“No: of course not,” said the doctor; “but what I mean is, that I will not yield to my hobby this time until poor Arthur Rosebury is found. I promised his sister, and I’ll keep my word.”
That lagoon, or rather chain of marshy lakelets, extended for quite fifty miles, sometimes spreading wide, more often dwindling into little openings and ponds united by narrow passages with hardly a perceptible stream. Along this chain the boatmen dexterously sent the little vessel, sometimes forcing it aground, and often having hard work to get it through the dense vegetation that rose from the swampy soil.
Two days were spent in getting to the end of the lagoon; and landing upon an elevated place, they encamped for the night, the doctor chatting for long enough about the beautiful specimens that they had passed, and which he had refrained from touching.
“There is a remarkable flora in this region, Chumbley,” he said, enthusiastically.
“I daresay there is,” said Chumbley, sleepily; “but your wife doesn’t want us to be taking back a remarkable flora, but a matter-of-fact Arthur. Go to sleep, man, and let’s rest.”
The doctor told him he had no soul for science.
“Not a bit, doctor. Good-night;” and the great fellow was asleep in an instant.
“We are very near the place now,” said the guide, as they partook of a hearty breakfast, Yusuf having speared some of the fish that abounded in the waters near.
“But we’ve got to the end of the lake,” said the doctor.
“Yes, master; and now we must walk.”