“I hate Africa,” he shouted; “I hate it.”
“So do I,” said Bevis; “but we’ve got to get through it somehow.” He started again; Mark followed sullenly, and Pan came behind Mark. Thus the spaniel, stepping in the track they made, had the least difficulty of either. Pan’s tail drooped, he was very hungry and very thirsty, and he knew it was about the time the dishes were rattling in the kitchen at home.
“Listen,” said Mark presently, putting his hand on Bevis’s shoulder, and stopping him.
Bevis listened. “I can’t hear anything,” he said, “except the midsummer hum.”
The hum was loud in the air above them, almost shrill, but there was not another sound. Now Mark had called attention to it the noonday silence in that wild deserted place was strange.
“Where are all the things?” said Mark, looking round. “All the birds have gone.”
Certainly they could hear none, even the brook-sparrows in the sedges by the New Sea were quiet. There was nothing in sight alive but a few swifts at an immense height above them. Neither wood-pigeon, nor dove, nor thrush called; not even a yellow-hammer.
“I know,” whispered Bevis. “I know—they are afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Yes; can’t you see Pan does not hunt about?”