The huge tame tortoises were a source of endless amusement to the Crusoes. They even managed to domesticate them. Two of these especially were great pets and favourites. Both were old males—bulls Bernard called them; and there is really no saying how long they might not have crawled about the island—probably a hundred years if not two. Tortoises are animals that take life wondrously easy. They never hurry, and most assuredly never worry; and thus they manage to exist for a whole century, and live happy ever afterwards.
One would think that during such a long innings the Galapagos tortoise would amass a vast deal of wisdom. Perhaps they do; but, if so, they keep it to themselves. They seem to know that silence is golden, and consequently stick to it. These two giants, Peter and John the Crusoes called them, knew well enough what was good for them; and that is more than some boys do. Their food was collected for them, and they stopped eating at once when nature was satisfied; and they never touched anything that was left, a second time. If stale food were offered to them, they snorted and drew in their heads at once; but as soon as the half-dry stuff was taken away, and some nice juicy morsels of cacti placed about a yard off, out came the heads again. Not quickly; O, no, they did not even hurry themselves in putting their heads out; though they always managed to draw them in with a jerk
when offended. Black Tom was their particular aversion. I cannot understand why, but as soon as he appeared, “Pshaw!” they would shout, and in went their heads in a moment; and away Black Tom would fly, with his tail on end and like a bottle brush. The cat could growl and hiss pretty well himself; but not in the terribly startling way the tortoises did. John was the better-natured of these two race-horses. That is the reason they call him John. The other was a little crotchety so they called him Peter. Peter did not like anyone to point a stick or even a finger at him. If you did so, you offended him at once. “Pshaw!” he would cry, and draw in his head, and one could not help feeling mean. But you might have pointed a finger all day long at John, and he would not have troubled himself.
Is it possible, I wonder, for huge ungainly monsters like these to possess affection? I myself believe it is; and that John grew really fond of Tom. For sometimes after eating his dinner, instead of drawing in his neck and going quickly to sleep as his brother Peter did, John started looking or staring at Tom, if he happened to be lying reading out of doors. It was a long, steady, stony stare, that lasted for perhaps half an hour at a time. Bernard used to say that he saw a smile on John’s face; but Tom would not admit that. However, there was no mistake about the staring; for Tom used to shift his position, and the head and neck followed him slowly round. But John never turned his body round. That would have been far too much trouble. When Tom got tired of being stared at like this he used to call for pussy. That was enough for John. “Pshaw!” he would cry, and in would go the neck.
. . . . . . .
In about a month’s time Bernard Herbert, though still dressed in garments made of skin, was as thoroughly civilized as could be wished, and his English was now unexceptionably good. But though a handsome man, he was a terribly red-brown one. The tanning his skin had received in the wilds of the eastern lands of Ecuador would probably never leave it; only there was surely nothing to be sorry for on this account.
Tom had commenced to teach Bernard to read, and, partly because his heart was in it, and partly because he really was very clever, he soon made excellent progress.
One forenoon when Brandy was away in the woods Tom had just sat down to give Brother Bernard, as he called him, a lesson, when they heard a distant shout, and looking up beheld the negro boy coming rushing wildly over the plain.