Derek’s face went white.
“It’s all right now. I got him. But after this, be mighty careful when you pick a banana,” Uncle Charlie warned.
Now and again the party would pass a small thatched hut. At each one, they asked questions of the inhabitants.
“A tall man, very thin, with almost white hair,” was the description they gave of Brom Zook. “He’s been missing over three months.”
The natives would only shake their heads. No, they had seen no such man, nor had they heard of such a stranger in these parts.
For three days the party trudged up and down the ridges and peaks of the island. They questioned a hundred or more people. They went to Deux Choux, to Morne Vert, Le Lorrain, Grande Rivière, and towns even smaller. Nowhere did they get any leads to a missing Hollander named Brom Zook.
By the fourth day of the search, it was plain to Biff and his uncle that Derek was becoming more and more discouraged, more and more disheartened. They tried their best to cheer up the Dutch lad.
At the end of the day, they reached the top of Mt. Pelée. Looking down at the sea, they could pick out the ruins of Saint-Pierre. Once, Uncle Charlie told the boys, Saint-Pierre had been the largest city on the island. Then, in the early morning hours, tragedy had struck.
“You know the story about Saint-Pierre and Mt. Pelée, Biff?” Uncle Charlie asked. “You must have heard it, Derek, when you were growing up in Curaçao.”
Derek shook his head. “No, I don’t remember it, Mr. Keene.”