“We’ll rest a bit and you can bathe the ankle,” said Dave, kindly, and got some water from a nearby pool.
“I don’t wonder nobody is living on this island,” grumbled the injured one. “I suppose the natives around here are too afraid of falling into some of those holes.”
“They are afraid of the caves and also afraid of volcanoes,” answered Dave. “The mate of the Golden Eagle told me that. Sometimes the volcanoes break out here without warning and cover the rocks with hot ashes.”
“Is that so? Well, I hope no volcano breaks out while I am here.”
At last the boys reached a small rise of ground and at a distance saw the column of smoke, plainly. Dave put on extra speed and soon saw Phil, Giles Borden, and several sailors—the survivors from the ill-fated Emma Brower.
“Phil!”
“Dave! At last!” cried the shipowner’s son, joyfully. “Are you hurt?”
“Not a bit of it. How are you?”
“All right, although I had several tumbles while hunting for you. You disappeared in the strangest fashion.”
“I fell into a cave,—went down with Link Merwell.”