The poor lads were thinly clad for a summer walk, Jock had left his plaid behind him, and they were beginning to feel only too vividly that it was past supper-time, when they could dimly see that it was past nine, and began to shout, but they soon found this severe and exhausting.
Armine suggested counting ten between each cry, which would husband their powers and give them time to listen for an answer. Yet even thus there was an empty, feeble sound about their cries, so that Jock observed—
“It’s very odd that when there’s no good in making a row, one can make it fast enough, and now when it would be of some use, one seems to have no more voice than a little sick mouse.”
“Not so much, I think,” said Armine. “It is hunger partly.”
“Hark! That sounded like something.”
Invigorated by hope they shouted again, but though several times they did hear a distant yodel, the hope that it was in answer to themselves soon faded, as the sound became more distant, and their own exertions ended soon in an utter breakdown—into a hoarse squeak on Jock’s part and a weak, hungry cry on Armine’s. Jock’s face was covered with tears, as much from the strain as from despair.
“There!” he sighed, “there’s our last chance gone! We are in for a night of it.”
“It can’t be a very long night,” Armine said, through chattering teeth. “It’s only a week to the longest day.”
“Much that will matter to us,” said Jock, impatiently. “We shall be frozen long before morning.”
“We must keep ourselves awake.”