CHAPTER XII. A MYSTERY.
The traveling in the gorge was quite as difficult as the two friends expected to find it. The bushes on each side were so thick that they could not walk on the bank, and the bed of the stream was covered with rocks and boulders, over which they slipped and stumbled at every step.
Now and then the way was obstructed by deep, dark pools which would have gladdened the eye of an angler, for it is in such places that the "sockdolagers" of the brook abide. But Tom and his companion looked upon them as so many obstacles that were to be overcome with as little delay as possible.
They floundered through them without stopping to see how deep they were, and before they had left their camp half a mile behind, their high rubber boots were full of water.
The gorge was beginning to grow dark when Tom, after taking a survey of the bank over his head, announced that they were just about opposite Silas Morgan's wood-pile, and that it was time for them to find a place to climb out.
"I am overjoyed to hear it," said Bob, seating himself on the nearest boulder. "But it's going to be hard work to get up there, the first thing you know, because we've got several pounds more weight to carry than we had when we started. This is worse than the windfall."
While Bob was resting, Tom walked slowly down the gorge, hoping to find a spot where the bushes were not so thick, and the bank easy of ascent; but before he had gone a dozen yards, his footsteps were arrested by an occurrence that was as startling as it was unexpected.
The thicket in front of him was suddenly and violently agitated, and an instant afterward there arose from it the most blood-curdling sound the boys had ever heard. An Indian war-whoop could not compare with it—they were certain of that. It was not a shriek, a laugh or a groan, but it was a combination of all three; and it was so loud and penetrating that the echoes caught it up and repeated it, until the hideous sound seemed to fill the air all around them.