Were there three Solomon Johns?
No; it was Solomon John and the two other little boys—but grown so that they were no longer little boys. Even Mrs. Peterkin was unable to recognize them at first. But the tones of their voices, their ways, were as natural as ever. Each had a banana in his hand, and pockets stuffed with oranges.
Questions and answers interrupted each other in a most confusing manner:—
"Are you the little boys?"
"Where have you been?"
"Did you go to Vesuvius?"
"How did you get away?"
"Why didn't you come sooner?"
"Our India-rubber boots stuck in the hot lava."
"Have you been there all this time?"