“Yes, I think so, and that made him whine.”
“Come along, my lad. Let’s get on as fast as we can. It’s growing blacker, and I’m afraid we shall have some rain.”
No rain fell, but the sky was completely clouded over and the darkness seemed to grow more and more intense. The wind kept increasing in violence and then dying out, as if it came in huge waves which swept over them and had a great interval between, while as the rush and roar of the gusts passed there came the deep hoarse murmur of the distant sea.
“Dick,” said the squire suddenly, “you are so young that you can hardly feel with me, but I want someone to talk to now, and I may as well tell you that I am going to risk a great deal of money over the draining of the fen.”
“Are you, father?”
“Yes, my lad, and I have been feeling a natural shrinking from the risk. To-night sweeps all that away, for in spite of having lived here so many years as I have, I never before felt how needful it all was.”
“Do you think so, father?”
“Indeed I do, my lad, for anything more risky than our walk to-night I hardly know. What’s that?”
The squire stopped short and grasped his son’s arm, as, after a furious gust of wind, the distant murmur of the sea seemed to have been overborne by something different—a confused lapping, trickling, and rushing noise that seemed to come from all parts at once.
“I don’t know, father,” said Dick, who was slightly startled by his father’s manner. “Shall we go on?”