LADY MARY. Have you said that vampire bats suck the blood from our toes as we sleep?
ERNEST. 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.)
ERNEST. Poor Crichton! I sometimes think he is losing his sense of humour. Come along, Agatha.