The Governor is making an inspection of his fort. "Good grief, Davies!" he cries, addressing his Lance Corporal. "This place is positively encrusted with grime, and there's a very peculiar odour coming from somewhere around here. Let's get things looking spick and span, eh?"He hands Davies a broom, before adding, "And clean out the dungeon, too, will you? I'll bet nobody's hoovered down there for months."
With that, the Governor disappears to his office to do some important paperwork. The Lance Corporal glumly sets about his duty.
Davies opens the dungeon's hatch, muttering to himself about the unfairness of the military hierarchy. As he does so, a ghost appears from beneath."Hullo there, young man," says the ghost.
"Oh, hello," replies Davies. "Can I help you?"
"As a matter of fact, you can, my boy. The name's Schofield, and I'd like to speak to whoever's in charge."
"That'd be the Governor, Mr. Schofield," says Davies. "I'll just get him for you. Can I say what it's regarding?"
"Of course; how rude of me," the ghost apologises. "I'd like to make a complaint."
Tee-hee, thinks Davies: a complaint. That'll serve the slave-driving old fusspot right.
A few moments later, the Lance Corporal returns with the rather disgruntled-looking Governor in tow.
"Mr. Schofield?" the Governor enquires. "What seems to be the trouble?"
"The trouble? I'm dead, old chap."
"Well, yes; I'll admit you're looking a little withdrawn," the Governor concedes, "but you can't honestly expect me to be held responsible every time one of my constituents comes down with some trifling ailment, can you?"
"Well, in this case, sir," persists Schofield, "my current condition has largely arisen as a result of having been imprisoned in your subterranean cell for three years without any form of bodily sustenance."
"Pah!" snorts the Governor. "I'd like to see you prove it!"
"Oh, this is shameful form, old bean," retorts the ghost, annoyed; "that's my rotting corpse down there, for heaven's sake!"
The Governor peers into the pit.
"Oh, come now," he says. "That festering carcass could belong to anybody."
"The trouble? I'm dead, old chap."
"Well, yes; I'll admit you're looking a little withdrawn," the Governor concedes, "but you can't honestly expect me to be held responsible every time one of my constituents comes down with some trifling ailment, can you?"
"Well, in this case, sir," persists Schofield, "my current condition has largely arisen as a result of having been imprisoned in your subterranean cell for three years without any form of bodily sustenance."
"Pah!" snorts the Governor. "I'd like to see you prove it!"
"Oh, this is shameful form, old bean," retorts the ghost, annoyed; "that's my rotting corpse down there, for heaven's sake!"
The Governor peers into the pit.
"Oh, come now," he says. "That festering carcass could belong to anybody."
Schofield is incensed. "This simply won't do!" he cries. "It's very insensitive of you to split hairs like this in such delicate circumstances. If you really insist on doubting my integrity, speak to my old pirate chum, Cap'n Smythe. He's a trustworthy pillar of the community.""Oh, very well," sighs the Governor. "Davies, go and fetch the peg-legged old blackguard."
"Right-ho, sir!" he replies, pleased to escape the cleaning.
As Davies rows away, the Governor begins to feel guilty about his brusque behaviour.
"I'm dreadfully sorry about all this red tape, Mr. Schofield," says the Governor, apologetically, "but you do read so many stories about litigious ectoplasmic entities making spurious personal injury claims. It's this modern blame culture, you see."
"Oh, I quite understand. I'm sorry if I snapped earlier, but years of solitary confinement can fray one's patience somewhat."
"Why didn't you just float through the bars?" asks the Governor. "I thought ghosts could pass through solid objects."
"No; that's a complete fallacy, as it turns out."
"Gosh, how interesting."
On Skull Island, the pirates are playing hunt the thimble. Rupert is rummaging through the weapons barrel, Smythe is checking the palm branches, Geoffrey is investigating the prison, and Nigella is foraging upstairs. None of them are having much success."You're all really, really cold!" pronounces Julian, smugly. This is because Julian has, in fact, swallowed the thimble. Being a rather competitive type, he wanted to guarantee victory by hiding it somewhere the others would never look. To make doubly sure, he's taken the batteries out of Smythe's portable endoscope, and secreted them in another of his bodily cavities.
Lance Corporal Davies arrives while the gang is in mid hunt. Smythe greets him affably."Hullo, Davies," he begins. "What brings you to our neck of the woods?"
"Oh, hello, Cap'n Smythe. The Governor asked me to bring you back to the fort for some questions regarding a dead body."
