In a very short time they had their pockets and handkerchiefs full, the tubers coming out of the hot, dry, sandy soil perfectly clean; and thus furnished, they made for a spot where the lava rock was piled up, selected a niche, and scraped out a sandy hollow about a couple of feet across, laid the potatoes down singly and close together, covered them again with the sand, and then turned to the edge of the nearest patch of trees to gather dead boughs, leaves, everything they could which seemed likely to burn, and carried it to their improvised oven.
“Suppose the blacks see the smoke of the fire?” said Jack, as they piled up the smaller twigs and leaves over the potatoes, and Ned brought out his box of matches.
“I can’t suppose anything, sir, only that we must eat. If they do come on for a fair fight, I’m ready. Fight I will for these ’taters, come what may.”
The leaves and twigs caught readily, and the smoke began to curl up in the clear sunny air, as bigger and bigger pieces of wood were thrown on. Then as they went to the foot of the trees for more of that which lay in abundance, they glanced in all directions, but all was silent and solitary, with the beautifully-shaped mountain curving up above them, and a faint mist as of heat just visible in transparent wreaths above its summit.
“Don’t let’s take too much, Mr Jack—only a little at a time, so as to have to come again and again.”
“Why not take as much as we can carry now?”
“Because if we do we can’t put it all on at once, and we only want a nice gentle fire, and to keep on mending it till there are plenty of ashes.”
“Well, we need not put it all on if we’ve got it there.”
“But we must have something to do, sir.”
“Well, lie down and rest till the potatoes are done.”