However, the story is the thing. As long as a
desert-island book contains certain ingredients, I
do not mind if other superfluous matter creeps in.
Our demands—we of the elect who adore desert-islands—are
simple. The castaways must build themselves a
hut with the aid of a bag of nails saved from the
wreck; they must catch turtles by turning them over
on their backs; they must find the bread-fruit tree
and have adventures with sharks. Twice they must
be visited by savages. On the first occasion
they are taken by surprise, but—the savages
being equally surprised—no great harm is
done. Then the Hero says, “They will return
when the wind is favourable,” and he arranges
his defences, not forgetting to lay in a large stock
of water. The savages return in force, and then—this
is most important—at the most thirsty moment
of the siege it is discovered that the water is all
gone! Generally a stray arrow has pierced the
water-butt, but in Masterman Ready the insufferable
Tommy has played the fool with it. (He would.) This
is the Hero’s great opportunity. He ventures
to the spring to get more water, and returns with
it—wounded. Barely have the castaways
wetted their lips with the precious fluid when the
attack breaks out with redoubled fury. It seems
now that all is lost... when, lo! a shell bursts into
the middle of the attacking hordes. (Never into the
middle of the defenders. That would be silly.)
“Look,” the Hero cries, “a vessel
off-shore with its main braces set and a jib-sail
flying”—or whatever it may be.
And they return to London.
This is the story which we want, and we cannot have
too many of them. Should you ever see any of
us with our noses over the shilling box and an eager
light in our eyes, you may be sure that we are on the
track of another one.
Getting Things Done
In the castle of which I am honorary baron we are
in the middle of an orgy of “getting things
done.” It must always be so, I suppose,
when one moves into a new house. After the last
furniture van has departed, and the painters’
bill has been receipted, one feels that one can now
settle down to enjoy one’s new surroundings.
But no. The discoveries begin. This door
wants a new lock on it, that fireplace wants a brick
taken out, the garden is in need of something else,
somebody ought to inspect the cistern. What about
the drains? There are a hundred things to be
“done.”
I have a method in these matters. When I observe
that something wants doing, I say casually to the
baroness, “We ought to do something about that
fireplace,” or whatever it is. I say it
with the air of a man who knows exactly what to do,
and would do it himself if he were not so infernally
busy. The correct answer to this is, “Yes,
I’ll go and see about it to-day.”
Sometimes the baroness tries to put it on to me by
saying, “We ought to do something about the cistern,”
but she has not quite got the casual tone necessary,
and I have no difficulty in replying (with the air
of a man who, etc.), “Yes, we ought.”
The proper answer to this is, “Very well, then.
I’ll go and see about it.” In either
case, as you will agree, action on the part of the
baroness should follow.
