“Paradise, sir?” said Smith, with rather a curious look. “Well, sir, I shouldn’t have called it that.”
“Look here,” cried Oliver to his two companions, “shall we wait and see if the geyser plays again?”
“Oh, no,” said Drew, “I want to get forward. We shall have plenty more opportunities, and this forest ahead looks grand.”
“Yes, come along,” cried Panton, rising from chipping a piece of rock. “Look here, this is evidently volcanic and full of iron. The mountain must be tremendous. Do you think it is always shut in by those clouds?”
“No,” said Drew; “depend upon it they are caused by the late eruption. That tremendous roar was the end, and I fancy it was caused by the water rushing in from the sea. This is only the steam rising. Here, Lane, you have fallen into the right place and can fill the British Museum if you are industrious.”
They were now coming to the end of the barren tract made by the earthquake wave sweeping the rock in places bare, in others covering the surface with débris of coral sand, rolled pebble and shell from the sea; but before reaching the band of verdure which stood at the top of a slope, they had to pass two or three depressions in which mud and water still lay, and upon reaching one of these they found to their surprise that it was far more extensive than they had anticipated. For there before them stretched acres upon acres of a muddy lagoon, dotted with islands, and evidently alive with fish swept in from the sea.
“Hi! look-ye there, Billy Wriggs!” cried Smith, excitedly. “See that?”
“Course I can, matey; it’s water.”
“Well, I know that, stoopid, but look what’s in it. Over yonder on that bank—there close alongside o’ that lump o’ white rock.”
“What of it?” said Wriggs. “Only a trunk of an old tree.”