They listened, but there was not a sound.
“’Pon my word! This is a pretty state of affairs!” cried the master. “What do you propose next?”
“Let’s get right up to the top of this place and hail.”
“That’s good advice, Mr Raystoke, sir: so come on.”
They started at once, and at the end of ten minutes they were at the top of a hill, but upon gazing round they could only dimly see other hills similar to the one on which they stood,—regular earth-waves of the great convulsion which had thrown the strata of the Freestone Shore into a state of chaos,—but nothing more.
“I’ll hail,” said Archy; and he shouted, but there was no reply.
“The scoundrels!” cried the master angrily. “They’re all together in some public-house drinking, and glad to get away from us. Eh? What are you laughing at?”
“There are no public-houses out in this wild place, Mr Gurr.”
“Eh? Well, no, I suppose not. I’ll hail. Ahoy?”
A faint echo in reply. That was all.