ping over, and they've got a fire, cooking
something, I should say, for--phew! they can't want it to warm
themselves, for it's hot enough without."

They looked in the direction pointed out, and there, plainly enough, was
the light, fine, corkscrew-like wreath of a pale blue smoke, rising
slowly up beyond quite a wilderness of coral rock, swept there by the
earthquake wave.

CHAPTER SIX.

HOT SPRINGS.

"Tommy Smith, old matey," whispered Wriggs, "why warn't you and me born
different?"

"That 'ere's a question for your godfathers and godmothers, Billy, as
stood sponsors for you when you was born. But what d'yer mean?"

"Why, so as to be like these here gents and have plenty o' money to
spend in tools o' all kinds."

"Ay, 'twould ha' been nicer, I dessay, matey."

"Course it would. You see they allus has the right tackle for
everything, and a proper pocket or case to keep it in. Look at Mr
Panton there, with that there young double-barrelled spy-glass of
his'n."

"Ay, they've each got one-sidy sort o' little barnacle things as they
looks through to make bits o' stone and hinsecks seem big."

"Now, we wants to wash our hands, don't us?"

"Ay, we do, matey," said Smith, raising his to his nose.

"Mine smell a bit snakey and sarpentine, I must say."

"Steam or smoke?" said Drew.

"Both, I think," replied Panton, closing his glass.

"Then the savages has got the pot on and it's cooking," whispered Smith.
"I hope it don't mean a mate."

"Whatcher talking in that there Irish Paddy way?" grumbled Wriggs.
"Can't you say meat?"

"Course I can, old mighty clever, when I wants to. I said mate."

"I know you did, Tommy, and it's Irish when you means cooking meat."

"Which I didn't mean nothing o' the sort, old lad, but mate. I meant, I
hoped the savages hadn't got hold of one of our messmates and was
cooking he."

"What! Canniballs?" whispered Wriggs, looking aghast. "Why not?
There's plenty on 'em out in these 'ere parts, where the missionaries
ain't put a stopper on their little games, and made 'em eat short pig
i'stead o' long."

"Come, my lads, forward!" said Oliver, who seemed to have quite got over
his adventure.

"Beg pardon, sir," said Smith, "we ain't got no weepons 'cept our
jack-knives; had we better scummage up to 'em?"

"Skirmish? Oh, no; there is nothing to mind."

"That's what the farmer said to the man about his big dog, sir, but the
dog took a bit out of the man's leg."