Which one was it? The easternmost of the group, said the chart.
Circling that way. Bob gave a yelp like a pup which sees his younger master after he has been away all day.
"I see Dalrymple Rock!" he cried, with the binoculars to his eyes. "I see Wreck Point, too, and a bay between 'em, with houses on the beach. That looks like our number, all right. What more do you want, Paul?"
"Nothing," laughed Paul,—"except our landing field. Find that, wake up the other fellows, and I'll be satisfied."
In a moment Bob pointed out a flat field marked with the welcome white T, then he aroused John and Tom while Paul was bringing the Sky-Bird down. From a rickety old pier, also from the shores where they had gathered, a crowd of curious natives rushed forward to witness the landing of the most startling object they had ever seen. They were a mixture of South Americans, mostly Ecuadoreans, and not until our friends stepped out of the cabin did they summon up enough courage to get very close to the machine.
Among them was the owner of the island—a good-looking young Ecuadorean, highly educated, who was to look after their interests in the matter of fuel,—and the chief of police (presumably "chief," because there is only one representative of the law in the Galapagos).
The owner of San Cristobal informed the flyers in excellent French,—which all of them except Oliver Torrey could speak,—that he was delighted to welcome the first airplane crew to his little domain; that weeks ago the ship had brought gasoline and oil, which was now awaiting their pleasure in the little nearby shanty; that he and his police officer and the peons were eager to serve them in any way they could; and would the brave American aviators favor him and his police officer by joining them at the hacienda for dinner that evening?
Our friends graciously accepted this invitation, upon finding that their host would appoint a watch for the airplane. They then went with him to his pretty hacienda in the valley—a green, undulating country, dotted with grazing cattle and horses, patches of sugar-cane, coffee bushes, and lime trees, stretching away to a cloud-capped range of mountains.
Situated upon a hillock, in the midst of this entrancing valley, and surrounded by the peons' grass houses, was the owner's home. Here the flyers partook of an excellent repast, garnished with the best the island could afford, including tender wild duck from the surrounding lagoons and savory turtle soup. Then followed songs by their host, and jolly college melodies by themselves, accompanied by the sweet strains of a guitar in the hands of the police officer.
Out in the compound, the peons also celebrated the occasion. There were great oil flares, thrummings of guitars, gyrating dancers in bright-hued ponchos, merry cries, the laughing of children, the barking of dogs.