“Do,” said the major, with a smile at Gregory, and as the lad pressed forward, “Experientia docet,” he whispered. “I’ve been in a jungle before now.”
“You can’t get through here without an axe to cut your way,” said Mark at the end of five minutes, as he stood perspiring and panting, gazing half angrily at the dense thicket.
“Thank you for the information, my lad,” said the major smiling; “we knew that before.”
“But the island can’t be all like this?” said Gregory.
“Oh, yes, it can, my dear sir,” said the major. “Islands can be anything out here in the tropics, especially near the Ayquator. Now look here: if we want to get inland—as we do, we must find the mouth of the first river and follow the sides of the stream.”
“Sure, sor,” said Billy Widgeon, “we passed that same about a hundred yards back, and the bosun and I knelt down and had a dhrink.”
The major turned upon little Billy, who had spoken with a broad Irish accent, and stared at him, sticking his glass in one eye so as to have a better look.
“Look here, sir,” he said; “you’re not an Irishman, and that’s a bad imitation of the brogue. Do you hear? You are not an Irishman, I say?”
“Sorra a bit, sor.”
“Then is it making fun of me you are?” cried the major, suddenly growing broad in turn.