“My Bonadventure exists no longer!” shouted Pencroft, bounding from his seat.
“No,” answered Ayrton. “The convicts discovered her in her little harbour only eight days ago, they put to sea in her, and—”
“And?” said Pencroft, his heart beating.
“And not having Bob Harvey to steer her, they ran on the rocks, and the vessel went to pieces.”
“Oh, the villains, the cut-throats, the infamous scoundrels!” exclaimed Pencroft.
“Pencroft,” said Herbert, taking the sailor’s hand, “we will build another Bonadventure—a larger one. We have all the iron-work—all the rigging of the brig at our disposal.”
“But do you know,” returned Pencroft, “that it will take at least five or six months to build a vessel of from thirty to forty tons?”
“We can take our time,” said the reporter, “and we must give up the voyage to Tabor Island for this year.”
“Oh, my Bonadventure! my poor Bonadventure!” cried Pencroft, almost broken-hearted at the destruction of the vessel of which he was so proud.
The loss of the Bonadventure was certainly a thing to be lamented by the colonists, and it was agreed that this loss should be repaired as soon as possible. This settled, they now occupied themselves with bringing their researches to bear on the most secret parts of the island.