a question of great moment, whose answer would have a controlling influence upon the fortunes of the castaways. Was the island inhabited? It was the reporter who put this question, which seemed already to have been answered in the negative by the minute examination which they had just made of the different portions of the island. Nowhere could they perceive the handiwork of man; no late settlement on the beach, not even a lonely cabin or a fisherman’s hut. No smoke, rising on the air, betrayed a human presence. It is true, the observers were thirty miles from the long peninsula which extended to the southwest, and upon which even Pencroff’s eye could hardly have discovered a dwelling. Nor could they raise the curtain of foliage which covered three-fourths of the island to see whether some village lay sheltered there. But the natives of these little islands in the Pacific usually live on the coast, and the coast seemed absolutely desert. Until they should make a more complete exploration, they might assume that the island was uninhabited. But was it ever frequented by the inhabitants of neighboring islands? This question was difficult to answer. No land appeared within a radius of fifty miles. But fifty miles could easily be traversed by Malay canoes or by the larger pirogues of the Polynesians. Everything depended upon the situation of the island—on its isolation in the Pacific, or its proximity to the archipelagoes. Could Smith succeed, without his instruments, in determining its latitude and longitude? It would be difficult, and in the uncertainty, they must take precautions against an attack from savage neighbors.
The exploration of the island was finished, its configuration determined, a map of it drawn, its size calculated, and the distribution of its land and water ascertained. The forests and the plains had been roughly sketched upon the reporter’s map. They had only now to descend the declivities of the mountain, and to examine into the animal, vegetable, and mineral resources of the country. But before giving the signal of departure, Cyrus Smith, in a calm, grave voice, addressed his companions.
“Look, my friends, upon this little corner of the earth, on which the hand of the Almighty has cast us. Here, perhaps, we may long dwell. Perhaps, too, unexpected help will arrive, should some ship chance to pass. I say chance, because this island is of slight importance, without even a harbor for ships. I fear it is situated out of the usual course of vessels, too far south for those which frequent the archipelagoes of the Pacific, too far north for those bound to Australia round Cape Horn. I will not disguise from you our situation.”
“And you are right, my dear Cyrus,” said the reporter, eagerly. “You are dealing with men. They trust you, and you can count on them. Can he not, my friends?”
“I will obey you in everyting [sic], Mr. Smith,” said Herbert, taking the engineer’s hand.
“May I lose my name,” said the sailor, “if I shirk my part! If you choose, Mr. Smith, we will make a little America here. We will build cities, lay railroads, establish telegraphs, and some day, when the island is transformed and civilized, offer her to the United States. But one thing I should like to ask.”
“What Is that?” said the reporter.
“That we should not consider ourselves any longer as castaways, but as colonists.”
Cyrus Smith could not help smiling, and the motion was adopted. Then Smith thanked his companions, and added that he counted upon their energy and upon the help of Heaven.
“Well, let’s start for the Chimneys,” said Pencroff.
“One minute, my friends,” answered the engineer; “would it not be well to name the island, as well as the capes, promontories, and watercourses, which we see before us?”
“Good,” said the reporter. “That will simplify for the future the instructions which we may have to give or to take.”
“Yes,” added the sailor, “it will be something gained to be able to say whence we are coming and where we are going. We shall seem to be somewhere.”
“At the Chimneys, for instance,” said Herbert.
“Exactly,” said the sailor. “That name has been quite convenient already, and I was the author of it. Shall we keep that name for our first encampment, Mr. Smith?”
“Yes, Pencroff, since you baptized it so.”
“Good! the others will be easy enough,” resumed the sailor, who was now in the vein. “Let us give them names like those of the Swiss family Robinson, whose story Herbert has read me more than once:—’Providence Bay,’ ‘Cochalot Point,’ ‘Cape Disappointment.’“
“Or rather Mr. Smith’s name, Mr. Spilett’s, or Neb’s,” said Herbert.
“My name!” cried Neb, showing his white teeth.
“Why not?” replied Pencroff, “‘Port Neb’ would sound first-rate! And ‘Cape Gideon’—”
“I would rather have names, taken from our country,” said the reporter, “which will recall America to us.”
“Yes,” said Smith, “the principal features, the bays and seas should be so named. For instance, let us call the great bay to the east Union Bay, the southern indentation Washington Bay, the mountain on which we are standing Mount Franklin, the lake beneath our feet Lake Grant. These names will recall our country and the great citizens who have honored it; but for the smaller features, let us choose names which will suggest their especial configuration. These will remain in our memory and be more convenient at the same time. The shape of the island is so peculiar that we shall have no trouble in finding appropriate names. The streams, the creeks, and the forest regions yet to be discovered we will baptize as they come. What say you, my friends?”
The engineer’s proposal was unanimously applauded. The inland bay unrolled like a map before their eyes, and they had only to name the features of its contour and relief. Spilett would put down the names over the proper places, and the geographical nomenclature of the island would be complete. First, they named the two bays and the mountain as the engineer had suggested.
“Now,” said the reporter, “to that peninsula projecting from the southwest I propose to give the name of Serpentine Peninsula, and to call the twisted curve at the termination of it Reptile End, for it is just like a snake’s tail.”
“Motion carried,” said the engineer.
“And the other extremity of the island,” said Herbert, “the gulf so like an open pair of jaws, let us call it Shark Gulf.”
“Good enough,” said Pencroff, “and we may complete the figure by calling the two sides of the gulf Mandible Cape.”
“But there are two capes,” observed the reporter.
“Well, we will have them North Mandible and South Mandible.”
“I’ve put them down,” said Spilett.
“Now we must name the southwestern extremity of the island,” said Pencroff.
“You mean the end of Union Bay?” asked. Herbert.
“Claw Cape,” suggested Neb, who wished to have his turn as godfather. And he had chosen an excellent name; for this Cape was very like the powerful claw of the fantastic animal to which they had compared the island. Pencroff was enchanted with the turn things were taking, and their active imaginations soon supplied other names. The river which furnished them with fresh water, and near which the balloon had cast them on shore, they called the Mercy, in gratitude
