"Heat, Bill," said Rhodes. "Heat."
"Heat! Great Vesuvius, I thought that Mount Rainier was a dead volcano."
"Not dead, Bill. Only slumbering. Four eruptions are on record.[4] Whether Old He is to die in his slumber, or whether he is one day to awake in mad fury—that, of course, no man can tell us."
"To see it belching forth smoke and sending down streams of lava would be an interesting sight certainly," said I. "And I wonder what effect that would have on this Drome business—that is, if there is any such thing as Drome at all."
"Drome!" Milton echoed.
For some moments he stood there with a strange look of abstraction upon his face.
"Drome! Ah, Bill," said he, "I wish that I knew what it means. But come, we'll never reach the Tamahnowis Rocks if we stand here wondering."
And so we resumed our climb. We were the early birds this morning; not a living soul was to be seen anywhere on the mountain. But hark! What was that? Somebody whistling somewhere up there and off to the right. The whistles came in rapid succession, and they were loud and clear and ringing. I stopped and looked but could see nothing.
I should have explained that we had turned aside from the edge of the cañon, had crossed that little stream mentioned by grandfather Scranton and had begun to climb that steep rocky mass that he spoke of.
"What the deuce," said I, "is that fellow whistling like that for? It can't be to us."