“Now we’re off, I guess,” said Hiram, when he had crossed over a plank that served for a bridge over the trench alongside, which was getting pretty deep by now. “Let us go straight fur thet buccaneers’ tree-sor, shepmates!”
“And here’s for the black man’s ghost as the second-mate spoke on,” replied Tom Bullover, with a grin. “I specs we’ll as soon find one as t’other!”
“Durned ef I kear,” said Hiram defiantly; “ghostess or no ghostess, I’m bound fur thet pile, I am, if we ken sorter light on it!”
“I only hope we will, I’m sure,” I chimed in, as the three of us made our way across the beach and then traversed the sterile lava plain, shaping a course for the cluster of trees between the hills, on the right of the bay, which I had first investigated.
The doves we found as tame as ever, coo-coo-cooing away with great unction on our approach, and beside the borders of the pool were a lot of tortoises crawling about; but, there was no cave near, concealed in the brushwood, although we searched through it all carefully—so we resumed our way up the hills.
As we ascended, the scenery became wilder and wilder, the trees increasing so greatly in size that some of the trunks of them, which apparently belonged to the oak species, were over four feet in diameter, growing, too, to a great height.
Nor was the scenery only wild.
About half a mile up a steep ravine, a drove of wild hogs rushed by us, nearly knocking Hiram down, he being in advance of the exploring party.
“Jehosophat, mate!” he exclaimed to Tom, laughing as he stumbled over him; “thaar’s y’r black man’s ghost, I guess.”
“Carry on,” replied Tom grinning; “we ain’t come to him yet. You just wait and see!”