Briant paused suddenly in the midst of his uproarious dance, and seized a burning stick, which he attempted to blow into a flame with intense vehemence of action. Having succeeded, he darted towards an open space a few yards off, in the centre of which lay a large pile of dry sticks. To these he applied the lighted brand, and the next instant a glare of ruddy flame leaped upwards, and sent a shower of sparks high above the forest trees into the sky. He then returned, panting a good deal, but much composed, and said—“Now, darlints, come an’ help me to gather the bits o’ stick; somebody’s bin scatterin’ them all over the place, they have, bad luck to them! an’ then ye’ll sit down and talk a bit, an’ tell me all about it.”
“But what’s the fire for?” asked Ailie.
“Ay, ye may say that,” added Glynn; “we don’t need such a huge bonfire as that to cook our supper with.”
“Och! be aisy, do. It’ll do its work; small doubt o’ that. The cap’n, poor man, ye know, is a’most deranged, an’ they’re every one o’ them off at this good minute scourin’ the woods lookin’ for ye. O, then, it’s sore hearts we’ve had this day! An’ wan was sent wan way, an’ wan another, an’ the cap’n his-self he wint up the river, and, before he goes, he says to me, says he, ‘Briant, you’ll stop here and watch the camp, for maybe they’ll come wanderin’ back to it, av they’ve bin and lost theirselves; an’ mind ye don’t lave it or go to slape. An’ if they do come, or ye hear any news o’ them, jist you light up a great fire, an’ I’ll be on the look-out, an’ we’ll all on us come back as fast as we can.’ Now, that’s the truth, an’ the whole truth, an’ nothin’ but the truth, as the judge said to the witness when he swore at him.”
This was a comforting piece of information to Glynn and Ailie, so, without further delay, they assisted their overjoyed comrade to collect the scattered embers of the fire and boil the kettle. In this work they were all the more energetic that the pangs of hunger were beginning to remind them of the frugal and scanty nature of their last meal.
The bonfire did its work effectually. From all parts of the forest to which they had wandered, the party came, dropping in one by one to congratulate the lost and found pair. Last of all came Captain Dunning and Tim Rokens, for the harpooner had vowed he would “stick to the cap’n through thick and thin.” Tim kept his word faithfully. Through thick tangled brakes and thin mud-swamps did he follow his wretched commander that night until he could scarcely stand for fatigue, or keep his eyes open for sleep; and when the captain rushed into the camp at last, and clasped his sobbing child to his heart, Tim Rokens rushed in along with him, halted beside him, thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked on, while his eyes blinked with irresistible drowsiness, and his mud-bespattered visage beamed with excessive joy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
Philosophical Remarks on “Life”—A Monkey Shot and a Monkey Found—Jacko Described.
“Such is life!” There is deep meaning in that expression, though it is generally applied in a bantering manner to life in all its phases, under all its peculiar and diversified circumstances. Taking a particular view of things in general, we may say of life that it is composed of diverse and miscellaneous materials—the grave and the gay; the sad and the comic; the extraordinary and the commonplace; the flat and the piquant; the heavy and the light; the religious and the profane; the bright and the dark; the shadow and the sunshine. All these, and a great deal more, similar as well as dissimilar, enter into the composition of what we familiarly term life.
These elements, too, are not arranged according to order, at least, order that is perceptible to our feeble human understandings. That there does exist both order and harmony is undeniable; but we cannot see it. The elements appear to be miscellaneously intermingled—to be accidentally thrown together; yet, while looking at them in detail there seems to us a good deal of unreasonable and chaotic jumble, in regarding them as a whole, or as a series of wholes, it becomes apparent that there is a certain harmony of arrangement that may be termed kaleidoscopically beautiful; and when, in the course of events, we are called to the contemplation of something grand or lovely, followed rather abruptly by something curiously contemptible or absurd, we are tempted to give utterance to the thoughts that are too complicated and deep for rapid analysis, in the curt expression “Such is life.”
The physician invites his friends to a social réunion. He chats and laughs at the passing jest, or takes part in the music—the glee, or the comic song. A servant whispers in his ear. Ten minutes elapse, and he is standing by the bed of death. He watches the flickering flame; he endeavours to relieve the agonised frame; he wipes the cold sweat from the pale brow, and moistens the dry lips, or pours words of true, earnest, tender comfort into the ears of the bereaved. The contrast here is very violent and sudden. We have chosen, perhaps, the most striking instance of the kind that is afforded in the experience of men; yet such, in a greater or less degree, is life, in the case of every one born into this wonderful world of ours, and such, undoubtedly, it was intended to be. “There is a time for all things.” We were made capable of laughing and crying; therefore, these being sinless indulgences in the abstract, we ought to laugh and cry. And one of our great aims in life should be to get our hearts and affections so trained that we shall laugh and cry at the right time. It may be well to remark, in passing, that we should avoid, if possible, doing both at once.
Now, such being life, we consider that we shall be doing no violence to the harmonies of life if we suddenly, and without further preface, transport the reader into the middle of next day, and a considerable distance down the river up which we have for some time been travelling.
Here he (or she) will find Ailie and her father, and the whole party in fact, floating calmly and pleasantly down the stream in their canoe.
“Now, this is wot I do enjoy,” said Rokens, laying down his paddle and wiping the perspiration from his brow; “it’s the pleasantest sort o’ thing I’ve known since I went to sea.”
To judge from the profuse perspiration that flowed from his brow, and from the excessive redness of his face, one would suppose that Rokens’ experience of “pleasant sort o’ things” had not hitherto been either extensive or deep. But the man meant what he said, and a well-known proverb clears up the mystery— “What’s one man’s meat is another’s poison!” Hard work, violent physical exertion, and excessive heat were Rokens’ delight, and, whatever may be the opinion of flabby-muscled, flat individuals, there can be no reasonable doubt that Rokens meant it, when he added, emphatically, “It’s fuss-rate; tip-top; A1 on Lloyd’s, that’s a fact!”
Phil Briant, on hearing this, laid down his paddle, also wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat, and exclaimed— “Ditto, says I.”
Whereupon Glynn laughed, and Jim Scroggles grunted (this being his method of laughing), and the captain shook his head, and said—
“P’r’aps it is, my lads, a pleasant sort o’ thing, but the sooner we’re out of it the better. I’ve no notion of a country where the natives murder poor little boys in cold blood, and carry off your goods and chattels at a moment’s notice.”
The captain looked at Ailie as he spoke, thereby implying that she was part of the “goods and chattels” referred to.
“Shure it’s a fact; an’ without sayin’ by yer lave, too,” added Briant, who had a happy facility of changing his opinion on the shortest notice to accommodate himself to circumstances.
“Oh, the monkey!” screamed Ailie.
Now as Ailie screamed this just as Briant ceased to speak, and, moreover, pointed, or appeared to point, straight into that individual’s face, it was natural to suppose that the child was becoming somewhat personal—the more so that Briant’s visage, when wrinkled up and tanned by the glare of a tropical sun,