“Well, you are a farmer, surely!” exclaimed both Tom and myself.
“You may say that, but you haven’t seen all yet.”
“What! Not yet?”
“Not by a long chalk. I think the fellow whose hut we have lived up there by himself, and the others down here. Come along, and I’ll show you some more good-luck.”
“You see here,” he said, when we had gone other three hundred yards; “the reef’s cut nearly in two by the sea, and they’ve made a stiff fence right across. And, look; you see they’ve brought the water right down here too. Now over this fence there’s three or four huts, or what was huts; and what d’ye think there is there?”
“Sure we can’t tell. Anything to say what the wreck was, or anything?”
“Not a word or a line, not a scrap of paper; but there’s five graves, and there’s been somewhere about eight or so got away.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Why, by counting the bunks in the huts, to be sure. But, there; you won’t guess what else there is. There’s a turtle-pond, some half-dozen big turtles in it, and there’s pigs.”
“Pigs! Are you sure?” said Tom.