"Not this again!" the Cap'n groans. "I've told you people a hundred times: that sailor must have wrapped himself in cling-film, hidden under my bed, and died of natural causes."
"Oh, no, Cap'n," Davies clarifies. "This time it's a fellow called Schofield who claims to know you. We need you to identify the corpse."
"Oh, splendid!" cries Smythe, relieved. "Good old Schofers; I was wondering where he'd got to. Come along Geoffrey, this will be a formative experience for you."
Geoffrey doesn't look convinced.
Before long, the men arrive back at the fort."Smythe, you old ruffian!" exclaims Schofield.
"Schofers! You're looking fit as a fiddle!"
"Well, as much as I hate to grumble, I've been better. The Governor here tossed me into his wretched oubliette three years ago, and sure enough, il m'a oublié. Now - not to put too fine a point on it - I'm utterly deceased, old chap."
"Ah, yes," muses Smythe, "you do look a little off-colour, now you come to mention it."
"Right!" interrupts the Governor, clapping his hands conclusively. "There'll be plenty of time for pleasantries later, but for now I need you chaps to take a look at this cadaver."
So Smythe and Geoffrey inspect the remains."My word!" curses the Cap'n, recoiling from the assault on his senses. "That thing is maggot-infested, putting out an ungodly stench, and barely recognisable as human." He pauses before delivering the inevitable punchline: "That's Schofers, all right!"
Geoffrey is wondering if his therapist can squeeze him in for an extra appointment this week.
The formalities dealt with, Lance Corporal Davies offers Schofield and the pirates a lift home."Gosh," blushes the Governor, "this is all very embarrassing. I'll have a word with my solicitor and see if we can't come to some sort of arrangement."
"Oh, what I really want is for some good to come out of this situation," declares Schofield magnanimously. "How about an independent inquiry into your prison procedures, so that this can never happen again?"
"Right you are," agrees the Governor, gratefully.
"Additionally, I'm suing you for a seven figure sum," adds the ghoul. "See you in court, you incompetent nincompoop."
The Governor's melancholy face becomes a tiny speck on the horizon as Davies rows the boat out to sea.
"Additionally, I'm suing you for a seven figure sum," adds the ghoul. "See you in court, you incompetent nincompoop."
The Governor's melancholy face becomes a tiny speck on the horizon as Davies rows the boat out to sea.
The party arrives back at Skull Island to find the thimble hunt still in full flow.Smythe introduces their guest. "Jules, Rupert, Nigella; I'd like you to meet my old pal Schofield. He's dead, would you credit it? "
There is a general murmur of pleased-to-meet-yous.
"Perhaps you can help us, Mr. Schofield," Nigella proposes. "We've been scavenging for Julian's blasted thimble all day, and we're no nearer to finding it now than we were this morning."
"Ah, well, perhaps I can be of some assistance, my dear," says the ghost. "One of the advantages of abandoning one's Earthly bodily limitations is that one becomes much more sensitive to the whole range of the electromagnetic spectrum. Let me see if I can discover anything using x-ray vision."
"Ooh, this is just like Smallville!" Nigella says.
For legal reasons, this is nothing like Smallville.
Schofield furrows his brow, and scans the local area for unusual metallic objects. When his gaze reaches Julian's abdomen, he cries out triumphantly.
"A-ha! There's the little blighter, nestling about halfway through your companion's small intestine! Judging by its striking opacity, I'd say that thimble must be made from at least seventy per cent lead. Most unusual."
"A-ha! There's the little blighter, nestling about halfway through your companion's small intestine! Judging by its striking opacity, I'd say that thimble must be made from at least seventy per cent lead. Most unusual."
Julian has turned very pale.
"Oh, you rotten cheat!" exclaims Nigella. "A good bout of lead poisoning will serve you right."
"Yes, bad show, Jules," scolds Smythe. "Now, how about a good old-fashioned pirate knees-up in honour of our guest? Geoffrey, fetch my Rod Stewart LPs."
Geoffrey shakes his head, and scuttles away to hide. There's only so much trauma a man can take in one day.
"Silly old Geoffrey!" chorus the Pirates.
"Oh, you rotten cheat!" exclaims Nigella. "A good bout of lead poisoning will serve you right."
"Yes, bad show, Jules," scolds Smythe. "Now, how about a good old-fashioned pirate knees-up in honour of our guest? Geoffrey, fetch my Rod Stewart LPs."
Geoffrey shakes his head, and scuttles away to hide. There's only so much trauma a man can take in one day.
"Silly old Geoffrey!" chorus the Pirates.
