, and gazing around. What
should he see but the top of the Bong tree!

Half an hour’s rowing brought him to the beach of a large and fertile island. He
landed in the most approved manner in a convenient sheltered bay, where a stream of boiling water flowed
down the silvery strand. The shore was covered with oysters. Acid drops and sweets grew upon the trees.
Yams, which are a sort of sweet potato, abounded ready cooked.

The bread-fruit tree grew iced cakes and muffins, ready baked;
so no pig need sigh for porridge. Overhead towered the Bong tree.

If you want a more detailed description of the island, you must read “Robinson
Crusoe”. The island of the Bong tree was very like Crusoe’s, only without its drawbacks. I have never been
there myself, so I rely upon the report of the Owl and the Pussy Cat, who visited it eighteen months
later, and spent a delightful honeymoon there. They spoke
enthusiastically about the climate — only it was a little too warm for the Owl.

Later on Robinson was visited by Stumpy and little dog Tipkins. They found him
perfectly contented, and in the best of good health. He was not at all inclined to return to Stymouth. For
anything I know he may be living there still upon the island. He grew fatter and fatter and more fatterer;
and the ship’s cook never found him.

The
End