“What are you going to do?” asked Courtesy. “We are going to the St. Maurice Hotel for four days—Father Christopher told us of it—and at mid-day on Saturday we go up to the hills for a fortnight, and then we hire a car and tour round the Island, staying twenty-four hours at Alligator Bay.”
“I’m going to look for work,” said the gardener.
“Sugar or bananas?”
“Neither. Head-work.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Mrs. Rust. “Nobody on the Island ever uses their head except to carry luggage on.”
“That’s why I shall find work. There’s no competition in my line.”
“You funny ...” giggled Courtesy. “Isn’t he quaint, Father Christopher?”
For the priest was passing on his twenty-second circuit of the deck.
“Very droll, no doubt,” said the priest in the voice of a refrigerator, and continued to pass. He was very much annoyed with the gardener’s soul.
The gardener waited till he came round again before saying to Courtesy, “Besides, I have to look for the suffragette.”