The Argosy, Christmas 1912 — page 52: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

38 good. We've got to fight like the deuce to keep the harpies from him. Or may God have mercy on our souls.” Ordway said nothing. He simply held out his hand, and I clasped it. The guardianship was assured. CHAPTER XIX. WHAT CRUSOE DIDN'T KNOW. WHEN the islander finally appeared he carried in one hand a goose, and in the other a skin bag filled with berries. A bow was slung over his back. “You had a good sleep?” he said interrogatively. “Fine! Bully!” replied Ordway. “And you see, while you were asleep I have been busy. Sometimes many geese come here, and sometimes a few.” “You are a good shot with the bow,” I remarked. “TI must hit what I shoot at. If I did not, I would have nothing to eat.” It was noticeable that, even in the short time we had been with him, his speech had begun to improve. It was clear that Mr. Donaldson had made a thorough job of his education as far as he could go. I wondered how thor- ough it would have been if the unfor- tunate man had not drowned. “We have decided to give you a name,” I told him when he had begun preparations for another meal. ‘“ As Mr. Donaldson adopted you, you are entitled to his name. We are stuck for a Christian name.” “Christian name? one who loves God?” I was staggered again. It was clear that Donaldson had made the begin- ning of such teaching, and it was risky ground for either Ordway or me to tread upon. I explained what was meant by Christian name. “What was Mr. Donaldson’s first name?” asked Ordway. “T don’t know. He always called me Boy, and I called him Mr. Donald- son, as he told me to.” The name of THE ARGOSY. “What did the boatswain call him? ”’ “Mr. Donaldson, the same as I did.” “What in the world can we christen our friend, Ord?” I asked. “Well, the name Donaldson being established in a way to be upheld by law, I don’t think the other matters much.”’ “Still, it should be fitting.” Ordway snorted. “Christian names are so fitting, as a rule. You, for. instance, are about as far removed from a Homer as a bootjack is from a wheelbarrow. I am John because my father was John, and his father was John. Nine out of ten of my friends call me Jack when they don’t call me a fool. I knew a fellow whose first name was Florence, and he spent half his time locked up for fighting, getting drunk, and other little effeminate attributes. Where, on the other hand, you remember Jim Granes, who loved to work cardboard mottoes and book-marks. Names don’t amount to much. A rose with—’” “There’s a fire-ax handy. Don't get my goat too big. Suppose we give him his choice. He has books, and Donaldson taught him to read.” . “Good idea. Say, Donaldson—re- member, your name is Donaldson — you've learned to read.” “Tve read all the books that came ashore from the Voluna till there is nothing left.” “Well, of all the characters — the male—the man-folks—you have read about, which one had a name you like —that you think would fit you?” “Robinson,” replied the islander promptly. “ Rob — inson?”’ repeated Ordway slowly. ‘‘ Where the—Robinson Don- aldson. ‘Too much ‘son’ about that. But why do you choose Robinson? ”’ “Well, am I not? Didn't he live on an island all alone? Only he had goats and things I never had here, and a black man. What does a black man look like? ”’ ‘Great Scott!’ howled Ordway. “He means Robinson Crusoe.” CoOMmicbook CO