Robinson Crusoe wasn't in it. Sand and flies and sun; sun and flies and sand.
“Wot 'ave we struck 'ere, Bill?”
“Some d—-d desert island, I reckon!”
“A blasted heath...”
“Gordlummy, look at the d—-d flies!”
“Curse the —— sun; sweat's trickling down me back.”
“And curse all the d—-d issue...”
“What the holy son of Moses did we join for?”
We growled and groaned and cursed our luck. The sweat ran down under our pith helmets and soaked in a stream from under our armpits. We trudged to our camping-place along the shore. One or two Greek natives followed us about with melons to sell. Parched and choked with sand, we were only too glad to buy these water-melons for two or three leptas.
The rind was green like a vegetable marrow, but the inside was yellow with pink and crimson pips—the colour of a Mediterranean sunset.