He would have said shot, but his voice failed, and with a cold chill of horror stealing over him he remained for a few moments as if paralysed.
Then, with Tom Tallington close behind, he ran swiftly down towards the mere.
Chapter Nineteen.
The New Horror.
They did not know exactly where to go, for the guidance afforded by a sound is very deceptive, but there had been the splash of water, so that the shot must have been from somewhere at the foot of the Toft, down where the meadow land gave place to rough marsh, bog, and reedy water.
Dick listened as he ran; but there was no splash now—no sound of footstep.
As the lads advanced the dawning light increased, and a startled bird flew out from the bushes, another from a tuft of dry grass; and once more there was the chink—chink of a blackbird. The day was awakening, and Dick Winthorpe asked himself what the dawn was to show.
It was still dark enough to necessitate care, and over the mere as they neared it a low mist hung, completely screening its waters as they vainly attempted to pierce the gloom.