The Fugitives: The Tyrant Queen of Madagascar by R. M. Ballantyne (the giving tree read aloud .TXT) 📕

Chapter Twenty Seven. In which a Happy Change for the Better is Disastrously Interrupted.

One very sultry forenoon Mark and his party—while out botanising, entomologising, philosophising, etcetera, not far from but out of sight of the great procession—came to the brow of a hill and sat down to rest.

Their appearance had become somewhat curious and brigand-like by that time, for their original garments having been worn-out were partially replaced by means of the scissors and needle of John Hockins—at least in the trousers department. That worthy seaman having, during his travels, torn his original trousers to shreds from the knee downwards, had procured some stout canvas in the capital and made for himself another pair. He was, like most sailors, expert at tailoring, and the result was so good that Mark and Ebony became envious. The seaman was obliging. He set to work and made a pair of nether garments for both. Mark wore his pair stuffed into the legs of a pair of Wellington boots procured from a trader. Ebony preferred to cut his off short, just below the knee, thus exposing to view those black boots supplied to negroes by Nature, which have the advantage of never wearing out. Hockins himself stuck to his navy shirt, but the others found striped cotton shirts sufficient. A native straw hat on Mark’s head and a silk scarf round his waist, with a cavalry pistol in it, enhanced the brigand-like aspect of his costume.

This pistol was their only fire-arm, the gun having been broken beyond repair, but each carried a spear in one hand, a gauze butterfly-net in the other, and a basket, in lieu of a specimen-box, on his shoulder. Even the Secretary, entering into the spirit of the thing; carried a net and pursued the butterflies with the ardour of a boy.

“Oh! massa,” exclaimed Ebony, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with a bunch of grass, “I do lub science!”

“Indeed, why so?” asked Mark, sitting down on a bank opposite his friend.

“Why, don’t you see, massa, it’s not comfortabil for a man what’s got any feelin’s to go troo de land huntin’ an’ killin’ cattle an’ oder brutes for noting. You can’t eat more nor one hox—p’r’aps not dat. So w’en you’ve kill ’im an’ eaten so much as you can, dar’s no more fun, for what fun is dere in slaughterin’ hoxes for noting? Den, if you goes arter bees an’ butterflies on’y for fun, w’y you git shamed ob yourself. On’y a chile do dat. But science, dat put ’im all right! Away you goes arter de bees and butterflies an’ tings like mad—ober de hills an’ far away—troo de woods, across de ribbers—sometimes into ’em!—crashin’ an’ smashin’ like de bull in de china-shop, wid de proud feelin’ bustin’ your buzzum dat you’re advancin’ de noble cause ob science—dat’s what you call ’im, ‘noble?’—yes. Well, den you come home done up, so pleasant like, an’ sot down an’ fix de critters up wid pins an’ gum an’ sitch-like, and arter dat you show ’em to your larned friends an’ call ’em awrful hard names, (sometimes dey seem like bad names!) an’—oh! I do lub science! It’s wot I once heard a captin ob a ribber steamer in de States call a safety-balve wot lets off a deal o’ ’uman energy. He was a-sottin on his own safety-balve at de time, so he ought to have know’d suffin about it.”

“I say, Ebony,” asked Hockins, “where did you pick up so much larnin’ about science—eh?”

“I pick ’im in Texas—was ’sistant to a German nat’ralist dar for two year. Stuck to ’im like a limpit till he a-most busted hisself by tumblin’ into a swamp, smashin’ his spectacles, an’ ketchin’ fever, w’en he found hisself obleeged to go home to recroot—he called it—though what dat was I nebber rightly understood, unless it was drinkin’ brandy an’ water; for I noticed that w’en he said he needed to recroot, he allers had a good stiff pull at de brandy bottle.”

Ebony’s discourse was here cut short by the sudden appearance of an enormous butterfly, which the excitable negro dashed after at a breakneck pace in the interests of science. The last glimpse they had of him, as he disappeared among the trees, was in a somewhat peculiar attitude, with his head down and his feet in the air!

“That’s a sign he has missed him,” remarked Hockins, beginning to fill his pipe—the tobacco, not the musical, one! “I’ve always observed that when Ebony becomes desperate, and knows he can’t git hold of the thing he’s arter, he makes a reckless plunge, with a horrible yell, goes right down by the head, and disappears like a harpooned whale.”

“True, but have you not also observed,” said Mark, “that like the whale he’s sure to come to the surface again—sooner or later—and generally with the object of pursuit in possession?”

“I b’lieve you’re right, doctor,” said the seaman, emitting a prolonged puff of smoke.

“Does he always go mad like that?” asked the Secretary, who was much amused.

“Usually,” replied Mark, “but he is generally madder than that. He’s in comparatively low spirits to-day. Perhaps it is the heat that affects him. Whew! how hot it is! I think I shall take a bath in the first pool we come to.”

“That would only make you hotter, sir,” said Hockins. “I’ve often tried it. At first, no doubt, when you gits into the water it cools you, but arter you come out you git hotter than before. A hot bath is the thing to cool you comfortably.”

“But we can’t get a hot bath here,” returned Mark.

“You are wrong,” said the Secretary, “we have many natural hot springs in our land. There is one not far from here.”

“How far?” asked Mark with some interest.

“About two rice-cookings off.”

To dispel the reader’s perplexity, we may explain at once that in Madagascar they measure distances by the time occupied in cooking a pot of rice. As that operation occupies about half-an-hour, the Secretary meant that the hot spring was distant about two half-hours—that is, between three and four miles off.

“Let’s go an’ git into it at once,” suggested Hockins.

“Better wait for Ebony,” said Mark. Then—to the Secretary—“Yours is a very interesting and wonderful country!”

“It is, and I wonder not that European nations wish to get possession of it—but that shall never be.”

Mark replied, “I hope not,” and regarded his friend with some surprise, for he had spoken with emphasis, and evidently strong feeling. “Have you fear that any of the nations wish to have your country?”

“Yes, we have fear,” returned the Secretary, with an unwontedly stern look. “They have