Off these trees he would bring in a splendid supply of fruit of strange look, but often delicious quality, and nothing delighted Mark more than a journey to one or other of these sylvan stores.
Upon this special day Mark had to take charge of the camp, for a rule was made never to leave the ladies entirely alone. The island, as far as they could make out, was uninhabited, the strange noises heard occasionally being invariably attributed to the volcano; but there was the possibility of danger coming from without, and it was considered advisable that someone should always stay to be on the watch.
Mark had been wandering listlessly about for some time wishing he could fish, or shoot, or collect insects—though he might easily have done the latter, for an abundance of beautiful butterflies came from the forest to settle wherever the skins of fruit were thrown. But he wanted to be free, and it was tiresome, he thought, to be so useless and do nothing better than to idle about the camp and watch the cooking—a tantalising matter when you could not eat.
It was getting toward afternoon when Bruff, who was with him, lying on the sand with his eyes shut and shaking his ears to keep out the flies, suddenly sprang up and uttered a low growl.
“What is it, old boy?” cried Mark.
Another growl, and a short snapping bark, which was answered by a chattering noise, told that the monkey was coming, and he appeared soon after followed by the stowaway.
Something was evidently wrong, for the man was waving his hand wildly, and beckoning to him to come.
Mark ran to meet him, to see, as he drew nearer, that Jimpny’s face and hands were bleeding and his shirt hanging in strips from his shoulders, while his staring eyes and open mouth showed him to be suffering from excess of terror.
“Why, David, what’s the matter?” cried Mark as he ran up to him, the stowaway sinking down upon the sand unable to answer, and his breath coming and going with a hoarse roaring noise that was terrible.
“Can’t you speak?” cried Mark. “What is the matter?”