“Guess Mr. Stokes is thinking that we’re a bunch of failures,” Jack declared as he struck a match to light the big lamp on the table. “When did you write to him last?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“He’ll be sending someone else up here or come up himself if we don’t have something definite to report pretty soon, I reckon.”
“Shouldn’t wonder.”
“Well, what—hark, what was that?”
“Sounded like someone groaning.”
“Listen.”
In a moment the sound was heard again more distinctly.
“It’s his nibs, all right,” Jack whispered. “He sure does believe in giving a varied performance.”
The sound continued at intervals for perhaps ten minutes and the last groan, louder than the others, died away so slowly that they were not quite certain when it ceased.