“Roast, of course,” said Oliver. “You have nothing to boil them in.”
“Byling spring, sir.”
“Nonsense, man. Off with you. Now,” he continued, as the two sailors disappeared, “specimens. A little way farther, and then turn back.”
Chapter Twenty Six.
Danger Signals.
Oliver suffered from a sensation of disappointment during those next two hours, for he regretted not stripping the skins from the magnificent fruit pigeons, but, as his companions said, he had no cause to complain, for he secured specimens of two beautifully feathered birds of Paradise, of an exceedingly rare kind. In addition he had a couple of brilliant scarlet and green lories, and half-a-dozen sun-birds, while Drew’s collecting box and pockets were full of specimens, and Panton perspired freely beneath his burden of crystals, vitrified rock, and pieces of quartz. Several of these contained specks of metal, and proved satisfactorily that in spite of volcanic eruption and the abundant coral, the nucleus of the land on which they stood was exceedingly ancient, and evidently a part of some continent now submerged.
Smith met them as they approached camp and announced dinner, and in spite of the absence of bread and vegetables, no meat was ever more enjoyed than the roast Goura pigeons, nor greater justice done to the viand.
“Now then for the brig,” said Oliver, decisively. “We must not stop by the way, for the sun will soon be getting low. Mr Rimmer will be coming after us if we are not there in good time, and we’ve a long tramp yet to get to the shore.”