Then Brindisi, with the mails being hurried from the train to the noble steamer waiting to plough the Mediterranean and bear the adventurers south and east for the land of mystery with its wonders of a bygone civilisation buried deeply in the ever-preserving sand.
And now for the first time Frank’s brain began to be at rest from the hurry of the start, as he lay back half asleep in the hot sunshine, watching the surface of the blue Mediterranean and the soft, silvery clouds overhead, while the doctor and the professor sat in deck-chairs, reading or comparing notes, but all three resting so as to be ready for the work in hand.
It was one glorious evening when Frank was leaning over the side gazing forward towards the land that they were soon to reach, and where they would give up the inert life they were leading for one of wild and stirring adventure, that the young man suddenly started out of his dreamy musings, for a voice behind him said softly—
“Beg pardon, sir.” Frank turned sharply round. “Don’t mind me speaking, sir, I hope?”
“No, Sam,” said Frank, rousing himself and speaking in a tone which plainly suggested, “Go on.”
“Thankye, sir. Don’t seem to have had a chance to speak to you in all this rumble tumble sort of look-sharp-or-you’ll-be-left-behind time.”
“No, we haven’t seen much of one another, Sam.”
“We ain’t, sir, and I don’t know as I’ve wanted to talk much, for it’s took all my time to think and make out whether it’s all true.”
“All true?”
“Yes, sir. Seems to me as if I’m going to wake up directly to find I’ve been having a nap in my pantry in Wimpole Street.”