“I never saw pigs like them, sir. Why, hark at ’em. They’re barking.”
“Well, pigs make a short, sharp, barking noise sometimes,” said the doctor, whose attention had been taken by the man’s words. “No, they’re not pigs, Jack,” he said, as he brought his glass to bear well upon the little cluster of animals running here and there among the trees, and ending by darting down upon the sands to stare at the yacht. “Dogs, by all that’s wonderful. Here, Meadows, Bradleigh, what do you make of these?”
“Mongrel wild dogs,” said the captain, after a glance; “descendants of some that have been left by a passing ship.”
“Why, we may find cows, sheep, and goats yet,” said the doctor.
“Very likely goats,” replied the captain, “but I doubt whether we shall find the others.”
Every mile they passed spread fresh beauties before them, the rugged nature of the mountain scenery precluding all sameness; and early in the afternoon, when, by the captain’s calculation, they had arrived nearly at the opposite point to where they had lain at anchor, Jack had come to the conclusion that they need go no farther on their voyage, for they had hit upon the loveliest place in the world, where they ought to stay for good.
He said something of the kind to Sir John.
“And what about studies, books, and the realities of civilised life?” said his father.
“I feel now as if I don’t care for them a bit,” replied the lad dreamily. “I should like to stop here and do nothing.”
“Do you mean that?”