Fitts took several puffs at his pipe and then remarked: “That man has the biggest wash of anybody in this camp. I don't see any real reason why he should change collars three times a day while he's hauling logs down from the hills. As a matter of fact, what's the sense of wearing a collar at all? Most of us don't even wear shirts. See here, your majesty,—begging your pardon for disturbing your thoughts with my foot,—why don't you issue a manifesto or edict or something prohibiting the use of collars except on holidays, or at weddings, funerals and so forth?”
Percival yawned. “If Landover didn't have a collar on he'd think he was stark naked. Gosh, I'd like to go to bed.”
“Why don't you? We'll call you as soon as we get any news,” said Flattner.
“No, I'll stick it out a while longer. I say, Flat, it begins to look as if there's real wheat coming up over there after all. Old Pedro was telling me today that it looks like a cinch unless we got it sowed too late and cold weather comes along too soon. I never dreamed we'd get results. Putting out spring wheat in virgin soil like this is a new one on me. If it does thrive and deliver, by gosh, a whole lot of agricultural dope will be knocked to pieces. I thought spring wheat had to be sown in land that was ploughed the fall before. What's the explanation?”
“You can't explain nature, A. A.,” said Percy Knapendyke. “Nature does so darned many unnatural things that you can't pin your faith to it at all. Of course, it was a pure experiment we made. We happened to have a lot of hard spring wheat, and this alluvial soil, deep and rich, was worth tackling. Old Pedro was as much surprised as I was when it began to come up. Using that fertilizer was an experiment, too. He swore it wouldn't help a bit. Now he just scratches his head and says God did it. We've got fifty acres out there as green as paint and you can almost see it grow. If nothing happens we ought to harvest it by the middle of February, and if God keeps on doing things for us, we may get as much as twenty-five bushels to the acre. It's different with the oats. You can plant oats on unploughed land, just as we did, and you can't stop it growing. The oats field up there along the base of the hills is a peach. Takes about ninety days for oats to ripen. That means we'll harvest it in about two months, and we'll beat the cold weather to it. Forty or fifty to the acre, if we have any luck at all. Potatoes doing well and—Say, did I tell you what I've found out about that stuff growing over there in the lowlands beyond the river? Well, it's flax. It's the same sort of thing that grows in New Zealand. Those plants I was pointing out to you last week,—the ones with the long brownish leaves, like swords. There's no mistake about it. I took those two Australian sailors over to look at 'em a day or two ago and they swear it's the same plant, growing wild. Same little capsule shaped fruit, with the little black seeds, and everything. I've been reading up on it in the encyclopedia. You cut those leaves off when they get to be full size, macerate 'em in water for a few days, sun dry 'em, and then weave 'em some way or another. We'll have to work that out. Strongest sort of fibre in the leaves. Makes a very stout cloth, rope, twine,—all that sort of thing. Opens up a new and important industry, boys,—particularly obnoxious to married men. We'll be having dress-making establishments in full blast before you know it, and model gowns till you can't rest. I almost hate to spread the news among the women. We won't have a cook, or a laundress, or a school-teacher on the Island if this dressmaking craze gets started. Every hut along this row will have a sign beside the door: 'Dressmaking Done Here.' On the other hand, I doubt very much if we'll be able to get a single tailor-shop going,—and God knows I'll soon need a new pair of pants, especially if we're going to have regular church services every Sunday, as Percival says.”
“Father Francisco and Parson Mackenzie have finally got together on it,” said Malone gloomily. “For the first time in the history of civilization we're going to have a combination Catholic and Protestant Church. It's all arranged. Father Francisco is going to conduct mass in the morning and Parson Mackenzie is going to talk about hell-fire in the evening. I was wondering what the Jews are going to do for a synagogue and a rabbi.”
“I can't answer that question,” said Peter Snipe; “but Morris Shine tackled me the other day to write a play for him, something with music and dancing in it. He's got a great idea, he says. A stock company to use the church building once a month. Expects to submit his scheme to Fitts as soon as he gets it worked out, with the idea of having our prize little architect provide for a stage with ecclesiastical props in the shape of pulpits and chancels and so forth, which can be removed on short notice. Suggests, as a matter of thrift, that footlights be put in instead of altar candles. Free show, free acting, no advertising bills, no royalties to authors, free programs,—everything free, including supper.”
“Grand little idea, Pete,” said Percival. “Are you going to write the play?”
“Sure. My faithful old typewriter is aching to be thumped once more,—and I've got half-a-dozen extra ribbons, thank God. Good for two long novels and an epitaph. Just as soon as we can get the ship's printing press and dining-room type ashore, I'll be ready to issue The Trigger Island Transcript, w.t.f.—if you know what that means. I see you don't. Weekly till forbidden.”
“I've always wondered what those confounded letters meant down in the corner of the half-inch advertisements,” said Flattner. “It will be a rotten-looking newspaper if it's anything like the sheet the Doraine put out on the trip down. No two letters matched, and some of 'em were always upside down. Why were they upside down, Pete? You're an old newspaper man. Tell us.”