"All right, let's holler," and Dolly gave a yell, that sounded about as loud and carrying as the pipe or a bulfinch.
"Who do you s'pose'll hear that?" and Dotty almost smiled through her tears; "this is the way to holler." Dotty gave a loud scream, a long halloo, tapping her fingers against her mouth as she did so, making a peculiar mountain cry, known to campers.
"All right, I'll do that, too," and Dolly set up a rival yell.
But though both girls did their best, their screams were not very loud and they were followed by a silence, so intense, that they shivered and clung together in fear. The dark had fallen suddenly, and though only about seven o'clock, in the thick woods, they could scarcely see each other's faces.
Appalled by the awfulness of the situation, Dolly burst into tears, and though not as violent as Dotty's, her sobs were deep and racking ones.
"Oh, don't, Dollyrinda, don't cry so! I'll never forgive myself for losing you in these awful woods!"
"You didn't lose me, any more than I lost you. We both lost each other; I mean— I guess I mean we're both lost!" and Dolly's tears fell afresh.
Then both girls gave way and cried desperately, till they could cry no more, and with their stayed tears, they seemed to take a brighter outlook.
"If we're lost," said Dolly, philosophically; "we must make the best of it. Are there any wild animals, that would eat us up?"
"No, nothing of that sort. Nothing but squirrels and birds, and they can't hurt us."