“Oh, help me! Help me! Won’t someone please help me? Oh, oh-h-h-h!”
The last exclamation, drawn out in a mournful wail sent a thrill of pity through the hearts of the old negro and the boys.
Dorothy heard the second cry, and she, too, felt the appeal of the voice, as she awakened the other inmates of the tent.
The cry came again at short intervals.
“What can it be?” someone asked.
“Sounds to me like someone’s lost their way,” said Jim, as he and Gerald stood listening outside their tent.
“Oh, Lordy! Maybe it’s er ghost!” wailed Ephraim, whose superstitious fears the passing years had failed to dislodge. “Dat suah sound tuh me like de cry ob er lost soul.”
“Nonsense!” cried Gerald. “There’s no such thing as a lost soul. And stop that sort of talk, Ephy. No matter what you think, there’s no use scaring the women.”
“What are you boys going to do?” asked Dorothy, peeking out from behind the flap of her tent.