He headed the aeroplane on her course again after this explanation and the adventurers had proceeded perhaps a mile through the air when Quatty who, with his hand shading his eyes, had been searching the horizon, suddenly cried:
“Hol’ on der, Massa Frank.”
“What’s the matter?” asked the boy.
“See dar. Ef dat ain’t smoke ’way off dere call me an ignerent sabage!”
He pointed to a small islet a couple of points to the southward of the course on which they were heading. The boys’ gaze followed his pointing finger. Their eyes, not so keen as the wilderness dweller’s, however, could perceive nothing but a small blue eminence of land not in any way different from several other similar ones dotted along the horizon.
“Don’ you see smoke ober dere?” asked Quatty, wonderingly.
“No,” cried both boys.
“Lordy, lordy, you eyes are dim as bats’ fo’ sho’.” cried the negro shaking his head.
Frank reached into the pocket in which the glasses were kept. With their powerful lenses he swept the horizon. He confirmed the correctness of Quatty’s eyesight the next minute.
From the nebulous mass,—which seen through the glasses proved to be an islet very like the one over which they had just passed—a column of smoke was certainly rising.