The lad repeated the cheerful words, and soon the crackling of underbrush announced the approach of the Englishman, who, panting from his exertions, joined the boy, and then the two made equal haste to the side of the Peruvian, who guided them by frequent shouts.
“What is it?” both asked.
“Ferguson has seen something and is waiting,” he answered, then called out: “Give us a word, over there!”
A shout came in reply, and going in the direction of the sound, the three made the most haste possible.
They found the elder American standing near a mass that resembled a mound, and in every direction ahead of him were similar curious shapes.
“Don’t you think these have been formed by heaps of fallen trees, covered in time with vegetation?” he inquired.
“You may be right. Here, lend me your pick-axe, Hope-Jones;” and taking the tool the captain commenced vigorously to make an opening. The mound yielded beneath the blows and proved to be little more than a mass of foliage supported by soil that had been formed of dead timber. Within were gray, shrivelled pieces of wood, some of which Harvey drew forth and eagerly examined.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, “these are pieces of trees, almost fossilized.”
“Then we are in the right path,” said Hope-Jones. “But where is the white rock?”
“That remains to be found. Let’s push onward,” said the captain.