VIII.
The Loss of Phil.—Deep Gloom and heavy Grief.—A Night of Terror.—The torrid Atmosphere.——The Smell of Smoke.—The Darkness that might be felt.—Morning brings Relief.—The Search.—The Rock and the Precipice by the River-side.—The Track of Phil.—Following the Trail.—The Trail lost.—Persevering Search.—The End of the Day.
THE loss of Phil produced a terrible effect upon the little party. Pat’s grief was expressed by sighs and groans for some time, until at length his elastic nature rebounded from its depression, and he began to hope for the best. Solomon was deeply distressed, and said not a word; while Bart was also silent, and he tried in vain to conjecture what had been the cause of Phil’s departure. To him it seemed perfectly unaccountable how he could have got lost. There was the stream, and it seemed to be easy enough, even if one had wandered from it, to retrace his steps. From Pat’s story, Phil’s departure from him by that rock was the beginning of misfortunes. At some time after that he must have begun to wander in a wrong direction, and gradually gone farther and farther away till he was lost.
All that night none of them slept. For a time they kept up a series of cries, which awakened no response. Then they built a fire, thinking that the glow would penetrate to a distance beyond where their cries could go. They made the fire on the bank, and kept it up for two or three hours; but at length they could find no more fuel, and allowed it to die out.
While thus watching and using these efforts to make known their situation to the wanderer, their excitement and suspense were too great to allow of any thought of sleep. Eyes and ears were constantly on the stretch, and every sound, however faint, awakened within them the hope that it might be Phil. But the hours passed on, and not a single sign appeared to them as they watched, and listened, and waited.
“I wonder whether he is wandering about in this darkness or not,” said Bart, in an anxious-voice. “But I don’t suppose it is possible for any one to walk in these woods now.”
“Niver a walk,” said Pat; “not he. He’s tin times comfortabler thin we are. He’s jist gathered some moss, an he’s made a comfortable bed for himself over beyont, somewheres under thim trays. Deed an he has. An what’s more, he’s asleep now, sound as a top, so he is; an I wish I wor as sound aslape as he is this blissed momint.”
Bart shook his head mournfully.
“No,” said he, with a sigh, “he won’t have much sleep to-night, poor old Phil; he’s got too much to think of. If he had some one with him, he’d feel all right; but it’s a terrible thing to be all alone this way. And it’s a miserable night; so horribly dark; so hot. I can scarcely breathe. I never knew such a night.”
“Thrue for you,” said Pat. “It’s fairly suffocated I am. But at any rate, that makes no differ to Phil. Sure its betther for him to be too warrum thin too cowld, so it is.”