Lord of the Flies Read Free Page A

covered with a delicate, embossed pattern. Ralph shook sand out of the deep tube.
                "--mooed like a cow," he said. "He had some white stones too, an' a bird cage with a green parrot. He didn't blow the white stones, of course, an' he said--"
                Piggy paused for breath and stroked the glistening thing that lay in Ralph's hands.
                "Ralph!"
                Ralph looked up.
                "We can use this to call the others. Have a meeting. They'll come when they hear us--"
                He beamed at Ralph.
                "That was what you meant, didn't you? That's why you got the conch out of the water?"
                Ralph pushed back his fair hair.
                "How did your friend blow the conch?"
                "He kind of spat," said Piggy. "My auntie wouldn't let me blow on account of my asthma. He said you blew from down here." Piggy laid a hand on his jutting abdomen. "You try, Ralph. You'll call the others."
                Doubtfully, Ralph laid the small end of the shell against his mouth and blew. There came a rushing sound from its mouth but nothing more. Ralph wiped the salt water off his lips and tried again, but the shell remained silent.
                "He kind of spat."
                Ralph pursed his lips and squirted air into the shell, which emitted a low, farting noise. This amused both boys so much that Ralph went on squirting for some minutes, between bouts of laughter.
                "He blew from down here."
                Ralph grasped the idea and hit the shell with air from his diaphragm. Immediately the thing sounded. A deep, harsh note boomed under the palms, spread through the intricacies of the forest and echoed back from the pink granite of the mountain. Clouds of birds rose from the treetops, and something squealed and ran in the undergrowth.
                Ralph took the shell away from his lips.
                "Gosh!"
                His ordinary voice sounded like a whisper after the harsh note of the conch. He laid the conch against his lips, took a deep breath and blew once more. The note boomed again: and then at his firmer pressure, the note, fluking up an octave, became a strident blare more penetrating than before. Piggy was shouting something, his face pleased, his glasses flashing. The birds cried, small animals scuttered. Ralph's breath failed; the note dropped the octave, became a low wubber, was a rush of air.
                The conch was silent, a gleaming tusk; Ralph's face was dark with breathlessness and the air over the island was full of bird-clamor and echoes ringing.
                "I bet you can hear that for miles."
                Ralph found his breath and blew a series of short blasts.
                Piggy exclaimed: "There's one!"
                A child had appeared among the palms, about a hundred yards along the beach. He was a boy of perhaps six years, sturdy and fair, his clothes torn, his face covered with a sticky mess of fruit. His trousers had been lowered for an obvious purpose and had only been pulled back half-way. He jumped off the palm terrace into the sand and his trousers fell about his ankles; he stepped out of them and trotted to the platform. Piggy helped him up. Meanwhile Ralph continued to blow till voices shouted in the forest. The small boy squatted in front of Ralph, looking up brightly and vertically. As he received the reassurance of something purposeful being done he began to look satisfied, and his only clean digit, a pink thumb, slid into his mouth.
                Piggy leaned down to him.
                "What's yer name?"
                "Johnny."
                Piggy muttered the name to himself and then shouted it to Ralph, who was not interested because he was