“And was Uncle Toby an entomologist?” asked Benedict; “did he ever really live?”
“No,” said the captain, “he was only a character in a novel.”
Cousin Benedict gave a look of utter contempt, and Captain Hull and Mrs. Weldon could not resist laughing.
Such is only one instance of the way in which Cousin Benedict invariably brought it about that all conversation with him ultimately turned upon his favourite pursuit, and all along, throughout the monotonous hours of smooth sailing, while the Pilgrim was making her little headway to the east, he showed his own devotion to his pet science, by seeking to enlist new disciples. First of all, he tried his powers of persuasion upon Dick Sands, but soon finding that the young apprentice had no taste for entomological mysteries, he gave him up and turned his attention to the negroes. Nor was he much more successful with them; one after another, Tom, Bat, Actaeon, and Austin had all withdrawn themselves from his instructions, and the class at last was reduced to the single person of Hercules; but in him the enthusiastic naturalist thought he had discovered a latent talent which could distinguish between a parasite and a Thysanura.
Hercules accordingly submitted to pass a considerable portion of his leisure in the observation of every variety of Coleoptera; he was encouraged to study the extensive collection of stag-beetles, tiger-beetles and ladybirds; and although at times the enthusiast trembled to see some of his most delicate and fragile specimens in the huge grasp of his pupil, he soon learned that the man’s gentle docility was a sufficient guarantee against his clumsiness.
While the science of entomology was thus occupying its two votaries, Mrs. Weldon was giving her own best attention to the education of Master Jack. Reading and writing she undertook to teach herself, while she entrusted the instruction in arithmetic to the care of Dick Sands. Under the conviction that a child of five years will make a much more rapid progress if something like amusement be combined with his lessons, Mrs. Weldon would not teach her boy to spell by the use of an ordinary school primer, but used a set of cubes, on the sides of which the various letters were painted in red. After first making a word and showing it to Jack, she set him to put it together without her help, and it was astonishing how quickly the child advanced, and how many hours he would spend in this way, both in the cabin and on deck. There were more than fifty cubes, which, besides the alphabet, included all the digits; so that they were of service for Dick Sands’ lessons as well as for her own. She was more than satisfied with her device.
On the morning of the 9th an incident occurred which could not fail to be observed as somewhat remarkable. Jack was half lying, half sitting on the deck, amusing himself with his letters, and had just finished putting together a word with which he intended to puzzle old Tom, who, with his hand sheltering his eyes, was pretending not to see the difficulty which was being labouriously prepared to bewilder him; all at once, Dingo, who had been gambolling round the child, made a sudden pause, lifted his right paw, and wagged his tail convulsively. Then darting down upon a capital S, he seized it in his mouth, and carried it some paces away.
“Oh, Dingo, Dingo! you mustn’t eat my letters!” shouted the child.
But the dog had already dropped the block of wood, and coming back again, picked up another, which he laid quietly by the side of the first. This time it was a capital V. Jack uttered an exclamation of astonishment which brought to his side not only his mother, but the captain and Dick, who were both on deck. In answer to their inquiry as to what had occurred, Jack cried out in the greatest excitement that Dingo knew how to read. At any rate he was sure that he knew his letters.
Dick Sands smiled and stooped to take back the letters. Dingo snarled and showed his teeth, but the apprentice was not frightened; he carried his point, and replaced the two blocks among the rest. Dingo in an instant pounced upon them again, and having drawn them to his side, laid a paw upon each of them, as if to signify his intention of retaining them in his possession. Of the other letters of the alphabet he took no notice at all.
“It is very strange,” said Mrs. Weldon; “he has picked out S V again.”
“S V!” repeated the captain thoughtfully; “are not those the letters that form the initials on his collar?”
And turning to the old negro, he continued—
“Tom, didn’t you say that this dog did not always belong to the captain of the Waldeck?”
“To the best of my belief,” replied Tom, “the captain had only had him about two years. I often heard him tell how he found him at the mouth of the Congo.”
“Do you suppose that he never knew where the animal came from, or to whom he had previously belonged?” asked Captain Hull.
“Never,” answered Tom, shaking his head; “a lost dog is worse to identify than a lost child; you see, he can’t make himself understood any way.”
The captain made no answer, but stood musing; Mrs. Weldon interrupted him.
“These letters, captain, seem to be recalling something to your recollection.”
“I can hardly go so far as to say that, Mrs. Weldon,” he replied; “but I cannot help associating them with the fate of a brave explorer.”
“Whom do you mean?” said the lady.
“In 1871, just two years ago,” the captain continued, “a French traveller, under the auspices of the Geographical Society of Paris, set out for the purpose of crossing Africa from west to east. His starting-point was the mouth of the Congo, and his exit
