“Then that’s the same volcano——­”

Barnett laughed softly.  “Well, they aren’t quite holding a caucus of volcanoes down in this country.  One like that is enough.”

But Slade brushed the remark aside.

“Head for it!” he cried excitedly.  “We may be in time!  There’s a man on that island.”

“A man!” “Another!” “Not Billy Edwards?” “Not some of our boys?”

Slade stared at them bewildered.

“Hold on,” interposed Dr. Trendon authoritatively.  “What’s his name?” he inquired of the journalist.

“Darrow,” replied the latter.  “Percy Darrow.  Do you know him?”

“Who in Kamschatka is Percy Darrow?” demanded Forsythe.

“Why, he’s the assistant.”  It’s a long story——­”

“Of course, it’s a long story.  There’s a lot we want to know,” interrupted Captain Parkinson.  “Quartermaster, head for the volcano yonder.  Mr. Slade, we want to know where you came from; and why you left the schooner, and who Percy Darrow is.  And there’s dinner, so we’ll just adjourn to the messroom and hear what you can tell us.  But there’s one thing we’re all anxious to know; how came you in the dory which we found and left on the Laughing Lass no later than two days ago?”

“I haven’t set eyes on the Laughing Lass for—­well, I don’t know how long, but it’s five days anyway, perhaps more,” replied Slade.

They stared at him incredulously.

“Oh, I see!” he burst out suddenly; “there were twin dories on the schooner.  The other one’s still there, I suppose.  Did you find her on the stern davits?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it, then.  You see when I left——­”

Captain Parkinson’s raised hand checked him.  “If you will be so good, Mr. Slade, let us have it all at once, after mess.”

At table the young officers, at a sharp hint from Dr. Trendon, conversed on indifferent subjects until the journalist had partaken heartily of what the physician allowed him.  Slade ate with keen appreciation.

“I tell you, that’s good,” he sighed, when he had finished.  “Real, live, after-dinner coffee, too.  Why, gentlemen, I haven’t eaten a civilised meal, with all the trimmings, for over two years.  Doctor, do you think a little of the real stuff would hurt me?  It’s a pretty dry yarning.”

“One glass,” growled the surgeon, “no more.”

“Scotch high-ball, then,” voted Slade, “the higher the better.”

The steward brought a tall glass with ice, in which the newcomer mixed his drink.  Then for quite a minute he sat silent, staring at the table, his fingers aimlessly rubbing into spots of wetness the water beads as they gathered on the outside of his glass.  Suddenly he looked up.

“I don’t know how to begin,” he confessed.  “It’s too confounded improbable.  I hardly believe it myself, now that I’m sitting here in human clothes, surrounded by human beings.  Old Scrubs, and the Nigger, and Handy Solomon, and the Professor, and the chest, and the—­well, they were real enough when I was caught in the mess.  But I warn you, you are not going to believe me, and hanged if I blame you a bit.”