“See it! No, my lad. Only that! Look!”
He pointed as he rose to a filmy vapour floating away and dissolving in the sunshine. “You did not see that before because you fired. Don’t you see? It’s steam.”
“Steam!” said Mark.
“Yes. Look here. Give me your hand. I don’t want to go through.”
He caught Mark’s hand and stepped cautiously down, keeping one foot on sure ground, as with the other he pressed and stamped upon a spot that was quite elastic. At every stamp there was a hiss—a sharp, angry hiss and a puff of vapour rose from among the leaves.
“There’s your serpent,” he said, laughing. “No wonder you did not hit it.”
“Then that must be steam we saw over yonder, and not savages’ fires.”
“Right, my lad. A false alarm. We’re in a volcanic land, and if we search about I daresay we shall find hot springs somewhere.”
“It can’t be very safe,” said Mark thoughtfully, as he watched the little puffs of steam rise.
“Not if you jump on a soft place, for there would be no knowing where you went. But come along, I think we’ve done enough for one day, so let’s find our pigeons and get back.”