But after another five minutes, Ashby, who was last but one, shouted again.
“Where are you, Fisher minor?”
There was no answer.
“Wait a bit, you fellows. Fisher minor’s behind.”
But no answer came from that direction either.
“Here’s a go,” said Ashby to himself. “That kid Fisher’s gone lame, and he’ll be lost if I don’t wait for him.”
So he dismally turned back, shouting and whistling as he went.
The clouds all round grew duller and heavier in the fading light, and the wind-blown rain struck keenly on the wanderer’s cheek.
“That kid,” said Ashby to himself, as he sturdily tramped through the marsh, “ought not to have come. He’s not up to it.”
But despite all his shouting and whistling and cooeying, not a sound came out of the mist but the wind and the driving of the rain.