“Ah,” came in a deep growl. “That’s so.”
Mr Rimmer walked to the gangway and took a long steady observation, as far as the darkness would allow. Then turning to the leader of the little expedition,—
“Off with you, sir.”
Ha! ha! Ow, ow, ow! came from a couple of hundred yards away—a hollow, diabolical kind of mocking laugh which sent a chill through the listeners.
“Hear that, Tommy?” whispered Wriggs as he caught his companion’s arm.
“Ay, mate, I heerd it. They’re a laughin’ at us, and it’s as good as saying as they’ll go and light a fire, and have it ready to cook the lot.”
“Gahn!” growled Wriggs. “I know now, it’s one o’ them stoopid-looking Tommy soft sort o’ howls, as Mr Oliver Lane shot at one day. You know, lad, them big, all of a heap sort o’ things, all duffie and fluff.”
Just then the cry was repeated at a distance, and soon after farther off.
“Why, it’s an owl!” cried Drew.
“I thought it must be a bird,” said the mate.