“Warde—Ed—are you here?” he scarce more than whispered.
There was no answer.
“Where are you, anyway?” Westy asked, emboldened by his fright to speak louder.
There was no answer.
He knew not what to do now; he dared not leave the water to investigate and he could see little in the dense darkness. He peered about trying to penetrate the night with his eyes. Thus he was able to distinguish something, he knew not what, on the shore not far distant. He spoke again in a hoarse whisper and listened. Only the cheery little brook answered him. He thought the something, whatever it was, had not been there before.
Well, if it was a rock he would soon know. He picked a pebble out of the brook and threw it at the uncertain, intangible mass. It made no sound. He picked up a larger one and threw it and was rewarded by an unpretentious and complaining grunt.
Thus, encouraged and greatly relieved, he selected his third missile with a view to immediate and emphatic results.
“Wasmatanyway,” he heard in the darkness, accompanied by an unmistakable stirring.
Westy’s first impulse was to be angry but he realized at once that the slumber of his friends had probably saved all their lives. He realized too, as he had not realized when he left them, how dog-tired they all had been.
“Who’s—wass—there?” stammered Warde, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “I bes a grizzly, wake up, Ed, you ole——”