“Ye–es.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound like it. You don’t seem to be yourself, old chap. You know I always look up to you as being more plucky than I am. Here we are getting better every minute, and there is nothing to hurry about. They won’t begin the supper till we get back. Leave the matches alone for a minute or two and give a good hail. They must be looking for us.”
“No, no; I can’t shout now.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. There, I must strike another match.”
“No, you mustn’t. Give a good hail.”
“I can’t, I tell you.”
“Well, I can,” cried Dean. “I don’t feel a bit frightened of bogeys now.”
“Ahoy–y–y–y–y!” he shouted, and there was a hollow echoing noise, but nothing approaching what they had heard before.
Then they listened till the reverberations died out; but there was no hopeful sound to cheer them, and with a low despairing sigh which he tried in vain to suppress, Mark drew another carefully selected match across the side of the box. This time there was a flash, the head of the tiny wax taper blazed out, illumined the square hole into which Dean had slipped, and revealed him about a dozen feet below where his cousin was holding the match.