“Pshaw! that ledge isn’t more than twenty feet down and it’s an easy scramble for a sailor,” scoffed Herc.
“Yes, but if you ever slipped?”
“Well, I’d be cremated free of charge, unless the mountain refused to swallow me and chucked me up again with a fireworks display.”
Both boys peered over the edge into the fiery abyss below. Even in the daylight they could catch a faint glimpse of nature’s vast furnaces. The guide told them that not long before a love-sick young Hawaiian had cast himself into the depths of the volcano when he learned of the death of his sweetheart. In ancient times before the white man came, he said, when a chief died many of his subjects were thrown alive into the fiery pit as a sacrifice to the gods.
“Umph!” grunted Herc. “I’ll bet it’s not much hotter than that bunker, at that.”
The guide told them to follow him to the other side of the crater where an even finer view could be obtained of the subterranean fires. Ned set off by the Hawaiian’s side, listening with interest to his description of the old tribal rites that took place on the very ground which they now trod.
So engrossed was he with the guide’s tales and legends, as they made their way over the rough ground, that it was not till they had gone some distance that he noticed that Herc was not with them. At the same instant there came a wild yell and cry from the rear.
“Wow! Help! I’m a goner!”
A shoulder of rock hid from them the place where Ned had last seen Herc, but the boy darted quickly back. What he saw as he came into view of the spot almost froze the hot blood in his veins.
Straight down toward the fiery mouth of the volcano Herc was tumbling, grabbing frantically as he went any projecting bit of rock. But none of them held him.