Explore "The Island of Desire" by Robert Dean Frisbie on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The trading ketch Hurry Home lumbered up to the boat passage at noon, and an hour later Captain Prospect came ashore, viewing life on the sunny side as he puffed prodigiously at the great calabash pipe that hung down to his Adam's apple. On entering my house he squeezed his toothbrush and clean singlet in the bookcase between the works of Nat Gould and the shelf above them, then made himself at home, muttering at the time, even before a word of greeting or the latest news of World War II, that he liked my taste in books, and adding that he had just read a not-too-trashy yarn by Nat Gould entitled Madame Bovary--Bovary being from the Latin bovus, a cow.
Probably Captain Prospect had taken for granted that I was at home, for he is very nearsighted and my house is dark to one coming in from the noonday glare. "I am glad to see you back at PukaPuka," I said. "Sit down and tell me the news. Is there still a war going on?"