Two hours' steam south from Singapore, out into the famous Straits of
Malacca, or one day's steam north from the equator, stands Raffles's
Lighthouse. Sir Stamford Raffles, the man from whom it took its name,
rests in Westminster Abbey, and a heroic-sized bronze statue of him
graces the centre of the beautiful ocean esplanade of Singapore,
the city he founded.
It was on the rocky island on which stands this light, that we--the
mistress and I--played Robinson Crusoe, or, to be nearer the truth,
Swiss Family Robinson.
It was hard to imagine, I confess, that the beautiful steam launch
that brought us was a wreck; that our half-dozen Chinese servants were
members of the family; that the ton of impedimenta was the flotsam of
the sea; that the Eurasian keeper and his attendants were cannibals;
but we closed our eyes to all disturbing elements, and only remembered
that we were alone on a sunlit rock in the midst of a sunlit sea,
and that the dreams of our childhood were, to some extent, realized.
What live American boy has not had the desire, possibly but
half-admitted, to some day be like his hero, dear old Crusoe, on a
tropical island, monarch of all, hampered by no dictates of society
or fashion? I admit my desire, and, further, that it did not leave
me as I grew older.
We had just time to inspect our little island home before the sun
went down, far out in the Indian Ocean.
Originally the island had been but a barren, uneven rock, the
resting-place for gulls; but now its summit has been made flat by a
coating of concrete. There is just enough earth between the concrete
and the rocky edges of the island to support a circle of cocoanut
trees, a great almond tree, and a queer-looking banian tree, whose
wide-spreading arms extend over nearly half the little plaza. Below
the lighthouse, and set back like caves into the side of the island,
are the kitchen and the servants' quarters, a covered passageway
connecting them with the rotunda of the tower, in which we have set
our dining table.
Ah Ming, our "China boy," seemed to be inveterate in his determination
to spoil our Swiss Family Robinson illusion. We were hardly settled
before he came to us.
"Mem" (mistress), "no have got ice-e-blox. Ice-e all glow away."
"Very well, Ming. Dig a hole in the ground, and put the ice in it."
"How can dig? Glound all same, hard like ice-e."
"Well, let the ice melt," I replied. "Robinson Crusoe had no ice."
In a half-hour Jim, the cook, came up to speak to the "Mem." He
lowered his cue, brushed the creases out of his spotless shirt,
drew his face down, and commenced:--
"Mem, no have got chocolate, how can make puddlin'?"