“Yes, and try too. Why, I— Ah! hear that?” cried Gwyn, excitedly.
“No,” said Joe, after a pause.
“Don’t be so stupid! You can— Listen!”
They held their breath, and plainly now came the barking of a dog.
“There!” cried Gwyn. “Here, here, here!” and he whistled before listening again, when there was the pattering of the dog’s nails on the rocky floor, and almost directly after Grip bounded up to them.
“Ah, we mustn’t have any more of that, old fellow,” cried Gwyn, seizing the dog’s collar, and patting him. “Get on, you old rascal; can’t you see we’ve only got two legs apiece to your four?”
The dog strained to be off again, barking excitedly; but Gwyn held on while their neckerchiefs were tied together, and then fastened to the dog’s collar.
“Now, then, forward once more. Come on, Joe, you must carry the lanthorn and walk by his head. Steady, stupid! We can’t run. Walk, will you? Now, then, forward for home.”
The dog barked and went off panting, with his tongue out and glistening in the light as the red end was curled, and he strained hard, as if bound to drag as much as he could behind him, while the boys’ spirits steadily rose as their confidence in the dog’s knowledge of the way back began to increase.