Jack: Portrait of a Savage

Jack: Portrait of a Savage

Jack

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Lives In

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An island in the South Pacific

You're talking too much. Shut up, Fatty!!!

I ought to be chief, because I'm chapter chorister and head boy. I can sing C sharp.

A rescue fire is good but, all the same you need an army--for hunting. Hunting pigs.

About

Grew up in England.

Sent to safety during the war.

Plane crashed on deserted island.

Interested in women?

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Education

Private Middle School

I rushed forward and drew my knife again with a flourish. I raised my arm in the air. There came a pause, a hiatus, the pig continued to scream and the creepers to jerk, and the blade continued to flash at the end of my bony arm. The pause was only long enough for me to understand what an enormity the downward stroke would be.

I was choosing a place. I was just waiting for a moment to decide where to stab him.

I knew very well why i hadn't: because of the enormity of the knife descending and cutting into living flesh.

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Interests

Jack crouched with his face a few inches away from this clue, then stared forward into the semi-darkness of the undergrowth. His sandy hair, considerably longer than it had been when they dropped in, was lighter now; and his bare back was a mass of dark freckles and peeling sunburn. A sharpened stick about five feet long trailed from his right hand, and except for a pair of tattered shorts held up by his knife-belt he was naked. He closed his eyes, raised his head and breathed in gently with flared nostrils, assessing the current of warm air for information. The forest and he were very still.

At length he let out his breath in a long sigh and opened his eyes. They were bright blue, eyes that in this frustration seemed bolting and nearly mad. He passed his tongue across dry lips and scanned the uncommunicative forest. Then again he stole forward and cast this way and that over the ground.

The droppings were warm. They lay piled among turned earth. They were olive green, smooth, and they steamed a little. Jack lifted his head and stared at the inscrutable masses of creeper that lay across the trail. Then he raised his spear and sneaked forward. Beyond the creeper, the trail joined a pig-run that was wide enough and trodden enough to be a path. The ground was hardened by an accustomed tread and as Jack rose to his full height he heard something moving on it. He swung back his right arm and hurled the spear with all his strength. From the pig-run came the quick, hard patter of hoofs, a castanet sound, seductive, maddening--the promise of meat. He rushed out of the undergrowth and snatched up his spear. The pattering of pig's trotters died away in the distance.

Killing pigs

Stealing glasses

Choir

Putting heads on pikes