No, that's all. I end up, 'Rescue us or we perish. Rich
reward. Signed Ernest Woolley, in command of our little party.' This
is written on a leaf taken out of a book of poems that Crichton
found in his pocket. Fancy Crichton being a reader of poetry. Now I
shall put it into the bottle and fling it into the sea.
(He pushes the precious document into a soda-water bottle, and rams
the cork home. At the same moment, and without effort, he gives
birth to one of his most characteristic epigrams.)
The tide is going out, we mustn't miss the post.
(They are so unhappy that they fail to grasp it, and a little
petulantly he calls for CRICHTON, ever his stand-by in the hour of
epigram. CRICHTON breaks through the undergrowth quickly, thinking
the ladies are in danger.)
CRICHTON. Anything wrong, sir?
ERNEST (with fine confidence). The tide, Crichton, is a postman who
calls at our island twice a day for letters.
CRICHTON (after a pause). Thank you, sir.
(He returns to his labours, however, without giving the smile which
is the epigrammatist's right, and ERNEST is a little disappointed in
him.
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