Ten minutes elapsed and there was no sign of Slim. When a quarter of an hour had passed Jerry began to get worried. Had his friend perhaps fallen and injured himself? Had he lost his way? A dozen fears came into Jerry's mind, and at the end of another five minutes he decided that it was time to take some measure to learn the whereabouts of Slim.
Softly, but with great carrying force, he gave the well-known "Whip-poor-will."
The answer was the same that Slim himself had received that night in No Man's Land when the wounded and unconscious Rawle lay bleeding beside him—nothing but absolute silence.
A great dread that he could not have defined gripped Jerry's heart. Something had happened to Slim; there was no doubt about that. What was it? Injury? Death? Capture?
Again Jerry gave their mutual Brighton signal: "Whip-poor-will."
"He can't be entirely out of hearing," he argued. "There's some reason why he doesn't answer." It was fast growing dark. Sliding the pack-set and their other paraphernalia into a little gully which he easily could identify later, but where it would be entirely hidden from the view of anyone else who might chance upon the scene, Jerry set out in search of his friend.
It was a difficult task that he set himself, for he knew no more than the general direction that Slim had taken. But remembering that his chum had started off down the ravine, and that his purpose was to reach a higher hill a quarter of a mile away, Jerry took that route, too.
Two or three times as he stumbled along he snatched out his pocket searchlight and was about to use it, when some sixth sense, plus the mystery of Slim's absence, prevailed upon him to take his chances in the darkness.
Coming out of the ravine, he turned to the left and, by a steep incline, reached a ledge that seemed to be a natural pathway to one of the higher peaks.
Suddenly the heart within him seemed to stop beating.