It was slow work cutting grass with a clasp-knife; tearing it up in handfuls was still slower, but the labour warmed the tired explorers, and when they lay down again under this Adam-an’-Eveic bedding, they fell asleep almost immediately, and did not waken till the sun was pretty well up in the eastern sky.
“Breakfast fust,” said Slag, on completing a tremendous stretch and yawn. “It’s always bin my way since I was a babby—business first; pleasure to foller. Grub is business, an’ work is pleasure—leastwise, it ought to be to any man who’s rated ‘A. One’ on the ship’s books. Hallo! sorrowful-monkey-face, clap a stopper on yer nose an’ tumble up,—d’ye hear?”
Mitford did not hear, but a touch of Slag’s toe caused him to feel and to rise.
O’Connor was already astir, preparing breakfast. Cold boiled mussels and a bit of pork may be good food, but it is not appetising. Consequently they did not linger long over the meal, but were soon striding up the mountain-side rejoicing in the fresh air and sunshine.
There was a certain phase in John Mitford’s character which had not yet been discovered by his friends, and was known only to his wife. He was romantic—powerfully so. To wander through unknown lands and be a discoverer had been the dream of his youth. He was naturally reticent, and had never said so to any one but Peggy, who, being the reverse of romantic, was somewhat awe-stricken by the discovery, and, in an imbecile way, encouraged him to hope that, “one of these days he’d ’ave ’is desires gratified, as there was nothink to prevent ’im from goin’ to Novazealand—if that was the right way to pronounce it—or to Van Demons land—not in a sinful way of course, for they had given up transportin’ people there now—though wherever they transported ’em to she couldn’t imagine—anyhow, there was nothink to prevent his tryin’.” And John did try, which was the primary cause of his being a member of the exploring party now under consideration.
Influenced by his romantic spirit, Mitford betrayed a troublesome tendency to wander from his comrades in pursuit of the Unknown. O’Connor, with the straightforward simplicity of his nation, set it down to pig-headedness. Slag, being a man of feeling, opined that it was absence of mind.
“The spalpeen! he’s off again,” said O’Connor, turning round as they halted to rest a minute, after breasting the hill for half-an-hour. “Hallo, John! Where are ye, boy?”
“Here—all right,” shouted a voice in the distance, “I’m exploring behind the knoll here. Go ahead; I’ll meet ye at the top o’ the hill.”
By that time they were within about an hour’s walk of the highest ridge of the island, so they pushed on without delay, expecting to find their lugubrious friend there before them, or not far behind them. It turned out as had been supposed. The mountain ridge formed the summit of the great precipice along the foot of which they had sailed after quitting the cavern, or, as they had come to call it, the wreck-cave. For some time the two stood on the giddy edge, looking in silence on the tremendous depths below, and the sublime spectacle of illimitable sea beyond, with its myriad facets gleaming in the sunshine.
Then they bethought them of their comrade, and turned back to look for him; hallooing now and then as they went, and expecting every moment to see him emerge from one of the gorges that led to the ridge. But there was no answering shout or any sign of his having been there. Soon, becoming anxious and then alarmed, the two men set to work in earnest to search for their lost comrade, but they sought in vain. Returning to the spot where they had last heard his voice, they continued the search in that direction, and made the rocks echo with their shouting. Still no John Mitford was to be found, and the curious thing was that there seemed to be no very rugged or precipitous formation of land where he could easily have met with an accident. At last, evening approached.