We were passing a small grove near a hollow in the side of a hill, which was partly concealed by trees, when we heard a cock crow just as an English cock would do. At once that sound made my thoughts, as it did those of the others, probably, rush back to our far-distant homes.
“If there’s a cock, there must be hens and a hen-roost hereabouts,” observed Miles Soper, hurrying in the direction whence the sounds proceeded.
We followed; there, sure enough, sheltered by the hill, and under the shade of the trees, was not only a hen-house of good size, but a hut scarcely bigger than it was neatly built and thatched with palm-leaves.
“It must be the residence of the stranger. He himself can’t be far off,” said the doctor.
The hut was just large enough to hold one man. It had a door formed of thin poles lashed together with sennit. At the farther end was a bedstead covered with rough matting, and in the centre a small table, with a three-legged stool.
No one had any longer any doubt that we had seen a man, or that this must be his abode, and that he must be a white man, but whether English or not was doubtful. Miles Soper examined the matting, and as he was looking about he found a knife on a shelf close to the bed. Taking it up, he examined it with a curious eye, opening and shutting it, and turning it round and round.
“Well, that’s queer, but I think I’ve seen this knife before,” he said. “If the owner is the man I guess he is I am glad.”
“Who do you suppose he is?” I inquired, eagerly.
“Well, Peter, that’s what I don’t want to say just yet. I must make sure first,” he answered.
“Can he be my brother Jack?” I exclaimed, my breath coming and going fast in my anxiety.