CHAPTER XXI.
THE MOUTH OF FIRE.
“Well, this beats anything I’ve ever seen!”
Ned uttered the exclamation as the boys stood on the western lip of the fiery crater of Kilauea.
“Looks like the entrance to the bad place,” commented Herc.
All about the boys and their guide, not to forget Blue Lightning with his confining rope, shot up arid precipices, wrought into fantastic forms by fire and lava. Below them glowed the eternal fires of the volcano, and the air was filled with a sulphurous reek proceeding from several boiling springs.
Not a bush, or tree or a blade of vegetation of any sort was to be seen. Against the blue sky, like a smoking factory chimney, the crater poured heavenward unceasingly a veil of yellowish smoke.
The guide told them that it was some years since the volcano had been in eruption, but that at times streams of lava had flowed down the mountain side, wiping out plantations and native huts. Far out at sea, ships had been showered with the ashes, and a pall of smoke so dense as to render the island almost invisible had involved it in a perpetual twilight during the hours when the sun was above the horizon.
“In our tongue we call that ‘Bad Year,’” volunteered the guide.
“I’d like to get some souvenirs of this place to take home,” remarked Herc. “Look at that shelf down there. It seems to be formed of some sort of glittering rocks. I guess I could get some easy enough.”
“You’ll stay right here,” rejoined Ned firmly. “Every time you come ashore you get into trouble and I’m determined to keep you out of it this trip if I can.”