“Are you willing to be eaten by a cannibal?” I asked, and he got a puzzled look in his eyes. “There’re cannibals over there on that island—one, anyway—a great big fat barrel-shaped one that—”
Poetry’s fist shot forward and socked me in my ribs, which didn’t have any fat on them, and I grunted and stopped talking at the same time. “We’re going to play Robinson Crusoe,” Poetry said, “and whoever goes’ll have to be willing to do everything I say—I mean everything Bill says.”
“Please,” Dragonfly said. “I’ll do anything.”
Well that was a promise, but Poetry wasn’t satisfied. He pretended he wanted Tom Till to go along, on account of he liked Tom a lot and thought he’d make a better Man Friday than Dragonfly.
“We’ll try you out,” Poetry said, and caught hold of the dock with his hands and climbed out of the boat, all of us following him.
“We’ll have to initiate you,” Poetry explained, as we all swished along together. “We can’t take anybody on a treasure hunt who can’t keep quiet when he’s told to, and who can’t take orders without saying ‘WHY?’”
“Why?” Dragonfly wanted to know, and grinned, but Poetry said with a very serious face, “It isn’t funny,” and we went on.
“What’re you going to do?” Dragonfly wanted to know, as we started to march him along with us up the shore to the place where we were going to initiate him. I didn’t know myself where we were going to do it, but Poetry seemed to know exactly what to do and where to go and why, so I acted like I knew too, Poetry making me stop to pick up a great big empty gallon can that had had prunes in it, the gang having to eat prunes for breakfast nearly every morning on our camping trip.
“What’s that for?” Dragonfly wanted to know, and Poetry said, “That’s to cook our dinner in.”
“You mean—you mean—me!”