“Jack, it was the sound of a baby’s cry.”
Bob’s voice was solemn. A shiver ran through Jack, as if a breath of cold air had fanned him. In that fog-enwrapped isolation, in that far northern wilderness, what could a baby be doing? It was preposterous. More, it was uncanny.
“Bob, you were asleep. Yes, sir, you certainly were dreaming. A baby. Huh.”
“Maybe so,” Bob said, reluctantly. “But, true as I live, Jack——”
The other’s grip on his shoulder tightened.
Out of the fog came a wailing sound, distant, thin, but unmistakable. It was the cry of a baby, if ever there was such a thing.
But this time it came not from the river, but from inland. The two listened, straining to hear, but the cry died away without being repeated. They looked at each other, an unnamable fear gripping them.
“Jack, I’m afraid,” confessed Bob in a whisper. “I don’t know—there’s something strikes a chill into me—I—I——”
He paused. Jack nodded.
“I feel the same way, Bob,” he said, low-voiced. “What a pair of fools we are, though,” he added, brightening. “That must be some bird, or animal, perhaps.”