The boy with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way toward the lagoon. Though he had taken off his school sweater and trailed it now from one hand, his grey shirt stuck to him and his hair was plastered to his forehead. All round him the long scar smashed into the jungle was a bath of heat.
“Hi! Wait a minute!” The undergrowth at the side of the scar was shaken and a multitude of raindrops fell pattering. The owner of the voice came backing out of the undergrowth. He was shorter than the fair boy and very fat. He came forward, searching out safe lodgments for his feet, and then looked up through thick spectacles.
“Where’s the man with the megaphone?” The fair boy shook his head. “This is an island. Perhaps there aren’t any grownups anywhere.”
The fat boy looked startled. “There was that pilot. But he wasn’t in the passenger cabin, he was up in front.”
“Aren’t there any grownups at all?” “I don’t think so.” The fair boy said this solemnly; but then the delight of a realized ambition overcame him. In the middle of the scar he stood on his head and grinned at the reversed fat boy. “No grownups!”
“When we was coming down I looked through one of them windows. I saw the other part of the plane. There were flames coming out of it. There must have been some kids still in it.”
“What’s your name?” “Ralph.” The fat boy waited to be asked his name in turn but this proffer of acquaintance was not made; the fair boy called Ralph smiled vaguely, stood up, and began to make his way once more toward the lagoon.
“My auntie told me not to run,” he explained, “on account of my asthma. And I’ve been wearing specs since I was three.” He took off his glasses and held them out to Ralph, blinking and smiling.
The shore was fledged with palm trees. These stood or leaned or reclined against the light and their green feathers were a hundred feet up in the air. Within the irregular arc of coral the lagoon was still as a mountain lake — blue of all shades and shadowy green and purple.
Ralph 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.
“I expect we’ll want to know all their names,” said the fat boy, “and make a list. We ought to have a meeting.”
“I don’t care what they call me,” he said confidentially, “so long as they don’t call me what they used to call me at school.” 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.