Still Ashby could not bring himself to leave the “kid” in the lurch. Even if he did not find him it would be better to—
“Ah! what was that?”
He clapped his hands to his mouth and shouted against the wind with all his might.
His voice was flung back in his face; but with it there came the feeble sound of a “coo-ey” somewhere near.
Ashby sprang to it like a drowning man to a straw. If it was only a lost sheep it would be some company. For ten minutes he beat round, shouting all the time, and once or twice fancying he heard an answer.
Then suddenly he came upon a great boulder, against which leaned Fisher minor, whimpering and shivering.
“Here you are!” said Ashby, joyously. “Thank God for it! I gave you up for lost. The others are gone on. Come on. Hang on my arm, old hoss.”
“I can’t; I’m too fagged to go on. I’m awfully sleepy, Ashby. You go on; I’ll come presently.”
Ashby’s reply was prompt and vigorous. He took his fellow-junior by the arm and began to march him down the slope as fast, almost faster than his weary legs would carry him.
And as they started, the last of the light died out of the mist, and left them in blank darkness.