"We'll be careful," answered Dave, and off the pair set, never dreaming of the strange adventure and the grave peril in store for them.
CHAPTER VIII
A DISASTROUS HUNT
The island of San Murio is not over six miles wide by twenty miles long. It is composed of two lines of hills, with a deep valley between. The hills are rocky and much broken, and there are numerous waterfalls and tiny brooks, as well as cliffs and caverns. The growth of trees and underwood is dense, and Dave and his friend had frequently all they could do to push their way along.
Both were in fine spirits, and Bob was inclined to burst into song, only Dave silenced him.
"If you sing you'll surely scare all the game away," he said. "A wild goat will hear your voice half a mile off."
"Right you are, Dave," returned Bob, "However, I can't repress my spirits when I'm ashore. It's so much better than being down in the hot and stuffy engine room of a steamship," and Bob threw down his rifle and made a handspring or two, after which he resumed his walk, feeling better.
A half-hour's journey brought them close to the top of the first series of hills, at a point opposite a small inland lake.
"Go slow now," whispered Bob. "There may be goats beyond."
They peered over the top of the hill with care, and sure enough, down at the lake shore they made out two large goats and two kids, all drinking.