Still ascending, and with traces of the volcanic action growing more frequent as they progressed, the mud springs were left behind, and an opening reached so beautiful, that all stopped to rest in the shade of a wild durian tree, whose fruit were about the size of small cricket balls, and chancing the fall of the woody spinous husk, all sat down to admire the beauty of the mountain rising before them, and to partake of some of the fallen fruit.
They would not have been touched if the major had not pounced upon them, and declared that they were a delicacy; but as soon as he opened one with his knife, and handed it to Mark, that gentleman’s nose curled, in company with his lip, and he threw the fruit down.
“Pah! it’s a bad one,” he exclaimed.
“Bad! you young ignoramus!” cried the major, taking up the fallen fruit, and beginning to pick out its seeds and custardy interior with his knife. “You have no taste.”
“But it smells so horrible!” cried Mark.
“Bah! Don’t think about the smell. Taste it.”
He opened another, and handed it to Mark, who, seeing that his father was eating one, proceeded cautiously to taste the evil-smelling object, and found in it so peculiarly grateful a flavour that he tried it again and again, and before he knew what he was about he had finished it.
“Try another, Mark,” said the major. “I learned to eat these at Singapore, where they cultivate them, and they are twice as big, often three times.”
Mark took another, and sniffed at it, to find when he had done that Billy Widgeon had been looking on with an air of the most profound contempt.
“Haven’t you had one, Billy?” said Mark eagerly.