He was surprised, too, at the extent of the city, for no sooner was one devious street passed than they plunged into another, their wanderings lasting for what must have been close upon half-an-hour, before they plunged into a narrower passage than ever—one where the overhanging eaves on either side seemed to nearly touch—while right in front a huge wall towered up, looking jetty black, all but a square patch on a level with their feet.
“Why, this must be a big house into which we are going,” he thought.
But the idea had no sooner crossed his mind than he felt his arm gripped, and Wing checked him so suddenly that he came heavily against his guide’s chest.
“What’s the matter?” whispered Stan.
“St! Big gate. Plentee soljee fass sleepee,” whispered Wing. “Now come ’long, quick, quick.”
He slipped his hand down to the lad’s waist as he spoke, and drew him along past where Stan dimly made out a group of men sitting and lying upon a big bench beneath a great shadowy house.
There was no time to see more before they were out on the other side, with the great building reared up in the gloom behind them, and a feeling of freedom as of an open space in front.
So great a sense of relief came over the lad that he felt bound to speak; but certain sounds behind checked him once more, and he turned cold at the proximity of the danger they had escaped.
For a deep, gruff voice growled out something he could not interpret, and this was replied to by another voice, evidently that of a man newly aroused from sleep.
The brief conversation was carried on angrily, and interrupted again and again as if the speakers kept listening.