(This would, indeed, be a land of pleasure for the sportsman. And yet only a month ago, I heard a member of a West-End club assure a friend that sport was played out. He had been everywhere, he said, and shot everything, and there really wasn’t anything left worth pointing a gun at.)
One dark night, while encamped near the borders of a deep, dark wood, we were all awakened by a strange feeling of qualmishness.
“I dreamt,” said Jill, “I was at sea for the first time again.”
“Something we’ve all eaten,” said Peter, “that hasn’t agreed with us, though I had nothing for supper except about a pound of that puma steak, and a few handfuls of ba-ba roots.”
“Hark! Listen.”
“Hark! Listen,” from Jill and me.
There was a noise in the distance as of heavy waggons rolling over a metal road, then the earth trembled and shook with a strange heaving motion as if water were rushing beneath the surface. The same feeling of qualmishness shot over us, and we all pressed our hands to our heads.
It was an earthquake.
The vibration had no sooner ceased than we heard Castizo’s voice calling to us.
“Come out, boys, and you’ll see something.”