Chapter Forty One.
How there was no Peace on the beautiful Isle.
Three months glided happily away, during which time there was no renewal of the earthquake, the lightning ceased to play about the cone of the beautiful mountain, and the roar from the lion’s mouth, as Mark and Mary christened it, grew gradually less and less audible till it finally died away.
It was a busy time, and seemed to pass like magic in that wonderful clime of sunshine, verdure, and brightly winged bird and insect. There were occasional showers, such as fall with terrible violence in the tropics, but the mornings after were so delicious that the rains were welcomed.
There was shooting, and fishing, and fruit gathering, climbing for cocoa-nuts, work in abundance, which seemed almost like play; but the main task was the journey round to the ship to bring stores, of which there were ample, and to commence building a small sailing vessel, which would easily convey them all to Singapore.
But this part of the daily work was the only one which was distasteful to the men.
“You see, Mr Mark, sir, it’s like this here,” said Billy. “Me and my monkey’s as happy here as the day’s long, and so’s my mates; for now, as Mr Morgan and Stowaway Jimpny and t’other chap’s strong as horses again, what we says is this here, what call is there for us to want to get back to London town?”
“Ah, what, indeed, Billy!” said Mark.
“To smoke and fog and blacks, and black-beadles, and blackguards, and colds and coughs, and no sun never shining. Let’s stop here, I says.”
“To be sure, Billy!”