Montgomery’s Bank Holiday
When this was accomplished, and we had washed and eaten, Montgomery and I went into my little room and seriously discussed our position for the first time. It was then near midnight. He was almost sober, but greatly disturbed in his mind. He had been strangely under the influence of Moreau’s personality: I do not think it had ever occurred to him that Moreau could die. This disaster was the sudden collapse of the habits that had become part of his nature in the ten or more monotonous years he had spent on the island. He talked vaguely, answered my questions crookedly, wandered into general questions.
“This silly ass of a world,” he said; “what a muddle it all is! I haven’t had any life. I wonder when it’s going to begin. Sixteen years being bullied by nurses and schoolmasters at their own sweet will; five in London grinding hard at medicine, bad food, shabby lodgings, shabby clothes, shabby vice, a blunder—I didn’t know any better—and hustled off to this beastly island. Ten years here! What’s it all for, Prendick? Are we bubbles blown by a baby?”
It was hard to deal with such ravings. “The thing we have to think of now,” said I, “is how to get away from this island.”
“What’s the good of getting away? I’m an outcast. Where am I to join on? It’s all very well for you , Prendick. Poor old Moreau! We can’t leave him here to have his bones picked. As it is—And besides, what will become of the decent part of the beast folk?”
“Well,” said I, “that will do tomorrow. I’ve been thinking we might make the brushwood into a pyre and burn his body—and those other things. Then what will happen with the beast folk?”