“No, sir, I don’t think it is.”
“Yes; I can tell by the touch. I am close up to the fallen tree. There, I can feel the touchwood. Be quiet. Hist! Nat! Nat!”
There was no reply, and after a pause, Fred called again, as loudly as he dared.
“No, sir; I thought it wasn’t,” said Samson, softly. “It’s further up.”
“Be silent, man,” said Fred, impatiently. “I am sure we are right. It may be a little to the left or a little to the right, but its close here.”
He called again and again softly, but without result.
“Let me try, Master Fred, as you are so sure.”
Fred gave his consent, whispering to his companion to be careful.
“Nobody won’t take any notice of what I do, Master Fred,” whispered Samson. “I’ll give him an old cry we used to have on the moor, when we were boys;” and directly after, sounding distant and strange, and as if it could not possibly have been given by his companion, there rang out a peculiar low piping whistle, followed by a short jerky note or two.
“That’s oyster-catcher, Master Fred, as you well know. If he hears that he’ll answer and know it’s friends—I mean enemies.”