“No, but there is something I keep hearing. Can’t you?”
“I? No,” said Gwyn, quickly. “What can you hear?—footsteps?”
“Oh, no; not that. It’s a humming, rolling kind of noise, very, very faint; and I can’t always hear it. I’m not sure it is anything but a kind of singing in my ears. There, I can hear it now. Can you?”
Gwyn listened intently.
“No. Perhaps it is only fancy. Listen again. Oh, that dog must come back.”
Joe sat down, with the lanthorn beside him.
“Oh, don’t give up like that!” cried Gwyn. “Let’s make a fresh start, and try and find our way out.”
“It’s impossible—we can’t without help.”
“Don’t I always tell you that a chap oughtn’t to wait to be helped, but try to help himself?”
“Yes, you often preach,” said Joe, dismally.