“A cheerful spot!” Brown remarked, “as gloomy a bit of road as I’ve ever seen. And how quiet!”
The other man blew his nose. “Not so quiet now,” he laughed, “but how everything echoes! What’s that? Water?”
Both men looked, and, apparently, from the other side of the hedge, came the gentle gurgle of quick flowing water.
“Must be a spring,” Brown observed, “flowing into some stream in the hollow. The darkness suggests the Styx. A match, if you please, Reynolds.”
Reynolds gave him one, and for awhile the two men puffed away in silence.
Suddenly something whizzed overhead; and they heard the prolonged, dismal hooting of an owl.
“This is getting a bit too eerie, even for my liking, Brown,” Reynolds remarked; “supposing we move on. I always associate noises like that with a death.”
“I wish it were my mother-in-law’s,” Brown laughed, “or my own. But there’s no such luck. I’m cold.”
“So am I,” Reynolds replied. “Deuced cold! Come on, do!”