“No, I know that; but doesn’t it seem to you like what we have read of, about men being lost in the Australian bush?”
“But this isn’t the Australian bush.”
“No, it’s bigger—as much bigger as those trees are than the Australian bushes.”
“Well, you are a nice comfortable fellow, Mark, to come out with!”
“Yes, I am, aren’t I? It was stupid of me. But there, I am going to be plucky now. Let’s have another try.”
“Yes, try again,” said Dean; “but it seems stupid, and may mean getting farther and farther and more hopelessly lost.”
“It can’t be, and it shan’t be!” cried Mark. “Oh, what stuff! Let’s shout again—shout till we make Mak hear us and come to our help. Now then, both together. What shall we cry?”
“Cooey, of course,” cried Dean; and joining their voices they called at close intervals again and again till they were hoarse, while at every shout it seemed as if their voices rebounded from the solid surfaces of the trees instead of penetrating or running between them. And then as their voices failed they started off again in and out amongst the natural pillars, growing more and more excited and dismayed, till they felt that they could go no farther—absolutely lost, and not knowing which way to turn, while the darkness above them seemed blacker than ever and the dimly-seen trees that closed them in on every side began to wear the appearance of an impenetrable wall.