"Ralph, old fellow, why, whatever is it? What has come to you?" they asked; and he replied in hoarse, trembling tones—
"That call! Did you not hear it? There is only one person who would give that, and he is my own father."
For a moment they were staggered by his answer; then Warren said gently—
"But, Ralph, how can it be your father? It was only the echo, old fellow."
"It was not the echo. It was his voice. Listen—try and hear where it comes from!" And once again, through the dripping wood, he sent the Indian cry.
"Now, listen—listen!" he said; and they waited, but no sound came in answer—nothing but the shiver of the trees, the patter of the rain, and the distant growling of the storm.
"There, you see. It must have been the echo!" said Warren; but Ralph shook his head.
"Do not be silly, Warren. If it was the echo it would be heard again; but we heard nothing."
Which direction did it come from? They forgot about the wet and the storm; they forgot everything in the excitement of the moment. Which direction had the cry come from?
Warren declared that it sounded as if it was under ground; Charlton said he fancied that it came from high up, as if some one was in the air; and Ralph fancied that it was straight ahead.