Lord of the Flies | Page 2

right. Can't catch my breath. I was the only boy in our school
what had asthma,” said the fat boy with a touch of pride. “And I've been
wearing specs since I was three.”
He took off his glasses and held them out to Ralph, blinking and smil-
ing, and then started to wipe them against his grubby wind-breaker. An
expression of pain and inward concentration altered the pale contours of
his face. He smeared the sweat from his cheeks and quickly adjusted the
spectacles on his nose.
“Them fruit.”
He glanced round the scar.
“Them fruit,” he said, “I expect—”
He put on his glasses, waded away from Ralph, and crouched down

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Quitamong the tangled foliage.
“I'll be out again in just a minute—”
Ralph disentangled himself cautiously and stole away through the branches.
In a few seconds the fat boy's grunts were behind him and he was hur-
rying toward the screen that still lay between him and the lagoon. He
climbed over a broken trunk and was out of the jungle.
The shore was edged with palm trees. These stood or leaned or re-
clined against the light and their green feathers were a hundred feet up in
the air. The ground beneath them was a bank covered with coarse grass,
torn everywhere by the upheavals of fallen trees, scattered with decaying
coconuts and palm saplings. Behind this was the darkness of the forest
proper and the open space of the scar. Ralph stood, one hand against a
grey trunk, and screwed up his eyes against the shimmering water. Out
there, perhaps a mile away, the white surf inked on a coral reef, and
beyond that the open sea was dark blue. Within the irregular arc of coral
the lagoon was still as a mountain lake—blue of all shades and shadowy
green and purple. The beach between the palm terrace and the water
was a thin stick, endless apparently, for to Ralph's left the perspectives of
palm and beach and water drew to a point at innity; and always, almost
visible, was the heat.
He jumped down from the terrace. The sand was thick over his black
shoes and the heat hit him. He became conscious of the weight of clothes,
kicked his shoes off ercely and ripped off each stocking with its elastic

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Quitgarter in a single movement. Then he leapt back on the terrace, pulled
off his shirt, and stood there among the skull-like coconuts with green
shadows from the palms and the forest sliding over his skin. He undid
the snake-clasp of his belt, lugged off his shorts and pants, and stood
there naked, looking at the dazzling beach and the water.
He was old enough, twelve years and a few months, to have lost the
prominent tummy of childhood and not yet old enough for adolescence
to have made him awkward. You could see now that he might make a
boxer, as far as width and heaviness of shoulders went, but there was a
mildness about his mouth and eyes that proclaimed no devil. He patted
the palm trunk softly, and, forced at last to believe in the reality of the
island laughed delightedly again and stood on his head. He turned neatly
on to his feet, jumped down to the beach, knelt and swept a double
armful of sand into a pile against his chest. Then he sat back and looked
at the water with bright, excited eyes.
“Ralph—”
The fat boy lowered himself over the terrace and sat down carefully,
using the edge as a seat.
“I'm sorry I been such a time. Them fruit—”
He wiped his glasses and adjusted them on his button nose. The frame
had made a deep, pink “V” on the bridge. He looked critically at Ralph's
golden body and then down at his own clothes. He laid a hand on the
end of a zipper that extended down his chest.

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Quit“My auntie—”
Then he opened the zipper with decision and pulled the whole wind-
breaker over his head.
“There!”
Ralph looked at him sidelong and said nothing.
“I expect we'll want to know all their names, ”said the fat boy, “and
make a list. We ought to have a meeting.”
Ralph did not take the hint so the fat boy was forced to continue.
“I don't care what they call me,” he said condentially, “so long as they
don't call me what they used to call me at school.”
Ralph was faintly interested.
“What was that?”
The fat boy glanced over his shoulder, then leaned toward Ralph.
He whispered.
“They used to call me Piggy.”
Ralph shrieked with laughter. He jumped up.
“Piggy! Piggy!”
“Ralph—please!”
Piggy clasped his hands in apprehension.
“I said I didn't want—”
“Piggy! Piggy!”
Ralph danced out into the hot air of the beach and then returned as a
ghter-plane, with wings swept back, and machine-gunned Piggy.

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Quit“Sche-aa-ow!”
He dived in the sand at Piggy's feet and lay there laughing.
“Piggy!”
Piggy grinned reluctantly, pleased despite himself at even this much
recognition.
“So long as you don't tell the others—”
Ralph giggled