“Who is it, Tom?” asked Dave, in a faint whisper. The strain was heavy on him.
“’Ow the devil do I know?” replied Tom; “shut up!”
The boys laid behind the fallen tree as still as mice.
“Get down,” whispered Tom presently. “Get right down.”
He spread himself out on the flat of his stomach, with his chin to the ground.
Dave followed suit.
“They’ll think we’re two logs,” he explained to his comrade.
The sound of voices became more distinct. The footsteps of the approaching unknown fell audibly on the crisp leaves, and when one of them trod on a dry bangalow leaf it cracked sharply.
Tom and Dave could hear their hearts beat.