“Hillo!” shouted Hickathrift again and again; “squire!”
There was no reply, and the chill of horror increased as the feeling that they were searching in vain out and in pressed itself upon all, and they knew that the man they sought must be in the water.
“Here, howd hard,” cried Hickathrift. “What a moodle head I am! You, Jacob, run back and let loose owd Grip.”
The apprentice ran back as hard as he could, and the group remained in silence till they saw him disappear behind the shed. Then there was a loud burst of barking.
Hickathrift whistled, and the great long-legged lurcher came bounding over the rough boggy land, to leap at his master and then stand panting, open-mouthed, eager, and ready to dart anywhere his owner bade.
“Here, Grip, lad, find him, then—find him, boy!”
The dog uttered one low, growling bark, and then bounded off, hurrying here and there in the wildest way, while the boys watched intently.
“Will he find him, Hicky?” said Dick huskily.
“Ay, or anyone else,” said the wheelwright, who alternately watched the dog, and swept the surface of the mere wherever the mist allowed.
“There! Look at that!” he cried, as, after a minute, the dog settled down to a steady hunt, with his nose close to the ground, and rapidly followed the track lately taken by someone who had passed.