“Yes, yes!” exclaimed Thursday, with sudden animation, “that’s us. The nine mutineers came to our island here, Pitcairn, an’ remained here ever since, an’ we’ve all bin born here; there’s lots more of us,—boys and girls.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed the captain, whose interest was now thoroughly aroused. “Are the nine mutineers all on Pitcairn still?”
Thursday’s mobile countenance at once became profoundly sad, and he shook his head slowly.
“No,” said he, “they’re all dead but one. John Adams is his name.”
“Don’t remember that name among the nine said to be lost,” remarked the Englishman.
“I’ve heard father say he was sometimes called John Smith,” said Thursday.
“Ah, yes! I remember the name of Smith,” said Jack. “He was one of ’em.”
“And is he the only man left on the island?” asked the captain.
“Yes, the only man,” replied Thursday, who had never yet thought of himself in any other light than a boy; “an’ if you’ll come ashore in our canoe, father’ll take you to his house an’ treat you to the best he’s got. He’ll be right glad to see you too, for he’s not seen a soul except ourselves for nigh twenty years.”
“Not seen a soul! D’ye mean to say no ship has touched here for that length of time?” asked the captain in surprise.