“Oh, no,” said the Doctor—“not very. With a good boat and a good wind we should make it easily in four weeks. But isn’t it extraordinary? Of all the places in the world you picked out that one with your eyes shut. Spidermonkey Island after all!—Well, there’s one good thing about it: I shall be able to get some Jabizri beetles.”
“What are Jabizri beetles?”
“They are a very rare kind of beetles with peculiar habits. I want to study them. There are only three countries in the world where they are to be found. Spidermonkey Island is one of them. But even there they are very scarce.”
“What is this little question-mark after the name of the island for?” I asked, pointing to the map.
“That means that the island’s position in the ocean is not known very exactly—that it is somewhere about there. Ships have probably seen it in that neighborhood, that is all, most likely. It is quite possible we shall be the first white men to land there. But I daresay we shall have some difficulty in finding it first.”
How like a dream it all sounded! The two of us sitting there at the big study-table; the candles lit; the smoke curling towards the dim ceiling from the Doctor’s pipe—the two of us sitting there, talking about finding an island in the ocean and being the first white men to land upon it!
“I’ll bet it will be a great voyage,” I said. “It looks a lovely island on the map. Will there be black men there?”
“No. A peculiar tribe of Red Indians lives on it, Miranda tells me.”
At this point the poor Bird-of-Paradise stirred and woke up. In our excitement we had forgotten to speak low.
“We are going to Spidermonkey Island, Miranda,” said the Doctor. “You know where it is, do you not?”
“I know where it was the last time I saw it,” said the bird. “But whether it will be there still, I can’t say.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Doctor. “It is always in the same place surely?”
“Not by any means,” said Miranda. “Why, didn’t you know?—Spidermonkey Island is a floating island. It moves around all over the place—usually somewhere near southern South America. But of course I could surely find it for you if you want to go there.”
At this fresh piece of news I could contain myself no longer. I was bursting to tell someone. I ran dancing and singing from the room to find Chee-Chee.
At the door I tripped over Dab-Dab, who was just coming in with her wings full of plates, and fell headlong on my nose.
“Has the boy gone crazy?” cried the duck. “Where do you think you’re going, ninny?”
“To Spidermonkey Island!” I shouted, picking myself up and doing cartwheels down the hall—“Spidermonkey Island! Hooray!—And it’s a floating island!”
“You’re going to Bedlam, I should say,” snorted the housekeeper. “Look what you’ve done to my best china!”
But I was far too happy to listen to her scolding; and I ran on, singing, into the kitchen to find Chee-Chee.
Part III
I
The Third Man
That same week we began our preparations for the voyage.
Joe, the mussel-man, had the Curlew moved down the river and tied it up along the river-wall, so it would be more handy for loading. And for three whole days we carried provisions down to our beautiful new boat and stowed them away.
I was surprised to find how roomy and big she was inside. There were three little cabins, a saloon (or dining-room) and underneath all this, a big place called the hold where the food and extra sails and other things were kept.
I think Joe must have told everybody in the town about our coming voyage, because there was always a regular crowd watching us when we brought the things down to put aboard. And of course sooner or later old Matthew Mugg was bound to turn up.
“My Goodness, Tommy,” said he, as he watched me carrying on some sacks of flour, “but that’s a pretty boat! Where might the Doctor be going to this voyage?”
“We’re going to Spidermonkey Island,” I said proudly.
“And be you the only one the Doctor’s taking along?”
“Well, he has spoken of wanting to take another man,” I said; “but so far he hasn’t made up his mind.”
Matthew grunted; then squinted up at the graceful masts of the Curlew.
“You know, Tommy,” said he, “if it wasn’t for my rheumatism I’ve half a mind to come with the Doctor myself. There’s something about a boat standing ready to sail that always did make me feel venturesome and travelish-like. What’s that stuff in the cans you’re taking on?”
“This is treacle,” I said—“twenty pounds of treacle.”
“My Goodness,” he sighed, turning away sadly. “That makes me feel more like going with you than ever—But my rheumatism is that bad I can’t hardly—”
I didn’t hear any more for Matthew had moved off, still mumbling, into the crowd that stood about the wharf. The clock in Puddleby Church struck noon and I turned back, feeling very busy and important, to the task of loading.
But it wasn’t very long before someone else came along and interrupted my work. This was a huge, big, burly man with a red beard and tattoo-marks all over his arms. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, spat twice on to the river-wall and said,
“Boy, where’s the skipper?”
“The skipper!—Who do you mean?” I asked.
“The captain—Where’s the captain of this craft?” he said, pointing to the Curlew.
“Oh, you mean the Doctor,” said I. “Well, he isn’t here at present.”
At that moment the Doctor arrived with his arms full of notebooks and butterfly-nets and glass cases and other natural history things. The big man went up to him, respectfully touching his cap.
“Good morning, Captain,” said he. “I heard you was in need of hands for a voyage.
