“It is nothing of the sort,” said Summerlee, abruptly. “Now that, through the intelligence and activity of Mr.
Malone” (I cannot help quoting the words), “we have got our chart, our one and only immediate duty is to get ourselves safe and sound out of this awful place.”
“The flesh−pots of civilization,” groaned Challenger.
“The ink−pots of civilization, sir. It is our task to put on record what we have seen, and to leave the further exploration to others. You all agreed as much before Mr. Malone got us the chart.”
“Well,” said Challenger, “I admit that my mind will be more at ease when I am assured that the result of our expedition has been conveyed to our friends. How we are to get down from this place I have not as yet an idea. I have never yet encountered any problem, however, which my inventive brain was unable to solve, and I promise you that to−morrow I will turn my attention to the question of our descent.” And so the matter was allowed to rest.
But that evening, by the light of the fire and of a single candle, the first map of the lost world was elaborated.
Every detail which I had roughly noted from my watch−tower was drawn out in its relative place.
Challenger’s pencil hovered over the great blank which marked the lake.
“What shall we call it?” he asked.
“Why should you not take the chance of perpetuating your own name?” said Summerlee, with his usual touch of acidity.
“I trust, sir, that my name will have other and more personal claims upon posterity,” said Challenger, severely. “Any ignoramus can hand down his worthless memory by imposing it upon a mountain or a river. I need no such monument.”
Summerlee, with a twisted smile, was about to make some fresh assault when Lord John hastened to intervene.
“It’s up to you, young fellah, to name the lake,” said he. “You saw it first, and, by George, if you choose to put `Lake Malone’ on it, no one has a better right.”
“By all means. Let our young friend give it a name,” said Challenger.
“Then, said I, blushing, I dare say, as I said it, “let it be named Lake Gladys.”
“Don’t you think the Central Lake would be more descriptive?” remarked Summerlee.
“I should prefer Lake Gladys.”
Challenger looked at me sympathetically, and shook his great head in mock disapproval. “Boys will be boys,”
said he. “Lake Gladys let it be.”
80
XII “It was Dreadful in the Forest”
I have said−−or perhaps I have not said, for my memory plays me sad tricks these days−−that I glowed with pride when three such men as my comrades thanked me for having saved, or at least greatly helped, the situation. As the youngster of the party, not merely in years, but in experience, character, knowledge, and all that goes to make a man, I had been overshadowed from the first. And now I was coming into my own. I warmed at the thought. Alas! for the pride which goes before a fall! That little glow of self−satisfaction, that added measure of self−confidence, were to lead me on that very night to the most dreadful experience of my life, ending with a shock which turns my heart sick when I think of it.
It came about in this way. I had been unduly excited by the adventure of the tree, and sleep seemed to be impossible. Summerlee was on guard, sitting hunched over our small fire, a quaint, angular figure, his rifle across his knees and his pointed, goat−like beard wagging with each weary nod of his head. Lord John lay silent, wrapped in the South American poncho which he wore, while Challenger snored with a roll and rattle which reverberated through the woods. The full moon was shining brightly, and the air was crisply cold.
What a night for a walk! And then suddenly came the thought, “Why not?” Suppose I stole softly away, suppose I made my way down to the central lake, suppose I was back at breakfast with some record of the place−− would I not in that case be thought an even more worthy associate? Then, if Summerlee carried the day and some means of escape were found, we should return to London with first−hand knowledge of the central mystery of the plateau, to which I alone, of all men, would have penetrated. I thought of Gladys, with her “There are heroisms all round us.” I seemed to hear her voice as she said it. I thought also of McArdle.