“What sort? Why, information that a slaver was expected to land a consignment, and then—”
“Oh yes, and then! Well, we shall see.”
“Yes, we shall see; but I don’t believe any of the planters will give us a bit of information.”
“Don’t you? I do,” said Murray. “There are good planters as well as bad planters, and I feel full of hope.”
“I don’t,” said Roberts bitterly. “I think we ought to go back to the West Coast and watch the rivers again. We shall do no good here.”
But Murray proved the more likely to be right, for after touching at the little port of one island, where the Seafowl was visited by the English gentleman who acted as consul, and who had a long interview with the officers in the cabin, it became bruited through the vessel that something important was on the way, and after boats had been sent ashore and a plentiful supply of fresh water and vegetables taken in, the sloop set sail again, piloted by a fishing boat. Under its guidance the Seafowl lay off the shores of what seemed through the glasses to be an earthly paradise, a perfect scene of verdant beauty, with waving trees and cultivated fields, sheltered by a central mountain the configuration of which suggested that it must at one time have been a volcano, one side of which had been blown away so that a gigantic crater many miles across formed a lake-like harbour. Into this deep water, after careful soundings had been taken, the sloop glided and dropped anchor, the pilot with his two men hoisting sail directly after receiving pay.
“This is something like,” said Roberts, rubbing his hands. “I wonder how soon we shall go ashore.”
“Almost directly, I expect,” replied Murray.
“Why? What do you know?”
“Not much; only what Mr Anderson let drop to me.”